Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Florence looked up at him, nervously. Lord George Northmere was unlike any man she had ever met; in this small and cramped room, he had .
. . a sort of presence. Something that made him appear taller than he already was.
She could not ignore the way he made her feel, could not walk away from a man who made her stomach lurch every time their eyes met – even if she could.
There was desire in his eyes, and it was not just for this Teresa who he spoke of. She saw it spark into life whenever she spoke, and she could not help but receive a little thrill at the power she had over him.
“It could all be over in five minutes, or five hours,” he was saying, his gaze fixed on the cracked window they could barely see through, almost hidden by holey curtains. “Our only choice is to stay here.”
“Here?” Florence gazed around the small, squalid room. Anything to avoid looking at the tall turn of his neck, the strength of his shoulders. “And to think, I had thought that by this time I would be on my ship.”
Lord George strode away from the window, and then stopped short, almost in surprise, when he swiftly reached the other side of the room.
Florence giggled, despite herself. “Unaccustomed to such small chambers, my lord?”
The man scowled, and it just threw his features into an even better light. He started to pace in the cramped room. “I do not like being caged.”
“Then that is a pity, for that is precisely what we are,” she replied, curling her feet under her legs like a cat, and gazing at him. “And you would have ended up in a place not dissimilar to this if you had discovered your Teresa, you know.”
The pacing stopped. “I beg your pardon?”
Raising her arms, Florence gestured around the room with a wrench of her heart. “Oh, signore; did you think a courtesan lives in a palace? That she would be covered in jewels and lead you without a word to a feather bed? That her own servants would bring you wine, and then bid you adieu?”
Lord George did not need to reply. She could see the answer in the angry and bashful flush that coated his face, the way the pacing resumed.
“What are you really doing here?”
“I told you, Miss Capria, I came to find Teresa,” he snapped. “And why so much judgement? Admittedly, the rules of the ton and society in general forbid such . . . such activity, but – ”
“Do you not have anyone of your own ilk to court?” Florence gazed at him, trying to ignore the very masculine strength of his legs as he twisted on the stop every few paces. “Are there not ladies throwing themselves at your feet?”
His laughter rang out and echoed in the cramped room.
“Miss Capria, you have met me on a dark night, at the London docks, with no real understanding of who I am or what I represent. You do not know my past, and you have no comprehension of my present choices. Do not presume to tell me how many ladies should be desperate for my attentions, for I assure you, you are quite mistaken.”
Throwing himself on the bed – or more accurately, the mattress on the floor – languidly, he was silent.
Florence stared at him, and for the first time since their rather unorthodox meeting, looked at him – really looked at him. At first, she saw the surface: the dark eyes, the chiselled jawline, the presence that seemed to grow with time.
And then she looked deeper. There were creases of worry around his eyes, and a tension in his shoulders belying genuine anxiety. Though his clothes were elegant, they were ill-cared for. A rip near one sleeve of his greatcoat had not been mended, and the threads had frayed for a while.
“Why a courtesan, though?” For a moment, Florence was unsure who exactly had spoken, and then she realised it was herself.
Lord George’s gaze had flickered over to her, and she found a blush tinging her cheeks pink.
“I mean,” she said hastily, “a courtesan. There is no turning back from such a decision. Once the connection has been made, you will never be . . . I mean, your future wife will . . .”
She could not say the words, the heat that had risen to her cheeks now flaming her entire face.
“Say it,” came the deep tones from her companion, and she thought there was a hint of sadness there.
Florence swallowed. “Once you make love to a courtesan, you can never take that back: you will always have that connection with her. If . . . if you should ever marry, then that will be a part of yourself – a part of yourself that your wife will never share.”
Lord George stared at her, and then smiled as though surprised she had spoken. “I know. Do you think I have not thought of that? But to remain as I am . . .”
His eyes drifted away from her and onto the fire finally starting to throw out heat.
“Remain as you are – remain whole?” Florence could not help but say it as the memories of a man’s laughter and a woman’s false giggles broke into her mind.
He smiled bitterly. “Though our society may pretend it does not exist, Miss Capria, why should we deny that each of us has – call it desire, a want, a need.”
Florence felt her cheeks glow pink, but she did not look away.
“You surprise me,” he said with a twist of his head. “I would have thought you would find easy offence at those words.”
She shrugged, and untied the top of her pelisse. The room was beginning to grow hot – or was it their topic of conversation? “I am from Italy, signore. We have a slightly more classical approach to lovemaking than the English do.”
Lord George sighed, almost as though he was relieved. His shoulders dropped. “Then you understand.”
“I certainly do not!” Florence said hastily. “Just because one . . . feels such desires, that does not mean one acts on it!”
And yet she felt the hypocrisy rise through her as she stared at him. He was handsome, there was no doubt about it, and there was a kindness about him that would make him a strong and yet considerate … oh, what was she thinking!
Lord George’s head dipped, and then he said quietly, “Miss Capria, have you ever been lonely?”
This was such a deviation from their conversation that Florence stared at him. “Lonely?”
He nodded, a dark curl of hair falling over his face.
“Not alone, not lonely for an afternoon, or a day. I mean truly lonely: to feel alone in a world of strangers. To walk down a street and see no one that cares for you, or you care for. To dwell in a large empty house with room after room of nothing, to enter every house in society and find no friendship there . . .”
His voice trailed away, and Florence felt a tug of compassion on her heart. There was such loss in his words, almost – almost as if . . .
“The only way to feel truly lonely,” she said in a whisper, “is if one once had someone there to make life bearable.”
Lord George’s head snapped up. “What did you say? What do you know of her – where is she?”
“Well, I suppose that answers that question.” Florence shivered slightly. “Who was she?”
The light and joy dimmed in his eyes almost immediately, and his gaze swept over to the door of the room.
“It does not matter,” he replied dully. “Suffice to say that seeking out a courtesan is simpler than disgracing a lady of the ton and being forced into marriage with a woman that I have no wish to know better.”
A log shifted in the grate, and the fire crackled. A scream shot out of the dark; it was a woman’s. Florence shivered. There were many others out there who had not found shelter as they had.
“And what business is it of yours?” Lord George asked suddenly. “What could you possibly know of such things, Miss Capria?”
“A great deal more than you would think.” The words were out of her mouth before she could do a thing about recalling them, and she cursed herself silently for speaking them. If he was paying attention . . .
“What do you mean?” His eyes were wide, and he was looking her up and down now in a new light. “You cannot possibly mean that – ”
“No!” She snapped, pulling her pelisse around her a little more tightly. “No, my lord idiota, I am no such woman!”
“Then who are you to judge such women?” He asked defiantly.
Florence swallowed. “This is not a conversation that I have in polite society, but . . . well, my . . .”
After all these years, it was still nigh on impossible to say. But then, she had left home, nay, her entire country to get away from this fact. It was no surprise that speaking it aloud to this man, this almost complete stranger, was proving rather difficult.
She swallowed, and she noticed the spark of curiosity that lit in his eyes. “If you must know, my . . . my mother was a courtesan. Là. Now you know.”
Florence had not been entirely sure what sort of reaction she would receive from this revelation, but it was not the one she was presented with.
“That is fascinating,” Lord George spoke slowly and with an appraising eye scanning her once more. “For how long – and where? Did you know as a child? Did she continue through your childhood? Just how did – ”
“You are not in a zoo, my lord, and so I would appreciate it if you did not treat me like an exhibit!”
That temper, the one she always tried to hide, fuelled by her Italian blood and the Mediterranean sunshine of her childhood, flared up to the surface, and Lord George did at least look a little bashful.
“My apologies, Miss Capria, it is just . . . well, one hardly meets the relatives of a courtesan. One almost imagines them existing apart from all society altogether.”
Florence laughed, and she could not keep the bitterness out of her voice.
“You would hardly be wrong, signore. When a woman is a courtesan, there are very few shining lights and pretty things.
‘Tis mainly shame, and dishonour, and disgrace. No child of a courtesan would ever recommend the profession.”
Lord George was staring at her, inquisitively. “And yet, no loneliness.”
She laughed again, and his eyes widened.
“Ah, my lord: more loneliness than you have ever known. No member of society will acknowledge you, save for their taunts and their gossip. No man will ever consider you, except as the daughter of his paramour. No woman will befriend you, for fear that one day, you too will be the temptress to bring her husband to ruin.”
For a moment, the dingy room before her vanished, and she could hear the laughter of her mother and a deep man’s voice, and the scent of incense, and then the cries of –
“It is not a life I would wish on anyone,” Florence said to drown out the memories crowding her mind. “And you, my lord, would do well to avoid it. ‘Tis not a life that suits anyone.”
There was a moment of silence, save for the padding footsteps of several men running in the street, one of them shouting indistinct words that made the others laugh.
“And yet companionship, comfort, even love can be found there.” Lord George’s words were hesitant, and Florence thought she could hear a shadow of doubt in his words. “Otherwise, why would such a profession exist?”
Florence stared at him; a man with so much to give, and yet seemingly so ready to throw it away.
“You cannot buy love,” she said finally.
“You cannot purchase real intimacy, it is all just a sham. When you fall in love, you would regret the shadow of true passion that you enjoyed with another, for it will not compare to the real thing.”
They stared at each other; two lost souls, trapped in a room without recourse for escape until the mob, now passing along their street with torches that flickered through the cracked window, had truly departed.
Lord George coughed, and the moment was broken. “We have only just become acquainted, Miss Capria, and we have enjoyed a rather frank conversation about the necessities of life.”
Florence snorted – she knew she should not, but she could not help it. “Necessities? You call intimacy – that sort – I am not sure that I would call it a necessity!”
“Really?”
Lord George was staring at her intently, with far more concentration than he had paid her before. “You do not think human warmth, human companionship, are necessary?”
“Of course they are,” she said hurriedly. “But – ”
“You do not believe that without them, we are lost?” He had stood up now, and Florence tilted her head to keep eye contact with him. “You do not know that without that connection, we become almost less human?”
Florence’s stomach shifted again, but it was not in discomfort. “No – no, that is not what I am saying, I just – ”
“Sometimes,” and Lord George spoke in a low voice now, so low she had to tilt her head upwards towards him to hear every word. “Sometimes in the depths of loneliness, when it feels as though one is an island than no others can reach, the simplest thing can make the biggest difference.”
And now he was kneeling before her, and Florence gasped aloud as he took one of her hands in his own, and it was warm, and rough, and it sent a spark of something she could not describe through her arm and her stomach was warm but it was not quite her stomach and her eyes could not look away from his own.
“Sometimes,” Lord George said with a handsome smile, “just the smallest touch is enough to feel more. To feel connection. To feel love.”
Florence’s breathing was shallow, and her hand was on fire and her head felt thick and she knew she did not want Lord George to let go of her hand. It was intoxicating. It was ridiculous. It was beyond anything she had experienced.
Lord George’s smile softened, and in a swift motion he broke the connection, removing his hand and turning away from her. “That is what I would describe as a necessity.”