Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
He drew back instantly. “My apologies, Floren – Miss Capria, I did not mean to offend you.”
It was difficult to look at her, difficult to concentrate on anything with her so beautiful and his body so ready to possess her, but George forced himself to look up. To his relief, she did not look angry, or fearful.
“You did not offend,” were her words. “No, I just . . . I cannot. I know you want more, and I cannot give you what you want.”
George smiled at her. “No, I suppose not.”
It was only then he realised his knees were starting to hurt. Rising from the floor, he sat again on the bed, and tried to calm his racing heart. What had he been thinking, after all: trying to seduce a woman?
“Do not misunderstand me,” Florence said suddenly. A nervous smile was on her face, and there was a delicate flush across her cheeks. “It is not that I do not want to. Although it startles even myself to say this aloud . . . well, I feel the desire too. I am not immune to you, signore.”
George knew he should not feel so proud of himself at that moment, but it was almost impossible not to. Preening like a peacock, he reminded himself silently, is not attractive.
“Desire is,” and here he coughed. “You know, I have never discussed this with anyone. Unless you count a very awkward conversation with my father about a decade ago. This sort of thing simply is not discussed.”
Florence smiled. “Less so than in Italy, I think.”
He laughed, and leaned back against the wall. “I would think so, yes! It is just not a topic one discusses, even if one would like to, and you can go through the majority of your youth without the faintest clue that other people have these same feelings – or similar feelings, I suppose.”
“Young ladies do not feel such things!” She said in mock seriousness. “And I do not know how anyone could think such a thing!”
They chuckled together, and then fell into companionable silence.
Florence tried not to look at him too closely. My, but he was a handsome man – and there was an inner quality, something that went deeper than the skin. A goodness, a good heart, perhaps, that was even more attractive (if that were possible) than the outer wrapping.
But she had resisted, she had stayed calm. It would have been too easy to completely lose her head, and throw caution to the wind.
Who would not want to? She tried not to glance, again, at his long legs, the strong hands, the broad shoulders.
“I am grateful,” she said carefully, “that you stopped when you did. And of course, I am disappointed too.”
George’s head jerked up, and Florence could not help but smile. “Now then, you know what I am trying to say. I am not made of stone, George, and it is impossible to ignore this – this whatever it is between us.”
He swallowed. “We do not have to ignore it.”
Florence rolled her eyes. How like a man. “Yes, we do,” she said, rather more severely than she had intended. “I want to fight it, at least. I do not want you to think any less of me.”
His gaze was on her now, and it burned her as though it were a branding iron. “Or you think any less of yourself,” he said, shrewdly.
She shrugged, but his perceptiveness was a little close for comfort. “I think when you make love, you should be in love. Or at least, what you believe is love.”
“And when do you know?” came George’s low reply.
Florence smiled wryly. “When you cannot possibly live without them, I suppose. When being close to them is worth a journey of a thousand miles. When not being with them is torture.”
The sound of rain started to patter down on the roof, and as the wind changed direction, they heard the terrible cries of the mob. Something sparked outside.
“They have set something on fire now,” said George, darkly. “To think that this should happen in England too, of all places. London!”
Florence looked at the light. It flickered slowly through the cracked glass of the window, and it was almost mesmerising in its pattern. Or was it a pattern? If she concentrated hard, maybe she could tell . . .
“. . . almost eleven o’clock,” said a voice from a long way away. “I suppose we shall – Florence, are you asleep?”
Florence almost slipped off the chair as she awoke with a jerk from her doze. “Addormentato? Me? Senza senso!”
He laughed gently. “Come now, you cannot lie to me, I see straight through you. Here: sit beside me. At least here on this mattress, you will have less of a distance to fall.”
She glanced at him. It was not that she did not trust him: there was barely a man she had met who was more trustworthy than Lord George Northmere. The question was, did she trust herself?
George was watching her think carefully, and he smiled. “You will do yourself an injury if you insist on sitting on that chair – here, let’s swap. That way you do not have to feel tempted.”
In such a small space, any movement was likely to bring them together, and Florence found herself holding her breath as he passed her. Sinking onto the mattress was a relief, but it was warm: warm from his body, and she blushed at the very thought of it.
“Now then,” George was saying, “if you do capitulate to slumber, at least you will find that blanket a little softer than the floor.”
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “You are a very caring man, George.”
For the first time since they had met, she caught a glimpse of him flushing with pleasure. “Few think so, I am sure. It does not cost anything to be caring, and so I try to think of others before myself, when I can. Goodness, that sounds awfully Biblical, does it not?”
They both laughed.
“Perhaps,” Florence conceded. “But I think it is an honest sentiment, and so I will allow it.”
George smiled, and shook his head. “You are quite beautiful, Florence Capria. Do you know that?”
Now it was her turn to flush with pleasure, and she shivered unconsciously. “Do – do you think so?”
He nodded. “More than any woman I have ever met, and that is not kindness, that is the truth.”
Florence could not help but lean forward slightly, and she felt the press of her breasts against her gown, and was glad somehow, hoped somewhere deep inside her he had noticed.
Something was rising up within her: something George had awakened when she saw in his eyes that he wanted to kiss her.
Something she thought had become dormant, but now was stirring in her as she watched him.
“The most beautiful woman,” he said in a low voice.
What was he doing? Had he not tried this path just an hour ago – and had he not been forced back, kindly but firmly? And yet there did not seem to be any choice in his heart, he had no way forward in his thinking but towards her, towards Florence.
“You are very kind,” Florence’s eyes sparkled as she spoke, “and not a bit handsome.”
She laughed at the surprise on his face.
“I am just teasing, tesoro, you know yourself how you look. I am sure I am not the first lady who has seen the charm in you and wanted to – to do something.”
George’s breath quickened. “You surprise me.”
Florence smiled, and it was a nervous smile, a smile of someone about to embark on a new adventure. “I must admit, I see more attraction in giving in than fighting temptation.”
He must control himself, he must calm down. There was no point in his body stiffening in response to her; this could mean nothing, there was no knowing what she meant. Unless he asked.
“Fighting temptation?” He said, trying to keep his voice level. “What do you mean?”
“Losing myself,” she said almost in a whisper, her eyes not leaving his own. “Losing my inhibitions. I-I feel as though I have known you all my life, George. You know me better than anyone in the world. Why not . . . why not know me entirely?”
But of course, he had read the signs wrong before. Was he truly going to make that mistake again; embarrass himself at best, and at worst, offend a woman who he not only respected, but was starting to feel a genuine affection for?