Page 3 of Dare it all for Love

Louis César made a sound of disgust. “Being garish enough to induce a megrim does not mean it has superior attributes.”

“I heard that,” Ash remarked, turning around. “And of course my waistcoat is superior, it has canaries on it.”

An expression of pain crossed Louis César’s exquisite features as he cast Ash’s waistcoat a dubious glance. “Is that what they are? I thought they were goldfish.”

“With wings?” Ash retorted.

Ash’s twin sister Vivien joined the conversation and squinted at the canaries. “Well, they could be fins, not wings.”

“Traitor,” Ash said hotly.

Vivien patted his arm. “Well, darling, really. Lime green with yellow birds is a little de trop, even for you.”

“Philistines, every one of you,” he muttered, before stalking away.

Florence chuckled, and then her breath caught as Henry Stanhope walked into the room. Oh, good heavens. Her heart skittered in her chest, her skin flushing hot and her stomach fluttering in the most peculiar way. She’d never reacted like this to a man before. What was it about him? He had been all she could think about from the first moment she’d seen him, grinning boyishly at his sister as Lady St Clair greeted him with happy tears and laughter after almost a decade apart. He just seemed to use up all the air in the room when he walked into it.

She tried to consider him objectively, to pinpoint what it was that attracted her so strongly. He was handsome, but not so outrageously that he made women swoon on the spot like Louis César. He was fit and strong and virile, his skin darkly tanned from his adventures abroad, and he carried an air of confidence that was deliciously appealing. But it was more than that. There was a sense of energy, of vitality, as if a flame blazed inside him that made even younger men seem somehow less in his presence. It burned from within and pulled Florence to him like he’d cast a spell over her, making her helpless to do anything but respond to him. She felt so restless she wanted to throw herself into his arms, which was dangerous and foolish, and yet she had the absolute certainty that it would be a safe place to be. If a man like Henry loved you, he would be honourable, dependable. It was also frustrating and not a little irritating when the devil refused to pay her the least bit of attention.

Henry had another fellow with him tonight, whom he’d introduced as Mr Sterling Oak, his neighbour. Florence had ridden past Thistley House Farm, which was rather grander than its name implied. It was a large half-timbered house of red brick and lime render, and very ancient. Mr Oak was a fierce-looking fellow with strong features, thick black hair, very dark eyes, and a cleft in his chin. He tugged at his cravat and gave off the impression he would rather be anywhere else than here.

“He looks rather intimidating,” murmured a quiet voice in Florence’s ear.

“Dreadfully fierce,” Florence agreed, smiling at Grace. The girl had been so subdued and listless since she’d arrived at Holbrook, it was a relief to see her interacting at all. “Do you think he bites?”

“Only if you mention how much you love sunsets and bunny rabbits,” Grace said, sliding her arm through Florence’s.

Florence chuckled and sent Grace a look of amusement, but the girl was staring out of the window, a faraway look in her eyes. “Grace?”

She didn’t so much as stir but tugged absently at a loose blonde curl of hair, her grey eyes the colour of an overcast summer’s day.

“Grace?” Florence tried again. “Won’t you tell me what’s wrong?”

The girl started, looking alarmed.

“Wrong?” She laughed and shook her head. “Oh… Oh, no… n-nothing.”

Florence lowered her voice and drew her into the corner of the room. “Yes, there is. You wrote and told me you’d done something stupid, and you’re clearly unhappy. Won’t you confide in me?”

Grace chewed at her lip, staring about the room like some wild thing caught in a snare.

“Not now,” she said desperately, and tugged her arm free of Florence’s hold before hurrying away from her.

Florence sighed.

The meal, as with all those served at Holbrook, was divine. Not that Florence noticed it much. The debate going on between their hostess, Lady St Clair, and her brother vastly entertained most of the guests, and Florence was no exception. Henry’s opinions intrigued her. The topics were far-reaching, from Henry Fox Talbot’s extraordinary exhibition of photogenic drawings at the Royal Institution—which Henry had missed but had read about with fascination—to the Chartist riot in Birmingham the previous month. Florence was beguiled by his easy manner, his breadth of knowledge, and not only pleased by his sympathy for the Chartists and what they were trying to achieve—an effort her father supported—but his agreement with his sister that women as well as men should have the vote.

“Well, as the most intelligent person I’ve ever met was a woman, it seems foolish to deny the possibility they might make better decisions,” he observed, lifting a glass in a toast to Lady St Clair.

It seemed every time he opened his mouth, he proved himself to be the man Florence had longed to find and had begun to think as rare as a unicorn. Yet here he was, right in front of her, forthright and confident, handsome, and full of such energy and masculine vigour that he held everyone’s attention.

As hard and fast as Florence was falling for him, it was astonishing how the man could be seated so close, almost opposite her, and ignore her so thoroughly. He was charming and witty with everyone else, yet barely paid her the briefest of attention. She wondered if anyone had noticed it yet, for it bordered on rudeness. Worse, the only time he’d paid her any mind was when he’d done his level best to get the taciturn Mr Oak to speak to her. The attempt had failed, as Mr Oak seemed to have little interest in speaking to anybody. It had just made her feel foolish and annoyed.

Well, if she’d had any doubts about his lack of interest in her, tonight’s performance ought to have driven them from her head and made her determined to turn her attention elsewhere. It would have done if she’d had an ounce of sense. Sense seemed in short supply this evening, however, and it was all she could do not to gaze longingly at him over her bowl of syllabub. Instead, she stared at the dessert with a morose sigh and ate the whole thing without speaking a word to anyone. Oh, but it was delicious. She’d always been partial to syllabub. Sighing with pleasure, she forgot herself for a moment and licked every trace of cream from the bowl of the spoon.

Feeling eyes upon her, she looked up. Henry was staring at her, his gaze riveted on her mouth. Florence flushed. Drat the man. The one time he looked in her direction and she was behaving like a mannerless child. His jaw stiffened, and he turned resolutely away from her, plunging into conversation with the Marchioness of Montagu.

Florence felt ill, the syllabub churning unpleasantly in her stomach. She did not understand it. Everyone said how charismatic and likeable Henry was. No one had a bad word for him, and yet he seemed to despise her for no reason. It couldn’t even be because she’d made a fool of herself by flirting shamelessly or setting her cap at him, for he’d not shared more than a few words with her. Miserable and confused, Florence decided she must endure the rest of the evening as best she could and go to bed. Perhaps tomorrow would be a brighter day.