Page 4 of A Second Chance (Chances #2)

July 9, 1812

A nd stay away from her, he did.

Well. Not really.

It wasn’t as though he could completely leave her alone. John wasn’t going to simply give up and abandon the house party, and that was the only way he could entirely avoid Miss Florence Bailey.

And there was that small matter of not actually wanting to leave her alone, in any capacity.

So for the next few days, John watched her. He never got too close, always ensuring he was seated a few guests away. He never engaged her in conversation and always forced himself to stay put when he watched her slip away, seemingly unnoticed by the other guests.

Which was a puzzle in and of itself.

Here she was, one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen—and he had seen some women in his time—and the rest of the Knights’ guests seemed totally unaware of her presence.

One luncheon John watched, open mouthed, as Florence managed to extricate herself from a conversation with Mr. Lister.

It wasn’t particularly impressive, on the face of it. Mr. Lister was an odious man, and John was surprised Mr. Knight had thought it appropriate to invite him, in truth.

Mr. Lister had unfortunately managed to corner her. Literally, she had been standing in a corner and Mr. Lister had approached and started whittering on about some sort of horse he owned.

But what made Florence—what made Miss Bailey’s actions most remarkable was that somehow—John wasn’t sure how, even though he had been watching most carefully over Mrs. Pullman’s shoulder—Florence had...

Walked away.

And Mr. Lister had hardly noticed. He’d kept talking about that wretched racehorse of his, but most surprisingly, to the empty corner.

John had looked at Florence in a different way ever since. Here was a woman, if it could be believed, who disliked conversation so much she had actually discovered a way to slip out of one without the other person knowing.

It was unfathomable.

Who could look at Florence and not notice her?

“Your mouth is open, my lord,” said a calm voice with a hint of a smile in it.

John blinked. Miss Quintrell, to whom he had until moments ago been conversing, did not look offended by his complete inattention. “It is?”

“You’re drooling, I think,” said Miss Quintrell without any hint of censure. “Considering Cook’s next resplendent meal, are you?”

John swiftly closed his mouth, cleared his throat, and confirmed that his constructed bravado was clear in his expression. “Of course! If that man concocts another menu like last night, I shall have to instruct my valet to start letting out my clothes!”

His quip had been quick, but perhaps not quick enough. Miss Quintrell glanced over her shoulder, saw the direction his gormless gaze had been pointed, and had a small smile on her lips when she turned back.

Much against his will, John’s cheeks reddened.

Florence Bailey was seated behind Miss Quintrell. She was reading a book, assiduously avoiding everyone’s attempts to converse with her.

“I see,” said Miss Quintrell kindly.

Thank goodness she was the only one.

John knew he was being ridiculous—he had always been the impulsive one of the family. Well, so was Lindow, but he was also a scoundrel.

And gawping at Miss Florence Bailey was bound to attract some questions eventually. Questions he did not wish to be accosted with, questions he could not answer.

What precisely is your history with Miss Bailey?

Why isn’t she speaking to you, if you were once so close?

And what precisely is your intention toward her now?

All excellent questions, ones he had wrestled with last night over a bottle of brandy. At least, John was fairly sure he had wrestled with them. He had most definitely drunk the brandy.

That evening, at dinner—and he had been quite right, his valet was going to have a job fitting him into that waistcoat which had returned from the laundry much tighter than it used to be—John watched her again.

It was easy, this time. He had heard that Florence had been seated at the right hand of Mrs. Knight, a favor he suspected had been begged of the hostess so she could be far from Mr. Lister.

But John could be equally persuasive.

“Just begged to be seated at my left,” Mrs. Knight trilled, clearly delighted a marquess was even at her table, let alone desirous of her company. “And who am I to deny the Marquess of Aylesbury?”

“Who indeed?” said her husband cheerfully from the other end of the table.

John grinned, leaning back in his chair with as unstudied an air as possible, and studied Florence.

She had flushed the moment she’d sat down at the dinner table and realized just how close he was. So close, John realized, that if he extended his legs—

He immediately withdrew them.

No, his brother Cothrom had been most clear. A second chance. And it wasn’t just about his gambling. It also meant staying out of trouble with mamas and papas, which meant no flirting openly with young ladies when he had no intention of doing anything but flirting.

And that was all this was, wasn’t it?

It wasn’t a nice thought, and though John rarely entertained such thoughts, sometimes you just couldn’t ignore that frightfully irritating voice at the back of your own mind. Cothrom called it a “conscience,” and John would be blowed if he listened to something with a name like that.

Trouble was, it had grown rather louder in the passing days. And it pointed out that it was he who had called off...

Well. They had not actually been engaged, had they? Not officially. Not in so many words.

In so many kisses, however . . .

“—tell me all about that book you are reading,” Mrs. Knight said good naturedly to Florence.

John glanced up as he swallowed a delicious mouthful of roasted hare, potatoes, and asparagus.

Florence was, as he had known she would be, blushing. There were few situations in which Florence—he really must try to remember to call her Miss Bailey—did not flush.

Fortunately for her, the effect was most pleasing. The red of her hair was elegantly matched by the pink of her cheeks, and her lips glistened with—

John cleared his throat, looked at his plate, and tried not to think of the way Florence Bailey’s lips glistened. It was nothing to do with him. She was nothing to do with him.

But it was challenging. As the hare disappeared and a new course was brought out, he listened to Florence’s stuttering conversation, the way she attempted to avoid all follow-up questions, the gentle nervousness of her voice.

She was just the same. Unchanged, unspoiled in the intervening years. Very shy, very nervous, but oh so clever.

“—breeding of course is top notch,” Mr. Lister was spouting loudly four seats down from them. So loudly, in fact, that he quite ruined all other conversations at the table. When he saw everyone else had fallen silent, he grinned, as though it were a compliment paid to him. “I knew the moment I saw that filly, Heart of Fire, I knew she would—”

“The Arabian b-bloodline of Heart of Fire, and her m-mother, have been disp-proven by the 1807 investigation into f-false docum-mentation in Rome,” came a stuttering voice. “You have p-paid a g-great sum for nothing, Mr. Lister.”

Someone dropped a piece of cutlery onto their plate. Mrs. Pullman’s mouth was most inelegantly open, and someone muttered, “By Jove!”

Florence looked liable to melt with shame and embarrassment in her chair. She was staring at her plate, as though she had not just spoken such cleverness that Mr. Lister looked just as liable to melt away in disgrace.

And John grinned.

Yes, that was his Florence. Not his Florence. Obviously. Someone’s Florence.

The thought hit him with the force of an upper cut.

Dear God. Was it possible—no, he had heard nothing of an engagement. Not that he was a frequent peruser of those particular pages in the newspapers. Should he have been?

Mr. Knight cleared his throat. “Well. My goodness. We shall be sure to come to you, Miss Bailey, when we next decide to buy a horse!”

Gentle laughter murmured around the table, a footman stepped forward to replenish the wine, and a chatter arose. And still, no one was looking at Florence.

Except him.

John tried to concentrate on his meal, but he’d lost all appetite for food. Florence—she was such a puzzle. Even when you thought she wasn’t listening, slipping into a world of her own, Florence was able to swiftly contribute something insightful and clever.

Her nerves always showed. The stutter had been something she had loathed, from memory—though now John considered it, she’d said something once about that, hadn’t she?

“It’s n-not a stutter.”

And he had grinned and said, “What do you call it, then?”

And just for once, Florence had glared and replied, “A s-stutter is a difference in speech, but m-my... my nerves affect it. W-When I’m not n-nervous, I d-don’t stutter.”

Excepting that one brief moment the other evening, he had never heard her speak without it. Which, John realized as he sipped his wine and tried to follow the conversation which had now moved onto styles of bonnet, meant Florence had always been nervous in his presence.

Was that a good thing or a bad thing?

By the time the dessert course was brought out, John had drunk three glasses of wine and was finding it difficult to bring his spoon to his mouth.

Not because of the wine. He’d imbibed far more than that in an evening and still managed to win a game of billiards. Badly, to be sure. And his opponent had ended up sleeping the night away under the table.

But still. He’d won.

No, it was the captivating picture of beauty seated opposite him that was the trouble. Whenever he lifted a spoonful of the rhubarb crumble and disgustingly thick custard to his mouth, John would look up, see Florence, see her flush at his attention, and...

After the third attempt led him to use his napkin to clean away the custard from his cheek, John put down his spoon.

Agog. That was the only word he could think of to describe his utter fascination with the woman.

He was truly agog. The refined motions of her hands, the slender slope of her waist that rose to swell over breasts that ached for his touch—

No, wait. That was him doing the aching. Damn.

The point was , John told himself firmly as the last of the desserts were taken away and the ladies departed, he was getting distracted. And by Florence Bailey! A woman of good family, it was true. And beauty. And cleverness.

And a stupendous dowry , muttered the traitorous voice in the back of his head.

And that , John agreed with himself as port was brought round and cigars offered by their eager host. It would be churlish of him to deny that a dowry, any dowry, would be convenient right now.

Any money was preferable to no money.

A stupendous dowry, on the other hand... what counted as stupendous?

He had been unable to winkle the exact amount from Mr. Knight, and there were no other gentlemen here John trusted well enough to inquire without the news getting out that he had done so.

That left him guessing.

Ten thousand? Surely not stupendous. Twenty thousand? It would be unusual, true, but hardly worthy of the description.

Thirty thousand?

John found his mouth had gone dry. And it was attached, this stupendous dowry, to the person of Miss Florence Bailey. A person he would quite like to be attached to himself.

At least for a night.

“This is your second chance, man. Do not waste it.”

John sighed as he puffed on his cigar and attempted to put the beautiful, shy creature from his mind. Second chances. Well, he supposed that was more than fair. Cothrom could have made a significant argument for how this was actually John’s three hundred forty-second chance, so ignoring the first... the first few hundred or so misdemeanors was good of him.

And that meant staying away from Miss Florence Bailey.

But that was proving to be easier said than done.

The dinner had run so late, when the gentlemen rejoined the ladies after the cigars had been smoked, many of their number had already gone to bed.

“Ah, Knight,” said his wife with a heavy yawn. “Now you are here to entertain our guests, I admit my fatigue has gotten the better of me. I will retire.”

“And I will join you,” said Mr. Lister. His face immediately colored. “I-I mean—not join you, obviously, I meant—”

“We know what you meant, Mr. Lister,” said Miss Quintrell with a wry look. “Off you go. Sleep well.”

There was something immensely chastising about her tone, something John noted with delight. Anything to help keep Mr. Lister away from the ladies. Why, the stories he had heard—he’d even attempted to kiss the now Duchess of Axwick against her wishes! Before she became the duchess, obviously. John could hardly see old Axwick permitting something like that.

Within an hour, there was only himself, Florence, and Mr. Knight still remaining in the drawing room. Then—

“I really don’t think I can keep my eyes open any longer,” yawned old Knight, stretching out his arms and smacking his lips as the yawn subsided. “You don’t mind me taking my leave, do you, Miss Bailey?”

John’s head snapped up from the letter which had been in his lap, unread, for nigh on thirty minutes.

Florence decidedly did not look at him as she replied, “I-I have my b-book. I will be quite w-well.”

A flicker of excitement, of anticipation, raced through John.

She must wish to speak to me.

It was the only explanation, he thought as Knight bowed to them both and departed from the drawing room. That had been the perfect excuse for Florence to retire to her own guest bedchamber—or be left alone with him.

She had chosen to stay.

The idea heartened his resolve to speak to her and yet unfortunately did not supply anything in particular to say. As the minutes ticked by, John found himself once again staring at her—agog—his brother’s letter remaining mostly unread in his hands.

Try to keep away from the gambling tables, you idiot , came his older brother’s encouraging words. And...

And what else, John could not tell. His gaze had drifted over once again to the woman who was reading a book that looked most serious, bound in a blue leather. They were not that far apart, seated in two armchairs. His eyes meandered along her fingers, holding the book carefully; to her collarbone, just begging to be kissed; to the way her lips—

“You are s-staring at me.”

“No, I’m not,” John said instinctively.

It was a lie. It was also not a very clever lie, and it did not take long for Florence to refute him.

“You are l-lying.”

A smile crept across John’s face. She could tell. She could always tell. “I suppose I am.”

And then the most wonderful thing happened. Florence’s eyes flickered away from the page before her, just for a moment, and a brief smile curled her lips.

Oh, she was beautiful. John had never seen a more captivating woman. She was a creature designed as though by God to distract him, to make it impossible to think of anything but the space in which she inhabited.

And when he had kissed her, when he had tasted the sweetness and the worry, the desperate need for him he had never imagined could be found in those trembling lips—

John cleared his throat, his smile disappearing as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

Damn. Could she see, perhaps, just what a... ah, physical effect she was having on him?

He would have to talk to his valet about the tightness of these breeches. Except he wouldn’t, because it was the stiffening between his legs that was proving to be the problem, rather than Cook’s fine offerings.

Florence had returned to her book. The smile had gone, the genial atmosphere between them disappeared. It was like she had not said anything to him at all.

John looked at his letter again, but his eyes could not take in a single word.

So, he liked her. There was no crime in that. It was hardly new, either—he had liked her when they had met two years ago. Liked her a great deal. Far too much, in fact, to leave her alone, which had been the trouble.

Because when he realized Florence expected—her whole family expected—a proposal of marriage... a proposal to restrict him forever, tie him to one person, one family, one experience, for the rest of his life...

John had ended the courtship. Badly, probably, in hindsight. But still. It was better than continuing on with nefarious intentions, wasn’t it?

Wasn’t it?

Two years later, John was starting to wonder whether he’d made a mistake.

And his manhood seemed to be wondering along with him.

“H-How is the book?” John asked, astonished at the stutter that had crept into his voice.

“W-When I’m not n-nervous, I d-don’t stutter.”

Hell, could she be right?

Florence glanced over at him, just for a moment, as though ascertaining whether he was teasing her or not. When it became clear it was just a question about the book, and nothing more, she nodded briefly.

John’s shoulders slumped. Dear God, he couldn’t even get a word out of her? His charm was failing him.

“I never had you down for a bluestocking,” he said cheerfully.

That got her attention. Florence carefully placed a bookmark on the page, then closed the book on her lap. When she met his eye, it was steady, though her cheeks were already pinking.

“I would n-not call m-myself a b-bluestocking,” she said in a hushed tone. “M-More a wallf-flower.”

John leaned forward, eagerness overcoming his resolve to remain aloof. Or at least, to try to pretend to be aloof.

Florence Bailey, a wallflower! No, she was just shy. There was a difference. Florence wanted to be part of the conversation, had plenty of things to say, thoughts that astonished and astounded whenever she shared them.

She was just shy, that was all. That could be overcome.

Reducing Florence Bailey to the description of “wallflower” was like reducing the throne of England to “a chair.”

“You said that to me once before,” he said aloud. “You told me, the first day we met, that you were a wallflower.”

It had been a cold spring morning. She’d worn blue.

Now how the devil did he remember that?

“And y-you said,” Florence murmured with a smile. “You s-said that you’d n-never seen such a p-pretty flower.”

John’s stomach lurched. She remembered? After all this time? “I meant it.”

“I’m s-sure you mean all th-the p-pretty things you say to the l-ladies,” Florence said, her voice at least managing to be tranquil.

Ah. Well. He did. He had, at any rate. “I’m not sure about—”

“You s-said yourself, there h-have been other ladies since m-me, and you n-never truly had m-me,” said Florence lightly. “Though n-not for the lack of trying. You whispered p-pretty things to me th-then, all th-those years ago. If you hadn’t m-meant them, why s-say them at all if... if you were n-never g-going to do anything about it?”

It was perhaps the longest she had spoken in John’s presence since... well, since two years ago.

And it was a well-asked question. A well-deserved question , John thought bitterly.

“Except,” Florence said, her voice so low now that he could barely catch it. “E-Except...”

Her voice trailed away as her gaze moved to his mouth.

That simple gesture said so much more than mere words could.

John swallowed. That kiss. Oh, God, that kiss—he had never known anything like it, before or since. It had been the only kiss they had shared, but it had...

God’s teeth, it had frightened him.

He’d never almost lost control like that. Never almost wept to have a woman in his arms give herself to him in that unfettered and passionate way. Never realized how much he stood to lose if Florence decided to walk away. Never known a single kiss could tear him apart, revealing all his fears, his needs, his craving.

His craving for her.

John couldn’t help it. As Florence continued to stare at his mouth, he bit his lip.

The sudden gasp was a hiss between Florence’s lips—lips his own attention had been fixed on. A burning need to kiss her again, to tell Florence, to show her just how much he wished to repeat that scandalous kiss, shot through John.

It was urgent and nearly overpowering. But not quite.

John had rocked forward as the instinct rushed through him, but he pulled himself together and leaned back in the armchair.

Dear God, that had been close.

He’d come here with the words of his brother ringing in his ears—that he was dancing on thin ice, and this was his second—and by the sound of it, last—chance. He wasn’t about to cause a scandal by being discovered kissing Miss Florence Bailey in the drawing room.

Even if it that sounded most agreeable.

He wasn’t going to prove his brother right.

Florence’s look was wistful. “Y-You never int-tended to marry me, did you?”

John swallowed. They were on dangerous ground here, and he wasn’t sure what to say next. Time to escape.

He shot up. “My goodness look at the time is that the time it is so late I must be abed goodnight Miss Bailey.”

The words poured from his mouth and before John knew what he was doing, he had marched across the room and then slammed the door behind him.

He stood, panting heavily in the empty hallway, having just retreated— retreated! —from a woman.

Well. There was a first time for everything.