The fireworks display began an hour later. Due to Robert’s earlier expedition with Philip, he easily found a spot on the bank of the lake where they could see every flash and yet be alone. They appropriated Anthony Durand’s blanket, which oddly seemed to irritate the man more than being led away by some of the earl’s men. Cozily settled on the thick wool cloth with their backs against a boulder and Flora’s cloak draped over them, they watched bursts of colored light open in the sky, their brightness reflected in the sheet of water before them. The oohs and aahs of the crowd farther down the shore punctuated each display.
Here was the happiness he’d been looking for, Robert thought. With Flora nestled under his arm, her body warm against his, he felt exultation bubble through him. The victory was hard won. When he thought of standing back as Durand grabbed Flora, his brain nearly exploded like one of the rockets the Phelpses were shooting off. Flora would never know how close he’d come to wading in and taking over when she cried for help. Indeed, he was surprised that Durand hadn’t seen him. He’d been poised to pounce when Flora dropped to the ground and shoved the blackguard into the lake. The memory of Durand’s gasp and sputtering and dripping rise from the mud made Robert smile grimly.
He still wished he could thrash the fellow. Durand hadn’t seemed nearly sorry enough for what he’d done. And society decreed that it was a man’s place to do such things. What would his father think of the way he’d stood back? His brothers? Robert felt the beginning of a cringe at the questions, and then a word floated up from the depths of his mind. “Restraint,” declared Papa’s voice in his head, “and knowing when to exercise it, is a far more arduous discipline than unconsidered action.” Robert repeated the sentence silently. He couldn’t recall when he’d heard it, but the sentiments echoed and unfurled inside him. Perhaps he was something like a duke after all, Robert thought.
He pulled Flora closer against him. Whatever the case, he’d had to cede the satisfaction of beating Durand to her. She’d needed to strike the telling blow. He’d merely wanted to. It was a fine but important distinction. And who would have predicted he would ever have a thought such as that.
“What are you laughing about?” asked Flora.
“I’m…bemused,” he answered. He looked down at her as a burst of light from a rocket gilded her lovely face. His, she was his, exulted an eager inner voice. “I was thinking about…hierarchies of motive.”
Part of him smiled sardonically at the phrase. What idiot would say such a thing when he had a lovely woman in his arms, fireworks bursting above? One who held Flora Jennings, another part answered.
His incomparable, intellectual love looked interested. “Some being stronger than others, you mean?”
“More exigent,” he replied. “More important for the…well-being of the person in question.” Flora turned a little more toward him, sending a spike of desire through his frame.
“And so to be given precedence?” she said.
“Exactly.” There was no one on Earth quicker or sharper, he thought. Or more delectable.
“So it’s a matter of recognizing this hierarchy and…trading, perhaps.”
“Well, I don’t think one can measure it in terms of trade.”
“Too common for your aristocratic sensibilities?” Flora interjected, only half playfully.
Robert shook his head. “Not what I meant. I think it might not be that kind of…exchange. Keeping accounts, you know. Watching for a return.” How did one balance the needs of two strong-willed individuals? Perhaps he’d ask his mother about that. Sometime. He suspected she would know the answer. Or one answer, at least.
“But one must consider fairness,” Flora objected. “It can’t be all on one side. That would cause resentment.”
“Not if there was a clear understanding of the stakes.”
“I’m not sure you’re right.”
“Are you ever?” Robert asked with a smile. He adored her tenacity. “So, you would say that I am owed a…concession?”
Flora smiled back. “You said it wasn’t a trade.”
“And you held that fairness was vital.”
Their smiles widened in tandem as they gazed at each other. Colored light washed over their faces as another rocket burst high above.
“Shall we be married in London?” Robert said. “Next week, say.”
“That’s not much time to prepare.”
“I am entirely prepared. How much fuss do you require?”
“I care nothing for such things. But our families might like a bit of pomp.”
“Mine has had enough weddings to surfeit a regiment of maiden aunts,” Robert replied.
“Well, Mama has not. And I am her only child. She will have…views.”
“So we do the thing in Russell Square. Invite all your father’s old friends. Send out the announcements in cuneiform symbols.”
Flora laughed. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
Robert admired the exquisite planes of her face, the line of her neck. “Will we never stop arguing?” he wondered.
“Is that what you want?” She cocked her head at him. “Isn’t it rather…stimulating?”
She was right. It was. “There’s one area where I hope we will always agree.”
“What?”
He bent his head and kissed her—tenderly, passionately, quite thoroughly.
“Oh,” Flora said breathlessly when at last he drew back. “That area. Yes, absolutely.” She pulled him close and kissed him back with riveting enthusiasm.
Quite a time passed in a delightful demonstration of their concurrence. Garments were loosened. Hands roamed. They slid off the boulder into a recumbent position.
“Shall I stop?” asked Robert when it was clear that matters were reaching a crucial point.
“Under no circumstances,” Flora ordered.
He had no argument there.
Order Jane Ashford’s next book
in The Duke's Sons series
The Duke Knows Best
On sale December 2017