A Second Chance: A Regency Historical Romance (The Chances Book 2) by Emily E K Murdoch

Author:Emily E K Murdoch [Murdoch, Emily E K]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dragonblade Publishing, Inc.
Published: 2024-09-02T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

“Well,” said John slowly with a grin he could not quite hide. “It looks like you’ll be staying here.”

Florence glanced up, then returned to the window. There was not a hint of concern on her face. Perhaps it was her lack of apprehension that had excitement thrumming through John.

Well, she hadn’t said no . . .

The rain thundered against the glass. He supposed he should have guessed. Florence had, after all, mentioned the sense of rain in the air. All this heavy heat for so long, the weather would have to break sometime. It would be a relief, in truth, to have all this strange atmosphere blown away by the winds.

A flash of light—and an answering roll of thunder that sounded far too close for anyone to venture out tonight.

Particularly if they were a specific young lady he certainly didn’t wish to be drenched.

“You should not be so silly.” Florence’s voice was so low, it was almost impossible to hear over the thrashing rain. “I only came for dinner.”

The pair of them were standing by one of the huge sash windows in the drawing room. Despite Humphreys’s advice, they had pulled back the curtains and were looking up at the storm as it raged.

The rain was so heavy, John could almost feel it pouring onto his skin. Cleansing, changing him, relieving him of the habits of the past.

He almost shook his head and laughed as the droplet of a thought trickled through his brain. What on earth was he thinking? A little rain couldn’t alter the past, couldn’t change his habits or the things he had done.

He glanced over at Florence. Her eyes were wide, clearly delighting in the drama of the storm.

And something in him twisted.

But she could do it. She could alter the past, make it seem . . . better. Well, not better in and of itself, naturally. But if the cost was that he’d had to endure it all to come to her . . .

Then it was worth it. Florence Bailey was worth it.

“I can’t let you go home in this,” said John softly—too softly. He strengthened his voice as he realized she had not heard him over the tattoo the rain was drumming down onto Aylesbury House. “I can’t let you go home in this awful weather, Florence. I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not,” she said as though attempting not to laugh. “It’s past ten o’clock, I have to—”

“You don’t have to do anything when the weather is this awful,” John said firmly. “I mean, look at it!”

He watched Florence’s gaze as it flickered across the garden. There was not a great deal of it at the front of Aylesbury House—that was the price one paid for living so close to the center of London. Yet even the little lawn and flowerbeds that the house afforded were being battered by the storm. Flowers had lost their last summer buds, there was a branch from the silver birch lying across a rose bush, and John didn’t think the magnolia would ever be the same again.

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