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“Well, I have to say I have never been in this kind of situation before.”
Mr. Dawkins made some sort of embarrassed inarticulate noise and took his glasses off, even though he’d just put them back on again, glowering at the lenses. He withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket and began to wipe them furiously, as though it was their fault he was so awkward.
“Do you mean the kind of situation where you are in a gentleman’s house unchaperoned, or you’ve just been kissed by said gentleman, or merely that you are unaccustomed to sitting in the type of chairs I have?” He put his glasses back on and regarded her, that telltale stain of pink flushing his cheeks.
She tried not to laugh. But a little delighted giggle emerged, nonetheless.
“All of those things?” She wiggled in her chair. “That is, I don’t have any quibble with your chairs. But the first two things, certainly.”
And then his face turned an even brighter shade, and his eyes went wide behind his spectacles. “I certainly didn’t mean to ask if you made a habit of this kind of thing, it is just—” and he stopped short, likely unable to find any acceptable words.
She had to laugh then. “Of course you didn’t mean to ask if I was in the habit of being with gentlemen in their homes getting kissed. I was the one who said I’ve never been in this kind of situation before, and you were merely exercising your right to be curious.” She took a deep breath. “I like that. Your curiosity. So few people are genuinely curious about one another.”
His color receded, and she thought perhaps he wouldn’t spontaneously combust. At least not right at this moment.
“I find myself ... very curious about you,” he said at last. His voice was so low she could barely hear it.
But she could feel it. His words resonated throughout her body, and it was as though each word
—“I” touching her mouth, “find” making its way to her chest, “myself” making her breasts feel heavy and full, “very curious about you”—well, she couldn’t even say to herself where those words had gone, but she thought she had a fairly good idea.
And it wasn’t to her toes.
He swallowed, and she saw how his throat worked, the strength of even those muscles evident under the cloth of his cravat.
Oh, goodness. All of that was interested in, apparently, all of her. Which made all of her very interested in return.
She rose so suddenly her hipbone smashed into the table, and she staggered back. “I—I should be going,” she said, wishing she sounded more authoritative and less breathy.
But he had taken her breath away, hadn’t he?
He stood as well, as was polite, of course. “I will escort you home.” This time, the tone of his voice didn’t do anything but make her feel terrible. As though she’d missed a moment, which of course she had.
But if she had taken the moment—if she had continued down that line of curiosity and getting to know one another and all of that—she might do something she would irrevocably regret.
Or at least know was not something she should be doing.
And she had the suspicion that he would regret it as well, since she already knew he had a strong sense of honor—look at how he could have engaged Effie’s affections to secure his future—and she didn’t want him obliged in that way to her.
Never mind how wonderful it felt to be kissed by him. To walk in the street beside him, knowing that she was safe, and secure, and he was interested. In her, of all people, and although she knew he was interested in her in that way—that kiss proved it—she also felt that he was interested in her. Just her. Without thinking about what she could do for him, or to him, or any of those things.
“Do you suppose Lady Euphemia will insist on more dance practice?”
He sounded as though he’d just asked, “Do you suppose I will have to continue having splinters put under my nails?”
“Why do you dislike it so much?” she asked.
“Beside the fact I cannot do it?” He snorted. “That is probably it, to be honest. There are few things I have set out to do that I have not accomplished, but dancing, it seems, is one of those things. And yet when I see people dancing, and hear the music, it seems like such a lovely activity. I wish I could.”
“We can practice again, if you like,” she said, her words rushing out before she could even register that she’d spoken. “If you want, if you’d be more comfortable with me, since—” and then she stopped, because how she could say it?
“Because we’ve kissed,” he said in a less splinter fingernail voice. Apparently he could say it just fine.
“I appreciate the offer, Katherine,” and the way he said her voice sounded so intimate, “but I don’t think there is any hope for me.”
“Don’t say that,” she rejoined, instinctively clutching his arm more tightly. “There is hope for everyone. Yourself included, Henry.”
“And what did you do today, Henry?” He busied himself with washing up his dishes from his evening meal—something simple, and warm, and filling, as usual, although he couldn’t say just what he’d eaten.
And why was he delaying answering, when he was just talking to himself?
“I kissed a woman who is the most appealing lady I’ve ever met. And that terrifies me.”
He sat down in his chair, the one he’d sat in opposite her so briefly, and removed his spectacles, laying them on the table and rubbing the spot between his eyes.
“Why does it terrify you, Henry?” He’d found, through the years, that since he lacked someone to confide in—since he definitely was not going to share any of this with his sister—he just had to rely on himself.
Which was the problem, wasn’t it? He’d spent so long relying on himself, and being the one that was relied upon, that he didn’t know what to do when confronted with something he wanted, and not something he needed to do.
And what, precisely, did he want? “What do you want, Henry?” he muttered in a low tone, getting up to fetch a bottle of whisky and a glass. He poured out a healthy amount and sat back down, staring at the settling liquid in the glass rather than downing it right away. He was good at that, at seeing things he wanted, that he desired, and then letting them be. That was why he had a nearly full box of candy in his cupboard, even though he’d been honest about his having a sweet tooth. He rationed them out, one every few days, in some sort of test of his will.
But he didn’t know if he could pass the test of resisting her, not after tasting how sweet her mouth was, or how it felt as though he wasn’t entirely and unutterably alone.
He hadn’t realized until she’d come into his house that he had felt so alone. He’d been grateful, at first, not to have the chatter of his mother and sister around him constantly. But now it wasn’t the absence of chatter he heard but the silence. The quiet that meant that only he was there, and only he would be in the room, and only he would speak, and be spoken to.
“Why does it terrify you?” he asked again, lifting the glass of whisky to his mouth and taking a sip. He still couldn’t answer that.
He sat for another moment, an exhalation of frustration escaping his mouth. And then he leapt up, going to his desk where he kept papers and pencils, returning to his seat and putting his materials on the table.
Another sip. “This should be as easy as accounting,” he murmured. “I can list all the things that are of concern, and see what conclusion I can draw.”
It sounded so simple.
“In the first column, we can list Miss Grant.” He wrote her name down, then underlined it sharply. “In the next column, we have my family.” He wrote “Family Obligations” in the next column. “And that is it,” he said, laying the pencil down, then picking it up to underline “family,” since that would make its format the same as “Miss Grant.”
He was nothing if not consistent. Perhaps he was nothing without his consistency, he thought sourly. He was a large obligation-keeper, at least in terms of how he saw himself. He knew that his family would insist that he do what he wished to do, but that made him run into the essential problem: He didn’t know what it was he wanted to do.
Although he knew who he wanted to do whatever he did want to do with.
He stared down at what he’d written, all four words of it, then picked the paper up and crumpled it, tossing it onto the floor and raising the glass instead.
He downed the rest of the whisky, shrugged, and poured himself some more. Perhaps logic and lists and accounting weren’t what were needed now. Perhaps he just needed to feel. To figure out what it was that would make him less alone, more full of hope, and less ... obliged.