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DURING THE INTERMISSION Brontë discovered the second difference between this formal evening and her three tours of duty as a bridesmaid. There wouldn’t be any drunk groomsmen drooling all over her or hitting on her. Which was fine, obviously.
Downside, it didn’t seem anyone at all, namely Tris, would be hitting on her either.
Tris persisted in his insanely attentive manner, fetching her more refreshments and hovering nearby while visitors came and went from the box. No more than that. Hazel introduced her to Hannah’s parents, the Earl and Countess of Haddington. To her siblings, as well as to her current suitor. There were more MacKintosh cousins. Too many to remember all their names. Brontë donned her best behavior to make small talk with them all rather than putting her tenuous plan into motion.
Through the final act, she pondered her strategy.
She wasn’t a natural born flirt, she knew that. Nor had she had much opportunity to hone her skills as a seductress. Most of her relationships elevated to intimacy discussed prior to the experience itself or she’d been straight up asked to hop in the sack. Spontaneity of the amorous sort was foreign to her.
Nevertheless, it wasn’t rocket science. Life experience had proven that any woman could walk into a bar in the twenty-first century and manage to get laid if that were her goal. She and Tris were healthy, young, unattached and there was a mutual attraction, if Tris’s comment about liking her close hadn’t been taken out of context. Nature could take its course.
It shouldn’t be too hard.
How she was supposed to do that when he behaved as an utter gentleman, Brontë had no idea. Not a hand out of place, even when she’d unintentionally tripped earlier at the stunning revelation of his heart-stopping smile and fell against him.
Maybe she should ask him flat out?
The very idea made her wrinkle her nose. Calm and clinical wasn’t the vibe she wanted to send at all. Undeniably sexy and willing, that was what she needed to go for. While her skillset in those terms was limited, surely a guy like Tris had had enough women throw themselves at him to take a broad hint?
When the curtain fell on the final act, the applause subsided and lights went up again, Brontë prepared to put her wiles to the test. She’d succumb to his gentlemanly manners with a smile. Cling just enough. Smile up at him like he was the manliest thing she’d ever laid eyes on.
That wouldn’t be difficult.
It should be enough.
He retrieved her wrap from the footman and slipped it around her shoulders without a lingering touch or stray caress along the wealth of bare skin in close proximity. He escorted her out the door with a hand at the small of her back that never slipped south. Not a single inch.
Either such proper behavior was ingrained in him to the bone or he wasn’t feeling a fraction of the pull she did.
Before she could test her theory, Hazel linked arms with Brontë and pulled her along with Hannah on her other arm.
“It was wonderful, don’t you think?” she asked. “That nose, though! How unfortunately bogus. Don’t you agree?”
It had been a cosmetic tragedy.
“Awful,” Brontë agreed after a glance over her shoulder showed her that Henry, Tris and Hannah’s beau, Mr. Wyndom talked companionably as they followed behind. “I’ve got a friend who’s a makeup artist. I can assure you with her prosthetic you’d never be able to guess it wasn’t real despite the enormity of it.”
“Really?” A hundred questions passed over Hannah’s face. “Does she work...” — she lowered her voice — “in the theater?”
Brontë sensed admitting as much would be a bad thing. While she was prepared to dodge and evade some truths with her ancestors, she felt wrong about flat out lying to someone as sweet as Hazel and Hannah. “She does. I do as well. As a costume designer. I hope that doesn’t make you think less of me.”
Hazel blinked. “I... well, no of course not. It is a rather risqué setting for a lady, though, is it not? Even in America?”
Since there was always someone looking down at the theater staff in her time as well, Brontë didn’t take the question personally. Artists would never rank equal to business professionals for some reason despite the fact that their years of education often surpassed the latter’s. The Master of Fine Arts degree she’d earned through a three-year graduate program had been required at the costume design firm she’d worked for in London.
“Times are changing,” was all she said. “And I love having a job where I get to do something artistic and creative.”
Understanding blossomed into smiles on the other women’s faces. “Oh, yes!” Hannah agreed. “That must be wonderful. Then to see your creations on stage!”
Hazel nodded. “Tell me, what your thoughts were on the ones tonight?”
The question launched a comparison of the costumes tonight versus those of her own production, pausing only when they continued down the street rather than finding their car as they left the building. There was a restaurant nearby where they’d partake of a late dinner. As they walked arm in arm, she explained that the ones tonight were more flamboyant and detailed with period accuracy while the modern — aka American version — brought the contemporary, minimalist flare of modern theater to the outfits. It was difficult for her to say which was better.
Once they were seated at a table in the café and more champagne poured, Hazel turned her attention back to her husband who sat close by her side. It was easy to see why Tris would feel like a third wheel when he accompanied the couple solo. Their absorption in one another was absolute even though conversation flowed freely around the table and no one was excluded. They held hands, leaned toward each other until their heads touched. All of it a live-action reenactment of the episodes detailed between the pages of Hazel’s journals.
Not fiction, but oh-so real.
They were young, deeply in love. Friendly and engaging with others at the same time. Thinking of them as her great-great-grandparents when they’d become so real to Brontë would be impossible once she returned to her own time and left them all behind.
For the rest of her life, she’d be thankful for the memories she’d made today.
She’d also spend the rest of her days comparing every relationship she attempted to theirs. Brontë downed her champagne at the realization and held the glass up for a refill.
Well, if she were going to end up being a nun, she planned to go out in a blaze of glory.
* * *
“CYRANO WOOED HER WITH his words,” Tris argued as they walked back to the car an hour later after parting ways with Hannah and Mr. Wyndom.
“Perhaps from his point of view,” Brontë argued. “I would say, as a woman, he wooed with friendship. He was there for Roxanne when she needed him. With a ready ear and his support with no anticipation of anything more in return.”
“What nonsense. Friendship cannot win a man a lady.”
Barring those condemned to the friend-zone, she could argue friendship had won many a man his lady. She refrained from debating the issue further, though, lest he get the idea that friendship would gain him anything with her. Her goals aimed at a vastly different level of rapport.
Sadly, a casual acquaintance was all he seemed to have in mind for them. His continued aloofness was enough for her to catch a chill.
“Are you cold?”
She practically clung to his arm now when before she eschewed it. Granted the night air had cooled considerably, but he couldn’t possibly think that alone justified her one-eighty attitude change when it came to accepting his assistance without balking. The streets were dimly lit so she had a hard time reading his expression. Could he?
Maybe he could.
“It is a bit chilly.” She wouldn’t say she snuggled up next to him precisely, rather she leaned into him as they walked. His unwavering politeness indicated he interpreted her action as nothing more than a search for warmth rather than the invitation she meant it to be.
An invitation to draw her closer. Let his hands wander a little.
He did none of those things, keeping the proper distance between them.
The come-hither effort felt silly and contrived. All she needed was to bat her eyelashes and add a perky giggle to make a complete fool out of herself. She had no idea how some women did it and managed to face themselves in the mirror in the morning.
Besides it wasn’t working.
“We’ll be at the car momentarily.” He took her hand, rubbed her fingers brusquely and released her. “Tuck your fingers into the fur. It’ll help.”
Brontë pulled the stole tight around her shoulders. Soft fur tickled her cheek and she snuggled into the luxurious depths. The costume department at the Lyceum usually used synthetic when costume required it while the large movie production company she’d worked for in London went for the more realistic and expensive modacrylic when budgets allowed. She petted a palm down the silky length. “This thing is so soft. What is it? Synthetic or modacrylic?”
Tris looked down at her, a frown drawing his thick brows together. “You assume it’s artificial?”
She froze and stared up at him, all thoughts of seduction gone. “Are you saying it isn’t?”
“I assure you, Henry is in a position to do his best by Hazel. It’s mink.”
“Mink? Like actual mink?” He nodded and she shrugged the fur off and dangled it between two fingers. “Oh my God. Poor thing.”
“Point of fact, likely thirty or more of those ‘poor things’ comprise that wrap,” he said dryly, and she shuddered. “I fail to see the problem. Man has been wearing the skins of animals for warmth throughout the course of history.”
“I know, I know.” Swallowing back the acidic lump rising at the back of her throat, she nodded.
Leather and fur featured prominently in the coursework of textiles in costume history. Knowing in the recesses of her mind that this time lacked the modern-day rights of animals failed her in practice as much as the lack of women’s rights had. While she personally eschewed fur and leather products in favor of vegan leather and pleather substitutes as an ethical concern, this time would not share the same compunction. To be fair, many in her time didn’t either.
She’d been taken by surprise, that was all. If she’d devoted her focus more deeply to what she saw and did in this time and less to the people in it, she would have realized it on her own soon enough.
Folding the fur, she draped it over her arm with a gentle pat and a silent apology to it and the spirit of PETA.
“You’ll not wear it?” Tris asked. “You may grow more chilled.”
No offer to keep her warm.
“I’ll survive.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I don’t expect you to.”
He watched her in the dim light for a long while. “You’ve rationalized much of your odd behavior today with the excuse that you hail from a place where such things are the norm. However, I’ve known many American women and am related to several. Beyond them all, you are the most profoundly curious woman I’ve ever met, Brontë Hughes.”
He had no idea. “Uh, thanks?”
A noncommittal grunt sounded deep in his throat.
“I take it that wasn’t meant as a compliment?”
Another ambiguous grumble was his only response.
Nice move, Hughes. What guy wouldn’t want you now?
* * *
WHEN THE MOTOR CAR came to a halt, Tris fairly leapt from the vehicle. As if he couldn’t get away from her quick enough. His manners kicked in a heartbeat later and he turned to offer his assistance. That she didn’t balk but slipped her hand into his without argument physically surprised him if the jerk of his hand was any indication. Without a word, he led her up the stairs where Rhodes held the front door at the ready, and they followed the Burnhams into the foyer.
“I’m going to go check on the children before I retire,” Hazel said softly and turned toward the stairs as Tris handed Brontë’s mink off to the butler. “Good night.”
“Nightcap, Tris?” Henry offered.
He looked down at her then away again. “Not tonight, Henry. I’ll see myself out.”
“You’re leaving?”
She supposed she couldn’t blame him. They’d been at odds since she arrived. A few instances of bumbling advances couldn’t pedal back those where they’d clashed rather than meshed. Despite what she’d thought she’d read from him earlier, he obviously thought her an odd duck. How was one supposed to seduce a man who looked at her as a curiosity rather than a woman?
“It’s been a pleasure, Miss Hughes.” He took hers hand in his and lifted it to his lips. His deep green eyes were so inscrutable as his lips brushed her knuckles, she had no clue what he was thinking. He wasn’t nearly as easy to read as most of the men she’d known. Did he desire her? Did she repulse him? She had no idea. Of course, Jake had cheated on her for more than six months and she’d never read it on his face. So, there was that base line for her skill.
He said good night to Henry who returned the pleasantry and followed his wife up the stairs leaving Tris and Brontë alone in the hall. With a short bow, he donned his hat and turned to the door.
Damn, she couldn’t let a guy like this walk away without one last shot in the dark. With a hand on his arm, she gave a gentle tug. It was turn or fight her. His big body grew still and taut. She wondered if he’d bolt.
“I get that I’m all stubborn — what was it? — incivility to your polished charm.” She looked up at him, so close the heat emanating from his body warmed her. “But aren’t you at least going to say goodbye?”
“As I said, it’s been a pleasure,” he said, his brogue huskier than normal. “A true pleasure, Miss Hughes.”
He reached for the doorknob.
“I’m leaving in the morning.”
The throaty reminder stayed his hand. “Your cousins will be sad to see you go.”
“And you?” She tugged off her gloves, ready to go to the mats to get into his head. And his bed.
Tris turned, his eyes shifting from her face down to her hands as she peeled off the second glove. The muscle in his jaw twitched and he met her gaze again. She swore she could see a flash of desire there, but he said only, “And me?”
“Wouldn’t you...” She swallowed hard, her heart pounding with nauseating anxiety and lust against her ribs. Her breath shallow. “Wouldn’t you like to...?”
She let the invitation trail off and cocked her head toward the staircase, waiting.
“To what?”
Come shag me, you thick-brained dunderhead, she wanted to scream. Make love to me. Let me know the feel of your body against mine before I leave you behind forever.
The invitation couldn’t work its way past her lips. Brontë’s shoulders slumped with a sigh as she hung her head. Innuendo wasn’t going to cut it. And as much as she wanted him, she couldn’t bring herself to flat out ask. It would be too humiliating if he turned her down. Perhaps a direct request was what he was waiting for. Perhaps he didn’t have a clue what she was thinking any more than she knew his mind.
She’d never know. She’d tried, thought it might work, and failed. She had no one to blame but herself. All she was going to get was a good bye and the sight of his broad back as he walked out the door.
“Stupid, stupid,” she muttered under her breath. “Alrighty then.”
With a wistful sigh, she stretched up on her toes and kissed him. The merest whisper of her lips across his, yet she couldn’t stop herself from taking her consolation prize. His breath dispelled, his body tensed even more. Time stopped for a heartbeat. Long enough to engrave the moment in Brontë’s soul. The smell of him. The taste of him, champagne and moonlight. The firm shape of his lips but with a touch of softness there, too. The restrained power of his brawny body so close to her.
At last, she backed away with a regretful smile and walked to the foot of the stairs, allowing herself one last look back.
“Goodbye, Tris.”