Kiss Me Sweetly

by Cecilia Gray

Woodbury, England

  Benjamin could feel Graham’s stare from across the breakfast table the morning of the next Belle birthday crush. He buttered his toast, refusing to engage. Graham’s knife raked butter over his own bread. Benjamin took a sip of tea. He heard the slurp from Graham’s own teacup. He bit into his toast. Then a crunch came from Graham’s direction.

  And so it went, with Graham mimicking Benjamin’s every move until he knew there was no point in ignoring his brother any longer. Society liked to gossip that Graham was the more playful and friendly of the two of them. Graham’s eyes had been compared to those of a harmless pup on more than one occasion—apparently as a compliment. But Benjamin knew the true trait Graham shared with canines was his stubbornness. Once he had hold of a bone, there was no letting go.

  He met his brother’s eyes. “What?”

  Graham shrugged. “Nothing.”

  “Your eyes are keen for nothing?” he said.

  “You just seem … anxious.”

  Did he? “I’m not.”

  “Your breakfast would disagree. You’ve eaten two bites and we’ve been sitting here for twenty minutes.”

  “If the pace of my meal is affecting yours, I suggest you eat elsewhere.”

  Graham’s voice softened as he said, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so. Not even in the field.”

  Benjamin shoved the piece of toast fully into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed.

  Graham held up his hands in defense. “I’m just telling you what I see.”

  “I have nothing to be nervous about.”

  “Except Father,” Graham murmured. “He’s not happy that you’re all at sixes and sevens with that girl … What was her name?”

  Benjamin said her name, but Graham waved the detail away as though it didn’t matter. He supposed it didn’t.

  “We never had an official understanding,” Benjamin said.

  “You had enough of one for Father, and now she’s gone and engaged herself to the son of one of his cronies. You know how Father feels about that. Not that I think you should care. But if you were looking for a reason to be anxious—”

  “I’m not.”

  “—it would be a decent enough one,” Graham finished, settling back in his chair and tilting it to balance on the rear legs so he could rest his feet on the table.

  “If Father sees you …” They’d been beaten for less as children.

  “Yes, I know,” Graham said. “Now we both have reason to be nervous.” Graham cocked his head. “No, it’s not Father. It’s something else. Today’s birthday party, perhaps? It should put last year’s to shame, I’m told. Father is sparing none of Mr. Belle’s expense. I heard a rumor of fire-eaters. Not us, of course—the entertainers.”

  “I’m surprised the Belles are still in bed, then, given the work to be done,” Benjamin said. Not that the Belles were expected to do the work themselves, but having known the family for years, he knew that if there was work to be done, Alice would want to oversee it, Bridget would want to avoid it in the library, Charlotte would want to help, Dinah would want to point out all the ways in which things were not being done efficiently, and Sera would want to take care of the workers. He smiled as he buttered another piece of toast.

  “The Belles ate earlier this morning and are already deep in preparations. I can see Dinah bossing someone about through the window.” Graham tilted his head toward said window.

  They had already eaten? Benjamin shoveled the smoked meat into his mouth. He’d arrived late last night after they had already turned in. He had expected to greet them at breakfast. It had been far too long since he’d seen all the Belles together. And Bridget at all …

  This past year, he’d chanced upon Alice at two musicales and Charlotte at one ball. But Sera, Bridget, and Dinah had been on the Continent. All year! Bridget had also not bothered to reply to his last missive. It was probably safer for her not to divulge her crimes, though. He imagined her filching books from libraries all over Europe.

  “What are you smiling about?” Graham asked.

  Benjamin’s gaze snapped up. “Nothing.”

  “Your eyes aren’t keen for nothing, brother.”

  Benjamin took a last bite of his breakfast and stood, his chair squeaking as he pushed it back. “We’re to have half of London descend on our house within the hour. Let’s try to keep out of everyone’s way, shall we?”

  He went upstairs, far more preoccupied with choosing his attire than he’d expected.

  Bridget twirled before the mirror in her dress of gold and silver. As she spun, the reflective material winked like the stars in the night sky. She felt radiant and beautiful, like something out of a fairy tale. Which was not heartening, considering how most of them ended in gruesome ways.

  “That seems a bit much.” Dinah was perched on the bed behind her. “This is a birthday fete, not a formal ball.”

  “Tell that to the guests,” Bridget grumbled. The ton seemed determined to make this annual excursion the event of the Season. His Grace the Duke of Rivington likely encouraged it as the party grew to encompass larger and larger absurdities. She’d heard a rumor of a fire-eater who would be entertaining well into the evening tonight. Absurd or not, she intended to watch, of course.

  “Quit spinning. You’ll make yourself sick,” Dinah said. “Besides, what does it matter how the dress looks as you spin since that is not how you will comport yourself for the day? Observe its effect while still, would you?”

  Bridget came to a stop, but the room spun without her. She closed her eyes and laid a hand against the mirror to get her bearings.

  Dinah gasped. “Since when do you care this much for your appearance? Are you hoping to catch a husband? Father did say he had the highest hopes for you next.”

  A husband? “Well, of course,” Bridget said. Yes, she did want a husband, her knight, her gothic hero. Someone of lore and legend. Not some stuffy, rule-following old man, though. Someone more like … “Is Lord Savage going to be in attendance today?”

  Dinah rolled her eyes. “Yes, though I hope the subjects of husband and Lord Savage do not go hand in hand. Have you any notion of the kind of man he is?”

  “Titled, and rich, and adventurous, and handsome, and—”

  “—rakish and callous,” Dinah finished. “Is he a good sort? Of course. I can’t imagine Benjamin and Graham would allow him in their set otherwise. But that does not mean he is to be a husband for the likes of us.”

  Having spent a year dissecting the journal she’d found at Benjamin’s townhome, Bridget was inclined to disagree.

  Even now, just thinking of the journal that she had brought with her and hidden at the very bottom of the wardrobe, she tingled. She’d learned French for it, for goodness sake! A lot of the vocabulary necessary for the understanding of the most important parts of the book, however, was all but impossible to learn from her tutor, who would just gasp with owlish eyes and ask where she had overheard such a thing and that she was never to repeat it, ever. Which is why Bridget spent any number of evenings repeating those words, her mouth moving around the letters as if their meaning might be revealed. She’d managed to piece together enough definitions to guess some other parts of the book that seemed obsessed with anatomical detail.

  But the journal was more than mere words, even if the second half was written in code. It contained sketches originally drawn in lead pencil. Nuanced lines of tangled limbs that she couldn’t look at for more than a few moments before becoming flushed and closing the book.

  If she had been in doubt before that she had in her possession a book of ill repute, it had been confirmed in graphic—if somewhat obscured—detail. She could only imagine what the rest of it contained.

  There were five distinct handwriting styles in the latter half of the journal that she believed to belong to Benjamin and Graham, as well as several of their friends, including Lord Savage. She had noted that Lord Savage’s passages were the longest. He wrote with an impassioned pen, giving him
away. Ink blots dotted his pages from the hasty scrawl, too. It was a far cry from Benjamin’s passages, which were more thoughtful, reflective. They simply sounded like Benjamin.

  She longed to know what the jumbled letters meant and had spent the better part of the year searching for answers. She had even studied texts of ciphers and code dating back to Roman times, but nothing helped.

  “Bridget?” Dinah interrupted.

  “Hmm?” She met her sister’s eyes in the looking glass.

  “Please tell me you do not mean to declare yourself to Lord Savage.”

  Bridget shrugged. “What am I to do if he declares himself to me?”

  “I wouldn’t hold my breath,” Dinah said plainly. “Now hurry. You look beautiful, as always. Or shall I call back your lady’s maid to try on yet another dress?”

  With another twirl she decided, “This one will do.”

  Having spent a year on the Continent with Sera—who was determined to intimately know every possible European city, though Bridget couldn’t figure out what had gripped her sister so—for once Bridget found the annual birthday event to be calm, despite the fire-eater. This year she actually recognized most of the faces, knew the dances, understood the customs. She felt at home, she realized. She was happy to be in the company of her sisters again, as well. She’d even seen Lord Savage in an impressive display of horsemanship. He was easy to watch, and she spent the better part of an hour admiring him, imagining how an author might describe his athletic command of the steed.

  But she soon found herself inside once more. She had yet to see Benjamin, and she had so much curiosity burning inside her. What had happened to the lady he had mentioned courting? Had he somehow discovered that she, Bridget, had the book? She wished for it and dreaded it in equal parts.

  She had started a dozen letters to confess that it was in her possession, but she couldn’t bear the thought of his reading her confession and her not being able to see his reaction. Not being able to soothe his anger or cajole him out of his disappointment.

  This, she decided, was her opportunity to rectify her past wrongs.

  Having not found him outside, Bridget wended her way through the ballroom. It was not yet set up for dancing—that would happen later in the evening—else she would be obligated to be available for guests and the insufferable birthday toasts she and her sisters endured each year. She did, however, accept a bevy of birthday wishes, salutations, and inquiries about her year abroad until her very jaw was exhausted from repeating the same stories over and over again.

  After managing to escape the clutches of a man who resembled a rat so much that his nose would twitch every time he laughed, she made her way to the library, which she knew from experience would be empty. Maybe she could sit and ponder where she might find Benjamin. She knew he was at the house. She’d waited up until she’d seen his carriage arrive late last night.

  She’d stood obscured behind the curtains watching him. He’d seemed taller than she had remembered, though that wasn’t possible. One of the horses had whinnied and he’d laid his hand against its mane, soothing it. Then he’d turned and looked up at the house. She had felt as though he’d been looking directly up at her window and so she ducked, even though he could not see inside and had probably just been glancing generally at the facade. By the time she’d gathered the courage to look again, he had already disappeared and the groom had been leading the horses to the stable.

  She rounded the corner into the library and saw Benjamin sitting in a wing-backed chair, book in hand. She was surprised to see him and then realized she had expected him to be there the entire time.

  He smiled and rose to greet her. Did he stumble a bit? “Miss Belle!” His voice was almost a stutter. His gaze raked over her dress. “Travels on the continent were kind to you.”

  “Thank you,” she said, uncertain of his meaning but feeling a warmth to his words.

  His voice was a rasp. “Happy birthday.” He sounded nervous, but why?

  They were alone, but the door was open and guests walked to and fro in the hallway. Still, there was an intimacy in seeing him that she had not expected.

  “Shall we take a turn around the library?” she asked.

  He gave his arm and she took it.

  “I wonder if I should offer condolences for the demise of your relationship,” she said. “When I left, it seemed as though everything was just short of decided.”

  “I had thought so,” he admitted. “But our next meeting was rather … less than expected. She easily made another conquest.”

  Bridget wondered about this woman—if she was rich, attractive. More attractive than Bridget herself, specifically. She restrained a groan. She hadn’t realized she was so petty in her thoughts.

  “Are you disappointed at the turn of events?” she asked.

  “My father was. Is still, really. He had hoped I would marry soon, especially since Tom and Sera have not announced that she is expecting. His duty is always to the title.”

  “He believes you to be shirking your duty in that regard,” she noted. “My father says the same of me: that it is my responsibility to marry. And I want to marry, I do. But as a responsibility?”

  “Ah, yes. I am well aware of your romantic inclinations. And I had also thought …” He let the sentence trail off, and she encouraged him with a nod. “Pardon my impropriety in bringing up a private family matter, but we are friends now, yes?”

  “And family in some ways,” she added. They really had become quite close, and she had secrets with him as she had with no other. How easily that intimacy had come, and with so few assignations.

  “‘The Tale of the Belles.’ I assume you’ve heard it?”

  “Yes, of course.” Her lips pressed together grimly. It was a romantic tale, one she supposed she would have liked had it not been about her, her sisters, and their personal troubles.

  The tale was simple enough: A loving couple, year after year, gave birth to five girls on the same day, each a year apart. The first with ebony hair, the second—herself—a brunette, then a redhead, a blonde, and finally a child with hair as white as angels’ wings. Beholding her five children while on her death bed, the mother begged her husband to see their daughters well married to dukes, and the father dedicated his life to ensuring his wealth would be great enough to merit the best matches for his children.

  “It is often thought romantic despite its tragedy, as are your roles in it.”

  “The story is very romantic,” she agreed. “Most tragedies are. I believe I understand your meaning, though. That in finding a husband, I will fulfill a destiny that is worthy of grand literature. I do consider this and it does move me, but no more so than the stories of love and romance that my mother loved. That kind of story is the one I want for myself.”

  His jaw worked as he mulled over her words. They had circled the library twice already, and he took her on a third turn, ignoring the occasional passersby who strolled in front of the door. “I’ve no doubt of your ability to write the very story you want for yourself.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “I hope I might appease my father in doing so. He is more easily placated than yours, I will note.” She bit her lip for a moment. “I hope you don’t mind my speaking so plainly.”

  “Not at all. Whether you speak of it or not, it will remain true.” He grinned ruefully. “But it is your birthday and we should not speak of such conventional, boring things. How were your travels? Might I assume you uncovered more texts forbidden to women?”

  “They are not so easily discovered, unfortunately,” she said, launching into a tale of a book of poems in Spain that had taken her the better part of a month to track down.

  “Your persistence paid off,” he said. “It is unfortunate neither of us have managed to find the journal, despite our persistence, however. I wonder if I must have stumbled upon some hidden room here at Woodbury and left it there.”

  She couldn’t agree without lying to him, so she remained quiet. This was
her moment to confess, to redeem herself. But the words she had rehearsed so many times didn’t feel right in her mouth.

  He noticed her stillness and stopped in his tracks. “You’ve found it,” he said. It was not a question. He stepped closer. “Where is it? When did you find it? Where?”

  Bridget felt him crowding her and stepped back. “In your home,” she said.

  “My home?” His eyes widened. “Last year? When you were in London? This whole time … and you never once … ?”

  “It was in code,” she said. “A fact you left out. I knew you would demand it once I told you, and I wouldn’t have had time to decipher anything.”

  He turned away from her and sat on the sofa, burying his face in his hands. “You’ve had it an entire year? You’ve probably studied every word. Every pattern. By God, you haven’t shown it to Dinah, have you?”

  “Of course not!” She took the seat across from him, compelled to defend herself. “However, if anyone could have worked out the code, it would have been her. But I didn’t want to betray your confidence, even if it meant figuring it out myself instead of asking for her help.”

  He snorted. “Your idea of not betraying me is rather convenient for you.”

  “I just wanted a fair look at it,” she said. How had this gone so wrong? When she’d imagined the confession in her head, it had brought them closer together.

  “Fair? What about this is fair? The journal is not only mine. Don’t you understand? I’m sure you’ve observed that several people have written in that journal and that within it, there are multiple names, even if encoded. It is their confidence that I have no right to betray.”

  She opened her mouth but then closed it. She had been about to say that of course she would maintain the strictest discretion. That he should trust her. And it was how she felt, but how could she honestly expect him to feel the same way? After all, who was she to him? His brother’s wife’s sister. Barely anyone, even if it felt otherwise.

  “You must know that what you’ve done is wrong,” he said. “At least give me that. You’ve stolen, broken my trust. These are not merely adventures to be read about in a book.” He stood and stalked toward her, towering. “These are not harmless words on a page.”