by Sally Orr
“Thank you,” she said. “I have been waiting for another kiss.”
He had two choices: kiss or talk. His body requested a long bout of kissing, while what remained of his reason spoke louder and ruled the day. “We cannot talk here. Let’s find some privacy.” He moved his hand to gently tilt up her chin. While the darkness dimmed the normal brilliant blue of her eyes, they still sparkled from the reflected gaslights. “Would you like to be alone together, or do you want to stay here at the banquet?”
She nodded and placed her warm hand over his. “Yes, I would like some privacy. I think we have much to discuss. Perhaps this is neither the time nor place, but at least we can start to reach some understanding between us.” She pulled his hand off her chin and swung it back and forth. “The question is where do we find privacy at a large banquet with at least a hundred in attendance? How about the inn? Can we leave the banquet without being observed or missed?”
He blushed at her unspoken desire to steal a moment alone together, perhaps like their previous rendezvous. Uncertainty claimed him, if that was her meaning. Thank heavens the tunnel’s dim light hid his physical reaction. “Let’s head back to the pit. The inn is full tonight because of this event. So in the meantime, I’ll try to think of a place close for our chat.” Uncertain about the nature of her “understanding,” he still maintained a certain hope of final success. When he held her and kissed her, she had not tried to pull away or run. So at the very least, he passed the first crucial bit of advice given to him by his father. But he burned from her suggestion of the inn. He doubted his ability to leave this place a sane man unless he could express his love in every manner available.
“A private chat,” she said. “It should not take long before we reach an understanding.”
They started walking back to the tunnel’s entrance, holding hands. Occasionally it became necessary for them to step apart due to scattered puddles of water, but regardless of their distance, each remained clutching the other’s hand tightly. He decided her steadfast grip must be a good sign of eventual success. His breathing quickened.
“How about you show me this diving bell you went down in? I have never seen it before, I guess because it is kept moored in the middle of the river. Tonight I noticed it is tied up to the dock closest to the pit. Do you think there will be enough light for you to show me the bell?” She stopped walking. “Just the outside, you understand. I-I don’t think I would ever be brave enough to even stand under it, much less descend into a river that could become a watery grave. I admire you for your bravery. Perhaps we can begin by you telling me about your experiences in the bell.”
He straightened, with his heart as light as air, his blood must be pumped around by an organ no stronger than butterfly wings. He yearned to tell her of his successful effort to stop the leak. So he told her everything, his doubts of success, his stinging eyes, and even lying on the deck, too exhausted to move. He withheld Duff’s reunion with his family, and the very instant he realized he had fallen in love.
She listened carefully and made a few comments and even several gasps, when he described standing on the bottom of the river as he tried to spread the clay bags to create a broader plug.
By now they had reached the quay and found themselves shrouded in darkness. Only a single lantern lit the gangway to the barge. The diving bell loomed ahead as a dark form blotting out the lights from the docks across the river. They stepped onto the barge and walked over to the bell.
She placed her hand on the bell. “It’s so cold, so frightening.”
He wanted her to feel something else, not fear. Stepping close, he embraced her fully and turned them, so he leaned on the bell’s cold iron. “There is nothing to fear.”
She nodded and lifted her head.
In the dim light, he recognized her desires. Did he possess the discipline to postpone easing her wants until they reached their understanding? Perhaps a gentle kiss might smooth the waters and lead to a few simple sentences, like “I love you.” Then she would respond, “I love you too.” He would propose, and then she would accept—a perfect example of an understanding.
Before any discipline could be summoned, she kissed him full on the mouth.
The bear growled and took her lips in a commanding kiss. He could not get enough of her kisses. In swelling desperation, he kissed her deeper. As he did so, he turned her around, so the bell provided her support. Next he unbuttoned her spencer. With one hand he caressed and teased her breasts through her heavy, silk gown, giving full attention to each one. He became fully erect, fighting the desire to lift her skirts right then and there.
He failed.
A blinding fog of passion overwhelmed them both.
He swiftly unbuttoned his falls, then with more effort managed to unbutton his undergarments. His erection slid free.
She reached down and stroked him.
Suddenly, the air around him resembled alcohol thrown into a fire, an instant fireball.
He lifted her skirts. “Oh, Meta, Meta,” he moaned, still repeatedly kissing her. He used his finger to push through the slit in her undergarments to caress her beneath the curls. Then he employed his tactile skills to bring her to the edge of pleasure.
“George, George.” She moaned again in the throaty voice of a female lost in the midst of passion.
He thrust into her. Then to his surprise, he lacked the ability to withdraw slowly to extend their pleasure. He transformed into a rutting beast, thrusting again and again.
“Ahhh.”
With what remained of his wits, he recognized her teetering on the verge of release.
He gave her a hard thrust. “Marry me?”
She stiffened.
“Marry me?” The sentence came with each push.
“George,” she yelled, reaching her moment of bliss.
“Marry me?” He quickened the pace and soon found his release. An extended groan escaped him.
He lacked the strength to stand, so he braced himself by placing his hands on the cold iron bell. He held his ear next to hers as their breathing slowed. “Marry me?”
She cupped his head and bestowed a sweet kiss on his forehead. Minutes passed before she righted her skirt and spencer.
Why no immediate answer to his question?
Had he rushed his fences? Gone against his father’s advice? Right, he needed to commit suicide right here and now, but first tell her he was about to perform a charitable act of mercy.
She reached up and stroked his hair tucked behind his ear.
Her touch soothed the bear, but it did not extinguish his agitation. “Marry me. You need not fear you will have to leave your family. I can move in with—”
This time she cupped his cheeks and pulled his head down to tenderly kiss him with her velvet lips. Then in a throaty voice that made him stiffen all over again, she said, “I can never get enough of you or your kisses. Tomorrow when clearer heads prevail, we will discuss our future. Please.” She kissed him hard and quick, then looked up at him, a clear message to respond in kind, and he instantly obliged.
He growled under his breath. No woman in his arms had ever undergone such a thorough kissing. Only one thing remained to convince her of his love. “I love you. Tomorrow then.”
She widened her eyes. “Tomorrow.”
During the carriage ride back to Swallow Street, they held hands.
After each meaningful exchange of glances, she squeezed his fingers.
He stared at their joined palms. In a flash, his parents’ gesture acquired a new meaning for him; he understood them better. Nothing could ever make him happier than holding Meta’s hand forever. His thoughts calmed, and he gained confidence that he stood on the brink of the greatest success in his life—Meta’s vow to marry him—tomorrow.
Twenty-three
Early the next morning, Meta stood in her drawing room spinning in circles under her mother’s chandelier. A blur of light, crystal, and gilt suited her joyous mood perfectly.
Tod
ay George would arrive to discuss their future—together.
A meeting midmorning was later than she preferred, but the first hour allowed for a proper call seemed appropriate. She spread her arms wide and continued to spin as fast as her legs could manage. “Weee.” Her spread arms mimicked the elegant brass arms of the chandelier, supporting the brightly lit candles sitting in their cut glass cups draped with crystal drops. Once thoroughly dizzy, she collapsed onto a curved-back chair.
Overwhelmed with the sublime anticipation of George repeating the offer of his hand, she wondered what tender words he’d use; what heartfelt feelings he’d express; what ecstasy she would experience.
“You look funny,” Lily said, entering the room, then sitting on the empire sofa across from Meta. “Are you ill?”
“Yes, I am. I’m sick from too much happiness.”
Lily rolled her eyes. “Let me see… How would I describe your ridiculous expression in my novel?”
Meta sat straight in the chair and chuckled. “Forgive me, dearest. I did not sleep last night. I enjoyed the banquet so well last evening, I’m still a little giddy.”
“I wish I had been there.” Lily paused. “Was James there?”
Within two ticks from the clock, Meta’s euphoria faded and reality returned. “Yes,” she said, hoping Lily would drop the subject.
“Your face says it all. He was there with another woman, wasn’t he? No, don’t answer. I’ll use this moment of betrayal as motivation for my art.”
“You’ll put what betrayal in a novel?”
“For such a life-changing event, poetry is the best medium, I think.” She paused, clearly thinking, then placed her hand over her heart. “My true love breathes life only in my heart’s own mind.”
“Your heart has a brain?”
Lily huffed. “Meta! It’s not edited yet.”
Tom bounded down the stairs and ran through the drawing room, taking little notice of its occupants.
“Thomas!” Meta shouted. “You promised no running, remember?”
The boy stopped and hesitantly looked up at the chandelier. “Sorry, I forgot. Won’t happen again.” With those words barely out of his mount, he started to run out of the room.
“Thomas, no running,” Lily said, for the first time joining Meta in the discipline of her siblings.
The boy stopped. Wearing a stunning scowl he said, “Why are you telling me what to do? That’s Meta’s job.”
Meta took a step toward him. “It’s everyone’s job, especially when you do not listen.”
Tom huffed. “Girls,” he said, before running out of the room.
Lily turned to Meta. “You cannot fool me, you know. Please tell me once and for all. James escorted another lady, didn’t he?”
While James had spent some of the evening in the company of the sister of one of the tunnel’s board of directors, she could truthfully admit her ignorance about the current state of his romantic affairs. “He did not escort a lady; however, several ladies were present at the banquet. Ladies whose husbands, fathers, or brothers sat on the board of directors of the Thames Tunnel Company.”
“I knew it.” Lily smoothed her white muslin skirt in more of a slapping motion. “You won’t tell me everything, of course. But your lack of an answer is still an answer.”
“Lily—”
“I know deep within my breast that James and I are estranged forever,” she said, placing her hand over her heart once again.
Meta had no intention of encouraging her sister’s histrionics. “Nonsense, my heart’s own mind believes you are mistaken. Instead, she tried to think of a method to stop the frequent hand-over-heart gesture, like the gift of a sharp brooch as a birthday present.”
As the clock on the mantel ticked away, Lily sat with her arms crossed, biting her upper lip.
Meta stared into the fire. In the future, Lily must reach out and grab her own happiness. However, since her sister could easily fall into a brooding temperament, Meta decided to put more effort into actively forwarding the couple’s reconciliation by holding a number or routs, whist parties, and balls. Hopefully, once they were all settled, she could start entertaining within the next year. “I think you underestimate James. He may come around, after all. Give him time.”
Her sister’s eyes grew wide. “My suffering will make my art more meaningful. I know it. I will use my troubles to give my heroine more sympathy and greater depth.” She stood. “I have an idea. Perhaps I too should write a field guide. I’ll give it the title The Single Lady’s Guide to London’s Jilts. Then I can expose James in a roundabout way. I will publish it in secret, of course. The best part—”
“If you do such a tomfool thing, the word that you are the author will eventually get out. Then all of London will condemn you for your spite and poor sportsmanship. You may even be teased or ridiculed at parties. I would think very carefully before I did something so rash. Haven’t George’s troubles provided you with a lesson on the consequences of such an imprudent decision?”
Lily widened her eyes and dropped her jaw. “Well, I…”
“Please, in the future you will find a man to love and who returns your love, I promise. Only time is needed, a few years at most, when you are ready. My recommendation is to write a tender romance story.” She grinned. “I also recommend you name your hero James.” She winked at her sister.
“Very amusing.”
Fitzy entered the room carrying a long wooden box. “I am off to call upon the Drexels and will return around luncheon. Cook promised me roast chicken today.”
Meta jumped to her feet. The clock on the mantel read nine in the morning, but she could use Fitzy’s delivery as an excuse to see George and start their future together sooner. “Wait for me, Fitzy. Give me ten minutes to pin my hair, and then I’ll join you. I too wish to pay a call upon the Drexels today.” She ran upstairs and implored her maid to redo her hair to hide the two gray hairs and help her change into a more suitable walking gown, her prettiest white muslin with the pink sash.
Half an hour later, the two of them stood before the shiny brass door knocker of the Drexels’ town house. Footsteps were heard from inside, and Meta thought she might faint when the door opened.
Mrs. Morris swung the door wide and bade them enter. “Glad to see the two of you this morning and not some emergency from that sewer next to the Thames causing everyone so much grief. Please wait in the parlor, and I’ll inform Mr. Drexel of your arrival.”
Fitzy spoke first. “Mr. Michael Drexel, please. Tell him our secret project is finished.”
Meta bit her lip, then congratulated herself for not immediately shouting out George’s name and demanding to see him. “If you would be so kind, Mrs. Morris, we would like to see both Mr. Drexels.” Meta might be imagining things, but she distinctly noticed a somewhat knowing gleam in the housekeeper’s eyes.
“Yes, ma’am. Right away.”
She turned to Fitzy. “What secret project is finished? Is this another bolt?”
He blushed a lovely pink. “I cannot tell you. I promised to keep the secret too, since it’s important. I believe it even changed my life. I-I will tell you all about it later. After I give it to Mr. Drexel and his wife.”
George was the first member of the family to appear at the top of the stairs. He stood tall, hands on his hips. “So you could not stay away?”
She chuckled. “I guess not. You?”
He effortlessly descended the stairs without holding on to the railing. “I’ll never stay away from this moment on. Let’s go into the parlor. I’m sure Fitzy here needs to remain in the company of my father for at least twenty minutes.”
“Huh?” Fitzy put the box down on the hall table and struggled to open the wooden lid of his precious box.
“You heard me. Your sister and I are not to be disturbed. Understand?”
“Yes,” he answered with a sigh. “By Jove.” He leaped a foot or two nearer and addressed George. “Does this mean what I think it means?”
“Yes, yes, well then, I’ll go and find your father. He won’t mind me going upstairs, I’m sure.”
Drexel held one finger up to his lips. “Don’t tell Father. Secret?”
Fitzy smiled. “I love secrets. Yes, all right.”
George held open the door to the parlor for her as the sound of Fitzy’s footsteps headed upstairs. He must have been nervous, because they entered the room, and he made no attempt to hold her.
So she stood there, staring at him.
He cleared his throat. “Damnation.” In one stride he crossed at least five feet and pulled her into his arms for a strong embrace. He caught her gaze and dropped his forehead until he touched hers. “Marry me? Please.”
Tears of joy welled in her eyes, then a single tear wandered down her cheek.
He took his big thumb and wiped it away. “Is this leak your means of answering yes?”
She pulled away. Biting her lower lip, she took several steps backward, until she reached the sofa. Here she stood. A cold hand squeezed her heart. After her husband’s accident, when he lay dying, he needed comfort from his wife, needed her to hold his hand, and needed her to tell him that he was truly loved. But she never reached his side in time, and he died alone. She supposed her guilt propelled her to sacrifice her needs for those she loved.
But standing before her now was the handsome man she undeniably loved more than anyone. “You see, I told you we need to discuss things. So many people need me—”
“I need you.” He held out his hands, desperation expressed by his movements and on his face.
She glanced at the carpet and remembered when he stood unmoving, challenging her to come to him. An idea came to mind and she straightened; the tables had turned. She’d use the empty space between them to gain the advantage of a clear head: a mind not muddled by strong feelings or overpowered by his physical proximity. “You once invited me to come to you, remember. Now I challenge you to do the same.”