Dressed to Kiss

by Madeline Hunter, Caroline Linden, Megan Frampton, Myretta Robens

  But he had said yes, hadn’t he? That he wished to get to know her? That was something. And it wasn’t as though she wanted anything more (even though she absolutely did); she had a duty to Euphemia, and the earl and countess, and that duty did not include distracting a very large, handsome acquaintance of Effie’s.

  Only—what if it did? What if she could make it clear to Euphemia that her old friend was simply not interested in her—because he was interested in her? Far too many hers. But if she could engage Mr. Dawkins’s interest, at least enough to show Euphemia that he was not going to join her cadre of admirers, she would be rescuing Mr. Dawkins from Effie’s attention and ensuring her charge was not acting, or anything else, inappropriately.

  She could even say that her attempt to engage Mr. Dawkins’s attention was entirely altruistic.

  If she weren’t lying to herself.

  But it could possibly be a very good thing to do, not just because of how much he seemed to intrigue her.

  She took his arm again and began to walk. She liked that she could make her stride as long and as fast as she wished, and he could keep up with her. So few people could.

  “In the interest of getting to know you, Mr. Dawkins, how about we ask one another some questions?” She didn’t wait for him to respond, which immediately made her break her own suggestion. “I already know you don’t like to dance. What do you enjoy?”

  She felt him shrug, and shivered a bit at the sheer strength she felt under her fingertips.

  “I suppose I am happiest when I am with my family. My sister is hardworking and dedicated to the shop, and my mother is a strong woman. How could she not be? She survived the Terror by fleeing France and built a life here. I owe her so much.” His tone resonated with intensity. “But that doesn’t precisely answer your question.” He gave a derisive snort, only now she knew it was directed at himself. “I know it sounds odd, but I really do like working with numbers and accounts and such. There’s something so gratifying about putting things into their proper place, and making everything work together. So few things in real life do.”

  That last part piqued her interest. “Have you often been disappointed in real life, then, Mr. Dawkins?”

  Another pause. “I suppose that it is not disappointment as much as it is I find I often have a lack of hope, Miss Grant.” He shook his head. “I can’t explain it properly, likely because I am not entirely sure what I mean myself.”

  “That sounds so sad.” The words just came out of her, and she hoped he wouldn’t think she was being presumptuous.

  Thankfully, he didn’t seem to take it badly. “It’s not that as much as it is just … not. Not hoping is different from having had hopes, only to have them dashed.” She felt him shrug again, as though it didn’t matter. It does matter, she wanted to scream, only that was more about her own feelings than his. Even so. It does matter. For both of us.

  But she definitely couldn’t tell him that.

  “What about you?”

  “You want to know about my disappointments?”

  He paused. It seemed to be a habit of his, to mull over his words before he spoke, and yet he still managed to sound awkward and unclear at times. What would he say if he didn’t think things through first? Her mind boggled.

  “I do. If you want to share them, that is.”

  This was a deep conversation for her to have with a gentleman she’d just met. Or even with just a gentleman. Or anyone, actually.

  The closest she’d come to this kind of conversation was when she was by herself, late at night, and she was exhausted. Not at all the same thing.

  “I think I am disappointed that this is the first time I’ve ever thought about such things as disappointments,” she said, trying to keep her tone neutral. “It seems as though one would have thought of such things in the course of one’s life.”

  “Maybe it’s that you haven’t been disappointed that often,” he replied.

  She smothered a snort. “No, it’s definitely not that.” She thought of it all—how she’d had a few Seasons, but had no offers. Offers that were honorable, that is. How her parents didn’t have enough money to provide for her, so she had to take employment, genteel though it was. How she longed to wear gowns like the ones sold in Mr. Dawkins’s sister’s shop, only that would require funds, someone to wear them for beside herself, and a figure that wasn’t more womanly than would fit into such a gown.

  But she definitely couldn’t share any of that. Not even with herself.

  “I suppose I am disappointed that I haven’t,” and she stopped herself, Henry Dawkins-style, before she said something really awkward and uncomfortable.

  “Haven’t been kissed?” he completed in a low voice.

  Chapter Five

  From the expression on her face, Henry knew that wasn’t what she was planning to say—what lady would even think of saying such a thing, anyway?—but after a moment she bit her lip and nodded.

  And he felt himself breathe out.

  Because he hadn’t been planning on saying it either, but the words had just fallen from his mouth, and he couldn’t, and what’s more, didn’t want to, take them back.

  “We cannot here in the middle of the street, of course,” she said in a low tone, one designed for intimacy, for the sharing of thoughts with one other person alone. And then she froze, right as he was calculating just where they could go that would be both nearby and discreet. “Unless you didn’t mean a kiss with you, but in general.” She covered her face with her hands. “Oh, my goodness, please don’t tell me”—she peeked out at him from between her fingers—“please don’t tell me you are now horrified at my behavior, or that—”

  She stopped speaking as he reached to take her fingers away from her face, rubbing his thumb over the back of her hand. She slid the other hand down his arm and grasped his wrist. “I meant with me. Only with me,” he said, and as he spoke he felt a fierce burning within him, a feeling he’d never had before, one of pride and possession. He knew other men often had such feelings, the ones that made a man puff up his chest and make it clear the female in his company belonged to him. Henry had never seen the point, either of puffing up his chest—he was big enough already, thank you—or of claiming a woman as his.

  But now he’d met her, and now he wanted to claim her, but it was also reciprocal; he wouldn’t mind if she put her brand on him in some distinct way.

  And he had just met her. He’d never felt this kind of connection with anybody before. It was the kind of connection he felt with numbers and accounts, but numbers and accounts didn’t converse with him, and they definitely did not have a figure that made him want to touch them all over.

  Because that would be unaccountably—so to speak—odd.

  “Well,” she said in a more normal tone of voice, “then it seems we are in agreement. I would very much like to be kissed by you, Mr. Dawkins.” She chuckled, squeezing his wrist. “Only I suppose I should call you Henry, and you should call me Katherine, if we are to be so intimate.”

  Intimate. The word hung between them, nearly shimmering in its intensity, and Henry’s throat thickened, the want and desire rising up as it never had before.

  No wonder so many other men did anything they could to assuage their base instincts. Only his instincts didn’t feel base, not to him; they felt as though they had been smelted out of some celestial material, some higher substance that he hadn’t been worthy of having.

  Until now.

  And wasn’t he becoming fanciful as he became lustful? Who knew the two would go hand in hand?

  “That explains so much about poetry,” he muttered, “and here I always thought Byron and Blake were being hyperbolic.”

  “Pardon?” she said, her brows drawing together in confusion.

  He placed her arm in his and began to walk, faster now, confident she could and would keep up. “Never mind. I know where we should go.”

  At his words, Katherine’s entire body felt as though it had been lit from wit
hin. Never mind that he hadn’t seemed to notice her; she could tell by his urgency and the tone in his voice that he did want to kiss her. Perhaps more, but a lady, even if she had Other Parts, wouldn’t even allow those thoughts to cross her mind.

  They walked quickly and silently, her hand gripping his arm, which she found, to no surprise, to be solid with muscle.

  “If you’re a bookkeeper” she began, hearing how breathless she sounded, but not caring in the least, “how do you maintain your…?” And she paused, because she knew well enough it wasn’t polite to ask a gentleman about his body, although of course it also wasn’t polite for said gentleman to be speeding his way through the streets en route to a private place for a kiss…

  “My physique?” he completed, not sounding breathless at all. He chuckled. “I finish most days going to a club where I find pleasure in hitting a bag filled with sand. It relieves the troubles of the day and allows me to indulge in as many sweets as I wish. I have a sweet tooth,” he confided, as though it was something he usually kept hidden from people.

  She found all of that adorable, not to mention rather exciting. The image of him engaged in that kind of physical activity—well. “I should like to see you,” she murmured, emphasizing her point by squeezing his arm.

  When he spoke, after a few moments of silence, his voice was husky. “I would like you to see me as well,” he said, and somehow that made her general state of … attentiveness to him, to his whole personage, even more enhanced.

  At last they arrived at a medium-sized, rather nondescript building. Mr. Dawkins—Henry, that is—withdrew a set of keys from his waistcoat pocket and selected one, inserting it into the door.

  “Where are we?” Katherine asked, nearly in a whisper even though there didn’t appear to be any people within earshot.

  “These are my lodgings,” he replied, also in a low voice. “Unless you don’t wish…?” And his voice trailed off, the expression on his face revealing his uncertainty.

  Adorable. And exciting.

  “I do wish,” Katherine said, stepping ahead of him to push the door open and walk inside.

  Henry followed, his throat thickening with desire. He’d kissed a few women before, ladies who, he thought, might have wanted to discover who he was beyond his size and appearance. He’d only been disappointed, but this time—this time, he felt as though she was different, that she could empathize with his difficulty among people, and feeling out of place no matter where he went.

  She turned to look at him, her expression curious. “You live here by yourself? Not with your mother and sister?”

  Henry shook his head. “Felicity and I thought it best that I take my own lodgings. I am not sure you have noticed”—and then he heard himself snort, of all things, but she merely smiled in response—“I am not very good in company.”

  She looked at him for a few moments, that warm smile on her face warming him inside, as well. “You might not be, but you seem to be very good company. To me.”

  And then she took his hand, placed it at her waist, and put her own hands on his shoulders, tugging him down to her mouth.

  Oh. Oh, this. Her mouth was soft, and so warm, and Henry allowed his lips to rest on hers for a few glorious seconds, his other hand coming to rest at the other side of her waist.

  Both of them standing nearly still, their mouths moving, the roaring in his ears the only sound he heard.

  Well, that and how the fabric of her gown rustled as she shifted, how it seemed he could hear every move she made, even though she was almost unmoving.

  Her fingers reached up to tug at his hair, and he lowered his head so she didn’t have to stretch so far. His glasses shifted on his face, and he withdrew for a moment to remove them, placing them on the table. And immediately returned to what they were doing.

  And then, when his lips had gotten to know the shape of hers, and he was feeling as though every part of him was acutely and intensely alive, her mouth softened, and her lips opened, and he felt the point of her tongue at his mouth, and he groaned, and opened, allowing her tongue to slip inside.

  It was delicious. She nibbled at his mouth, and he could feel how she was on her tiptoes, reaching for him. He tightened his hold on her waist so she could get more support from him, and he felt how she stretched more, her mouth still on his, both of her hands now in his hair.

  He let her take the lead, relishing how it felt for her to lick him, to tangle her tongue with his.

  How her body felt pressed against him, just—

  “Oh, Pythagoras!” he said as he stepped back, hearing how loud his breathing was in the quiet room.

  She looked at him, surprised, her mouth red and moist from their kiss, her own chest—no, he couldn’t look there, he shouldn’t look there, but he couldn’t help himself, her bosom was so lush and lovely, and—

  “Are you laughing?” he said at last, when it was clear that she most definitely was.

  She nodded, a quite unladylike snort emitting from her. “It is just—Pythagoras?” she said, her voice rising in disbelief.

  And once again, Henry felt awkward. He had almost felt normal for a few minutes there, while they kissed. But now? Now he was once again the idiotic oaf who couldn’t open his mouth without embarrassing himself.

  But that wasn’t fair. They had spoken, and for some time, without him wishing the earth would open up and swallow him whole. He picked up his glasses and placed them back on his face. Feeling as though he had just drawn a curtain over that moment with the gesture.

  She shook her head, her eyes dancing with laughter. “I have never heard such an original expression, Mr. Dawkins,” she said, and then she turned a becoming shade of pink, no doubt because it was odd for her to address him so formally when her lips had been pressed against his. They had agreed to use one another’s Christian names, after all. But she must have forgotten.

  And then it didn’t feel so awkward anymore, not with her all flushed and rosy and smiling.

  “I know it is not polite to curse in company, or anywhere, really. And I have my mother’s temper, she’s French, you know, and—”

  “And French people are more likely to have quick tempers?” She arched an eyebrow. “That is a sweeping statement.”

  Henry ran his index finger inside his collar, suddenly feeling it was rather snugger than before. It didn’t have anything to do with his wanting to take his clothing off—and hers, also, in the spirit of égalité—did it?

  “Saying that is preferable to saying my mother has a quick temper.” He shrugged in imitation of his mother’s Gallic gesture. “If an entire people have a certain attribute, it is less noticeable when one person has a lot of it.”

  She chuckled, as he’d meant her to. He hadn’t thought before of how making that kind of generalization could erroneously tar someone’s reputation. He liked that she was smart enough to question it, smart enough to notice the anomaly, and yet didn’t present her challenge antagonistically. That took art, a skill he knew he lacked entirely.

  Not that he’d ever had cause to challenge anyone before; usually, people took a look at his size and demurred to whatever he had to say. Except for his mother and sister, of course, but they knew him. Did this mean she already knew him better than most other people?

  Beyond the fact of touching one another’s mouths, he’d have to say she did. And he liked it.

  “But why did you invoke the name of Pythagoras in the first place?” She’d drawn nearer, her hand resting on the back of one of his two dining room chairs.

  What could he say that wouldn’t sound insulting?

  Nothing, which was why he should probably just tell her the truth.

  “Would you care to sit?” Not the answer to her question, or even the truth. Perhaps more of a prelude to the truth. An appetizer to truth, perhaps.

  “Thank you, yes.” She glanced around the room, and he almost apologized for how sparse it was. But she wasn’t here to assess his living quarters. And he thought he knew what s
he was here to assess, and she had not found it lacking.

  If he were honest with himself, he’d have to admit to being a hypocrite at this very moment. For so long, ladies and women of all sorts had made it clear they appreciated how he looked, and he’d felt as though they didn’t truly value him.

  But with her, he felt as though he were truly and entirely valued, for his outside, yes, but also for his inside. Perhaps it was the same for her.

  She drew the chair out and sat, gesturing across the table at the other seat. He swallowed and sat as well.

  He’d never had anyone but his relatives here. It felt odd, but also oddly right.

  Like her.

  Chapter Six

  “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.