I smile at the thought as my gown whispers over the grass. William leads me to the center of the lawn, candlelight dancing in the twilight. He takes both my hands, holding me in front of him, and the music slides into a waltz and . . .
And I freeze.
“I don’t know how—” I begin, eyes widening in panic.
“Follow my lead,” he says. Then he bends to whisper. “And remember that there is no one here to see you but me, and I am too moonstruck to notice if you cut loose and dance a fisherman’s jig.”
I laugh. “I believe I can avoid that.”
“Then, we are prepared.” He lifts my hands and begins the dance. It’s slow and measured. I might have panicked, realizing I don’t know the steps to a Victorian waltz, but I am, after all, a dancer. I pick it up within a few refrains, and soon we’re swirling over the grass.
When we whirl past the doorway, I see Mary there, her face glowing as she watches, transfixed, and my heart trips a few beats. The look on her face is the same that must be on mine every time I watch this scene in a movie, the heroine and her lover gliding over the floor, me swooning in my seat, envying her, being her, if only for a moment. Dreaming of being swept across the floor by a dashing man who looks at me the way he looks at the heroine. The way William is looking at me.
When we twirl past again, I smile at Mary, but she doesn’t notice, her gaze turned inward to her own dreams, her own fantasies, and I send up a wish that someday this will be her, dancing in a village hall with a young man who watches her as if the world has fallen away and it is only the two of them, pirouetting through a dream.
The music picks up speed to something I don’t recognize, and William leads me through that, and even before it ends, Mary slips away as she promised. Then we are truly alone in our universe, the musicians hidden in the dining room, only their music wafting out.
We dance, and we dance, and it’s glorious. It’s moment upon moment that my heart snapshots, tucking each away in memory. The smell of the fresh-cut grass mingled with the sweet smoke of the beeswax candles and the faint perfume of William’s after-shave lotion. The music, soft enough that I can still catch William’s whispers in my ear, still hear his breath when he draws me close. I am entranced by the candlelight and the star-speckled sky, and with him, mostly with him, the twinkle of his eyes, the curve of his lips, the bounce of an unruly curl that will not stay in place no matter how many times he discreetly tucks it back.
We dance until my feet ache, and I don’t care. He doesn’t slow, and so neither do I. Dance follows dance until we reach a rather energetic one, and when we come out of it, he’s winded and red cheeked. So am I, but I hide it better and use the excuse to tease, “Shall we adjourn for the cold supper, m’lord? I seem to have quite exhausted you.”
When he looks up, his eyes glint. “I would not say I am entirely exhausted. However, yes, I fear that if I continue, I might very well collapse before long. Yet I do hate to end the dancing and disappoint you.”
“I would be far more disappointed if you pushed yourself to the limits of exhaustion.” I take his arm. “You may lead me in for supper, m’lord, and we’ll consider the dancing at an end.”
23
William takes me inside. At a nod, the musicians pack, having obviously been warned that such a dismissal would come. By the time we’ve filled our plates, they’re gone. When I glance in that direction, William murmurs, “Should I have asked them to play while we eat? I can summon them back.”
“As much as I enjoyed the music, I feel we have reached the private portion of our evening.”
“Agreed.”
He pours me a glass of port, and we head outside to a spot where he’s arranged two chairs and a small table. Before I can sit, I say, “Actually, we could have both music and privacy.”
I lift my skirts and hurry into the house, returning with my cell phone. I waggle it as I walk out.
“That plays music?” Before I can answer, William shakes his head. “Of course it does. It is the miracle box. The only thing it cannot do is bake you scones.”
“No, but I could order them delivered to the house.” I glance at the manor. “Well, a hundred-and-seventy years in the future, which would do me no good, so I’ll settle for playing music.”
I hit the icon. Pearl Jam screams forth, and William jumps. I hit Stop.
“That man seems to be in some degree of pain,” he says.
“Ha ha. It’s the music of my youth. Very fine music, I might add. Not, however, thematically appropriate.”
I zip through my playlists and launch a blues one with the volume turned down to background music, allowing us to converse. We talk of dance parties past, amusing stories from ones he’s attended, and then the sort from my youth, awkward high-school tales. We talk, and we laugh, and we eat, and we drink. When a favorite song comes on and I’ve had two glasses of port, my feet begin to move, fingers tapping the tabletop.
He puts out a hand to lead me back to the dance floor, but I demur with, “As I said, I don’t want to wear you out. Not yet.”
A wicked flash of a grin. He seems about to say something suggestive and then stops, his grin easing down to a smile. “Would you dance for me, then? If you are not overly tired.”
“I believe I could manage that, though it would require a change of song.”
He passes over my phone. I flip through my playlists.
“Another piece of modern music,” I say. “Not as pained as the last. A favorite dance tune for when I’m alone. It isn’t quite classical ballet, though.”
“As I said, you could dance a fisherman’s jig, and I’d be thoroughly enthralled.”
“Tempting, but no. We’ll try this.”
I hit Play. Sia’s “Move Your Body” begins. His head tilts in consideration, listening and nodding as I move onto the lawn. I slough off my shoes, the grass tickling my feet and swishing as I walk to the middle of the cleared area.
The tempo is just right, not too fast for classical dance, but with a beat that I can throw myself into, skirts gathered in front, draping gracefully in the back as I twirl and kick, the weight of the dress falling away, tiredness forgotten, inhibitions forgotten, too, dancing as if I’m in my living room.
When the song finishes, I open my eyes, and William is there, an arm’s length away. He steps closer, hands going to my upper arms as he leans in, his eyes dark, voice low and thick as he says, “The song is correct. Your body is poetry.”
My cheeks heat, and I duck my gaze, suddenly feeling like my teen self, caught dancing through the barn when I thought he was busy with the horses.
His fingers slide up to my shoulders, his voice still a murmur. “Your body is the music that has echoed through my dreams since I was fifteen, Bronwyn. I heard it, and I could never stop hearing it. I tried to pretend I’d forgotten you. I forgot not a single particle of you. Not the sound of your voice, not the music of your laugh, not the whisper of your sighs. I remember the way you smelled when I’d bury my face against your neck. You left a sweater behind once, on a cool morning. When you asked me about it later, I said I hadn’t seen it. I lied. I could not part with it any more than I could part with the bracelet you gave me. I still have the sweater, and it cannot possibly still smell of you, but when I open the drawer, I swear that it does. When you left, I was hurt, and I was afraid, terrified something had happened to you.”
“I—”
He presses a finger to my lips. “But I knew it hadn’t. I felt that, somehow, if you were gone forever, I would know it. Whatever stopped you from returning, I knew it was not your fault. Yes, I blamed you when you first returned, but that was wounded pride and a desperate cry for truth, for you to tell me what I already knew—that you did not leave me by choice. If I truly believed you had, I would never have kept that bracelet or that sweater.”
I open my mouth to speak, but he presses his lips to mine, stopping any apologies. When he pulls back, he stays so close his breath tickles my lips.
&nb
sp; “I have not forgotten an inch of you,” he says. “You grew up with me even when you were gone. I would dream of you, at eighteen, nineteen, what you would look like, feel like, sound like. At twenty-five, I would walk into a ball and immediately find the one woman who looked as I imagined you would. I would only watch her, never approaching, never asking her to dance, knowing that would shatter the illusion. She would speak, and it would not be your voice, your words, your laugh. She would embrace me, and it would not be your touch, your smell, your body. I admired from afar and chose other partners, ones I could not possibly mistake for you, leaving you to haunt my dreams.”
His fingers trace along the collar of my gown, sliding it toward one shoulder, lips lowering to trace kisses along the bare skin, making me shiver.
“That night you came to my bed, it was no surprise at all. Yet another dream of you. A gloriously vivid vision, achingly perfect. The curve of your neck . . .” He kisses down my throat. “The swell of your breasts . . .”
His fingers trace over the tops of them, sliding toward my shoulder, pushing the dress down and kissing the exposed skin as I arch, sighing. His hands move to the back of my bodice, deftly unfastening the hooks and laces, and the top of the dress billows down, the corset barely containing my breasts. He chuckles at that and bends to slide his tongue along the edge of the fabric and then under it, finding a nipple, tongue sliding over it as I gasp. His hands move to my hips, and he teases my corseted breasts.
I writhe and groan, and his hands knead my hips. Then they tug down the dress, letting it pool at my feet. He releases the crinolines next and moves closer until the hardness of him brushes my stomach, and it takes all my willpower to stay where I am, to not press against him.
I hover there, barely able to draw breath as I strain for him. He runs his fingertips over my breasts and releases them from the fabric. His breath catches, and he nuzzles along my neck, still standing just far enough away that I can feel only the tease of him brushing my belly.
His hands slide over my hips, sheathed in my chemise, cushioning between my skin and the corset. He finds the hem of the chemise and tugs it up. When his fingers slip under to bare skin, he stops short.
“Yes,” I murmur. “There was something missing from the attire you so helpfully provided. No drawers. I made Mary turn her back while I put on the chemise and prayed she didn’t realize I was missing something.”
His fingers trace along the hem of my chemise, skimming over bare skin.
“I am wearing underwear,” I say. “They just . . . change a bit over the next hundred and seventy years.”
Those warm fingers creep up my hip, pushing the chemise along with them. When they find the fabric of my panties, they stop and toy with it, experimenting and then sliding down again, William’s breath catching as he realizes how little fabric is there. Not exactly a thong, but very different from mid-thigh Victorian drawers.
Both hands glide up my hips now, pushing the fabric of the chemise with them. He groans and presses, ever so gently, against my stomach before stopping himself and stepping back, my shift still raised, his hands still on my hips. He looks down and makes a noise in his throat, and his hands slide to my rear, fingers digging in as he presses against me, hard and urgent.
“I was very clearly born in the wrong century,” he says. “And I am half-inclined to put out the candles and wish for clouds to obscure my view before I fall on you like a lust-sick boy.”
I ease out of his grasp and take a slow step back. “Perhaps I should give you a moment to recover. I could dance for you again.”
Another step back, and his gaze travels over me, my breasts overflowing the corset top, the chemise falling to cover my hips and panties.
“Like this?” I say. Then, I tuck the chemise up under the corset, my legs and black panties bare. “Or like this?”
He groans, a long, drawn-out rough sound that sends fresh heat coursing through me.
“Would you like me to dance for you, William?” I say.
“I am not certain I dare answer,” he says, his voice so thick I can barely make out words. “I fear if you do, I really shall fall upon you, rutting in the grass.”
My gaze sweeps over him, still fully dressed. “Like that? I hardly think so.” I step toward him. “First, you would need to remove this.” I unbutton his black evening jacket and push it off his shoulders.
He reaches for me, but I take his hands and place them at his sides.
“Uh-uh,” I say. “You got to undress me without distraction. Allow me the same privilege.”
I remove the stickpin from his cravat and pierce it through the fabric of my corset, between my breasts. His gaze moves there, lingering, breathing hard before pulling away with a shudder that sends an accompanying shiver through me.
I look up and meet his eyes, deep wells of desire that weaken my knees and counsel me to glance away before he’s not the one throwing his companion to the ground like a lust-sick youth. And that thought does not help one bit, making it three long seconds before I can breathe again.
I don’t, however, break eye contact. I steel myself, and I keep looking into his eyes as I unfasten his cravat and let it fall. The white waistcoat follows. Then I unfasten his shirt, one button at a time, fingers sliding down the revealed skin, gaze forced on his, refusing to enjoy the sight of my progress until I’ve finished the task and tugged his shirt from his trousers. Then, I let myself look, gaze tracking over his bare chest, the black hair and pale, muscled skin below.
I push his shirt over his shoulders and look my fill, sighing with a whispered, “You are glorious.”
He chuckles, a deep sound that’s half growl as my fingers trail over his chest, tracing each rib, each muscle on his abdomen before rising to lightly brush his nipples. He inhales at that, and his hands start to rise to take hold of me, but he stops himself, arms dropping to his sides, giving himself over to my explorations. I taste him then, my tongue tripping along his collarbone and across his chest to his nipples, flicking over them, making him groan, his hips moving just enough to brush hard against my stomach.
I bend, tongue continuing down through the curled hair that arrows toward his groin. When I reach the top of his trousers, I’m on my knees, teasing my tongue over his waistband.
I pull back, still kneeling. His hand moves to my shoulder, gripping as if to pull me up, but I remove it and say, “I just want a better look.”
He groans, hands fisting at his sides. I unfasten his trousers and tug them down. He helpfully steps out, and he’s dressed only in his silk drawers. Well, presumably, he’s also wearing socks, but that’s certainly not where my gaze is going, considering what’s right in front of my face, urgently tenting his drawers.
I lean in and tickle my tongue over the silk, feeling the heat and the throb of him, and enjoying the strained “Bronwyn” I provoke.
There’s lust and pleasure in it, but warning, too, a warning that we may be reaching a point of no return. Or a point of no return for one of us . . . which while pleasurable for the other, isn’t quite as satisfying.
One last lick, and then I push to my feet, cup my hands around his face and sigh. That’s all I can do—deeply sigh in the pleasure of seeing him, poised there, trembling with desire, his eyes burning with need, my own body flaming in response.
I let my hands slide down his chest and over his hips, and then I step back.
“Would you still like me to dance?” I ask.
His gaze devours me, hungry and hot, and my own flame burns so bright I’m not sure I can dance, not sure I can do anything but slide back onto the grass and say, “Yes.” Yes, please.
But that’s what he says. Yes. And so I turn the music back to “Move Your Body,” and I dance for him. I dance in the corset, breasts peeking over it, pendant leaping, my hands lifting the chemise as I spin. I dance as I shed the panties, letting the chemise hide what lies beneath. Dance as I unlace the corset and let it drop with my back to him, as I adjust the chemise over
my breasts, chuckling at his grunt of displeasure when I turn, still covered.
I pirouette as I never have before, a perfect spin, one leg raised, hands lifting the chemise over my head and casting it aside, and I dance naked for him, no more than a step or two before he’s there, pulling me against him, our bodies moving together in half-clutch, half-dance, and I feel him against me, realize he’s naked.
I lift up onto him as he spins me, and I come down on him, his eyes flying wide, lips parting in one moment of surprise before his hands drop to my hips, and then we’re on the ground, and he’s over me, with me, in me, and it truly is the most perfect sensation ever, waves of pleasure rocking through us both almost before we hit the ground.
The pleasure seems never ending, and even after he must have spent himself, he continues until my gasps and shudders slow, and I collapse into the grass.
His hands go in my hair then as he looks down at me, our bodies still entwined.
“I love you,” he says. “That may not be what you’re ready to hear, but I need you to know it. I love you. I have always loved you. I will always love you. I cannot do anything but love you, Bronwyn Dale.”
“I—”
His fingers move to my lips. “You don’t need to say it. I need you to know it. I do not need you to respond in kind.”
I take his fingers, move them aside, and look into his eyes. “I loved you when we were children together. I loved you when you were growing into a man. I loved you—desperately, agonizingly, achingly loved you—when everyone told me you were not real. It tore me apart. You might say I didn’t need a hospital’s care, that there was nothing wrong with me. But there was. The boy I loved wasn’t real, and I didn’t want to live in a world where he’d never been. I lost something there, some part of my heart and my soul vital for living, and there was a time when I didn’t want to continue.”
His breath catches, pain flooding his eyes.
Before he can speak, I say, “I pushed on, and yes, I found happiness and healing, but part of me was always yours, could never be anyone’s but yours. You have said that you won’t expect me to stay in your world, and you have no idea how much that means to me. But just because you’ll never expect it doesn’t mean I will never consider it. I cannot promise to stay forever, but I can promise I will never leave forever. Not again. No matter what.”
A Stitch in Time Page 18
