Engaged to the Earl

by Lisa Berne

  He was, Gwendolyn saw, in very high spirits and also, perhaps, a little drunk. He had at supper partaken liberally of wine. Helen was shaking her bright head. “No, I was—that is, I’m going to—” she began, but Percy, undeterred, swept her off toward the dancing area, and Helen cast a last helpless look over her shoulder before she and Percy joined the other dancers. Seeing it, Gwendolyn wondered with whom Helen was trying to connect.

  Christopher?

  Because Helen liked Christopher, and Christopher liked Helen—was that what was happening?

  Gwendolyn had to sternly remind herself that she wasn’t going to stand in their way.

  “May I have the honor of this dance?”

  Rupert had come up alongside her, and Gwendolyn stared at him, amazed at his—effrontery? Resilience? Arrogance? Pointedly she said, “Aren’t you worried I might step on your feet?”

  “Step away,” he said breezily, and leaned in close. “Besides, I want to hear all about those trousers.”

  And now Gwendolyn had to sternly instruct herself not to really and truly kick him again. Hard. She set her jaw.

  “Excuse me,” she said to Rupert with all the civility she could muster, and moved away. She went straight up to where Christopher was standing against the back wall of the supper-box. He didn’t smile at her, but neither did she think he was sorry she was there.

  “Christopher.”

  “Signorina.”

  “Will you tell me something?”

  He gave her a long look. “If I can.”

  “Do you want to dance with Helen?”

  “She’s dancing with Percy.”

  “I know that. But are you waiting for the next dance so you can ask her?”

  “Are you hinting that it would be the polite thing to do?”

  “No, I’m not hinting. I’m asking you a question.”

  He was silent. Finally: “No,” he said, as if the word was being dragged from him. “I don’t particularly want to dance with Lady Helen, lout that I am.”

  “You’re not a lout. Thank you for your honesty. What do you want to do, then?”

  “I’d like to get out of this damned supper-box.”

  “That’s what I’d like too.”

  “Shouldn’t you be dancing with the Earl?”

  “He’s busy taking care of his mother.”

  Christopher looked over her shoulder. “In fact, they’re dancing.”

  Gwendolyn turned to look also. “She’s a good dancer, isn’t she? So lively. I expect she’s refreshed from her nap in the carriage.”

  “Ah.”

  “Yes, as soon as the carriage started to roll she fell asleep. Which means Julian and Rupert and I sat there like—what was Percy’s expression earlier?—yes, we sat there like wax dummies the whole time, not daring to utter a word.”

  “Sounds jolly.”

  “Oddly enough,” Gwendolyn said, “it was a relief to not have to talk. Can we get out of this box now?”

  “By all means.”

  On their way out Gwendolyn stopped to say to the Duchess, who was patiently waiting for Lady Almira to find her reticule: “Cousin Judith, Christopher and I are going for a walk.”

  “Enjoy yourselves,” answered the Duchess in her kind, brisk way. “Do come back in time for the fireworks.”

  “We will,” Gwendolyn promised, and then she and Christopher were walking away from the supper-boxes and the dancing, past the gilded life-sized statues from Roman antiquity, the Turkish tent from which wafted a delicious odor of freshly prepared coffee, a grove in which acrobatic dancers capered high on a rope, a lavish artificial castle, several bowling greens, and finally into the famed gardens through which many people strolled, talked, sought solitude along the pathways which were not as brightly illuminated by the colorful glass lanterns as elsewhere.

  Gwendolyn slid her arm through Christopher’s. “It feels like we’re escaping.”

  “Yes.”

  In a little while they paused by a waterfall which emptied, splashing and burbling, into a large fenced pond. Next to them a man gave his companion a coin and said, “Make a wish, Nell,” and she squeezed her eyes shut, opened them again, then tossed the coin into the pond.

  “What’d you wish for, love?” said the man.

  “I can’t tell, looby, it’d spoil the wish!”

  They moved away, arm-in-arm and laughing, and Christopher said, “Would you like a coin, Gwennie?”

  She thought about it. In other circumstances—say, when she was feeling less oppressed—she would have instantly said yes. For example, when she and the Marksons were in Paris, they had stopped at the Desaix fountain and gaily she had tossed in a sou and made a wish as she watched the little coin sink swiftly to the bottom.

  I wish for happiness.

  How young she’d been!

  I wish for happiness.

  How long ago that seemed.

  Well, Gwennie, she thought to herself, how’s that wish working out for you?

  Just at the moment, she had to admit, she wasn’t too sure.

  “Signorina? A coin?”

  Christopher was looking at her. His expression remained serious. But she still had the same impression that he wasn’t sorry she was with him.

  “No, thank you, Christopher,” she finally answered. Slowly. Pensively. “I’m getting the feeling that—that I need to make my own luck. Shall we go on?”

  “Yes. Where to?”

  “Let’s go that way.”

  This was her third time at Vauxhall. Twice before she’d been here with the Earl as part of festive groups which had joined up together. Both times she and Julian had stuck to the brightly lit areas, surrounded by other people; not once had Julian suggested they slip away to the so-called Dark Paths where, Gwendolyn knew from what the other young ladies had confided to her, there was considerably less interest in propriety. Of course, he had been all that was proper.

  So—rather defiantly—she took Christopher with her along one of the Dark Paths. As they walked they passed fewer and fewer lanterns. Fewer and fewer people. There was silence between them, but it didn’t feel like it had in the Westenbury carriage. That had been an enforced muteness, broken only by an occasional soft snore from the Countess.

  No, this felt easy.

  It was inside her that there was turmoil.

  She glanced up at Christopher’s profile in the dimness.

  If she had to guess, there was turmoil inside him too.

  After a while they came to a little iron bench which had been placed in a kind of alcove formed by a curved trellis of luxuriant ivy, its lush, abundant leaves rippling gently in a light and pleasant breeze.

  “Christopher, shall we sit?”

  “Yes.”

  The bench wasn’t much wider than the sofa on which they had sat yesterday afternoon, before the practice dance. The sofa which had become quite crowded when Helen had joined them.

  She said, “Should I feel guilty for taking you away from Helen?”

  “Should I feel guilty for taking you away from the Earl?”

  “You didn’t take me away. I’m my own person. I can decide what I want to do.”

  “Then you don’t need to feel guilty. I made my own decision as well.”

  Gwendolyn nodded. She and Christopher were so close together that her skirts lay in a long pleated bunch next to his thigh. She could smell that lovely hint of soap about him. The breeze stirred the shaggy dark lock of hair which still lay low across his forehead, nearly reaching his nicely defined cheekbone. She would like to have drawn him like this, with quick pencil-strokes that could capture the unique details of eyes, nose, hair, jaw, mouth . . .

  “Your wound is healing nicely, Christopher.”

  “A shame.”

  “A shame? Why?”

  “Because soon I won’t look Gothic at all. Like a villain in the romance the Countess hoped Katherine had written.”

  Gwendolyn turned a little on the bench, so that she could see him more c
learly in the dimness. “I’m afraid without that swirling cape you’ll never look Gothic. Or even Byronesque.”

  “Are you disappointed?”

  “Why would I be? You look exactly like yourself.”

  “Is that a good thing?”

  “Yes, of course it is. I’m not expressing myself very well. What I mean is—well, you’re—you’re congruent, Christopher.”

  “Are you describing me in mathematical terms, signorina?”

  “No, not really. How can I put it? It seems to me that you’re—you’re in agreement with yourself.”

  “Not right now.”

  “No,” she said softly. “Nor am I.”

  They were quiet for a while.

  Gwendolyn sat very still, but her mind felt like a beehive. Swirling with questions, doubts, fears. Did she dare . . . ? She looked at Christopher next to her; he also sat very still. From him emanated that same quiet, steady strength, which seemed to give her the courage she needed to say:

  “Christopher, can I talk to you about—about a problem I have?”

  He looked at her. “Is it the Dishonorable Rupert? Say the word and I’ll do more than kick him underneath the table.”

  “You saw that?”

  “Yes. I was about to take him by the throat and rattle him about, but I saw that you had the situation well in hand.”

  “Would you really have taken him by the throat?”

  “And more. Are you worried he’ll keep on bothering you? Is that the problem you mean?”

  “Rupert? Oh, no, that’s not what’s troubling me.”

  “What is it, then?” His face was grave.

  Impulsively she reached for his hand where it lay on his thigh. “Oh, Christopher, my friend—my dear friend—I feel as if I could tell you anything. And yet—”

  His fingers closed around hers. Easily. Reassuringly. “And yet what, Gwennie?”

  “I’m worried you’ll think badly of me.”

  “Nothing you can say would make me think badly of you.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  Gwendolyn gripped his hand a little harder. She was right, she could talk to him freely, he truly was her friend. She thought back to the night before last, when she’d returned to the townhouse after the Aymesburtons’ ball, when she’d gotten into bed and sketched, feeling sad, unhappy, alone. How wonderful, now, to not feel alone. To have a friend she could trust. Gwendolyn took a deep breath of relief, feeling a little of that oppressive weight lifting from her. Then:

  “Christopher, have you—have you kissed a lot of women?”

  He looked surprised. Clearly this wasn’t the direction he was expecting their conversation to take. But calmly he replied, “I’m not sure what a lot is, signorina. But have I kissed some women? Yes. Why?”

  “Well—did you like it?”

  “Yes.”

  “A lot?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you—are you good at it, do you suppose?”

  His dark brows went up. But he only said, “I hope so.”

  “Would you mind—well, would you mind telling me how to kiss well?”

  Christopher didn’t say anything and anxiously Gwendolyn said, “Are you thinking badly of me now?”

  “No, not at all. I’m just trying to figure out how to answer you. It’s about paying attention to the person you’re kissing, I suppose.”

  “Yes, but that’s an abstract explanation, Christopher. I’m not sure it really helps me.”

  “You’re interested in the mechanics?”

  She nodded eagerly. “Yes, exactly.”

  “It’s probably even less helpful to try and talk about lips and mouths and . . .”

  “Tongues.”

  “You know about tongues, then.”

  “Yes.”

  “Gwennie,” Christopher said, “what’s going on?”

  She hesitated, but not for long. The words tumbled out, as if wanting, needing, to be said. “It’s just that I’m worried. I’m—I’m afraid that I’m dreadful at kissing, you see, and that I’m—underdeveloped, or—or cold.”

  He didn’t laugh, or draw back, or seem shocked. Not Christopher. He just kept on looking at her, calmly, thoughtfully, with concern in his dark eyes. It was frightening to voice her fears out loud, but at the same time she felt—oh, she felt safe with him. He said:

  “You’re the least cold person I’ve ever met.”

  “Really, Christopher?”

  “Yes. What do you mean by underdeveloped?”

  “Oh, my figure. Do you see? I’m not very—very womanly.”

  “You’re beautifully made, signorina. Every inch a woman.”

  There was a certain tension in the hand holding her own, she could feel it, like lightning running from him to her. Doggedly she went on:

  “So you don’t think it means I’m not capable of—you know—kissing well, and enjoying it?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Oh, Christopher, would you show me?”

  “What?”

  “Show me.”

  “Show you?” Now he did look taken aback. “Gwennie, I—”

  Gwendolyn rushed on. “It would help me so much, Christopher, truly it would. Please won’t you help me?”

  “I want to, Gwennie, of course I do, but—”

  “But you won’t?” she said, very sadly. “Oh, Christopher, why not?”

  “Don’t you see why not?”

  He meant the Earl, of course. Julian, her fiancé. But that was exactly why she needed his—Christopher’s—help. Even as this thought streaked through her brain Gwendolyn knew her logic was more than a little convoluted. But she didn’t care. Here was Christopher, mere inches away—Christopher her friend, who cared for her and wanted to help her—but who wouldn’t—who couldn’t—

  Oh, she was confused again, muddled, and sad, so very sad—

  To her horror Gwendolyn realized that her eyes had filled with tears, and that they had spilled down her cheeks. She pulled her hand from Christopher’s and swiped them away.

  “Gwennie, Gwennie, don’t cry, please don’t cry.” His voice was low and rough. And then his arms were around her, pulling her close to him. Gwendolyn couldn’t help it, she sobbed out loud. Maybe she’d been holding in these tears for a couple of days now. She brought her hands up and around Christopher’s neck and clung to him. How solid he was, how real. Already she was feeling better. He was such a comfort to her—

  “Gwennie,” Christopher said softly. He put a hand underneath her chin, gently tilted it up. “Signorina, signorina,” he went on, very softly, and then he lowered his head and brought his mouth near hers. Not on her mouth, but leaving just the slightest distance between them. Her tears stilled—were vanquished—and Gwendolyn breathed in sharply. It was like tasting him, feeling him, smelling him all at once, her senses mingled into a single, unified, dazzling experience of pure sensation . . .

  A kiss but not a kiss but a kiss nonetheless.

  She could almost feel her soul rushing out to bridge the gap between them, to connect them, and with it came a welcome warmth. A fire, roaring all throughout her body. Burning her up. It was all so simple. And so good—

  Oh, she wasn’t cold, she was warm, she was hot, and cracklingly alive, and—yes—womanly—and happy—

  She heard herself making a little soft breathy noise.

  Happy, happy.

  And then Christopher abruptly drew back.

  He too was breathing rather heavily, his dark brows drawn together. He definitely didn’t look happy.

  “Gwennie, I—I can’t.”

  She brought her hands from around his neck and onto his shoulders, clutching at him as if to save herself from falling. “Why not? Oh, Christopher, why not?”

  “You know why,” he said quietly. “I haven’t the right.”

  “But don’t you want to?”

  “More than anything in the world.”

  “I want it too! Then—why don’t you—go
on?”

  His mouth twisted in a half-smile, with a kind of bitter amusement. “If I did, how would that make me any different from the Dishonorable Rupert?”

  Gwendolyn gripped his shoulders harder. Almost wanting to shake him in her bewilderment and frustration. Wanting to shake him because she knew that what he said was—

  Well, it was true, wasn’t it?

  And—this time—painfully simple.

  An honorable man didn’t kiss a woman who was engaged to another man.

  So what did that make her—a woman engaged to one man trying to kiss another man?

  She didn’t want to think about that.

  What madness had possessed her?

  Just a little while ago she’d been wondering about what dreadful thing she’d contemplate doing tonight—or actually do—

  Here, she supposed, was the ignominious answer.

  Happiness had vanished and in its place came sadness again, heavy and leaden. Her eyes filled again with tears; she took her hands from him and wound them together in her lap, tightly interlacing her fingers as if to prevent them from doing something they shouldn’t.

  “I’m hurting you,” he said. “Oh, God, I’d do anything rather than hurt you.”

  At the self-loathing in his voice Gwendolyn quickly shook her head. Blinked away the tears. “No. You’re not. I swear it. Oh, Christopher, you’re right. I—I just didn’t want you to be right.”

  His dark eyes searched her face. “I’m sorry, signorina.”

  “I know you are.” She tried to smile at him, but wasn’t quite sure how well she was succeeding. “Now do you think badly of me?”

  “No.”

  “Truly?”

  “Sì, signorina.”

  “We’re still friends?”

  “Always.”

  She felt her smile strengthening. “You mean it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can we—can we go on as before? Without any stupid awkwardness between us?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m so glad.” And she was. She was. Not happy, but relieved and grateful. How terrible it would have been to lose Christopher’s friendship over an illicit kiss. She unlaced her fingers, let them relax in her lap. “You’re still coming over tomorrow night for supper, to celebrate Helen’s birthday? Cousin Judith told me she invited you.”

  “Yes.”