A Heart's Rebellion

by Ruth Axtell

  She raised her eyebrows in question.

  “The lotus flower,” he said, watching her.

  She drew in her breath, drawing closer to the water. “I have heard of it but have never seen one.”

  “Banks brought back the first samples in the 1780s after his trip with Captain Cook.”

  He took her to the final glasshouse, where Miss Barry gasped in awe. It was full of palm trees of every height. The sunlight overhead felt hot through the glass, the air thick and moist around them.

  “In winter all these houses are heated from a marvelous system called the Great Stove.” He smiled. “Captain Forrester will want to see that, I’m sure.”

  “Indeed.” She touched several of the tree trunks. “They are so different in texture, some smooth, others as rough and shaggy as burlap.”

  “Yes, there are many varieties.”

  At last they came to a corner filled with a vine that covered one glass wall. He stood silent, watching to see if she would recognize the small, star-shaped flowers.

  She bent down to a small cluster and sniffed. “It’s jasmine.”

  “Jasminum,” he murmured the Latin name.

  She turned around with a smile and nearly bumped into him. “Oh—I’m sorry. I didn’t expect you so close.”

  Lancelot stared down at her, feeling his heart begin to thud. Her lips were half parted, her green eyes staring up at him through her spectacles, wide and filled with the same wonder she had shown for the plants. Was it now for him?

  His gaze moved downward to her pert nose and half-parted lips. The warm air around him enveloped them, making breathing difficult. The blood pounded at his temples, and he felt powerless to step back. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” His voice came out hoarse and reedy. He cleared his throat.

  “You—didn’t.” She shook her head imperceptibly then moistened her lips, deepening their rosy hue. He felt like a hummingbird drawn by the nectar of a red-shaded flower.

  He inclined his head closer to her, feeling as if the two of them were wrapped in a warm cocoon of steam. Nothing else existed outside of it. Before he could decide whether to remove his spectacles, he closed the gap between them, and his lips touched hers. To his surprise, there was no clashing of spectacles. She closed her eyes and seemed to sway toward him.

  Her lips were soft and pliant. He deepened the pressure against them, marveling at how perfectly they molded to each other.

  He held her by her arms, her body touching his. The scent of jasmine filled his lungs, intoxicating him, making him want more.

  After a moment, her hands pushed against his chest. He loosened his hold, searching her face. But her eyes were closed, her dark lashes curved against her delicate skin.

  Her cheeks were flushed, her lips still moist and parted as if she were hardly aware of where she was or what had happened.

  He brought a finger to her face and traced her downy cheek. “Do you know what I discovered?”

  Slowly she opened her eyes and shook her head slowly.

  “That two people wearing spectacles can kiss without knocking against each other.” The moment he uttered the words, he knew he’d made a mistake.

  Consciousness seemed to fill her eyes. A second later she shifted away from his embrace.

  Feeling a yawning hole grow in him as her distance grew, he could do nothing but loosen his hold and watch as the wonder on her face disappeared and her expression transformed to horror.

  Was she mad? Allowing Mr. Marfleet to kiss her! And leaning into him like that! As the realization of her position dawned on her, she pushed against him and would have landed in the jasmine bush had he not steadied her with the grip on her arms.

  What had begun as a sudden, unexpected moment, when she’d felt suspended in time like a lotus flower on the water, had ended with Mr. Marfleet pressing his lips to hers in a shocking, intimate way.

  She hardly heard what he said now as her thoughts tossed about in a confused jumble of sensation and consternation.

  A sinister thought occurred to her, even as her senses continued to be roused. Did he think he could kiss her because he thought she was free with her favors? Did he think because he had found her alone with Mr. St. Leger that she would allow any gentleman to kiss her? What had he called her—a Cyprian?

  The thought so stunned her, she staggered. “I—I need some air—I c-can’t breathe—” She pushed away from him, wanting only to find a way out of the hothouse, whose cloying air now choked her.

  “Here, let me.” He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her after him, through the sharp palm fronds which a moment before had appeared exotic and now appeared lethal, like knife blades keeping her imprisoned in the airless enclosure.

  They reached the door, and he thrust it open.

  She held the doorjamb and gulped in the blessedly dry air of the June day.

  “Come, there is a bench over there.”

  Her breathing steadier, she allowed him to lead her. She sat down ready to move away from him if he sat down, but he remained standing, looking down at her with concern.

  “Are you all right?”

  She nodded, too ashamed to look at him. How could she have allowed him to kiss her? There was no excuse of too much champagne or the magic of a dark terrace.

  She put her hands up to her cheeks as she continued to look away from him.

  After a few moments of silence, he coughed. “I—I beg your pardon for—for my behavior in there.”

  His voice sounded stilted and formal, with only a slight stammer. She let her hand fall to her lap and dared to peek up at him from under the brim of her bonnet. But as soon as her gaze met his, her cheeks flamed again as she remembered her conduct.

  Try as she might, she could no longer deny that she had not fought him off. She was not yet ready to admit she had kissed him back. No! He had taken advantage of her passivity.

  “Please say something.”

  He seemed truly repentant. But was it only because she’d appeared to be ready to suffocate? She breathed in deeply, her hands clutched together on her lap. “You shouldn’t have.” She couldn’t say the word kissed. It would bring up the feel and taste of him too vividly, and she wanted to erase it from her memory. What kind of wanton woman was she that she was accepting a kiss from a man whom she had no regard for?

  “I know,” he said softly, looking down at his feet.

  She almost sobbed with relief at the sight of Megan and Captain Forrester entering the physic garden. She stood to wave and almost lost her balance. Mr. Marfleet was quick to steady her, but she jerked out of his light grasp. “They’re here.”

  He turned, then seeing them, said, “Let me go to them. Why don’t you sit here and collect yourself?”

  She wanted to protest but then had the horrible thought that Megan might discern something in her countenance. She plopped back down on the bench and tried to steady her breathing, praying her friend would notice nothing out of place in her appearance.

  Mr. Marfleet walked across the garden beds, his long stride taking him rapidly to the entrance. They all smiled and greeted each other as if nothing untoward had happened.

  Her world had tilted, but everyone else was in perfect equilibrium. Even Mr. Marfleet had quickly regained his composure.

  She hugged herself, mortified afresh. How could he think he could take such liberties when he knew she was interested in Mr. St. Leger? Mr. St. Leger! What would he think if he knew of her behavior?

  When the threesome walked toward her, she attempted to smile. Megan hurried on ahead. “Are you all right, Jessamine? Mr. Marfleet has told us you were feeling a bit faint.”

  Jessamine’s gaze flew to Mr. Marfleet. “I’m fine. The air inside the hothouses was rather close.”

  “It has been rather a long, warm day,” Captain Forrester said, gazing down at her in sympathy.

  “I’m perfectly fine. The air was just too thick.” She stumbled with an explanation, her mind going back to Mr. Marfleet leanin
g toward her, his lips touching hers. No—she must purge that image from her mind, from her senses!

  “I’m much better now,” she said in a determinedly cheerful voice. “Why don’t you show them around, Mr. Marfleet”—it cost her some effort to say his name without a tremor—“while I sit here in the shade?”

  “We don’t have to see anything more. We can leave,” Megan said, but Jessamine shook her head.

  “Don’t be silly. I feel perfectly fine now, but I have seen the glasshouses already and there are really some spectacular things you should see. It won’t take you more than a quarter of an hour or half an hour at most and that will give me plenty of time to rest.”

  “If you are sure,” Megan began, her gaze studying her friend closely. Megan knew she was never faint or ill from walking too much or being inside a greenhouse. Jessamine lifted her chin and kept her smile in place.

  Mr. Marfleet didn’t say anything, his slate-blue eyes focused on her.

  Finally, they moved off, promising to be no longer than a half hour.

  By the time they returned, Jessamine managed to appear her normal self. They left the park soon afterward and found the barouche waiting for them at the main entrance.

  Once they were on their way home, Jessamine lapsed into silence, watching the scenery go by. Thankfully, Megan and Captain Forrester kept up a lighthearted conversation to which Mr. Marfleet contributed occasionally.

  She stole an occasional look at him, but he seemed his normal, quiet self. The kiss had clearly not overset his nerves.

  She was the first one they brought home, since everyone assumed she was done in. She was not done in in the least but made no demure, relieved to be away from Mr. Marfleet.

  Nodding at Megan’s admonitions to lie down, she bid farewell to her and the captain, and gritted her teeth as Mr. Marfleet took her hand to help her down.

  He insisted on walking her to the door even though she said it was unnecessary.

  He looked at her in concern, but the maid had already opened the front door. “I will call on you tomorrow to see how you fare, if you do not object.”

  She bit her lip, refusing to meet his eyes directly. “It is not necessary.”

  Before he could reply, she turned to go in.

  Once in the house, she was relieved to hear that Lady Bess was out. She made her way to her room, although she knew lying down would not be in the least helpful. Her thoughts refused to be still. If she were at home, she would go and work in the garden. Garden—that would only remind her of that disgraceful kiss.

  That kiss. It had become an entity, an obstacle, in her mind, and it was all she could think about no matter how much she tried to push it from her thoughts and pretend nothing had happened.

  She headed to her washbasin and dashed cool water against her cheeks and lips, wishing she could scrub the memory away as easily as she could scrub her mouth.

  16

  Lancelot was afraid Miss Barry wouldn’t receive him when he knocked on the door to her house early the next afternoon. The young maid looked him up and down then closed the door to see if “Miss Barry was in.”

  He stood awhile on the front stoop before the door reopened. “You may come in,” she said with a motion of her chin. She took his hat and gloves and bid him follow her up the stairs.

  He was shown into the drawing room, where to his surprise he found Miss Barry alone. He’d expected to have to make inconsequential conversation with Lady Beasinger.

  “Good afternoon,” he said with a hesitant smile, entering farther into the room. She nodded from her place in an armchair.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Marfleet.”

  All he could think about and all he had thought about since yesterday was the kiss they’d shared. He peered at her now, hoping she had come to a more favorable view of it herself. But her face gave little away as she sat with her hands primly folded on her lap.

  He’d asked himself over and over again why he had kissed her. Because she looked so delectable there in the glasshouse. He hadn’t meant to scare her away just when she was beginning to warm to him.

  He hadn’t thought but acted, he who prided himself on self-control and circumspection. Had he ruined all chances with her? If she hadn’t turned away from him yesterday, he would have proposed. He came prepared to do so this afternoon, wanting her to know he did not kiss a woman he was not prepared to marry.

  She looked as delectable as she had yesterday. Today she wore a pretty pink frock with a white chemisette with a high, frilly neckline.

  When she said nothing, he looked around the room. “Lady Beasinger is indisposed?”

  Miss Barry cleared her throat, her gaze focused on her hands. “My godmother is not at home. I would not have received you . . . but I needed to speak with you.”

  His heart leaped. Perhaps she was waiting for his proposal.

  He took another step forward. “I appreciate your receiving me. I shan’t stay long, but I, too, wanted—needed—to see you.”

  She looked up in alarm at his last words. Before he could reassure her, she stood and faced him squarely, her chin tilted up. “You shouldn’t have taken liberties with me yesterday.”

  He flushed. “I know I shouldn’t have. I just lost my head. I am sorry.”

  Too spots of color rose in her cheeks. “Did you think because you saw me that evening with Mr. St. Leger that I would welcome any man’s advances?”

  He staggered at her words. “Did I think . . . ?” Jabbing a hand through his hair, he gave a harsh laugh. “Mr. St. Leger was the last person on my mind.”

  She looked away from him, her hands twisting together. “I—I wouldn’t want you to think I allow such liberties.”

  His eyes narrowed at her, his thoughts going back to that night he had found her alone with St. Leger. “Why did you allow him such liberties?”

  “How dare you, sir!”

  “How dare I question a young lady who seems to allow an awful lot of liberties with the gentleman she is with?” Although his voice came out calmly, inside he was seething. He remembered her response to his kiss—for she had responded initially—and could not believe she was comparing him to St. Leger.

  “You are impertinent, sir—with your disapproving airs, pretending to be so holy and then taking advantage of me—”

  “Taking advantage of you!” He gave a bark of laughter. “Excuse me if my recollection differs. You were hardly fighting me off.” His words amazed even him, but he seemed unable to get his tongue under control. This was not the way this interview was supposed to go. About now he should be down on his knee proposing. Instead he felt like shaking her.

  She gasped and knotted her hands into fists.

  He lifted his chin, not having meant to insult her. “My intentions were fully honorable—unlike that blackguard’s.”

  They stared at each other. Did she understand what he meant?

  Instead of realizing the honor he was bestowing on her, she stepped back and said with a sniff, “As were Mr. St. Leger’s.”

  He hesitated, his heart thumping painfully in his chest. “Were they? Has he proposed to you?”

  She flushed. “That, sir, is not your affair.”

  He lifted his chin. “It is if I am intending to propose.”

  “I would never consider marrying a vicar.”

  She said the word vicar as if it were leper. If her previous words had hurt him, nothing came close to these.

  He bowed stiffly from the waist. “I see. Then it is fortunate I have not proposed. Do not bother to ring the bell, I shall see myself out. Excuse me for having troubled you.”

  As the door clicked softly behind him, Jessamine’s shoulders sagged. She had not meant to belittle his calling. She brought a hand to her mouth, ashamed of the disdain in her words. It was too late to do anything about it now. She should be thankful she had prevented an unwanted proposal.

  She sank down on the edge of her armchair, her fingers going to her lips, which despite all her attempts to f
orget still felt the pressure of his mouth.

  What would she have done if she had not said such spiteful things to him and he had proposed?

  Even though Megan had teased her about Mr. Marfleet’s attentions, and even after the shock of his kiss yesterday, Jessamine had never seriously considered that he cared for her to that degree.

  A thought occurred to her. Perhaps he only meant to propose to her because of his kiss. There had been no hint of any deeper feeling in him but a sense of honor and obligation. He was a vicar. He would feel he’d dishonored her if he didn’t offer for her. He must have realized that as they were driving home yesterday. That was why he’d sounded so resolute on the front stoop when he’d told her he would call on her today. And why he’d looked so ill at ease when he’d first walked through the door.

  Even yesterday after their kiss, he’d spoken no avowals of love, only made a silly remark about their spectacles. She cringed, remembering his tone of detachment. She could never marry a man so cold and scientific. She must be grateful he had never actually proposed.

  And she wouldn’t marry an older man. She, who had always looked up to Rees, as someone so much older and wiser—she would not repeat that mistake! Mr. Marfleet must be almost thirty, too old for her almost one-and-twenty.

  In short, she would not marry a man like Mr. Marfleet—a cross between her father and Rees. She shuddered at her near escape.

  No, best not to think those things. She got up from her chair and paced the room. What was done was done. It didn’t matter what she’d experienced during his kiss. It was no different than Mr. St. Leger’s—or would be if he ever did kiss her. Mr. Marfleet had interrupted them before anything had happened.

  How dare he think she went around kissing any gentleman who approached her! She would not be tied to a man who preached holiness and purity—and then little practiced them!

  That evening she dressed for another ball. She no longer bothered to keep track of the names of the great lords and ladies. It seemed ever since Céline had taken Megan under her wing, life had become a round of parties and balls. The one thing Céline would probably not be able to secure for them were vouchers to Almack’s, the most prestigious assembly room, but Jessamine didn’t really care anymore.