by Jane Goodger
“I would never allow a man to kiss me for the simple reason that I would foul it all up, so you needn’t worry.”
This, apparently, got him curious. “Foul it up?”
“As you so succinctly pointed out not five minutes ago, I am rather long in the tooth. A man would certainly expect a woman of my advanced years to know how to do such a simple thing.” To her horror, Melissa felt the sharp burn of tears in her eyes. Suddenly, the fun had gone out of the lesson. “I’ve never even touched another person. Not really. How am I expected to be a wife? To kiss someone? To allow someone to touch me? . . .”
She let out a short sob, then swallowed, and closed her eyes, mortified that she had blurted out her greatest fear. How could she allow a man to touch her anywhere he wished when she’d never even held a man’s hand? She pressed her gloved hands against her cheeks, feeling the smooth silk against her flesh. In quick, angry movements, she tore the gloves from her hands and threw them to the floor.
John’s heart nearly broke for her at that moment. He knew she didn’t want his pity, but by God, how could he not give it, watching her fall apart in front of him.
“Sometimes I want to go home so badly I could scream,” she said fiercely, staring at the floor, her fists clenched against her stomach.
“Melissa, come sit by me,” John said, walking over to the settee. She looked at him uncertainly, then joined him and sat, very much like a petulant child. John slowly took off his gloves and placed them between them on the settee. “Now, give me your hand.”
She looked up at him, and he nearly got lost in those magnificent violet eyes of hers, still shining from her brief bout of crying. Instead of giving him her hand, she clenched her fingers tighter in her lap and gave her gloves, still lying on the floor, a look of longing. Taking a shuddering breath, she said, “My father thought that disease entered the body through the pores of one’s hand,” she said, gazing at her own small, pale hands. “I wasn’t allowed to take my gloves off except to bathe and at night. And no one was ever allowed to touch me without wearing them. Not even my father. He . . .” She shook her head and fresh tears fell. “He didn’t want me to die, you see.”
Bloody hell. “I believe your father, while well meaning, was a bit misguided. It’s far more likely that we get disease through tainted food or water than by simply touching someone, unless they’ve been mucking about a pigsty. While I’m no expert on disease, I can say logically that his theory is wrong, or else everyone you know would be dead by now. The servants, my father, Miss Stanhope, me. Gloves are worn so that clothing does not become soiled, or to keep one’s hands warm. Now. Give me your hand, Melissa.”
He laid his hand, palm up, in the space between them. She looked down at her hands for a long moment before finally, and with great hesitation, laying her palm on his. Her hand was small and cool, and he could feel slight tremors as he closed his fingers slowly ’round hers.
John watched her face, ready to withdraw if he saw any fear in her eyes. All he saw, though, was wonder, and something inside him gave a sharp, almost painful tug. She looked up at him, then back to where their hands were still clasped.
“It’s so warm. And soft,” she said. Then her brow furrowed, and she lifted his hand up as if inspecting it. With the index finger of her other hand, she trailed her fingertip across the callouses in his palm.
“From riding,” he said gruffly, agonizingly aware that her touch was beginning to physically affect him in a way that was completely unexpected. How could her moving her finger across his palm be so incredibly erotic? He wanted to jerk his hand from her grasp, but he knew if he did, he would only frighten her more. So instead, he gritted his teeth together and prayed his body would stop betraying him. Unfortunately, the more he thought about how he didn’t want his body to respond, the more it did. When she moved her thumb across his wrist, he became achingly aroused, and he let out a strained laugh and slowly withdrew his hand from her curious grasp. Imagine making love to such a woman, his tortured mind thought, if that innocent touch could cause him to grow painfully erect. It was monstrous that he should react to her so, that he would allow his mind to picture her in his bed, exploring his body the way she was exploring his hand.
Bloody, bloody hell.
“John?”
“Yes?” he choked out, moving slightly away from her.
“Would you allow me to kiss you? I . . .” Her cheeks turned a vivid red. “Just to see what it is like and so that I’m not such a ninny if a man does try to kiss me. I know it’s a lot to ask, but I don’t want to make a fool of myself when the time comes. Is it very revolting?”
Dear God, why are you doing this to me? Is this a test? Because I fear I’m going to fail it. Sorry.
“Kissing is not revolting. Not with someone you’re attracted to, at least.”
“Oh. Then it shouldn’t be too revolting with you. I do like you.”
John swallowed and gave her a strained smile. “No, it shouldn’t be too revolting, but I don’t think . . . that is to say . . .” She kept looking at him with wide eyes, her mouth slightly open, her lips full and delicious and—oh, Lord, he thought, I am doomed.
“Perhaps one kiss,” he heard himself saying. Apparently his body liked that decision, for he leapt to life in an embarrassing way. Thank goodness, they were seated and his jacket hid the evidence of his torture. Melissa smiled, very much pleased, like a child getting a sweet after cajoling a parent.
“Who kisses whom? I think you should kiss me, because I expect you know what you’re doing.” She seemed utterly happy with how this afternoon was playing out, while he felt nothing but deep depression and torturous arousal.
“All right then, let’s get this over with.” She leaned forward, eyes wide open, her lips pursed tightly. Despite himself, John smiled. “No, silly goose, relax your mouth.” John’s throat went dry at the sight of her mouth, the perfect shape, the full lower lip that was made just for kissing. But not by you, said a voice in his head, a voice he ignored.
He leaned forward, staring into her eyes until they blurred before him, and pressed his mouth against hers. Oh, this was very, very bad. This was the worst possible thing he could have done, for she was unbelievably soft. He moved his mouth over her lower lip, just the slightest movement, and she gasped. John forced himself to pull away when all he truly wanted was to deepen the kiss and taste her. She’d only wanted the one kiss, after all, just to show her what it would feel like when she got her real first kiss. But she was looking at him with drowsy eyes, and her mouth was still soft and pouty and only inches away.
“Perhaps two,” he said thickly, and moved toward her again.
She moved back. “No. I’m all set. Thank you.”
John clenched his fists together to stop from dragging her into his arms as she leapt up, a big grin on her face.
“I don’t know what all the fuss is about,” she said cheerfully, slicing innocently into his ego.
“It was a rather brief kiss,” he grumbled.
“Still, it allowed me to know what to expect.”
“There is more,” he said, and wondered if he’d lost his mind. He had no business kissing her in the first place, never mind begging for more.
“I’m certain there is,” she said with a cheeky smile. “Thank you, my lord.” She flounced from the room, leaving him aching and hard and rather flummoxed, if he were completely honest. That kiss, as innocent and brief as it had been, had aroused him far more than it should have. He wasn’t a man who was affected by a woman unless he was lying naked in bed with her. To have such a strong physical reaction to so insignificant a kiss was astounding.
John stood, adjusting himself with a grimace, and walked to an outside door and directly into the cold morning air without a single thought to the freezing temperature.
Melissa skipped from the room as nonchalantly as she could, praying he would never know just how affected she’d been by her lips touching his. She left the room, calmly closing the door be
hind her, before pressing her back against the wall and putting a trembling hand to her lips. Surely her reaction could not be normal. People kissed every day—on cheeks, on the lips. She’d seen from her window maids and footmen sneaking kisses in the orchard. It was a curious thing and something she’d never imagined for herself. But now, oh now it was all she could do to remain in the hallway and not go running back into the library to beg for more. This could not be normal. It simply could not.
Perhaps she’d waited too long for her first kiss. Perhaps every bit of desire in her was frothing to the surface. Then, another horrible thought came to her: what if she reacted this way to every man? A good girl did not allow a man to take liberties. She’d learned this from one of her governesses—Paula, it was. Paula had seemed a bit worldly, full of bitter advice about life and what Melissa must be wary of. But she’d never told her anything about the rush of warmth that would flood her body, that strange sensation of wanting—something. No, Melissa knew what she wanted. She wanted John to kiss her again, the way those footmen would kiss the maids.
Melissa took a shaking breath and stepped from the wall. She’d never truly had anyone to talk to about such things. Paula had warned her not to allow “liberties,” but Melissa hadn’t known what that meant. She still wasn’t entirely certain. She didn’t know how to act with a man, what to allow, what to feel. Perhaps this desire was perfectly normal. Or perhaps she was a Wanton Woman. As Paula had warned her, Wanton Women were those who allowed men liberties. Was she one of those, then? She tried to think back on what Paula had told her, but could only remember feeling bored with the entire conversation. Paula enjoyed her lectures, and this had simply been one more droning lecture. How she wished she’d paid more attention, asked questions. She still remembered the horror of getting her menses. No one had warned her, so she’d thought she was dying. She’d kept the secret, not wanting to worry her father, for two days. Finally, a maid found a bloodied rag and explained briefly—and with pink cheeks—that the woman’s “curse” would visit her monthly. It all had to do with Eve’s tempting Adam with an apple, and none of it made much sense. That had been her only discussion about her changing woman’s body.
Melissa walked to her room, battering herself with questions she had no answers to. As she walked by Miss Stanhope’s room, she spied the older woman bent over her desk working on her correspondence, the scratch of her pen audible even from the hall. Looking at her, Melissa had a sharp stab of melancholy, for her chaperone seemed so very alone. How was it that someone as nice and pretty as Miss Stanhope hadn’t married? Had she ever had a beau? Had she ever been kissed?
“Miss Stanhope?”
Her chaperone blew lightly on her paper and placed her pen in its holder before turning to her. “Yes?”
“Have you ever been kissed?” Melissa blurted out, then gave an inward wince.
Miss Stanhope’s eyes widened, and her cheeks turned slightly ruddy. “Why do you ask?” She said the words calmly, but Melissa detected an underlying concern. She instinctively knew she should not tell Miss Stanhope about her very brief and very devastating kiss with John.
“John was quizzing me, you see. Making up scenarios about what I should or shouldn’t do at a ball.”
“Oh?”
“He pretended he was a gent asking for a walk in the garden, and I replied that I must first fetch you.”
Miss Stanhope smiled, the movement softening her features, which moments before had looked rather taut. “That was precisely the right answer.”
“And then I asked him what I should do if a man were to kiss me.” She shrugged. “I don’t know why I should allow such a thing, but is there a reason I shouldn’t?”
“I expect it would depend upon how long you had known the young man. It’s perfectly acceptable to allow your fiancé a kiss, for example, just as long as it doesn’t go on too long. One kiss is allowed.”
This troubled Melissa, for she didn’t want to marry someone whose kiss she couldn’t tolerate. “What if it’s loathsome?”
“If you care for someone, it is never loathsome. And I would suggest you not become engaged to someone you find loathsome.”
Melissa wandered over to a shelf filled with porcelain flowers, tiny, delicate knickknacks that were intricately made. There must have been thirty of them, a hard little bouquet. “These are lovely,” Melissa said, while her mind still mulled over what Miss Stanhope had told her. She held one finger up to touch a blossom.
“Those are quite delicate,” Miss Stanhope said, rising as if Melissa were an errant child bent on destruction. Melissa withdrew her finger immediately.
“Wherever did you get them?”
Miss Stanhope marched to her side and moved one slightly, even though Melissa hadn’t touched it. “I made them myself,” she said as if embarrassed to admit such a thing. “I suppose I fancy myself an expert on English flora and fauna and wanted to capture each bloom in perpetual glory. Never changing. Always pretty. I take them with me wherever I go.” Her tone became wistful, and again Melissa was struck by how lonely she seemed. Was it so awful to be a spinster, to be relegated to chaperoning younger, husband-hunting women?
“You never did answer my question,” Melissa said softly.
Miss Stanhope sniffed. “Of course I’ve been kissed.”
Melissa suppressed a smile and raised one eyebrow. “I hadn’t known you were engaged,” she said, knowing she had just caught Miss Stanhope in the rather awkward position of admitting she’d been kissed without the benefit of an engagement. The flush on the older woman’s cheeks told her she was right, but she felt no triumph. “I’m sorry, that wasn’t at all good of me.”
To her surprise, Miss Stanhope laughed. “It’s much easier to spout rules than to follow them,” she said. “I daresay I’ve become just what I’d hoped to avoid—a proper missish old maid.” She let out a sigh. “Yes. I’ve been kissed. And rather well, to be honest.”
“What happened?”
“He found someone else with a bigger dowry and a prettier face. I was not at all the thing during my seasons.” She spoke the words with nonchalance, but Melissa could detect hidden pain.
“But you’re so pretty.”
Miss Stanhope searched her face for a lie and, apparently finding none, let out another sigh. “I was terribly thin. My pointed features were a bit harsh, I think. Needless to say, the years went by, and there were fewer and fewer kisses. And here I am.” She let out a strained little laugh and walked to the window, which was letting in the milky light of an overcast day.
“I never thought of getting married,” Melissa said, “but I suppose I shall. To be honest, it terrified me.”
“And now?”
“I do believe I’m getting used to the idea. I think I would like children. They are adorable, are they not?”
Miss Stanhope stared out the window. “It is the most difficult thing,” she said, so softly Melissa could hardly hear her. She looked up and gave Melissa a sad smile. “To realize you will never have a baby to hold.” She turned her back to Melissa, and Melissa feared Miss Stanhope was hiding tears. But when she turned back, moments later, her eyes were dry.
“But I have freedom that other women do not. I have my own house, my own life. I can do as I wish,” she said with a nod toward her collection of flowers.
“And you’ve been kissed,” Melissa said.
“Yes. And more than once. But I daresay all kisses are not created equal.”
Melissa sat in a wingback chair and pulled her feet up like a child. Miss Stanhope gave her a look, but said nothing as she sat, back straight and proper, at her writing desk.
“Which was your worst kiss? And your best?” Melissa asked, thankful she finally had someone to talk to about such things.
Miss Stanhope seemed to consider the question for a while, a secret smile playing about her lips. “Well, I have to say they were from the same man, a Lord Reginald Bissle. Very smart fellow. Always dressed to the nines. Almost a dandy,
now that I recall. Which is probably why he wanted a bigger dowry.”
“The kiss,” Melissa urged, losing patience.
“Ah, that.” Miss Stanhope pressed her lips together in thought. “Devastating,” she breathed as if the kiss were anything but. “That’s the word I would use.” She ended the sentence with a sharp nod.
Melissa furrowed her brow, and she felt her own cheeks redden. That was precisely how she’d thought of John’s kiss. “But how could that be bad?” she asked.
“Because he was the only man to make me feel as if I were . . .”—she stopped, and in her eyes Melissa saw a fleeting look of pain and regret—“. . . the most beautiful girl at the ball.”
“You probably were, but just didn’t realize it,” Melissa said fiercely, feeling protective of the young girl Miss Stanhope once had been.
“Perhaps I was that night. I thought I was madly in love, and the most handsome man had just kissed me.” She let out a small laugh. “I was very young, you see. Younger than you by several years. I was never so foolish again as to give someone my heart knowing his was not engaged.”
“But how could that have been a bad kiss?”
Miss Stanhope chuckled. “I never forgot it. Even when other men kissed me, I always compared their kisses to Lord Bissle’s, and they always came up lacking.” She shook her head at her own foolish thoughts. “Now, enough of this sordid talk, my girl, I have correspondence to finish.”
Melissa leapt up from her chair and gave Miss Stanhope’s smooth cheek a kiss, feeling inordinately happy and normal performing such a gesture. “Thank you, Miss Stanhope,” she said.
The older woman flushed with pleasure.
Melissa beamed her a smile. “I’ll see you at dinner then.” Melissa left the room, her steps light, happy to know she wasn’t the only girl in the world to be devastated by a single kiss.
Chapter 8
