Kissed at Midnight

by Holt, Samantha

  Gulping, she nodded slowly. Now she was only a pace away from him. At this point, she would likely agree to anything he asked of her be it for her to jump off the roof or roll around in the filthy streets. Each part of her body felt vibrantly aware of him and at the same time, weak and useless. She came closer still and this time it was her own feet that closed the gap, rather than his grasp on her.

  She glanced at his hand and wriggled her wrist free. He let her go—gave her a choice. Return to her room and rest, or stay with him. But she didn’t want food. A deep, hungry ache sat in her stomach but none of it could be attributed to hunger.

  His kiss. That was what she wanted. She had been remembering the taste of him ever since that fateful night. His kiss.

  “Ivy?”

  She’d spoken aloud. Oh dear, she’d whispered the words. What was wrong with her? But when she gazed up at him she saw no disgust or horror or anything vaguely dismissive. She saw hunger in his eyes too. He wanted to kiss her. He really did.

  “Kiss me.”

  The words, though a harsh whisper, bounced around the room like a gunshot. At the same time as wanting to recall them and bury them deep down, a great sense of release and anticipation coursed through her. As though giving voice to her desires had lifted a weight from her.

  She wanted her master, more than anything, more than, perhaps, her dream to sing on stage.

  Breath held, she waited. And waited. Elsie’s tiny snores resonated through the room and somewhere in the distance a church bell chimed. His gaze skimmed her face over and over, each time landing on her lips.

  “Are you certain?” he asked, voice gritty.

  Certain? Yes, she was certain she might explode if he did not touch his lips to her. Certain curiosity might eat away inside of her if she did not taste him fully. Their previous kiss had been but a teaser of one and she needed more.

  Had to have more.

  The desire for more had always driven her. It had forced her to run away from home and avoid a staid marriage to a stuffy old man. It had motivated her to go to London and then on to Manchester in the search for that perfect role.

  More. More August. That’s what drove her now.

  “Yes.”

  The word seemed to snap something. She almost expected a great cracking sound to tear through the room as his composure ripped. His body appeared to shake loose and a hand came to her lower back to draw her into him. Ivy found herself thrown against his chest. Her hands automatically came upon those hard muscles and she gasped. Heat surged under his palm as though marking her.

  His other hand came up to press back an errant curl and to skim over her forehead then down. He stroked a gentle path over her cheek, the move so at odds with the forceful hand on her back.

  For too long, he studied her as though looking for something—uncertainty perhaps. But as wrong as it might be, she was never more certain about anything. She needed him to kiss her. Her curiosity would not wane until he did.

  Hand cupping her face, he lowered his head and paused, his lips hovering over hers.

  “Certain?” he asked again.

  “Yes,” she replied huskily, quickly.

  With a groan, he closed the gap. The heat of his mouth was upon hers in such a rush that it galvanised her. She arched into him so no sliver of air could come between her and this excitement. Her breasts crushed against his chest while his mouth moved deliciously over hers. August’s lips were gentle and almost teasing. His tongue touched the corner of her mouth, then the seam of her lips. When she opened her mouth to him and their tongues finally touched, she feared she might swoon.

  So much sensation bubbled up inside of her. Ivy swept her hands over his shoulders and clasped around the back of his neck to keep him there. The hand on her face had slid back into her hair to clasp her curls. It seemed he didn’t wish for her to escape either and that was perfect for her. She was a willing prisoner and each touch of his tongue and lips made her wish to never be released from his hold.

  But release her he did, slowly, even reluctantly. She hoped so anyway. His hand withdrew from her hair, some air slipped in between them. He removed his mouth from hers with one final, brief kiss and he drew his arm from around her.

  Ivy wasn’t sure what to expect from him when she met his gaze. Annoyance perhaps or even a simple blank expression as though the world had not shaken beneath their feet. She certainly didn’t expect the tilted smile and slightly soft eyes.

  Her lips tingled and she put a finger to them to feel their puffiness. His gaze tracked the movement and the twist of his lips grew greater. August released a quiet breath and reached for her hand.

  “Come and get some food, Ivy.”

  He didn’t wait for her to respond. As soon as she had put her hand in his, he led her off to the kitchen. And she followed. The vague notion that she might follow him anywhere played in her mind as she accompanied him downstairs. But she would worry about that later. For now, she would enjoy the warmth in her belly and the knowledge that she had just been properly and fully kissed by August Avery.

  Chapter Eleven

  He had thoroughly kissed Ivy Davis. What had he been thinking? August tapped his knife against his plate and watched the open doorway while listening intently for the swish of her skirts or the gentle rap of her feet on the stairs.

  Glancing at the empty space opposite him, set for another with plates and cutlery, his heart jolted into his mouth. This was not about Ivy, however. This was about Elsie. He had been truly worried for her and casting them both out of the dining room felt so odd. He wished someone had written a book about the etiquette of having a governess. And not just any governess, a beautiful, engaging, exciting one.

  Exciting? He stabbed his knife into the halibut on his plate. Since when did he care for excitement? Cutting a tunnel through the countryside was enough excitement for him, thank you very much. He hardly needed more.

  And yet, he’d kissed her.

  August awaited the stab of guilt, the pooling of discomfort in his stomach, but it didn’t come. She’d wanted it. She’d wanted to kiss him as much as he’d wanted to kiss her.

  He shifted in his seat and expelled a breath as though he might be able to also expel the memories of her soft body pressed to his and her eager tongue pressing into his mouth. Instead of guilt there was... bloody excitement again. Here she was under his roof, under his protection and here he was kissing the damned governess. What the devil was wrong with him?

  A thud upstairs sent his heart racing. He stiffened and listened, grinding his knife into the poor fish. Good job it was already dead.

  Was she singing? Vague murmurs of notes floated down. Why was it she would sing to the baby and not to him? He’d asked to hear her again last night but she refused. They had discussed her dreams over a cold supper as they sat in the kitchen together, their legs so close that his knees sometimes brushed her skirt.

  He didn’t kiss her again, by some miracle, but it didn’t mean he hadn’t enjoyed the closeness. Hell, he’d even talked a little of his dreams—of building railways to every corner of Britain, of using rail transports to ensure survival of the empire through industry. He wanted to be at the forefront of it all and watch the country steam into this brave new world.

  August forced himself to remain still when her footsteps finally sounded on the stairs. Bugger, he could swear he needed a handkerchief to dab at his forehead, such was the effect she had on him. His breaths sounded harsh to his ears when the final gentle thump told him she’d reached the bottom stair, and then there was the swish of fabric.

  “Ivy?” He rose from the table rapidly as she walked past.

  She paused in the doorway, brows arched. In a lavender gown with lace trimming around the neck, she appeared serene, young and spectacular. Brown curls dropped onto the fabric at her shoulders and were emphasised by the colour of the fabric, as was her complexion. Somehow her eyes were wider and more expressive than ever. They seemed to reach inside him and urge him towar
ds her. He had to force his feet still. Here was the sort of woman to bring a man to his knees and Lord help him, his body was that close to doing just that.

  “Yes, sir?” She jostled Elsie on her hip.

  Sir. He even felt his lip curl at the formality. He wanted to be August. Nothing more. Most of the time he was Mr August Avery, railway engineer and relatively wealthy bachelor. Sometimes in the boxing club he was just Avery. To the navvies, he was master. But with her, he was August. And that was how he wanted it to remain. With her, he could forget everything and just... be. Considering his mind didn’t even shut down at night time, it was quite the relief to be in her company.

  “Will you join me for breakfast?”

  She glanced around the room as if there might be someone hiding in the corners and Elsie made a grabbing motion towards him. He tried to hide a triumphant grin. If she wouldn’t join him for her sake, she wouldn’t deny the baby time with him. He’d have to give little Elsie a treat later for being on his side.

  “Um, of course.”

  He opened his arms for her to hand him the child and she stared at him open-mouthed for quite some time before handing her over. Elsie found the end of his necktie and did a good attempt at trying to strangle him until he distracted her with a slice of buttered toast. She cheerfully began to suck on the food while Ivy sat opposite and helped herself gingerly to food.

  “It isn’t poisoned,” he said dryly.

  A smile cracked her face at this. “I know. It’s just... well, I’m not sure it’s usual for a governess to dine with the family.”

  “My household is hardly usual, Ivy. I realised yesterday I have spent little time with Elsie and it must be hard on her. I’m all she’s known for a while.”

  “Yes, I think she misses you when you work.”

  He smiled at this. Nothing about this governess was usual for certain. She had no idea how to hold her tongue, for example. How many other men would wake up to a scolding from their children’s governess?

  “What are your plans for the day?” he asked, secretly pleased with himself.

  This was not so hard, was it? Being civil and all that. He spent so long in the company of himself or the navvies, he hadn’t been entirely sure he was up to it. He’d have some social engagements during the coming months as spring gave way to summer and he’d be expected to engage in polite conversation like this. If nothing else, it forced him to practice.

  Not to mention it gave him more time to enjoy the sight of Ivy sitting opposite him.

  Dash it all, this was meant to be about time with Elsie, not how much he liked watching Ivy. The way she ate gave him more enjoyment than it should have done. It was in that same careless manner in which she did everything—with a sort of reckless grace. She scooped up so much food onto her fork that he thought it might all come tumbling off and spilling everywhere and yet she managed it. Some days he wondered how she had survived so long on her own. And then he realised he hardly knew much about her and her family and why she had left Surrey.

  She paused, fork halfway to her mouth and laid it down. “I had thought I would go to the park. Also Mrs Cartwright mentioned needing some more candles yesterday so I thought I would stop at the shop.”

  “Mrs Cartwright is not able to go herself?”

  Ivy’s lips quirked. “Mrs Cartwright is very persuasive.”

  “Mrs Cartwright is a bully.”

  “I am not so easily intimidated. But if you think her a bully, why ever do you keep her?”

  “Because I dare not get rid of the woman. I am easily intimidated, you see.”

  She laughed, her eyes glinting in the most appealing way and he longed to make them glint more often. He would have to spend some time thinking of witty observations.

  “I do not believe that for one moment. You must deal with all sorts of people at the railway.”

  “I do, but none are so fearsome as Mrs Cartwright. Besides,” he jabbed his fork into the halibut, “no one is as fine a cook as she.”

  “Ah, there we have it. You are just like every other man.”

  “How so?”

  “You are led by your stomach.”

  He shoved the halibut in his mouth and finished chewing before waving the fork at her. “I am not like every other man.”

  Her smile wavered. “No. No, you are not.”

  Before he could ask what she meant by that and the solemn way she said it, Elsie threw her toast upon the floor, making them both chuckle. “It seems you do not like toast, little one,” he murmured, his heart stretching when she placed her small, greasy hands against his chest and rested her head against him.

  Ivy stood, hands held out. “Let me take her, she will get you all filthy.”

  He shook his head. “No, it’s fine.”

  She sat, as though deflated. Instead of turning her attention back to her breakfast, she tucked her bottom lip under her teeth and he suspected she was twining her hands together under the table.

  “What’s wrong, Ivy?” August saw the conflict in her gaze. For someone who rarely seemed to hold her tongue, she was doing a fine job of it. “Ivy?” he prompted.

  “It feels strange.” She said the words so quickly he hardly had time to register them.

  “What does?”

  “Sitting here, with you as though... oh dear, I don’t know. And of course, yesterday we kissed and now it’s as though...” She sighed. “It’s just strange.”

  It gratified him that she was as confused as he was. That kiss. Why could he not just regret it and shove it aside as he had done with the other one? But knowing she had wanted it just as badly made his chest swell with pride and there was nothing that could be done to make him feel terrible about it.

  “I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he said cautiously.

  As it was, he had little idea how they moved forwards from this. Did he continue kissing her? Stealing little moments while she was in his employ? Did they pretend it never happened? Or did he let it go further, even knowing she would never stay forever and that he would be taking advantage of his position whether she realised it or not?

  “You don’t, not really. I am just not sure how I should behave.”

  “As you always have done, Ivy. Be yourself.”

  Her dark eyes fairly glowed and inwardly he cursed himself. What was he doing? Encouraging her? He hardly knew. Everything in his life was so carefully planned out. He had diagrams and schedules and facts and figures to go by. With Ivy, he was lost.

  “No one has ever really wanted me to be myself,” she said quietly.

  He shouldn’t take the bait. He wouldn’t. The deeper he got, the more dangerous it was.

  “Not even your parents?”

  Bugger.

  “No, certainly not them. You may not have noticed but I’m not the most refined of ladies.”

  August felt his lips twitch. But while he understood that she wasn’t traditionally refined, he saw grace and elegance in her—a natural something that called to him. He supposed it was a sort of feminine essence that fired up a man’s blood. How many other men had been fired up by her? The thought of her alone with men around her, all likely thinking similar thoughts to him made him curl a hand around his fork until the silver bit into his palm.

  “Your parents wanted you to be refined?”

  “My father is a wealthy merchant and my mother a lady—albeit the daughter of a mere baron. They hoped I might marry into nobility and bring them further glory, I suppose. My mother’s family resented her having to marry my father but they were very poor, you see, so it had to be done.”

  That explained much—her expensive gowns and her regal bearing. It also made him realise how far below her the role of a governess was. Why had she been searching for such a job when she had a wealthy family?

  “Your father lost his fortune?”

  “Oh no, not at all.”

  “So why are you here and not with them?”

  “Surely you can see that my wanting to becom
e a singer would not match with their ideals? My options were limited. Marry a crusty old viscount or earl or some such who was in need of a wealthy wife. That was what was expected of me. So...” she drew in a breath, “I left.”

  Admiration swelled in his chest. How many other women—hell, she was only just a woman at her age—would leave a luxurious home and a solid future to pursue a dream that might cast her as no better than a whore? He couldn’t believe that though. He had heard her sing and there was nothing sordid about that voice. It was pure and beautiful and deserved to be heard. There were female singers who had made names for themselves and were well-respected. Most of them had studied music abroad however and were actively encouraged. That Ivy clung so fiercely to her dream had to be admired. He understood what it was like for everyone to tell you something was impossible.

  “And you want to become a singer?”

  She nodded. “I went to a few auditions in London, but I... they weren’t successful, so I came here because I heard of some stage work available. Unfortunately they were after something else entirely and, well, I couldn’t afford to return to London.” Ivy paused and narrowed her gaze at him. “Does none of this shock you?”

  He chuckled. “If you met the sort of men I spend many days with at the railway, you would realise why I am not remotely shocked. I don’t like the thought of you alone and penniless, however.”

  “I am tougher than I look, August,” she replied, her chin raised and a small smile on her lips.

  August. He was back to August again. And it warmed his chest. She gave him that beatific smile and he shook his head to himself before turning his attention to Elsie, who had taken it upon herself to steal his fork and was trying to stab him in the leg.

  Sensible child. She was saving him from wanting things he couldn’t have. One kiss had to be all he could ever have. He wouldn’t keep this brave, bold woman from her dreams.

  Chapter Twelve

  What was he doing? August clasped his hands behind his back and peered out of the window, awaiting Ivy’s return. The day was growing late though it was far from dark yet. That knowledge didn’t stop him from tapping his foot and patting down his jacket for his cigarettes as a gnawing ache opened up in his chest. How he longed for a deep draw of smoke at the moment. But he’d seen a few men die from clogged lungs and he wasn’t going to be one of those.