Dressed to Kiss

by Madeline Hunter, Caroline Linden, Megan Frampton, Myretta Robens

  Tea and dishes of sweetmeats were placed before her. She licked her lips in anticipation and glanced up at Mr. Merrithew, who was watching her face with an absorbed gaze. Had she done something wrong? She gave her companion an inquiring look.

  He shook his head as if coming out of a dream and smiled at her. “Try these.” He edged a small plate closer to her. “They’re my favorites.”

  They were small and brown and shiny. Delyth had never seen anything that looked quite like these. She gave Mr. Merrithew a half smile. “You’re not trying to poison me, are you?”

  He smiled back and popped one in his mouth.

  Delyth did the same. “Oh my,” she murmured, placing her fingers over her lips as if to keep the flavor in. She could describe colors in her sleep, but flavors were another story. She knew that this was wonderful, but had no idea what to say about it. “It tastes like a warm day in autumn,” she said, finally.

  Simon Merrithew cocked his head to one side, sliding the sweet around in his mouth and examining her face. “Yes,” he said after a while. “I believe it does.”

  Why did his agreement make her feel warm all over? This afternoon had revealed an entirely different Simon Merrithew from the one who had glowered at her at the shop, glowered at her in his drawing room, and glowered at her over the dinner table. This was the Simon Merrithew she had guessed lay beneath all that glowering, the one whose habitual expression was one of good humor. At last, he had dropped the angry façade and had enjoyed the day with her. Maybe being Welsh was not such a problem.

  “What has happened?” Delyth asked, no longer willing to wonder why he had changed.

  Simon (Could she think of him as Simon? She wanted to.) looked confused. “What has happened?” he repeated with a different inflection.

  “You have been so kind to me, today,” Delyth said. “I thought you didn’t like me.”

  Simon sighed. “I apologize. My pique was unreasonable and uncalled for.”

  “Well, yes it was,” Delyth said. “I’m pleased you’ve realized that. But what happened?”

  “Someday,” Simon said. “Some other day, I’ll try to explain.”

  It was obvious that she wasn’t going to get the answer today. But it still had been a marvelous afternoon and she was not going to let her companion’s reticence on this subject spoil it. “Very well,” she said with a slight smile and raised her cup to her lips.

  “Shall we leave?”

  Delyth had finished her tea and eaten as many sweets as she could manage without making herself sick or looking like a glutton. Neither condition was desirable. She supposed that they should leave. As delightful as this interlude had been, they really did eventually have to get back to Portman Square. Back to normal life.

  Taking Mr. Merrithew’s arm, Delyth allowed him to lead her back into the street. Dusk was upon them and the crowds had thinned if not altogether vanished. It was a lovely, soft night and Delyth found herself leaning toward Simon Merrithew, her head close to his wool-clad shoulder, the scent of him in her nostrils. It was delicious.

  As they walked back along the route they had taken from Merrithew House, Delyth felt Mr. Merrithew’s arm relax and unbend. She started to release her hold on his arm and step back, when she felt his hand slide down her arm and grasp her hand, lacing their fingers together. Her whole body responded, a luscious surge beginning at her toes and working its way up, weakening her knees and creating a strange warmth in parts of her body that usually didn’t warm on their own. She let her eyelids fall shut for a moment to simply enjoy the sensations Mr. Merrithew’s actions were generating. And then reality crept back in. This could not be good. As wonderful as the day had been and as delightful as she found Simon’s—Mr. Merrithew’s—company, she was a dressmaker. (At best. Perhaps just a really good seamstress.) She was no one Mr. Merrithew could consider as other than a … a… Well, she couldn’t even formulate the words for what he might consider her as. Her face heated to the roots of her hair and she stopped dead, trying to pull her hand away.

  Simon looked down at her in consternation.

  “Stop,” she whispered.

  He shook his head and whispered back, “Trust me.”

  Oh Lord, she wanted to. She didn’t resist when he tugged her into a narrow side street and urged her into the shallow doorway of a closed shop. She didn’t resist when he loosened her bonnet ribbons and slipped it off her head. She didn’t resist when his hands came up and cradled the back of her head. She didn’t resist when he lowered his head and his lips brushed against hers.

  She whispered against his lips, but this time the word was, “Yes.” As Simon’s hands slid from her head and gathered her closer, Delyth could feel her hands move to his shoulders, seemingly of their own volition. Control of her body was beyond her at this moment. She softened under his kiss, allowing him entrance to her mouth, allowing him anything he wanted. She wanted it, too. Whatever he was offering, she was taking. Whatever he wanted, she was offering. God help her, nothing, no taste, no sound, no sensation, no color, had ever made her feel as good as she felt right at this minute.

  Chapter Eight

  It took every ounce of his resolution for Simon to release Delyth from his embrace. She was unbearably sweet and her kiss was enthralling. He was well and truly ensorcelled by his Welsh witch. He knew he should be questioning both his actions and his reaction. He knew that he was taking advantage of a woman in an inferior position, a woman he could never marry. Simon liked to think that he was a rather broad-minded aristocrat, but, even so, he could not forget that he was the son of one viscount and the brother of another. He would not embarrass his sister by marrying a seamstress. And what was he thinking, to take a kiss in a darkened doorway and consider it a prelude to marriage? What nonsense. He just needed to step away. Mustering all of his resources, he did step away, looking down at the flushed and flustered face of Delyth Owen.

  “Forgive me,” he said.

  Delyth looked as though she had just awakened from a deep sleep. “What?”

  “Forgive me,” Simon repeated. “I shouldn’t have…” He waved his hand toward the doorway they had just left. “I shouldn’t have … done that.”

  Delyth looked back over her shoulder as if to remind herself what they had done. The rosy color of her cheeks became even deeper and she took a deep breath. “Think nothing of it,” she said.

  Simon was momentarily dumbfounded. Think nothing of it? How was that possible? Surely Miss Owen was not thinking nothing of it. Simon would be mightily surprised to learn that she had ever been kissed like that before, if, indeed, she had been kissed at all. One look at her face told the whole story. That was her first passionate kiss and she had participated freely and enthusiastically. Possibly, this was a genie that could not be put back in the bottle.

  Drawing a deep breath of his own, Simon stepped back onto Bond Street and offered Delyth his arm. His plan at this moment was to pretend the kiss had never happened.

  Simon was able to put the plan into action all the way back to Merrithew House. He kept the conversation light and directed once again to the clothes of the people they passed. “What do you think of that redingote, Miss Owen?”

  Delyth’s response was subdued, listless. “It’s very nice.” Gone was the exuberant discussion of color of the earlier afternoon. Gone was the passion for clothes. Simon suppressed a sigh. Perhaps she was just tired. Surely a single interlude in a doorway would not break the spirit of someone as vivacious as Delyth Owen.

  Louisa was waiting in the drawing room for their return. When Delyth dropped a quick curtsy and excused herself to go change, Louisa threw Simon a concerned look. “Is Miss Owen unwell?”

  “No,” Simon said, perhaps a bit too quickly. “That is, I don’t believe so. The walk may have tired her.”

  Louisa raised a Merrithew eyebrow as she took a seat. “Probably,” she said.

  Silence reigned in the sitting room. Louisa sat quietly for a moment, then picked up some embroidery fr
om her workbasket. Simon examined his fingers. Would Miss Owen return for dinner? The minutes ticked away and Simon began to doubt it.

  What had he done? And what was he to do? The kiss had been so out of character. He was not given to cornering girls in doorways. His flirtations were always conducted with ladies of his class and were usually light and enjoyable and did not involve shepherding them into secluded alcoves and kissing their shoes off. What would he say to Louisa if his actions caused Delyth to leave?

  Just as Simon was beginning to decide how he would explain Delyth Owen’s departure to his sister, Miss Owen appeared in the doorway to the sitting room, resplendent in her puce and green gown. She was smiling that infectious Delyth Owen smile. She was here. Simon felt the relief of her presence flood through him. And noted that the gown no longer made him cringe.

  “Miss Owen.” Simon sprang from his chair and crossed to Delyth, extending his hand.

  Delyth took his hand. “Mr. Merrithew.” Her grin was a sly indictment of the tremor in his fingers. She looked as though she knew every thought that had passed through his mind since she left him at the door. The witch.

  Louisa had put down her embroidery and crossed to where Simon was standing. She looked pointedly at him, making him realize that he was still holding Miss Owen’s hand. He dropped it, probably too quickly, and Louisa gave him a curious smile. “Shall we dine?” she asked.

  Simon extended both arms and escorted his sister and Miss Owen into dinner with not a little trepidation. Which turned out to be unfounded.

  “Did you enjoy your afternoon, Miss Owen?” Louisa asked.

  Eyes shining, Delyth nodded. “It was wonderful,” she said. “And would you please call me Delyth?” She looked uncertain and asked, “Is that all right? For you to call me Delyth?”

  “Yes.” Louisa laughed. “It’s fine and we would be delighted. Wouldn’t we, Simon?” She turned to her brother.

  “Er,” Simon said. “I’m not—” He stopped abruptly when he felt the toe of Louisa’s shoe meet his ankle. “Yes,” he said. “Absolutely.” He was in such trouble.

  “And you must call us by our first names,” Louisa said. “At least when we are among family.”

  Delyth blushed, which, of course, Simon found charming. “Thank you, Miss Merrithew.”

  “Louisa,” Louisa said. “Now tell me about your walk.”

  Delyth’s smile bloomed again. “It was so beautiful,” she said. “And Mr. Merrithew—Simon,” she amended, blushing again, “tried so hard to show me how colors should be used together.” She looked down at her dress. “I’m afraid I’m hopeless.”

  “You are not hopeless,” Simon said. “You merely have a more exuberant idea of how color should be used than the average woman.”

  Louisa turned a stunned look on her brother. He could have sworn he heard her whisper, “How the mighty have fallen,” under her breath, but that couldn’t be right.

  Delyth fluffed her pillow and tried a different position. There was no doubt that this was the most comfortable bed in which she’d ever slept. There was also very little doubt that she was not going to get any sleep in it tonight. Every time she closed her eyes, the events of the afternoon and evening marched through her mind like a particularly well-staged play, one she had seen so many times that each scene was as vivid as if it was actually being performed before her eyes.

  Each instant of the afternoon, from the moment she and Simon (Simon!) left Portman Square to the moment in the doorway when he kissed her repeated in her mind. In fact, every other part of the afternoon seemed to be rushing ahead at top speed so her memory could get back to that doorway. That was why she wasn’t sleeping. She was back in the shallow doorway right off Bond Street being kissed by Simon Merrithew. Every time she thought of that—relived that—kiss, her toes curled and, worryingly, her nipples hardened and she felt as though she was melting somewhere in her middle.

  Delyth considered whether or not she might be coming down with an illness. Consumption? Typhus? Influenza? The Black Death? An inflammation of the lung? But she was not a stupid woman and she had read some of the books Anthea tucked away in the back of her bookcase. She knew she wasn’t ill. She didn’t know exactly what name to give the way she felt but she knew what, or rather who, caused it.

  However, identifying the cause was not helping her to sleep. Identifying the cause was only exacerbating the restlessness pervading her body (and concentrating in certain spots). She threw the covers off and slid out of bed, lit a candle, and looked around to see if this lovely room had any hidden bookcases. If she couldn’t sleep, she could at least read. She wouldn’t object to something like Anthea’s hidden stash of illicit literature. In fact, she was in just the mood for such a thing.

  There was, of course, nothing to be found, not even a treatise on agricultural practices, which, from her reading of Minerva Press novels, she had gathered was a staple of gentlemen’s libraries. But perhaps that was only gentlemen with country estates. Minerva Press had also given her to believe that creeping out of bed to a gentleman’s library in the middle of the night in her nightdress would lead to more of the kind of thing that had happened in the doorway. She stopped to consider that for a moment. She wouldn’t entirely object to another such encounter, but she hated to be a cliché. Then it came to her. She would go down to the workroom that Louisa had set up for her and get her drawing tablet and pencils. She might as well use her time to work on some designs for Miss Merrithew. She could worry about the colors later.

  Delyth picked up a shawl, slipped out of her bedroom door and crept down the hallway, careful to not make any noise. Once downstairs, she hesitated outside the library door. The room was dark and she stood for a moment considering whether she would go in. In the novels, sometimes the heroine was in the library first and then the handsome hero appeared. No. It would be better to go to the workroom.

  The workroom was as dark as the library, but Delyth quickly lit a branch of candles from the single stick she had carried from her bedroom. Much of the room was in shadow, but she stood for a moment admiring it. Miss Merrithew had arranged a room that was very nearly perfect for the purpose of creating clothing. Delyth walked over to the worktable where her drawing supplies were set out and picked up the tablet. She started at the front and paged through it. Someone had written notes beside each drawing, suggesting colors and materials. Who had done this? Louisa? Simon? It must have been one of them. No one else in the house had the knowledge or interest. Delyth looked through each description, understanding, for perhaps the first time, why these colors had been suggested. Before her afternoon with Simon, she would have thought the choices were deadly dull. Now, although she might not agree with the subdued suggestions, she understood them in the context of what society ladies were wearing.

  Picking up her pencil, she made some adjustments to her existing drawings and sketched out two additional dresses, taking the time to make some notes of her own as to color and fabric. It would be interesting to discuss these with Miss or Mr. Merrithew. After nearly an hour, the room had cooled considerably and Delyth had done all she wanted to with her drawings. Wrapping her shawl around her, she blew out the candles and made her way back toward her room.

  This time, as she passed the library, she noticed light filtering out from under the door. She stopped and considered. The smart thing would be to continue to her room and get some sleep. She was, however, feeling neither smart nor sleepy. Gently easing the door-latch open, Delyth edged into the room. Simon was standing by the fire with his back to the door, in a contemplative posture.

  “Oh!” Delyth said. “I didn’t know anyone was in here.”

  Simon turned toward her and smiled. Or perhaps he smirked, which she knew she deserved. In a voice that was both low and amused, he said, “Indeed?”

  Without shifting his gaze from her face, Simon began pacing toward the door. Delyth had sudden second thoughts and began backing up, her hands groping for the latch. Before she could find it, howe
ver, Simon was directly before her. He was still dressed in the shirt and trousers he had worn at dinner but he had discarded his jacket and waistcoat and—Delyth looked down—his shoes and stockings. My, but the man has elegant toes. Her own toes curled a little.

  Simon stood for a moment not moving, then removed the candlestick from Delyth’s grasp and placed it on a table. He put his hands on Delyth’s shoulders and moved a step closer.

  Delyth’s arms went limp and her shawl fell to the ground. There she was, standing so close to Simon Merrithew, wearing only her night rail and—she looked down again—no shoes or stockings. Her toes were not nearly as attractive as Simon’s. When she raised her head, Simon was still staring at her, his steel-blue eyes holding a warmth she had not seen before. What now?

  Simon lowered his head and hesitated, his lips a bare fraction of an inch from hers.

  “Yes,” she thought and then, when Simon’s mouth touched hers, realized she had said it aloud. At first it was a mere feather-touch of a kiss, his lips lightly moving over hers, all warmth and coaxing. He increased the pressure and she responded, winding her arms around his waist and allowing her hands to move up his back, gripping the long, lean muscles that had been so well hidden by his jackets.

  Simon’s hands skimmed down her arms and slid around to her buttocks, drawing her fully against him as he kneaded the sensitive flesh. Delyth was well-read. She knew what the hard ridge that was pressing against her stomach was. But she had no previous experience of it. Nor had she expected what happened to her body when Simon pulled her flush against him. Her knees turned to water and the rest of her to fire. She gasped and Simon’s tongue entered her mouth, beginning a sensuous dance in which her own tongue soon became a willing partner.