Dressed to Kiss

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

  She had to laugh then. “Of course you didn’t mean to ask if I was in the habit of being with gentlemen in their homes getting kissed. I was the one who said I’ve never been in this kind of situation before, and you were merely exercising your right to be curious.” She took a deep breath. “I like that. Your curiosity. So few people are genuinely curious about one another.”

  His color receded, and she thought perhaps he wouldn’t spontaneously combust. At least not right at this moment.

  “I find myself … very curious about you,” he said at last. His voice was so low she could barely hear it.

  But she could feel it. His words resonated throughout her body, and it was as though each word—“I” touching her mouth, “find” making its way to her chest, “myself” making her breasts feel heavy and full, “very curious about you”—well, she couldn’t even say to herself where those words had gone, but she thought she had a fairly good idea.

  And it wasn’t to her toes.

  He swallowed, and she saw how his throat worked, the strength of even those muscles evident under the cloth of his cravat.

  Oh, goodness. All of that was interested in, apparently, all of her.

  Which made all of her very interested in return.

  She rose so suddenly her hipbone smashed into the table, and she staggered back. “I—I should be going,” she said, wishing she sounded more authoritative and less breathy.

  But he had taken her breath away, hadn’t he?

  He stood as well, as was polite, of course. “I will escort you home.” This time, the tone of his voice didn’t do anything but make her feel terrible. As though she’d missed a moment, which of course she had.

  But if she had taken the moment—if she had continued down that line of curiosity and getting to know one another and all of that—she might do something she would irrevocably regret.

  Or at least know was not something she should be doing.

  And she had the suspicion that he would regret it as well, since she already knew he had a strong sense of honor—look at how he could have engaged Effie’s affections to secure his future—and she didn’t want him obliged in that way to her.

  Never mind how wonderful it felt to be kissed by him. To walk in the street beside him, knowing that she was safe, and secure, and he was interested. In her, of all people, and although she knew he was interested in her in that way—that kiss proved it—she also felt that he was interested in her. Just her. Without thinking about what she could do for him, or to him, or any of those things.

  “Do you suppose Lady Euphemia will insist on more dance practice?”

  He sounded as though he’d just asked, “Do you suppose I will have to continue having splinters put under my nails?”

  “Why do you dislike it so much?” she asked.

  “Beside the fact I cannot do it?” He snorted. “That is probably it, to be honest. There are few things I have set out to do that I have not accomplished, but dancing, it seems, is one of those things. And yet when I see people dancing, and hear the music, it seems like such a lovely activity. I wish I could.”

  “We can practice again, if you like,” she said, her words rushing out before she could even register that she’d spoken. “If you want, if you’d be more comfortable with me, since—” And then she stopped, because how she could say it?

  “Because we’ve kissed,” he said in a less splinter fingernail voice.

  Apparently he could say it just fine.

  “I appreciate the offer, Katherine,” and the way he said her name sounded so intimate, “but I don’t think there is any hope for me.”

  “Don’t say that,” she rejoined, instinctively clutching his arm more tightly. “There is hope for everyone. Yourself included, Henry.”

  “And what did you do today, Henry?” He busied himself with washing up his dishes from his evening meal—something simple, and warm, and filling, as usual, although he couldn’t say just what he’d eaten.

  And why was he delaying answering, when he was just talking to himself?

  “I kissed a woman who is the most appealing lady I’ve ever met. And that terrifies me.”

  He sat down in his chair, the one he’d sat in opposite her so briefly, and removed his spectacles, laying them on the table and rubbing the spot between his eyes.

  “Why does it terrify you, Henry?” He’d found, through the years, that since he lacked someone to confide in—since he definitely was not going to share any of this with his sister—he just had to rely on himself.

  Which was the problem, wasn’t it? He’d spent so long relying on himself, and being the one that was relied upon, that he didn’t know what to do when confronted with something he wanted, and not something he needed to do.

  And what, precisely, did he want? “What do you want, Henry?” he muttered in a low tone, getting up to fetch a bottle of whisky and a glass. He poured out a healthy amount and sat back down, staring at the settling liquid in the glass rather than downing it right away. He was good at that, at seeing things he wanted, that he desired, and then letting them be. That was why he had a nearly full box of candy in his cupboard, even though he’d been honest about his having a sweet tooth. He rationed them out, one every few days, in some sort of test of his will.

  But he didn’t know if he could pass the test of resisting her, not after tasting how sweet her mouth was, or how it felt as though he wasn’t entirely and unutterably alone.

  He hadn’t realized until she’d come into his house that he had felt so alone. He’d been grateful, at first, not to have the chatter of his mother and sister around him constantly. But now it wasn’t the absence of chatter he heard but the silence. The quiet that meant that only he was there, and only he would be in the room, and only he would speak, and be spoken to.

  “Why does it terrify you?” he asked again, lifting the glass of whisky to his mouth and taking a sip.

  He still couldn’t answer that.

  He sat for another moment, an exhalation of frustration escaping his mouth. And then he leapt up, going to his desk where he kept papers and pencils, returning to his seat and putting his materials on the table.

  Another sip. “This should be as easy as accounting,” he murmured. “I can list all the things that are of concern, and see what conclusion I can draw.”

  It sounded so simple.

  “In the first column, we can list Miss Grant.” He wrote her name down, then underlined it sharply. “In the next column, we have my family.” He wrote “Family Obligations” in the next column. “And that is it,” he said, laying the pencil down, then picking it up to underline “family,” since that would make its format the same as “Miss Grant.”

  He was nothing if not consistent. Perhaps he was nothing without his consistency, he thought sourly. He was a large obligation-keeper, at least in terms of how he saw himself. He knew that his family would insist that he do what he wished to do, but that made him run into the essential problem: He didn’t know what it was he wanted to do.

  Although he knew who he wanted to do whatever he did want to do with.

  He stared down at what he’d written, all four words of it, then picked the paper up and crumpled it, tossing it onto the floor and raising the glass instead.

  He downed the rest of the whisky, shrugged, and poured himself some more. Perhaps logic and lists and accounting weren’t what were needed now. Perhaps he just needed to feel. To figure out what it was that would make him less alone, more full of hope, and less … obliged.

  Chapter Seven

  “Oh, you’re back!”

  Katherine started guiltily at hearing Euphemia’s voice. Yes, I’ve returned, and I’ve been thoroughly kissed. By the man you wish to capture for yourself.

  Thankfully she did not say any of that. “Yes, I’m back, although I believe I have forgotten the ribbons.” She dug through her reticule, willing the heat in her cheeks to subside. Not that Effie would notice; Katherine could be on fire, and all she’d say was that s
he no longer felt the chill, so could Katherine put her shawl somewhere?

  “Never mind them.” Effie glanced around in a theatrical manner, reminding Katherine, as though she could forget, that the girl was only eighteen. Not that Katherine had ever been that dramatic, even at Effie’s age, but she supposed drama came with that much beauty. “Let’s go here so we can talk.” Effie dragged her by the arm into the earl’s little-used library; it was dark and cozy, and Katherine was probably its most frequent visitor, since she often stole down here to read when she couldn’t sleep.

  “What do we need to talk about?” Did she know about the kiss? She couldn’t, not unless she was a mind reader, in which case the kiss was the least of what Effie might have gleaned from Katherine’s brain.

  “Henry,” Effie said, uttering his name in a heartfelt sigh.

  “Mr. Dawkins,” Katherine corrected, acutely aware that it would be more appropriate—if not at all correct—for her to call him “Henry” since she had, indeed, kissed him, and that would seem to put one on a Christian name basis.

  “Isn’t he everything I said he was?” Effie continued, clasping her hands to her chest in a gesture definitely better suited for the stage.

  At least it was reassuring to know that if Effie suddenly became less of an heiress she could make her living by acting.

  Hopefully Katherine was good at subterfuge as well. She wished she could confide everything to the closest person she had to a friend, at least in near proximity; all her old school friends had married and gone to the country or somewhere.

  And what did that say about her? Although that would have to rank after the fact that she’d kissed a man the day after she’d met him. Probably having a vainglorious debutante as a friend was slightly less awful than that.

  “He is.” She turned to look at Euphemia, feeling her brows draw together. “But why did you leave, if you wished to resume your acquaintance with him?”

  “Oh, that!” Euphemia said, flipping her hand in the air. “You see, I told Mother that I had hopes of pairing Mr. Dawkins off with you, which is why she agreed so readily to his coming here. She worries that you will remain unwed, even though she does wish you to take charge of the girls.”

  That makes two of us, Lady Kilchester, Katherine thought.

  “And I know that when you get to know Mr. Dawkins as I know him, you will be able to persuade him that he is indeed a suitable man for me to marry.”

  Oh dear. This was precisely the kind of circuitous plot a young girl would hatch, and one that Katherine had been hired to circumvent. Only—

  “Did he say he wished to marry you?”

  Katherine couldn’t keep the skepticism out of her voice. Because a man who was in determined pursuit of one lady yet also convincing another to kiss him—well, that man would have to be a far better actor and definitely more polished than Mr. Dawkins was.

  At this point, she should just purchase tickets to Drury Lane. Apparently she was desperate to see a theatrical production.

  Effie shrugged in that delightfully artless way that seemed part of being a rare beauty. Katherine knew if she attempted the same she’d look confused rather than dainty. “He hasn’t yet, no, but he will. I am so much older than I was three years ago”—yes, three years older, Katherine wanted to point out—“and he must see me as a woman now.”

  “And so your plan is to pretend that he might become interested in me while you engage his interest?” Effie nodded in pleased satisfaction. “And then when he has proposed marriage you will tell your parents it was you he was interested in all along?” Effie nodded again, positively beaming.

  “But don’t think my parents will take that to mean that you have not done your job properly,” Effie said earnestly. Even though that would be exactly what it meant. “They would know that even if Mr. Dawkins was interested in you initially, he would have no choice but to fall madly in love with me.” And then she sighed, as though picturing it.

  Katherine closed her eyes, resisting the urge to shout. At herself, at her charge, or even, perhaps, at the adorably large Mr. Dawkins. Henry.

  If she could just keep Effie from him until the girl lost interest—oh, very altruistic of you, Katherine, a sly voice said, keeping him occupied yourself. But she knew Effie well enough to know that eventually Effie would find one of her admirers to be more appealing than Mr. Dawkins.

  It was just up to Katherine to keep Mr. Dawkins occupied until that time.

  And if she succeeded in this, she could handle any number of feckless young ladies. As long as she didn’t break her own heart.

  “It is nearly three o’clock. He did understand it was to be three o’clock today, didn’t he?” Effie glowered at Katherine, as though it were her responsibility to ensure Mr. Dawkins—Henry—knew where he was to be and when.

  It had been four days since that day. The kissing day, which had reached such importance in Katherine’s mind that she now thought of it as The Kissing Day, just as important as Christmas, Boxing Day, and the Queen’s Birthday.

  She didn’t know what she thought of herself, much less him, for having engaged in the activity. And even if she could take it back—which she knew full well she could not, it was not as though time traveling was one of her skills, she had enough trouble with embroidery—she didn’t think she would.

  What if that was the only lovely kiss she ever received? She would have to honor The Kissing Day for the rest of her life, if that were so. To recall that day when a man, a very handsome, awkward, and totally adorable man, had wanted to kiss her. Her, Katherine, of the red hair and the curvaceous figure and the occasional sly wit.

  It felt wonderful. To recall the moment, even as it drifted into the past, to hold the few memories of the day in her mind and know that for those moments, for that time, she was desirable, and desired, and not just for salacious purposes. Though that was certainly an element.

  “Katherine?” Effie’s sharp tone snapped her from her thoughts. Her charge was still regarding her, now less glowering and more quizzical. If she were to ask just where Katherine’s thoughts had been—well, she was going to have to think of a believable enough lie, since Effie was a very keen observer when she wanted to be. Although she and Effie had, much to Katherine’s dismay, had the same thing on their respective minds.

  Effie had continued to explain her plan of getting Mr. Dawkins into her vicinity under the ruse of having him get interested in Katherine. It was awkward for Katherine the first three times Effie went through it; the remaining dozen or so iterations were downright painful. She would feel terrible about it if she didn’t know that the two of them would be a terrible match, that Effie’s parents would never allow it, and she was fairly certain Mr. Dawkins would never be coerced into loving someone.

  Just coerced into kissing them.

  “Katherine!” Effie said again, more stridently. She was not accustomed to being ignored.

  Katherine straightened. “Oh, yes, I am so sorry.” She glanced at the clock, which was five minutes shy of three o’clock. “You sent Mr. Dawkins the note, and he did say he understood.” Katherine was hoping that Mr. Dawkins was just as prompt as he had been the first time, or she would have to speak of him and what he knew and what he understood for much longer.

  Please let him be prompt. If not to see me again, at least to allow Effie to stop speaking of him.

  They both heard the sharp knock on the door after a minute. She couldn’t help but look at the clock again; four minutes to three. She exhaled, not realizing she’d been holding her breath in the first place. He was here. Was he regretting their actions? Had he come to regard the day as worthy of capital letters?

  Had he even thought of it?

  What if he were so accustomed to kissing ladies that this was just another moment in his life? And it didn’t matter to him, not at all?

  But she knew, from his reaction, that their kiss was not a usual circumstance for him either. Unless he was just as awkward each time he kissed a lady, and
she doubted that anyone, even someone as awkward as he, wouldn’t have learned at least some finesse along the way.

  She exhaled again, relieved to know she had talked herself out of believing that this was a habit for him. And wondering if their kissing would occur again, in which case it might indeed become habitual.

  “Mr. Dawkins is here,” the butler said.

  Henry stepped forward, nodding in greeting. “Good afternoon Lady Euphemia, Miss Grant.” His gaze lingered on her face for a moment longer than it did on Effie’s, and she felt the heat of a blush steal onto her face.

  “We are so glad you are here, aren’t we, Katherine?” Effie’s smile was one of the blinding ones she used on her admirers, only now it was directed toward Katherine.

  The girl could not be more obvious. Katherine restrained herself from wincing.

  “Well, you did make it very clear,” Mr. Dawkins replied wryly.

  “Yes, I did, didn’t I?” Apparently Effie was incapable of recognizing when someone was less than delighted by her persistence, judging from her tone. “Let us proceed to the ballroom. I am attending a party in a few days and I do not want to be shown up by any of the other ladies.”

  “I doubt that would happen,” Mr. Dawkins said as he waited for Effie to walk past him.

  Katherine followed Euphemia, a sharp pang of jealousy at his words. But it was only the truth; there was no possibility of any other lady being as beautiful or charming (when she wanted to be) as Lady Euphemia.

  “She is not aware of anyone but herself, is she?” Mr. Dawkins murmured as he walked beside her. Katherine felt his fingers touch her elbow, just briefly, but long enough to warm her thoroughly inside. “It is not outward beauty that attracts, but something that shines from within,” he continued, but then he turned to her, an aghast look on his face. “Not that you are not beautiful, it is just—”

  She trailed her fingers on his forearm and smiled at him. “I know what you mean.”

  And she did. She knew just what he meant, and what he really meant to say, which was that he found her more attractive than Euphemia, incredible though that might seem. And the fact that she knew that, even more than that he thought that, made her even warmer inside, making her feel as though it might not be her permanent lot to be alone.