* * * *
“I would like to have a Palladian garden built here,” Kenley said, as he and Charlotte walked together along the backside of the house. She kept one hand tucked in her muff, the other draped against the proffered crook of his elbow. The uncertain silence that had lingered between them ever since leaving Darton Hall remained, and they made idle conversation together, like no more than casual acquaintances.
“Lord Theydon never had much of a mind for landscaping,” Kenley said. “I am afraid he did not have much of a mind for anything except for brandy, cards, and dice. The house was in a sorry state long before it ever stood empty.”
“Is it strange for you?” she asked, looking up at him, and thinking of what Caroline had told her. He was a very unhappy boy. Angry, I suppose, and that is why he found trouble for himself. With a father like Lord Theydon, I imagine the poor thing had plenty to feel angry and unhappy about. “Being here at Theydon Hall again, I mean?”
He smiled slightly, somewhat sadly. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “I have a good number of fond memories here… and a fair number of poor ones besides. I try to dwell upon the former, rather than the latter.”
Charlotte nodded. She drew in a deep breath and watched the hem of her redingote flap with each step against her skirt. “Why are you doing this, Kenley?” she asked at length, her voice soft and tremulous.
“Showing you the hall? Your sister offered seeming escape,” he replied. “I did not seem to be charming your mother to any effect, and thought it might be in order.”
“No,” Charlotte said, shaking her head. She stopped, forcing him to pause as well. “I mean, why are you doing any of this? Why did you step forward yesterday? Why did you say you would marry me?”
He raised his brow. “Because I would marry you, Charlotte,” he replied. When she blinked in surprise, he laughed. “That startles you?”
“You do not even know me,” she said. “You have only known me three days. How could you possibly want to marry me?”
He turned to face her in full. “You kissed me despite having known me only days,” he said pointedly.
“Well, that was different,” she said. “People kiss all of the time without the pretense of marriage, and…” Her voice faded and her eyes flashed. “And I beg your pardon—I did not kiss you. You are the one who kissed me.”
“And I was the first you let do so, am I right?” he asked. She blinked again, her cheeks flushing brightly, her mouth opening as she stammered some unintelligible, sputtering reply. “There is no shame in it,” he said. “I find it rather charming as a matter of fact.”
“How… how did you…”
“Know? It did not take a scholar. You stiffened against me like a plank of wood.”
“I did not,” Charlotte said, wide-eyed.
He laughed. “You most certainly did. I could not tell at first if it pleased or horrified you.”
“It took me aback,” Charlotte said, frowning. “It was very impertinent and rude of you besides, and I was fairly well shocked, considering I had enjoyed our conversation together, and had not anticipated that you would conclude it in such a… a caddish, impulsive fashion.”
He raised his brow. “And yesterday at Rycroft?” “At Rycroft, I could scarcely offer protest, as you kept stifling my mouth with your own. By some sense of propriety, and the faith that you might be a proper gentleman, I simply…” Her voice faded again and she hoisted her chin, meeting his gaze squarely. “How dare you turn this about and upon me? You kissed me on all occasions. I asked you repeatedly to stop and you were fairly well insistent in your efforts to the contrary.”
Kenley laughed again, and she fumed. “Why are you laughing?” she demanded.
“Because this is precisely why I would marry you, Charlotte,” he told her, cupping her face between his hands. “You are wondrous, woman! By my breath, are you so blind to it? Any other daughter at that party, I might have kissed and offered to wed, and they would be swooning upon themselves, and me besides. You—I kiss and offer to marry, and you puzzle over it, seeking some motive. You challenge it; you challenge me. You grow angry over it all because it defies any semblance of logic you deem proper.”
“It defies any logic anyone would deem proper, if they knew the truth of it,” Charlotte said, shaking her head slightly to dislodge his hands.
“You fascinate me,” he said. “I thought as much the first time I read your essays. Who is this woman? I asked myself. It plagued me with wonder. What woman in her right mind would hold such ideas and notions so firmly and dearly to her heart and mind? What woman would set pen to paper to pronounce them publicly, without thought to hide her sex or status from those who would surely turn upon her views with criticism and disdain?”
“No woman in her right mind, if you heed my aunt and mother,” Charlotte said.
“And quite possibly the most perfect woman I might hope to imagine,” Kenley told her. “You know the social circus, Charlotte. We spoke of it at Chapford Manor. You and I are helpless pennies tossed atop a tremendous card table, and all of our fellows are laying down their cards to have their chance to claim us. I am weary of lovely, powdered, primped ladies offering vacuous stares and bewildered looks should I dare make mention of a word exceeding two syllables in conversation. I have never lived my life like this, properly affected and displaying good breeding. I am accustomed to my habits and fairly settled in my ways, and while I play the game well, I am tired of it. Are you not? You cannot tell me you are not. I saw it on your face when Roding announced he would wed you.”
Charlotte looked at him silently. Everything he had just said might have come straight and poignantly from her own heart; the desperate words she had longed to cry to her mother for years.
Kenley stepped toward her, cradling her cheek against his palm. “You would never be someone cherished to James Houghton,” he said quietly. “A partner and an equal whose opinions are valued, whose counsel is willingly, gratefully sought. You would be that silver coin he has claimed after a long, hard-fought hand, and he would take that fire that is within you and he would see it more than waned, Charlotte. He would see it suffocated, extinguished. I cannot allow that. Not after only just finding you. I had believed I never would.”
He leaned toward her. “I could know you three days, three years—three minutes, Charlotte—and it would make no difference. I knew it from the start; from the moment I met you.”
“You… you cannot love me,” she whispered, tilting her face toward his, allowing him to brush his lips against hers.
She closed her eyes as his other hand touched her cheek, as the warmth of his palms enfolded her face. “I beg to differ,” he breathed, and he kissed her.
Whatever hope she might have had to offer rebuttal or objection abandoned her along with her wits and wind. His lips settled against hers, and she opened her mouth eagerly, whimpering as his tongue pressed against hers, trailing against those measures within her mouth that were already well known to him. She drew his breath, his warmth as her own, and within her, it felt natural and right, as though they had been meant to come together like this, in an intermingling of breaths and voices.
He held her face between his hands and canted his head, moving, pressing himself fiercely against her. He kissed her with longing, holding her near as though this was a moment he had looked forward to with sweet and tremulous anticipation. Charlotte drew her hands beneath his arms, her fingers splaying against his shoulders and felt his strength, the lean muscles bridging the graceful span between his spine and limbs beneath the heavy wool of his coat.
He stepped toward her, easing her gently, and Charlotte stumbled until she felt her pannier bow against the wall of the house. Kenley pressed her here, pinning her to the stones, his mouth abandoning hers for the slope of her throat. She gasped for breath as his mouth stoked sudden, urgent heat within her, a tremulous fluttering throughout her form. The tip of his tongue brushed lightly, deliberately beneath the angle of her jaw, and tr
aced toward her ear. Each breath against her skin—cool upon the draw, warm and slow upon the exhalation—sent her senses reeling, her mind fading to simple, exquisite pleasure. His left hand slipped from her face, his fingers and palms sliding with gentle, delicious friction along the line of her neck toward her bosom.
Charlotte’s breath hitched in anticipation, her shoulders drawing back, her breasts seeming to swell and strain against the confines of her corset in sudden anticipation of his touch. His hand moved slowly against her breast, his fingers draping to match her contours, his palm applying soft but insistent pressure. He moved his hand in deep, rhythmic circles that immediately stoked bright heat, and a swelling of dizzying sensations from her breast at the friction. She could not think; she could not breathe. When he settled his mouth against hers, his hand yet moving, the pressure of his palm and fingers firm and deliberate, she clutched at his shoulders, her voice escaping her in a soft, breathless moan. His lips left hers and his breath fluttered, hoarse with longing as his hand slipped slowly from her breast. She lifted her chin, letting her nose brush against his, and their lips danced together lightly, fleetingly. Her body trembled and ached from his abandoned touch, straining for his hands to find her again, to linger against her.
“Marry me, Charlotte,” he whispered.
She nodded, letting her lips brush his, feeling his breath against her mouth. “Yes,” she said softly, making him smile. “Yes, Kenley.”