13 Experiments In Kissing

Bea ran. There were no words, nothing she could say without revealing how shocked she was. Dear heavens, were all kisses so earth-shattering? And Bertram was a dear friend, but there was no love between them. Indeed, he was entirely indifferent to her, yet if his kiss could reduce her to this quivering heap of turmoil, what would a kiss from her future husband be like?

She fled to her room, but Harper was there sorting out stockings, so she ran on, first to the Long Gallery and then to the little gallery above the chapel. The room below was empty now, and the gallery deserted. She closed the door, and succumbed to a bout of near-hysterical weeping.

However, she was not one for giving way to her feelings, and within a few minutes common sense reasserted itself. Her reaction was merely the shock of her first kiss, no more than that. When females were brought up in almost complete isolation from males, and even when grown mingled with them only under the most circumscribed situations, the intimacy of kissing was bound to give rise to tremendous agitation. Now it was over, and she had the point of comparison she had desired.

Within a few minutes, she began to plan — how might she contrive to get Lord Thomas Medhurst and Lord Brockscombe alone, and how should she convince them it was necessary? She was all for openly asking each one to kiss her, but what reason could she give? She could hardly tell either of them that she wanted to choose which one to marry. It was decidedly awkward.

For the rest of the afternoon, she pondered the question. All through dinner she was preoccupied, so that Mr Fielding, who sat beside her, asked increasingly pointed questions about her health. But after dinner, she was granted the opportunity she sought. The drizzle prevailing all day had given way to a fine evening, and since they dined early, there was a general wish to take the air before it grew dark. Bea found Viscount Brockscombe looming over her as she arrived in the entrance hall, clad for the outdoors.

"May I offer you my arm, Miss Franklyn?"

She looked round at her stepmother, who raised an eyebrow but nodded encouragingly, so she smiled at the viscount, and placed her hand on his sleeve.

More than a dozen walkers set off into the gardens, but within five minutes the overgrown shrubs hid them all from sight. At first, voices could be heard and boots crunching on the gravel, but before long even those sounds died away, and they might have been the only two people in the garden.

Rather nervous now, Bea had found her voice again, and chattered on unstoppably, while the viscount said very little. Occasionally, he laughed at one of her little jokes, and sometimes he would say, ‘Yes, it is so at Brockscombe Hall, too,' or perhaps, ‘My aunt has experienced the same thing,' but otherwise he seemed content to listen.

Eventually, by some means, she could not say how, they came to the marble bench facing the nymph statue. "Shall we sit for a while?" Lord Brockscombe said.

So they did, and it turned out that she did not have to contrive at all, for it seemed that the gentleman was of very much the same mind as she was. As soon as she settled on the bench, he sat beside her, rather closer than was seemly, and slid an arm around her waist.

"Ah, Miss Franklyn, how delightful you are. So delightful, in fact, that I am very tempted to kiss you."

"Oh!" How easy it was! All she had to do was to lean a little towards him and—

His lips touched hers. No, that was not right. Surely there was something amiss? Where was the warmth, the glory of it? His lips were—

She pulled back sharply.

At once he released her, his expression horrified. "I have mistaken you. Pray forgive me, I did not mean— I cannot apologise enough— Miss Franklyn, I am the world's greatest fool. You would be quite within your rights to banish me from your sight henceforth."

"No, no! It is quite all right. I was surprised, that is all."

"Then you can find it in your heart to forgive me?"

"Most readily, sir. In fact, if you would care to begin again, I should not be surprised a second time, and we might get on a little better."

He laughed out loud. "Miss Franklyn, you are the sweetest creature alive, I swear it."

Leaning nearer to her, again his arm crept around her waist, and again his lips found hers. She was not surprised this time, but she was… disappointed. That was the only word for it. There was no fire, no sensation of falling, falling into… she could not even describe it. There were no words in her vocabulary for the way Bertram's kiss had made her feel.

No… she had a word. Alive. Vibrant. Desired. That was three words. Passionate. Protected. Cherished. Six words. What else? She had felt like a woman. Full of life and hope and energy and joy and some kind of fizzing, bubbling, light-filled sensation that had no name at all.

She felt none of that with the viscount. It was pleasant enough, she supposed, but nothing more. Eventually, he had had enough and drew back, to her relief. He was laughing, light-hearted, exhilarated. She had to force the smile to her face.

As she rose, a lock of hair abruptly came free and dangled annoyingly on one shoulder. She raised a hand to it, puzzled. "Oh! I must have lost a hairpin."

His guilty expression told its own story.

"Lord Brockscombe? Did you… tamper with my hair?"

Sheepishly, he held up a single hairpin. "I collect them, you see. Souvenirs of a pleasant interlude."

A pleasant interlude?Was that all she was to him, a few moments of pleasure and a stolen hairpin? That was humiliating.

"How many such souvenirs do you possess?" she said coldly.

"A few… a dozen, perhaps… no more than two dozen perhaps. Not many more. Yours will have a treasured place in my collection, you may be sure, Miss Franklyn."

They walked slowly back to the house, and this time, he was the one who talked and talked, while she was almost silent in seething resentment. In the entrance hall, she made some excuse to retreat to her room, where she sat, staring unseeingly out of the window, her anger at Lord Brockscombe draining away as she remembered another, very different, kiss. Even the memory warmed her inside and made her smile. But what on earth did it mean?

***

Bertram inched his way back to some state of normality as the evening progressed. Perhaps not normality — that was not quite the word for it, but he could function again. If addressed, he could answer with at least the appearance of coherence. He was barely aware of what was said or what he ate or drank, but he hoped his disordered mind was not too obvious.

He was acutely aware of Bea, however. Even without looking, he knew precisely where she was. He knew when she entered the saloon, watched as Fielding escorted her into dinner, heard her voice amongst the babble of chatter around the table. It was odd, for she spoke no more loudly than anyone else, but her voice was instantly identifiable to him. There was some resonance to which he was acutely attuned.

When he returned to the saloon, he was immediately conscious of her, sitting quietly beside her stepmother who was talking to the duchess. He longed to go to her, and yet dared not. Would she be embarrassed if he approached her? And what could he possibly say to her? He could not bring himself to talk about the weather after such a momentous event in his life.

Naturally he saw her jump up as soon as the idea of a walk was mooted. Bertram rose, too — perhaps he could walk with her? But Brockscombe put paid to that idea, and Bertram suffered the anguish of seeing Bea walk away happily with his friend. Would she find an opportunity to kiss him? Surely she would, and how could he resist? No man could resist Bea at her most open and artless.

Why did that distress him so much? It was an odd thing, but he felt extraordinarily proprietorial towards her now. That kiss had made her his in some strange way, even though she was destined to marry elsewhere, even though there was no attachment between them beyond the gentle affection of friendship. As he wandered aimlessly about the gardens, the thought that she might at that very moment be wrapped in Brockscombe's unworthy arms gave him extraordinary pain.

Abruptly, he spun on his heel and strode back to the house, unable to endure even one second more of the evening. He retreated to his room and buried himself in Horace until the light grew too dim to see the page. He cast the book to the floor in disgust, stretched out his legs on the window seat and leaned his head against the pane. Tomorrow… he would be better tomorrow. This strange excess of sensibility would leave him and he would be well again.

His friends returned shortly before midnight, Brockscombe in buoyant mood, Medhurst thoughtful, Fielding sullen. The latter said accusingly to Brockscombe, "You kissed her!"

Brockscombe looked sheepish. "How do you know that?"

"Wait! There has been kissing? Who? Not Miss Franklyn!" Medhurst said.

"Of course Miss Franklyn. There is no one else here worth kissing, after all. See? I have here the proof." He drew forth a hairpin and waved it around in glee.

"You and your hairpins," Fielding said in disgusted tones.

"Yes, I wish you would not do that," Medhurst said. "It is disrespectful to the lady to inflict yourself upon her person merely to steal a hairpin. How did you get her alone? This garden, I suppose. It is a wilderness."

Brockscombe chuckled. "Most conveniently overgrown. It is all too easy to hide away. I thought we were very discreet, but somehow Fielding knows all my secrets. How did you manage it?"

"I followed you, naturally. It is the sworn duty of a younger son to learn to creep about unnoticed, the better to spy on one's older brothers, and such a talent never deserts one. I followed you all the way to your private little nook, watched you try and fail to kiss her, saw you finally get it right, and then hid in the bushes as you passed me by on your return."

"You sneaky little—"

"Never mind that," Fielding said. "Does this mean you are courting her seriously, Brockscombe? I suppose you will expect us all to stand aside for you now."

"Well, I—"

"No need for that," Bertram said quickly. "Until there is a proposal accepted, Miss Franklyn is as free as a bird, and any of us may try to attach her."

"Who are you to be the arbiter?" Brockscombe said testily. "You have no interest in that direction yourself, so you have no right to interfere. Fielding is right — he should stand aside. She let me kiss her and that is a sign — it means she will accept me if I offer for her."

"If?" Fielding said, snatching at the most hopeful part of this. "Then you have not yet decided?"

"Well… not entirely, no. It is a momentous decision to take, and one must be absolutely sure. But I do not think we should be falling out over this. I have made the most progress with her, so I should have the first shot at her."

"I do not see that at all," Medhurst said. "Suppose she dislikes you, and would prefer me… or even Fielding here, for some unfathomable reason. Why should we step aside? She might think we have no interest in her, and accept you merely because yours is the only offer she receives. We should give her the widest possible choice."

"I have no intention of stepping aside," Fielding said, lifting his chin a little. "I already have her father's approval to court her."

Three faces turned on him in astonishment. "You have talked to her father?" Brockscombe said incredulously. "Already?"

"You are not even eligible to marry a lady with forty thousand pounds," Medhurst said.

Fielding shrugged. "That is what I thought at first, but when I considered a little more deeply, it does not seem to me that my situation is so very ineligible. I may be a younger son, but my family is perfectly respectable and not poor or wrapped in scandal or anything of that nature. I have a very comfortable income… No, no, it is not vast, but six hundred a year is not negligible, and I shall have another two hundred a year from my great-uncle. I can well afford to marry, and even to install a curate if my wife should not care for the parsonage. So I asked Mr Franklyn what he thought. Is anyone ever going to pour the brandy? Atherton, you are unaffected by these deliberations. Will you do the honours?"

Silently, Bertram poured and handed round glasses, hoping the others would not notice how badly his hands shook. What was the matter with him?

"So what did Franklyn say? He did not show you the door, presumably," Brockscombe said.

"Not a bit of it. He said he could hardly object since my family is more respectable than he is — his words, not mine. He was an attorney before he inherited his fortune, did you know that? And it all came from iron foundries, so for all his fine clothes, he is only a hairsbreadth away from trade. Then he said that Miss Franklyn was a lady of decided views and would choose for herself who to marry, so he would do nothing either to promote or to hinder my suit, but for himself, he wished me well with the endeavour. So you see…"

"That means that any of us may try for her, kisses or no kisses," Medhurst said. "I wonder if she would kiss me, if I asked. She might, for she is an amiable little creature, and as cosy an armful as any man could wish for. I should very much like to put it to the test."

"And so should I, indeed I should!" Fielding said. "I must say, it is too bad of you fellows to barge your way in like this when you know perfectly well I liked her the moment I set eyes on her."

"But why would she want a clergyman when she could have a viscount?" Brockscombe said loftily.

"Or be part of a ducal family," Medhurst put in.

"Stop it, stop it, stop it!" Bertram cried. "Stop squabbling over her, and talking about taking a shot at her, as if she were a pheasant or… or a rabbit. To hear you, no one would imagine you were talking about a lady you hope to elevate above all others and share your life with. It is quite horrid, and I am ashamed of all of you. I wish I had never brought her here now."

They all turned and stared at him, surprise written on their faces, as if they had forgotten his existence.

"Atherton? Are you quite well?" Fielding said. "I have never heard you raise your voice before."

"No, I am not well. I am heartily sick of you treating my good friend as a mere object, to be sold to the highest bidder. She is the sweetest, most agreeable girl in the world and she deserves more respect from you — all of you. I do not want to hear another word from any of you about her. Fielding, have a look and see if my man is outside, will you? I am going to bed."

***

Bea had no idea what to make of it all. One kiss that made her melt inside and one that did not. Even without the hairpin, Lord Brockscombe had displeased her. She needed to kiss Lord Thomas before she could make a final judgement, but for several days there was no opportunity. A spell of fine weather encouraged the duchess to organise outings for the ladies each day which returned only in time to dress for dinner, and the arrival of musicians brought dancing every evening, which was enjoyable but did nothing to advance her purpose. So she gave up any hope of secretive walks in the garden and abandoned herself to the pleasures of the dance.

She decided that the marquess, surprisingly, was the best dancer. Mr Fielding seemed hazy about where his feet should be, Lord Brockscombe was energetic but inaccurate, and Lord Thomas was perpetually half a beat behind everyone else, an anxious expression on his face.

Bertram she already knew to be a skilled dancer, but for some reason he seemed disinclined to offer his hand to her. Perhaps it was because he already saw a great deal of her, for he had begun to help her learn Latin. He had arrived at the schoolroom one morning before breakfast with a paper in his hand, having compiled for her a list of simple phrases to learn. It amused her to greet his friends at breakfast with, "Salvete! Valetisne?" and hear them respond in chorus, "Salve! Valemus! Et tu?".

At first all she could say was that yes, she was well, too, but they were happy to join in the game, and give her the words for plate or ham or salt, so that she could ask them to pass her this or that. Her father raised his eyebrows, but said nothing, occasionally joining in the game, too. But it was Bertram who sat with her for hour after hour, reading passages for her to repeat or to translate, and helping her perfect her accent.

So she was not surprised if, in the evenings, he avoided her company, confining his attentions to the other young ladies who clustered around him. His new-found popularity was soon explained — word of Lord Rennington's difficulties had spread, and as Bertram was now the heir to an earldom, he rapidly became a person of the greatest interest to the unmarried young ladies. Her stepmother fretted over this new rivalry for Bertram's hand, as she saw it, and urged Bea to secure him as soon as she could.

"He is halfway there, to be sure," she said to Bea, "but you do not want someone to steal him from under your nose. Nasty, grasping harpies, these girls, throwing their caps at him in the most unbecoming way."

Bea could not blame them for that. After all, was it not what she herself was doing? It was also what her stepmother had done. Someone like Winnie Strong might be content to wait until a chance meeting brought a suitor into view, but Bea was all for reaching out to grab a husband whenever an opportunity offered. Not for her a life spent meekly sitting in the drawing room waiting to be chosen. She would do the choosing, thank you very much.

Although if she were to be totally honest, she was not having much success at present. She knew perfectly well how to pursue a man she wanted, and wear down his resistance until he surrendered to her greater will. It had worked with Walter, and perhaps, if she had persevered, it would have worked with Bertram too, and although he was not nearly so handsome as Walter, there was a sweet, gentle air about him that she rather liked. And there was that astonishing kiss, which she would like very much to repeat, possibly on a daily basis, even if it reduced her to a quivering wreck every time.

Now, though, she had agreed to let him go in exchange for this month at Landerby Manor — a month, that was all! Four weeks to select the man who would best suit her and bring him to heel, and she was floundering. Bertram was out of bounds, and Lord Brockscombe was out of favour, but there was still Lord Thomas.

It was the dancing which finally gave her the opportunity for her next kiss. The Great Hall had been given over to the enterprise, the furniture moved aside, and the ancient stone floor providing a secure base for their feet. All the windows had been thrown open in a manner which would horrify Bertram's mother, and the door to the courtyard stood wide open. At the fourth or fifth dance, Lord Thomas approached her and she stood up willingly enough, although the heat was oppressive.

"Oh. Another reel," she said with a sigh, as soon as the musicians struck the first notes. "Her grace does so love a reel."

"Should you prefer to sit out this dance, Miss Franklyn? Or we might take a turn about the courtyard, if your Mama permits?"

The courtyard! That had possibilities…

Mama did permit, but even then, Bea was not optimistic of a private moment. The courtyard was well lit, and a few small groups stood or strolled about, enjoying the fresh air. Lord Thomas gave her his arm, and they perambulated slowly around. Eventually they arrived at the colonnade at the far end, which she guessed now had been his objective all along, for he led her directly into the deep shadows, where they could not be observed.

She was not minded to protest. It was what she wanted, after all, to kiss him and thereby compare him against the rather dull kiss of Lord Brockscombe. Yet somehow, she was affronted. Had he talked to the viscount, learnt of the kiss and now decided she was easy prey? Had he simply seen her disappear with him, and presumed? Did he—?

He grabbed her, there was no other way to describe it. Taking her by the shoulders, he pushed her against the solid stone of one of the pillars and clamped his mouth onto hers. She may have made a squeak of protest, but she supposed, since she had gone willingly into the shadows with him, he felt entitled to a kiss. Still, it was a distinctly unpleasant experience.

Fortunately, it did not last long. He soon broke away, gasping for breath but laughing, too. "What a darling you are, Miss Franklyn. That was delicious — thank you!"

Delicious? Her eyebrows rose. "Shall we return to the Great Hall?" she said coldly.

Still laughing in the most irritating manner, he offered her his arm, but she ignored him, stalking away, head high, still seething. Irritating man! How could she possibly marry a man who simply took what he wanted without even asking if she minded? That would never do! She did not expect her husband to fawn over her in a supine manner, but she demanded a certain amount of respect.

But it was all very awkward. Of Bertram's three candidates, one was disappointing and the other took liberties, while the marquess, she felt, might be a dear, but seemed entirely uninterested in marrying at all. Besides, she dared not aspire to such a rank. Bertram himself was adamant that he did not want to marry, and she had promised she would not pursue him.

What on earth was she to do?

Still, there was one other who might do. Lord Grayling continued to be attentive. He was a lord, which was the main thing, but he was also handsome and amusing company. What would a kiss from him be like?

She was smiling again as she entered the Great Hall.