23. In Which a Lady Is Seen – The British Museum, London #2
"I love that you're terrible at dancing but do it anyway," I continued, my voice softer now. "That you make terrible jokes when you're nervous. That you asked me to teach you about social calls even though it meant admitting you're not good at something."
"Charlotte." My name on his lips was almost a plea. "If you keep talking like this, I'm going to?—"
"What?" I looked up at him through my lashes. "What are you going to do?"
"Something incredibly inappropriate for a public museum."
"We're alone. No one's been in this gallery for twenty minutes."
"That's not the same as privacy."
"I know." I moved closer still, until there was barely any space between us. "But I'm tired of being appropriate. Tired of waiting. Tired of pretending I don't want?—"
He kissed me.
Finally, desperately, like a man who'd been holding back for far too long and couldn't anymore.
I made a sound—surprise or relief or both—and his arms came around me properly, pulling me against him. One hand tangled in my hair, the other spreading across my lower back, and I forgot how to breathe.
This wasn't like the stolen kisses we'd shared before. This was something else. Something deeper. His mouth moved over mine with an urgency that made my knees weak, and I clutched at his coat to keep from falling.
"Charlotte," he breathed against my lips. "God, Charlotte?—"
"Don't stop," I managed. "Please don't stop."
He kissed me again, harder this time, backing me against the wall between two alcoves. The cool marble pressed against my back, such a contrast to the heat of Edward's body against my front.
His hands were shaking. I could feel them trembling as they framed my face, as they slid down my neck, as they traced the line of my collarbone through the fabric of my dress.
"We should stop," he said, even as his mouth moved to my jaw. My throat. He found a sensitive spot just below my ear that made me gasp. "Anyone could walk in. We should?—"
"I don't care." My hands were in his hair now, holding him to me. "Edward, I don't care who sees. I love you. I want you. I?—"
He groaned and kissed me again, deeper this time, his tongue tracing the seam of my lips until I opened for him. The kiss turned molten, desperate, and I felt myself melting against him.
This. This was what I'd been waiting for. Not just the physical sensation—though that was extraordinary—but the feeling of being completely seen and completely wanted at the same time.
Edward's hands moved lower, to my waist, my hips, pulling me tighter against him. I could feel the hard length of him through our clothes, and the knowledge that I affected him this way sent a bolt of heat straight through me.
"Charlotte." He pulled back slightly, his breath ragged. "We have to stop. If we don't stop now, I won't be able to."
"Then don't."
"Charlotte—"
"I know where we are. I know it's improper.
I know anyone could walk in." I looked up at him, saw my own desire reflected in his eyes.
"But Edward, I've spent seventeen years being proper.
Being the good daughter. Managing everything.
And right now—right now I just want to be with you.
To feel this. To not think about consequences for five minutes. "
He stared at me. His chest heaving. His hands still on my hips like he couldn't quite make himself let go.
"Five minutes," he said finally. "Five minutes and then we find somewhere more private. Somewhere I can kiss you properly without worrying about being discovered."
"Where?"
He glanced around the gallery. Spotted a smaller alcove at the far end, partially hidden by a display case. "There. It's not perfect, but it's better than this."
He took my hand and led me across the gallery. The alcove was small, barely large enough for two people, but it was tucked away from the main walkway. Someone would have to be specifically looking for us to find us here.
The moment we were in the alcove, Edward pulled me against him again. Kissed me with renewed urgency, his hands sliding up my back, into my hair, tilting my head to deepen the kiss.
I pressed against him, feeling the hard planes of his body, the strength in his arms, the way he held me like I was something precious and desired in equal measure.
"Tell me to stop," he breathed against my mouth. "Tell me this is too much and I'll stop."
"Don't you dare stop."
His hand slid lower, cupping my hip, my thigh through the fabric of my dress. Not quite improper, but close enough to make my breath catch.
"I want to touch you," he said, his voice rough. "Properly. Without all these layers. I want?—"
"I know." I did know. I could feel it in the tension of his body, the restraint in every movement. "I want that too. But not here. Not?—"
"Not in a museum where anyone could find us." He rested his forehead against mine, both of us breathing hard. "You're right. This is—we need to stop."
"I don't want to stop."
"Neither do I. But Charlotte—" He pulled back slightly, framed my face with his hands. "I'm not going to ruin you in the British Museum. When we do this—when we're together properly—it's going to be because you're my wife. Not because we couldn't wait."
"We could marry tomorrow."
He laughed, the sound half desperate. "Don't tempt me. Your father would have my head."
"Papa will come around."
"Will he? Because right now, he's asked me to prove this is real. And somehow I don't think compromising you in a public museum is the kind of proof he had in mind."
I knew he was right. Knew we needed to stop. But standing here, pressed against Edward in this hidden alcove, feeling desired and seen and loved—I didn't want to be sensible.
"One more kiss," I said. "Then we'll be proper."
"One more kiss," he agreed.
This kiss was different. Slower. Gentler. Like a promise instead of a plea.
When we finally pulled apart, we were both flushed and dishevelled and breathing hard.
"Your hair's a mess," Edward said, reaching up to try to fix the pins I hadn't realised had come loose.
"Your cravat is crooked."
"I don't care about my cravat."
"You will when we leave, and everyone can see."
He laughed and straightened his cravat while I tried to repair my hair. It was a lost cause—we both looked thoroughly kissed—but we did our best.
"We should see the rest of the museum," Edward said. "Before someone comes looking for us."
"The pottery," I remembered. "You said you wanted to show me the pottery."
He took my hand and led me out of the alcove, back into the main gallery. We walked quickly, trying to look innocent, trying to ignore the fact that anyone with eyes could probably tell what we'd been doing.
The pottery gallery was blessedly empty. Edward showed me the vases he'd mentioned—scenes of daily life painted in black and red.
"Why did you think I'd like these?" I asked, trying to focus on the artifacts instead of the lingering heat in my blood.
"Because they're real. Not gods or battles or grand mythology. Just—people. Living their lives. Being human." He paused. "That's what you love, isn't it? The real things. The honest moments. The parts of life that don't pretend to be more than they are."
He was right. I did love these better.
And I loved him for knowing that about me.
"You see me," I said for the third time that day.
"Always," Edward promised. "For the rest of our lives. I will always see you."
We stayed at the Museum for another hour. Looking at pottery, sculpture, and fragments of an ancient world.
But what I would remember later wasn't the artifacts.
It was this: Edward had brought me here because I'd mentioned wanting to see it. Had written me a letter listing all the things he loved about me. Had kissed me in a hidden alcove like he couldn't help himself.
Had seen me. Really, truly seen me.
Not like Charlotte, who needed rescuing. But Charlotte, who loved ancient Greece, collected shells and had opinions about everything.
Just—Charlotte.
And that felt like the most romantic thing anyone had ever done for me.
We left as the afternoon light was fading. The carriage was waiting, but Edward hesitated before handing me in.
"Thank you," he said. "For today. For the letter, what you said. For—" He stopped, his eyes darkening. "For kissing me like that. Even though we probably shouldn't have."
"I'm not sorry we did."
"Neither am I. But Charlotte—" His expression turned serious. "We need to be more careful. If anyone had seen us?—"
"I know. But I'm tired of being careful all the time."
"I know you are. But your reputation?—"
"My reputation is already questionable. I'm in love with my step-uncle. Everyone knows it. One more scandal won't make much difference."
"It will to your father. And to your mother." Edward helped me into the carriage. "We do this properly. We prove it's real. We get their blessing. And then—" His voice roughened. "Then I can kiss you whenever I want without worrying about ruining you."
"Promise?"
"I promise." He climbed in beside me, maintaining a proper distance despite the fact that we were alone. "But until then, we're careful. Agreed?"
"Agreed."
The carriage pulled away. I settled back against the seat, my body still humming from Edward's kisses, my mind still processing everything that had happened.
I pulled out my notebook. Turned to a fresh page.
Wrote:
Step Three: Complete. Edward told me who I am. What he loves. All the parts that have nothing to do with rescue.
(And then he kissed me like I was the answer to every question he'd ever asked.)
Step Four: Tomorrow. Choose him. Publicly. Make it clear this is my decision.
And beneath that:
We're building something real. Something that will last.
And I'm not afraid anymore.