Chapter 8 - Dahlia #2
He slid one hand up to gently grasp her waist, and then oh-so-slowly tugged her down to sit on one of his thighs. Dahlia blinked, shocked stupid by the contact and the riot of emotions that erupted within her.
Ever so gently, he trailed his fingers along the outside of her bare arm, over her shoulder, and up to her neck.
She stared at him, wide-eyed. His breathing was different now, too, and she felt a small thrill of victory that she was not the only one affected.
Perhaps she wielded the same strange power over him that he held over her in this moment.
"Are you sure?" This time his voice was a low grumble that sent her heart rate spiking.
"Yes," she whispered.
It was all the confirmation he needed. He bent his head and put his lips to hers.
Interesting.
It was a stupid thing to think in the midst of one's first kiss, but Dahlia hoped that she could be forgiven for it. His lips were warm and soft, and she found the sensation not unpleasant. She wondered how long precisely one had to press one's lips to another before the kiss actually counted.
There was a warmth in her stomach that hadn't been there before, but otherwise she was quite underwhelmed with the sensation of it. It was distinctly personal, to be sure, and there was a certain thrill attached to it, but she suspected that was due to the forbidden nature of the action, more than her actual enjoyment of it. Dahlia didn’t understand how this simple gesture had been the downfall of so many young ladies before her.
Something swiped at her lips.
Dear heavens, was that his tongue? She gasped, and he took advantage of the moment of surprise.
Then Dahlia understood completely.
In the end, it was he who was forced to pull away. She wondered if she wore as stupefied an expression as he did. He must have seen something on her face, for he shook his head and groaned with what sounded like regret, and set her firmly back upon her own two feet.
"That's enough," he growled. "Run back to your chaperone, wherever they may be. And don't go looking for trouble in dark corners again, girl. It might find you."
She wrenched her wrist out of his gentle hold, her eyes flashing. She wasn't a girl; she was a young lady.
He smirked as if he'd heard her unspoken petulance. "Get back inside before someone sees us together. Neither of us want that."
Dahlia whirled and nearly stomped away. She hadn't come out to the gardens to trap anyone. She'd…she'd simply wanted to feel.
Instead, she'd found a gentleman, dressed in impeccable black, who'd kissed her thoroughly then rejected her. Dahlia flushed with embarrassment that he could set her aside so easily. But that, she supposed, was the nature of a rake.
She turned and fled into the greenery, back toward the ballroom.
Present day-
Dahlia waited until the heavy front door closed stoutly behind Lord Cavendish before she exhaled in a great rush. She’d naively thought she’d gotten away with the kiss in the gardens all those years ago. Scandalous though it was, it had been her one impropriety.
Now he’d returned, and so had her comeuppance.
“Is it true?” Rachel murmured.
Dahlia sighed. “You must stop listening at doorways.”
Rachel slumped on the sofa next to her sister, Reginald bobbing. “It was either going to be me or that parlor maid. I was shooing her away and watching out for the others when I heard some of what was said.”
Dahlia wracked her brain, trying to remember precisely what details they’d discussed—not many, to her remembering, but enough to be damaging nonetheless.
“What exactly did happen in the Marquess of Whittaker’s gardens four years ago?”
For a moment, Dahlia considered lying to her sister. What had happened hadn’t been her finest moment, and despite the fortitude she’d shown to the man in question, she was embarrassed at how she’d acted those years ago.
“Lord Cavendish and I kissed.”
“What?” She reared back. “And you’re just telling me now? Why, this is wonderful!”
Dahlia frowned over the edge of her teacup. “I don’t wish to marry him.”
Rachel wrinkled her nose and gave a little noise of derision. She flapped her hand. “Oh, who cares for that? No—it’s only, you can tell me about it. Kissing, I mean. It’s perhaps one of the most common experiences that no one’s thought to record in a book.”
“Because such things are too scandalous to write about, of course.”
“If you’re hoping to dissuade me from asking for a description, describing it as such will have the opposite effect.”
“It’s very difficult to describe, actually. I assume you know the simple mechanics of it?”
Rachel held up one palm, then the other. “Lips. Lips. Then—” She clapped her hands decisively.
“In a rudimentary sense, that’s correct, but…” Dahlia trailed off. For a moment, she’d thought she might be able to put words to it. She thought that she might manage to describe it in a clinical, scientific way with no emotions.
And yet, anything past the simple mechanics was riddled with pesky words like felt, and feel and feeling. There was no getting around them.
“It isn’t the mechanism that’s interesting,” she finally said, her cheeks hot. “But rather the effect the action produces.”
“Which is what?”
“I don't know how to describe it, actually.”
“Ugh. Not you, too.” Rachel flopped back against the cushions; the intrepid Reginald held onto her shoulder for dear afterlife. “I thought you’d be more forthcoming than Adelaide and Josephine.”
“I’m trying to be. It’s just…it’s a very personal thing, you see.”
“It can’t be that personal if you were doing it in the gardens of a ball. Anyone might have seen you.”
“It was a mistake.” Dahlia shook her head. “It was years ago. I was much younger then.”
“Not that I don’t admire your choice,” Rachel continued as if she hadn’t heard her. “Lord Cavendish is very handsome.”
“Handsome has nothing to do with whether it was a good choice. It wasn’t. I’m lucky that all that’s ever come of it is a little light blackmailing.”
“Yes, that. What a ridiculous ruse to get more time with you.”
“The thing of it is, I don’t believe it is a ruse.”
Dahlia had a keen sense for such things—a sense that had been honed by years of avoiding men’s small manipulations.
Lord Cavendish seemed genuinely desperate about his sisters’ plight.
Dahlia didn’t think he’d have showed up on her doorstep if he hadn’t seen her sketch of Claire.
It made her wonder how many ladies he’d kissed in his time away from England, made her think that she must have had it right at the get-go—the man was a rake.
“Do not comply with his little scheme on my account,” Rachel said. “No one I know would ever treat me poorly because of one little kiss that happened years ago.”
“It’s the people you don’t know who tend to be the problem.”
Besides, Dahlia wanted to argue, it wasn’t one little kiss. It was… cataclysmic.
Or at least it had been, at the time. Even now when she thought of it—far more often than she’d ever admit—a little thrill trilled down her spine.
She wished she could say that she was fully ashamed of her actions, but in truth, there was part of her that was proud of that foolhardy girl who’d gone looking for rakes in the garden.
Grateful for her. At least Dahlia’d had that, even if she never experienced anything else where a man was concerned.
“So you mean to go through with it? You’re going to let him bully you?”
“I do mean to go through with it, but I certainly won’t allow the bullying to continue.”