14
Iris was a naturally curious person. Which she supposed was true of most of the human species. They were nothing if not inquisitive.
But if she became curious about something, truly curious, she could think of little else.
Like a moment earlier, when she had looked up at Mr. Beckett’s lips and wondered what they would feel like against her own.
Would they be firm and unyielding? Soft and giving?
She had rather thought the former, seeing as they were normally pressed into a thin line when he was looking at her. And yet?.? .? .
And yet, in that moment, parted ever so slightly in surprise, they had appeared very much the latter. Needing the answers to her questions more than air just then, she had done the only thing she could think to do: She had risen on her toes and pressed her mouth to his.
To her delight it had been just as soft as she had hoped. More than that, however, had been the heat that had accompanied it, starting at their joined lips and traveling through her entire body, like creeping tendrils of ivy, taking over every inch of her until there was nothing else.
She had thought that would be the end of it. It had been an experiment, plain and simple, and she wanted nothing more than to retreat to her room at Rose House and go over in her mind exactly how that kiss had affected her and what it all meant.
Mr. Beckett seemed to have other plans. When he pulled her back into his arms she did not even think to protest. In his arms was right where she wished to return.
When he covered her mouth with his own, however, she quickly came to the realization that her small, simple kiss had been a mere shadow compared to this.
He opened his mouth over hers, fairly consuming her, his tongue and teeth coming into play.
She gasped, head spinning, only for him to slide his tongue between her parted lips.
Had she ever been kissed like this in her life?
Not even close. Timothy’s kisses, what few she had received from him, had been dry and bland and painful at times, almost as if he were punishing her for being who she was.
And though, after watching the deep physical affection that Sylvia and Laney shared, she knew there was so much more to kisses, she had never expected to experience it for herself.
She was not the type of person, after all, to inspire such passion.
Yet Mr. Beckett was kissing her as if his very life depended on it.
One hand bunched in her dress at the small of her back, pressing her closer to him.
The other hand cradled her cheek, long fingers hooking around the nape of her neck.
Then he tilted his head, tongue gliding against her own, and Iris felt as if she were melting.
Eyes fluttering shut, she wound her arms about his waist, sagging against him.
He paused at her surrender, and for the barest second Iris thought she had perhaps done something wrong.
But the bit of uncertainty was quickly gone.
He groaned, the desperate sound of it vibrating into her mouth, down deep into her chest, becoming an almost painful need in her.
He pulled her even closer, hard muscles pressing into her breasts and belly.
She gripped him tighter, as she had ached to do from nearly the moment she’d seen him, opening her mouth under the onslaught of his tongue, and was rewarded with another rumbling growl.
This time it traveled well beyond her chest, down through her belly, to the juncture of her thighs.
She shivered, and the one small sane portion of her mind capable of thought wondered how it was possible to shiver when you felt consumed by flames.
In the next moment, before she could even countenance what was happening, he tore his mouth free and released her.
She stumbled back, unmoored, feeling like a small boat in a rough sea, made all the worse for the darkness of the newly descended night.
He reached out to steady her, large hand on her arm, but then just as quickly pulled it back as if scorched.
“What—?”
“My apologies,” he said, voice rough. The half-moon was bright tonight, with nary a cloud in the sky to cover its glow, and she could see every line of his face. The only way she could describe his expression was tortured .
He swallowed hard, looking somewhere by her left ear. “Rose House is just past that tree line there. I’ll wait here until you’re safely inside.”
She frowned. Was he truly just going to leave it like that? And after such a kiss? “Mr. Beckett—”
“It won’t take you long to get there,” he interrupted. “And you shall be quite safe.”
“But Mr. Beckett—”
“Mrs. Rumford.” He sighed, closing his eyes as if pained. “Please just forget it ever happened. It was badly done of me.”
She swallowed hard, looking over his harsh features. “But I don’t wish to forget it happened,” she whispered.
His eyes flew open, and for the first time since he broke the kiss he looked at her. She nearly gasped at the intensity in his gaze, the moonlight making the gray irises glow with a cold, silver fire that nonetheless scorched her. “Why?” he fairly begged. “Why don’t you wish to forget it?”
In the next moment he blanched, as if he had not meant to ask it. But she was too busy answering to care. “Because it was beautiful.”
A sound that was something like a strangled laugh burst from his mouth. He gaped at her. “You must not be in your right mind,” he muttered.
Which sparked annoyance in Iris’s chest. He was not the first person to question her sanity when she voiced an opinion; no doubt he would not be the last.
But it was especially painful coming from him, considering how kind he had been on their walk here, and how passionately he had defended her at just the thought of someone calling her odd.
“I assure you,” she replied tightly, “I am very much in my right mind. It is not a strange thing, to think such a kiss is beautiful. Though perhaps, as my reference for something of that sort is lacking, I am mistaken.”
Again that strangled sound. His eyes were wide as he stared at her, his jaw dropping nearly to his chest. “Lack of reference?.? .? .” he choked out.
She shrugged. “My husband did not exactly like me.” She frowned. “Though you don’t particularly like me either. I do have to wonder how his kisses, the few I received from him in our short marriage, were so different from the single kiss I received from you.”
“Oh God.”
But she hardly heard him for all she was attempting to understand why there was such a huge disparity in kisses from two men who did not care for her in the slightest. “Perhaps it is your own experience,” she continued, more to herself.
She crossed her arms, tapping a finger against her lips.
Which, naturally, directed her thoughts to what he had been doing to said lips mere minutes before.
Her cheeks heated and she went from tapping her lip to waving ineffectually at her face in an effort to cool it.
“You must have had more experience than my husband did,” she continued, “for your skills are more impressive than his ever were.”
“Holy hell.”
She looked at him then. “Timothy was never particularly popular with women. He was quite frail, with average features. But you are handsome and robust. Have you had much experience?”
His eyes nearly bugged out of his head. “Are you truly asking me to tell you about my experience with women?”
Which was the thing that finally told her she had gone too far. Again. The warm blush from remembering his kiss quickly turned to a raging flush of embarrassment.
“But I have kept you long enough,” she babbled, backing away, holding her bag in front of her like some shield.
Though it was more to shield herself from running her mouth any further and making an utter cake of herself.
“Please don’t concern yourself with my return home; I assure you, I shall be fine. ”
With that she spun and raced the rest of the way to Rose House without a backward glance.
But physically leaving Mr. Beckett back on the road and leaving her memories of that kiss along with him were two different things entirely.
Especially when she could fairly feel his gaze scorching her back as she hurried down the drive, up the steps, through the door.
Only when it was firmly closed behind her and she was certain he could no longer see her did she dare to breathe.
Leaning back against the closed door, she pressed a hand to her chest and gulped great quantities of air into her lungs. Goodness. Goodness goodness goodness.
Which, naturally, was when Euphemia found her.
“Hello, Iris,” she said cheerfully as she came into the front hall. “Are you just getting back then?” She stilled, smile freezing as she took Iris in. “What has happened?”
To which Iris could think of nothing else but admitting the truth. “I kissed Mr. Beckett,” she blurted.
But that didn’t sound quite right, did it? Not after what they had done together. No, it felt too formal, too distant. From now on, he could only be Oliver. She tested it out on her tongue, whispering, “Oliver.” Then, louder, “Oliver,” nodding decisively at how right it felt.
All the while, as she worked out the issue of his name, Euphemia gaped at her. Finally she asked, voice hoarse with disbelief, “You kissed Lord Durand’s guard?”
“I did.” Iris pursed her lips in thought. “Though truthfully the kiss I gave him was nothing compared to the one he gave me.”
Euphemia made a strangled sound in her throat. Taking a deep breath, she placed a hand on Iris’s arm, though Iris had a feeling it was more for Euphemia than herself.