Chapter 14
H etty Tolliver had no notion of what she was doing to him.
Theo moved his mouth over hers, but his mind was a battlefield of desire and restraint, each warring for supremacy.
She was warm and breathless in his arms, soft and curious and utterly unaware of the effect she wrought.
She had never kissed a man before him – of that he was certain – never been held thus, nor been touched with anything approaching lust. She was innocent, and yet she responded with such instinctive abandon that it very nearly drove him to madness and threatened to undo every last shred of honour he possessed.
Yes, a gentleman, properly schooled and in possession of restraint, would certainly have stepped away – but in that moment, Theo had no desire to be a gentleman.
He wanted to drag her down onto the cold stone of the terrace and strip her out of that prim little gown, modest as it was, and discover what lay beneath.
He longed to press his mouth to the tender hollow of her throat, trace the path of her blush and ascertain whether it coloured her elsewhere.
He desired, with all the dark hunger of a man too long denied, to sink into her until she knew nothing of decorum, of duty, of her own name, and remembered only his.
But of course, it was not merely desire that stirred within him – no, he had long since ceased to pretend it was only that. At some uncertain and unremarked moment, he had begun to want more of Hetty Tolliver – far more.
As he kissed her, Theo came to admit to himself what he had been denying for weeks, and if he was truly honest with himself, perhaps for years: that he wished to wake up beside Hetty Tolliver each morning with her hair in charming disarray, frowning and altogether unwilling to start the day until properly fortified by three cups of tea.
He wished to sit across from her at breakfast and engage in spirited quarrel over toast and the correct application of marmalade.
He wanted to watch her roll her eyes at the absurdities of Society, then set about correcting the morning paper with the ruthless precision of a red pencil.
He wanted her laughter in his parlour, her cleverness at his side, her irreverent tongue and singular mind in every room he entered, for every day for the rest of his life.
He was not sure when he had come to this conclusion, but he did know that the past weeks had been the most absurdly entertaining, exasperating, wholly exhilarating days of his entire existence, and the thought of returning to his former life with its mundane conversation, insipid women and soul-numbing routine, without Hetty Tolliver in it, was far too bleak to contemplate.
She was no longer merely the Hetty of his boyhood memories, but a woman grown – clever, incorrigibly sharp-witted, and altogether far too good for the likes of him – and yet he wanted her with a desperation that defied sense or self-preservation.
Indeed, marriage to her no longer seemed the worst fate imaginable.
They were, of course, engaged in a kiss that was entirely devoid of sentiment.
Such was the understanding – clearly stated, mutually agreed upon.
It was a practical undertaking, she assured him, nothing more – a means of becoming properly acquainted before entering into a lifetime of mutual toleration.
A kiss between betrothed parties could scarcely be considered scandalous; it was practically educational – and if he found himself possessed by a wholly inappropriate urge to carry her off into the nearest secluded chamber and propose something far less reputable than marriage – well, that was no one’s concern but his own.
It was, naturally, at that precise and ill-fated moment that a witness descended upon them once more. At this juncture, the author must confess a growing impatience with the predictability of such interruptions and resolve to exercise a touch more creativity before the next, inevitable arrival.
“For God’s sake, Winslow!”
A pair of hands seized Theo by both shoulders and wrenched him back, slamming him unceremoniously to the ground. Before he could so much as orient himself, a fist struck his abdomen with enough force to drive the very breath from his lungs. Theo gasped, wheezing, “Good evening, Benedict.”
Another blow landed squarely in his side.
Behind him, Hetty was shouting sharp, furious syllables carried aloft on the night air.
He managed to catch phrases such as “absolute mule” and “stop behaving like a barrel-headed buffoon,” though they appeared to have no pacifying effect whatsoever on her brother, who seemed possessed by a singular, crimson-hazed determination to render Theo absolutely senseless.
In time – once the swelling around his eye had abated and he could breathe without cursing – Theo would come to view the entire affair with a sort of rueful amusement.
The image of himself, sprawled upon the flagstones in a state of undress and disgrace, being methodically pummelled by an irate Benedict Tolliver (who was quite obviously three brandies deep and spoiling for blood), while Hetty, her gown in a shocking state of disarray, attempted to deter her brother by repeatedly kicking him in the shins and shrieking, “You complete and utter ass!” – well, it would be a tale worth recounting… eventually.
At present, however, Ben did not so much as flinch.
He merely grunted and swung once more. Theo, by some miracle of instinct, rolled sideways and narrowly avoided the worst of it, though the manoeuvre brought him crashing into the rose bushes with enough force to jar every bruised bone in his body.
He landed hard, clenched his teeth against the wave of nausea that followed.
“For heaven’s sake, Tolliver,” Theo gasped, “do at least afford me the courtesy of defending myself.”
“You defended yourself straight into my sister’s corset!” Ben bellowed, raising his fist once more.
“I never touched her corset,” Theo groaned. “Though, should you insist upon particulars, I am now acquainted with the fastening – now kindly cease hitting me! ”
Another blow landed – less precise this time, more a flailing arc of righteous sibling rage – sending Theo’s shoulder hard against the unforgiving edge of a stone planter.
“I shall kill you,” Benedict snarled.
“Cease this at once!” Hetty shrieked from behind, grasping her brother’s coat with both hands. “You are behaving like a lunatic!”
“I am defending your honour!”
“My honour does not require the splintering of anyone’s spleen!”
With a rough jerk of his elbow, Ben pushed her aside – not with violence, but enough to cause her to stumble. That, it seemed, was the final straw. With a sound that could only be described as a war-cry, Hetty hurled herself at her brother.
“You absolute turnip-brained ox!” she shrieked, landing a sharp blow to the space between his shoulder blades.
Ben lurched forwards, clearly startled. From the ground, Theo – bruised, breathless, and now slightly awed – blinked up at her. “Good God. That was a capital hit.”
He did not linger to admire it. Ben was already regaining his footing, turning with his fists still raised, and Theo, guided more by survival than valour, scrambled upright and staggered behind the nearest rose bush, clutching his ribs with one hand.
“Right,” he gasped. “Up. Upright. Marvellous.”
Ben was turning back towards him with renewed fury, but Hetty had planted herself firmly in his path, both palms braced against her brother’s chest. “If you strike him again, so help me, Ben Tolliver, I shall make it my life’s work to ensure you never bed another woman as long as you draw breath.
I shall inform every debutante, opera dancer and barmaid in London that you wet the bed until the age of ten. ”
“That is a damnable lie!”
“It is entirely true,” she snapped. “And unless you wish to see it embroidered on a sampler and hung above the fireplace at White’s, I strongly suggest you take three very large steps backwards.”
Theo, still leaning heavily against the rose bush, coughed. “For what it’s worth, I should very much like to see that sampler.”
Ben rounded on him. “Shut your infernal mouth.”
Theo held up a hand. “Would it assist matters” he said hoarsely, “if I formally requested the duel now? It might save you the tedium of bludgeoning me to death before sunrise.”
“Dawn,” Benedict growled, jabbing a finger into Theo’s chest. “Hampstead Heath. Pistols.”
“Pistols?” Theo grimaced, more from the jab than the challenge. “How utterly barbaric.”
“It is the only honourable course.”
“Is it? Whatever became of exchanging barbed remarks and mutually pretending the other had perished abroad?”
“Silence!” Ben snapped. “Horatio shall be my second.”
“Oh, Lord,” Theo groaned. “Naturally. Of course he shall.”
From somewhere behind the laurels came Cousin Horatio’s eager voice: “Ought I wear my duelling cravat? The one with the embroidered pistols?”
“I wished to be your second!” cried Lottie, bursting forth from the foliage in high dudgeon, entirely without gloves. “I volunteered first! ”
“You struck me,” Horatio replied with wounded dignity. “In the face.”
“I was demonstrating my commitment to the cause.”
“Ben will not need a second! I refuse to revisit this argument,” Hetty declared, balling her hands at her sides. “No one is going to duel. No one is going to die. Because no one – no one! – is so colossally witless as to shoot a man over a kiss upon the terrace!”
“I must beg to differ,” Benedict said icily. “I mean to shoot him. He took liberties with you.”
“I took a liberty,” Theo corrected, still winded. “Singular. And if memory serves, she was not wholly opposed to it.”
Benedict surged forwards again with his fists clenched and eyes wild. He might very well have launched himself bodily across the terrace had Cousin Horatio not seized him by the waistcoat with both hands and Lottie not thrown herself at his arm with startling tenacity.
“For heaven’s sake, Ben!” Hetty snapped. “Must you comport yourself like an enraged footman who has dropped a tray?”
“He ought to count himself fortunate I do not run him through here and now,” Ben growled, still struggling against Horatio and Lottie. “Kissing my sister in the shrubbery like some licentious Corinthian!”
“I say,” Theo muttered, attempting to straighten despite the fire burning in his ribs, “am I not, at the very least, permitted to name my second before I am shuffled off this mortal coil?”
“Oh, do choose me!” Lottie cried, relinquishing her grip on her brother’s arm. “I shall be splendid. ”
Benedict turned his head, aghast. “My own sister shall not stand beside the enemy!”
“You selected Horatio already,” she countered.
Horatio, still firmly affixed to Benedict’s waistcoat, gave a prim nod. “I am quite punctual and possess a velvet satchel designed specifically for the transport of duelling pistols.”
“Of course you do,” Theo sighed with a grimace. “Well, I suppose my cousin Mortimer would suffice. He gave a lecture only last week on the precise pacing of duels – something to do with velocity and Roman foot standards.”
“I do not want that fool anywhere near loaded firearms,” Ben snapped.
“You desire my death, do you not?” Theo said, raising an eyebrow that was thoroughly swelling already. “There is no one more likely to accomplish it by accident than Mortimer.”
“Choose someone else,” Benedict barked.
Theo cast his eyes heavenwards for a moment of divine inspiration, then said with weary triumph, “The Honourable Mr Jasper Deverell, naturally.”
“Your scoundrel of a friend with the boots?” Ben growled.
“The very same,” Theo replied. “Dashing, unflappable and precisely the sort of man one wishes at one’s side when being shot at by an incensed elder brother. He is in London. Someone must send word – he will require time to select the appropriate waistcoat.”
“You cannot possibly mean to go through with this,” Hetty said sharply, rounding on them both .
Theo glanced over at her, and for the first time that evening, her expression gave him pause. She looked pale – tight-lipped, dark-eyed and standing very, very still. She was not angry now, or scandalised, but afraid, and somehow that was infinitely worse.
“Benedict Bernard James Tolliver,” Hetty said in a tone that might have frozen fire, having turned back to her brother, “if you persist in this idiocy, I swear I shall never speak to you again.”
“Then I suggest you savour this final exchange, sister.”
“Very well,” she said frostily. “Go ahead. Get yourselves arrested. Or worse.”
Behind her, Lottie was practically vibrating with excitement. “I am absolutely coming.”
“You are absolutely not!” Hetty snapped. “You shall not go within a mile of Hampstead Heath. I shall tie you to the bannisters if I must.”
“You could not tie a bonnet ribbon properly if your life depended on it,” Lottie retorted.
From his place on the flagstones, Theo watched the familiar chaos with weary resignation.
It was, he supposed, a fitting accompaniment to his imminent demise – no gentleman ought to be shot without a Tolliver shrieking in the background.
“Well,” he muttered, closing his eyes and letting his head tip back against the cool stone, “someone be sure to wake me at dawn. I should hate to be late to my own execution. And do, for decency’s sake, ensure someone brings brandy. ”