Chapter 19 #3
“Surely you don’t require a practical explanation of this,” she whispered.
She interpreted the second gasp as a sign of agreement, and was about to incite a third when Vern shook his head and rose just out of her reach.
“Let’s – let’s not start there,” he managed to say. “Won’t you tell me what I can do for you? Oh, how about this?”
With a final kiss to her hand, Vern rolled himself off the bed, landed spryly on the floor, and lingered there, gazing up at her expectantly.
“Why— Are you kneeling?” She didn’t need to ask. It was evident that he was, in fact, kneeling, but Florrie suddenly feared she might faint if she allowed herself to acknowledge the implications of such a position. “However did you know—”
“I told you! They were exceedingly descriptive ballads!” Vern leaned forward on one knee, assessing her with alluring intensity.
“Let me see if I can’t figure this out. Won’t you come a little closer, please?
Yes, that’s much better. Goodness, this petticoat of yours is seamed expertly.
I wonder what sort of needle they used?”
“Just wait until you get to the underskirt,” Florrie muttered.
“Oh! Look at that embroidery! They ought to have woven in the ends of the blue thread on that rose, though. Remind me later and I’ll take care of it for you.”
“Are you more interested in the manufacturing of my clothing, or me?”
Vern emerged from under her skirts, with his hair delightfully ruffled.
“If I don’t distract myself somehow, Florrie,” he said, his voice unbelievably even, “I will lose all restraint far more quickly than I’d like. I’d much prefer to take my time. Won’t you please be patient for me?”
She nodded, tapping her bare hands on her skirt.
While Vern proceeded to thoroughly analyse the construction of every garment he removed, Florrie swayed unsteadily on the bed, dizzy with anticipation.
Beneath her dress, she was down to nothing but her stockings.
Some gentle, experimental brushes of his fingers against her thighs suggested that he was nearly through with those, too.
Suddenly, Florrie felt acutely confounded by the unbelievable circumstances in which she found herself.
She was inside a miraculous house in an enchanted painting that already felt like a perfectly ordinary part of her life, in the best of ways.
And also present – between her very legs, as a matter of fact – was charming, sweet Vern, who professed to love her and was now proving a remarkably quick study at expressing those feelings in a physical manner.
Was this truly the same day on which she’d awakened with the dread of attending the ball?
All at once, a new dread overwhelmed her as she remembered precisely why she’d found herself with Vern in the first place.
“Wait,” she murmured. “Vern, just a moment…”
He looked up, halting an enthusiastic stream of compliments about the quality of thread used in her stockings. “Is this too much?” There was no teasing tone to his voice now, and Florrie missed it already.
“I never told you what I meant to say earlier,” she said in a rush. “Ceru spoke with me about you and the painting and—”
“Already?” Vern dropped the stockings and rested his arms on the side of the bed. “And? What did he say?”
“I don’t imagine you’ll be happy to hear it.”
“I won’t?”
Florrie breathed deeply. She needed to sort herself out, and quickly. How detestable she was for becoming distracted with such serious matters at hand! Vern deserved to hear Ceru’s verdict, and he shouldn’t hear it from a woman wearing nothing but a gown.
She was about to begin the arduous quest of fetching her various garments from the floor when she felt Vern gently tugging at the hem of her skirt again.
“Has Ceru’s news affected how you feel now?” he whispered. “Whether you’d like to…? Because if you don’t want to continue, I can stop, Florrie. I can restore all those lovely underthings of yours and we can sit on the bed and—”
“Oh, but it hasn’t!” She didn’t expect that simple statement to sound so desperate – like an exhortation or a prayer – but Florrie needed him to know. “Please don’t stop,” she continued. “Don’t you dare.”
There it was – the smile that bewitched her when she first saw The Resolute Portrait.
Or was it? What she’d seen in the painting had been a single expression of kindness and joy, fixed permanently to the canvas.
Now Vern’s face was dynamic and spirited, and even she could guess some of the emotions it contained.
Fondness. Care. Not the least bit of longing.
In reply, he continued rolling her skirt upwards, neatly and slowly, without leaving a single crease.
“In that case,” he said, cheerfully, “shall we postpone our discussion until tomorrow?”
“Are you certain?”
“Florrie,” Vern insisted, his voice pleasantly stern again as he pulled her hips toward him, “tell me tomorrow.”
Without any further instruction, he began improvising a convincing unspoken argument for delaying their conversation that Florrie had truly no desire to refute.