Chapter Fifteen




He was waiting for her at the carriage block. She knew he would be, although his horse had been out of sight for most of the ride home. Had she not known, and if she had not been looking to see him there, she might not have noticed him at all. Though lights were shining dimly in the front windows of the house, the lawn and the walkway were dark, the carriage block barely illuminated by the gas lamps on the street. William was a blurred shape against the shadowy landscape of the lawn, his gray suit slightly lighter but almost indistinguishable from the velvety darkness around him. Almost indistinguishable, except that he was moving. And that she was looking for him.

She leaned a little forward in her seat, peering out the glass to watch him. He must have ridden hell bent for leather, because he had obviously been home for a while. A groom had already stabled his horse, and James, the footman, had brought him a coat. The heavy dark broadcloth was for everyday, and it was not as handsome as the one he had loaned Buffy. However, it was warm and comfortable, and she saw him hunch his shoulders gratefully into the folds, turning his back to the cold wind.

He and James seemed to be talking companionably, but presently, as the carriage rolled up the drive, William whirled on James and made some hasty, irritated gesture to him. By the time the horses had pulled even with the block, both James and the lantern were gone, and William was standing in the shadows alone. He pulled open the door for her and made a little bow.

“Miss Elizabeth.”

His voice had that familiar tremulous quality to it, although he seemed to be struggling to sound dignified or distant. The attempt at formality was probably for Matthew’s benefit, because the coachman was still sitting on the box and listening to them with unprofessional interest. However, Buffy understood what he really meant, and she smiled.

“William.” She daintily accepted his proffered hand and stepped down from the coach. He started to draw away once she alighted, but she linked her index finger through his and did not let him. Nor did he insist upon it.

His eyes followed the carriage as it moved away from them, around the side of the house to the coach-house at the back. Then, they dropped, focusing on the tenuous grip she had on his hand. Even in the darkness, she could see how his Adam’s apple quivered with the outrush of a trembling breath.

“Miss Elizabeth…” he began.

“Just Elizabeth,” she cut in softly. “We don’t have to bother with the ‘Miss’ anymore, do we?”

He made a strange sound, almost like a laugh but not quite. “No…I suppose we don’t.”

She moved a little nearer to him, tilted her head up so that she could see his face in the moonlight. “William, about your poem—”

“Forgive me,” he interrupted. Buffy’s jaw dropped.

“Huh?”

“I—I know I am rather lacking as a poet. I know my verses are clumsy. I hope you do not take their artistic merit as a reflection of the depth of my feelings for you. If it were…then I should be writing sonnets worthy of Shakespeare himself.”

This speech he delivered breathlessly, with his head turned a little to one side so as not to look directly at her. Even so, Buffy could see the deep red stain in his cheeks, the anxiousness of his blue eyes. An almost alien sensation of tenderness washed over her. Impulsively, she leaned across the space still separating them and grazed her lips across the sharp plane of his cheekbone.

“William, I thought your poem was beautiful.”

His eyes drifted dreamily closed. “Did you truly?”

“Truly,” she whispered. Then, more playfully, “It was much better than Shakespeare. I never liked him, anyway. Couldn’t understand a word. But you…I understood everything you wrote." She smiled, then. "Well, almost everything. I have to admit I got a little lost on the word effulgent.” She paused, and when it became clear that he would not volunteer the information, asked, “What does effulgent mean?”

His lips twitched as if in an effort not to smile, but he didn’t open his eyes. “It means…shining…luminous. Brilliant.”

She tilted her head to one side, thinking about it.

“So…my beauty is luminous?”

“Exquisitely so.”

She hooked her chin over his shoulder and tilted her head to the side, so she could glance up at his face. His eyes were open now, watching closely for her reaction to the compliment. And she might have said something flowery in return, but that wasn’t her way. As usual, she blurted out the foremost thing on her mind. Incidentally, it was also the least romantic thing on her mind.

“That Cecily cow…she wasn’t effulgent. Was she?”

He laughed, seemingly pleased by the question.

“Not in the least,” he assured her.

“Only me?”

“Only you,” he promised. And it seemed to Buffy that those two words were heavy with another meaning, as well. He looked as if, with a little coaxing, he might be willing to say more. However, Buffy didn’t trouble herself to coax. She had the soft hitch in his breath, the tremble of his bottom lip. She had the gentle clutching of his index finger around her own. She didn’t need to coax, didn’t need to hear him say it again. Not that night. She knew.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~




Their fingers were still entwined, when they entered the house some ten minutes later. It was quiet and empty inside. And very dark. The gaslights and the fires were out, the servants who usually attended to them long in their beds. Only James had stayed awake to greet the two partygoers, and William had sent James away with the distinct understanding that he was to stay away. Anne had planned to wait up for them, so she could hear about the ball. But evidently, this had been too tiring for her. It was well after midnight, and the door to her room was shut tight, no light spilling from underneath it.

They crept down those dark corridors together, and it was so utterly silent that it seemed to Buffy they must be the only two creatures left on earth. Or, at least, the only two creatures on earth that really mattered. And there was such a feeling of oneness with him. The feeling that she knew exactly what was going on inside his head, exactly what he wanted. It was a feeling she had never shared with anyone else: not with Angel, who had so often been a baffling mystery to her. Certainly not with Riley, whose secret thoughts she had never even bothered to try to uncover.

When they reached the top of the stairs and William began to withdraw to his own rooms, she reached out a hand to stop him.

“Don’t go.”

He looked so torn, a lifetime of training struggling against his own latent desires. He took a step forward, and for a moment, Buffy watched in fascination as his hand crept toward her as if to touch her lips or her cheek. She held her breath and waited, but at the last second, he jerked back. He flushed guiltily and looked away.

“I—it—it is so late—” he began.

“I know it is. Are you tired?”

“No, I’m not tired.” His voice was a raspy whisper.

“Then stay with me.”

She sidled nearer to him, intrigued to find that although he seemed to have placed a taboo on touching her, he seemed to have no such reserves on her touching him. At any rate, he did not object to her approach, and when she rested her head against his shoulder, he sighed, as if that one small gesture had opened the door to paradise.

Still, there was the issue of respectability to consider.

“Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to remain with you, my love. However—however we must consider the consequences to your reputation—”

“I thought we didn’t care about reputations anymore.”

Buffy nestled her face into the side of his neck. Although his skin was hot, he was still shivering from that cold horseback ride home. She reached around his shoulders, clasping her hands together at his back in an attempt to warm him. He tensed in her embrace, yet Buffy knew that he was not averse to it. She held him loosely and waited.

“And if I were to stay with you,” he whispered hoarsely, “what would we do with ourselves at so late an hour?”

The guileless way he asked made her smile. However, she did not make use of that obvious double entendre, because she knew it would embarrass him. Moreover, she understood that he was innocent and that he thought she was. And she liked that about him. He never even questioned her virtue.

“You could play the piano for me,” she said, instead.

For a moment, he was so silent that she thought he hadn’t heard her. She listened to the sound of his breathing, felt the ragged rise and fall of his chest against her own. She wondered if she should ask again. Then, she felt it—the soft, soft tickling of his nose brushing the top of her head, taking in the scent of her hair. The whispered heat of his breath against her skin as he said:

“And what would I play?”

She pulled back from him a little, just enough so that she could look up into his face. His eyes were hungry--almost pleading--and his mouth slack. She could feel the rhythmic thumping of his heart against her breast.

“You could play whatever you want,” she answered. His nearness...the look in his eyes...made her feel giddy and strange. As if she could not breathe. She gripped handfuls of his coat and swallowed hard, her voice shaking just a little as she whispered, “It isn’t the music that matters to me…it’s the musician.”

He inclined his head just slightly, and his mouth was so close…so close that she could feel his breath pass over her lips as he murmured, “Oh, my sweetheart—my sweet—”

His mouth slanted across hers, and there was no awkwardness in the trembling, brief kiss that followed. There was no shyness, either. Nothing, except softness and heat, and the dizzy, breathless sensation it left her with. He tasted salty, like tears and something else. Something delicious that belonged only to him. And she wanted to bear down on him, run her tongue over him until his teeth parted and he let her inside. Let her unleash him from that terrible restraint he had placed on himself. She might have done it, but for a soft, shrill call that issued from down the hallway.

“William!” It was Anne’s voice.

The sound of it startled them both. William pulled away from her so quickly that he almost tripped over his own feet and fell against the wall. It might have been funny under different circumstances. As it was, Buffy had to bite her lip and remind herself that profane words were definitely among the Victorian unmentionables. And this was really too bad, because her frustration was reaching a level that only a few muttered curses could give vent to.

William turned his head in the direction of the call. “Mother,” he whispered. At first to himself, then to her: “My—my mother—”

He sounded dazed, almost as annoyed as she felt. That pleased her. Yet even despite this, he would not ignore his duty. She knew she would have been disappointed in him if he had.

“It’s all right,” she said. A little bit reluctantly because, after all, she would have liked to finish that kiss. Nevertheless, when he hesitated, she squeezed his arm and murmured, “Go on. It’s all right. Go check on her.”

He started away. Paused. Glanced back at her over his shoulder.

“Good night, Elizabeth.”

She smiled. “Good night, William.”

He hesitated, obviously not entirely certain that he was doing the right thing. “Tomorrow…” he began.

His voice trailed away, but Buffy nodded anyway. “Tomorrow,” she told him.

He nodded and then turned away, continuing on his way down the hall. And Buffy stared at his retreating back, leaning against the wall to steady herself as she considered the implications of what had just been said.

“Tomorrow,” she whispered, and she smiled to herself.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~




The library clock was just chiming one o'clock--an hour long past his mother's customary bedtime--when William left Buffy in that shadowy corridor. It was for this reason that a tiny flutter of fear passed over him when he heard her call. Most likely, she was simply eager to hear an account of the evening’s festivities. But suppose—

He tapped once on the heavy wooden door and then pushed it open without waiting for a reply.

The room was warm, dimly lit by a fire whose coals were just beginning to burn out. His mother’s shape was very small in the huge curtained bedstead, her thin body barely making a rise in the bedcovers. Yet she turned quickly enough at the sound of his footsteps. When she leaned up on her elbow, he could see that her eyes were animated and not at all sleepy. Not ill, then.

“Sweetheart.” She held her hand out, and he took it gently. “I heard your step in the hall. Was it a nice night?”

“Rather,” he said briefly. Dreamily. She seemed puzzled by this, and as a way to deflect more questions, he added, “You were right, Mother. Miss Summers did need a bit of recreation in London society. She needed to experience—”

He paused.

“Well?” Anne prompted after a moment’s silence. “Did she enjoy herself?”

“Yes, she did. Very much.” And he shifted guiltily, knowing that his answer, while truthful enough, did not tell the whole story. He knew, as well, that the squirming pleasantness in his vitals at the memory Elizabeth’s touch was most wrong. Ungentlemanly. She was an innocent young girl. So young and unaccustomed to the rules of London’s polite society. She did not know it was improper to touch him, and it was wrong of him to take advantage of it.

Yet—

He gave himself a shake. It was not something one should think about, particularly when one’s mother was trying to ask him a question. He bit the inside of his cheek firmly and directed his attention, once again, to Anne.

“Pardon me?”

“I was only asking if they took to her at the ball. Did she get on well?”

“Certainly,” he lied stoutly. “Did you think she would not?”

“I had my concerns, I will admit,” Anne replied good-naturedly. “You must concede, dear, that for all her charms and talents, Miss Summers is a rather odd sort of girl. Americans always are. I feared that perhaps London would not understand her as we do. It is gratifying to know that they did.”

“Of course they did. Everyone was mad for her. Why, she was the talk of the evening.”

Anne beamed. “Is that right?”

He remembered those lewd comments he had overheard about her—it was not only Charles Archer or Cecily that made such remarks—and a quick, hot anger flared in his chest, because London didn’t understand her. Yet the flash of temper was gone almost as quickly as it arrived, extinguished by the memory of what happened later. The soft way she spoke to him to soothe his embarrassment and his hurt. The caress of her lips against his neck. It was shameful even to think about such things, of course. That kiss he had given her was most improper. Actually, almost indecent. After all, they were not intended. He should not think of it. Yet how could he think of anything else? How could he recollect such a moment without feeling pleasure…as well as a certain masculine pride?

He smiled to himself.

“Indeed, it is right,” he told his mother. “She was the talk of the evening. They—they couldn’t take their eyes off of her.”

His mother looked at him curiously. Pleased, but with a certain air of sadness as well. The expression of loss and gain intermingled. “And what of yourself?” she asked gently.

“I could not take my eyes off her either,” he replied. This was, of course, not what she was asking. He realized it a second too late and hastily stood up to cover his embarrassment. “It—it is getting quite late. I fear for your health if you don’t rest; we can talk about this on the morrow.”

He started to retreat, but his mother placed a hand on his arm to stop him. Her eyes were kind, but he dreaded the question that would inevitably come next.

“Have you feelings for Miss Summers, William?” she asked.

He glanced into the fire, his face working nervously. “I—I—feel quite warmly toward her, yes. Surely, that cannot come as a surprise?”

“No, not as such.” She paused. “And does she return your affections?”

“She—she has granted me the very great honor of allowing me to pay court to her, but I would not presume to say...That is...perhaps, with time—” He paused.

He didn’t know why was being so evasive about the subject. Surely, he should be proud that Miss Summers returned his affections. He was proud. However, the memory of her touch was still strong upon him, and he felt feverish and strange. Unable to talk about something that meant so much to him. Everything, in point of fact.

“I am hopeful,” he said finally, realizing even as he said it, that this was an understatement of mammoth proportions. As if to emphasize the point, he added, even more softly, “I have hope.”

~*~ ~*~ ~*~




The following morning, there was a rose lying on the floor outside Buffy’s door--a rich red flower no doubt taken from the hothouse to the rear of the property. The petals curved inward, not yet blossomed, and the stem had no thorns. A small piece of folded stationary lay underneath it, her name inscribed on the front in a familiar hand. Buffy picked up the note and opened it.

Inside, there was a single sentence:

Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~