Damn his needy soul.
What are you doing?
Anne ignored the strident protest.
“Your lips are cold.” The inane statement whispered between them and even with his fingers upon her wrist, she kept touching…
Exploring…
What was she doing? “Wondering how you might kiss.”
The supple, chilled lips beneath her fingers trembled. Firmed. Then parted to chide, “Maryann, you cannot say such a thing.”
Her stomach swooped and circled.
Did its own little illicit waltz as she caught a whiff of the man. The strength, despite his recent injuries.
Beneath the cold, the weariness of the day, the sadness and joy, the fear—delivering three babes while comforting panicked child, wailing toddler and distraught mother had roused such a cacophony of emotions…
Anne wasn’t used to feeling so very raw—ever.
Anne, the responsible, dutiful, afraid to dream, or hope for more than pleasing her parents daughter, for once, allowed herself to be a little reckless. “I cannot say such a thing? No matter that it is the truth? Then mayhap I shall only do such a thing.”
All right, a lot reckless.
Needing to banish the sorrowful memories of the day, the anxious thoughts of the future, she stood on her toes and replaced her questing fingers with her lips.
And you claim yourself a dutiful daughter?
Could one’s conscience hiss in outrage?
Aye, Anne! It fully can! Would you abandon your virtue on a whim?
Nay, not fully, but she would surrender to a kiss. For had not sensible Anne agreed to everything asked of her in recent years?
Her father’s words of years back rose to taunt and tease…
“Forgive me, dear heart, but this letter reminds me—from an old friend, it is. We betrothed you and his eldest upon your birth. You do not mind, do you? Never have you expressed an interest in an expensive London season.” Only because her dearest friend started going blind as the two of them reached their early teens and the thought of experiencing all that without dear Issybee made the adventure fall flatter than one of Cook’s flap-apples.
“Oh, Annie, dear!”—Father again, two years later—waving another letter. “Seems your Robert isn’t overly inclined to marry quite yet. You don’t mind putting back the vows, do you, love? The longer we wait, the more time before your full dowry comes due.” A slightly embarrassed chuckle accompanied the last and she readily agreed.
Mayhap it had been to her detriment, but nay, in truth she had not minded. For to her way of thinking, Robert lacked enticements to a woman of eighteen.
But then two years turned to four and then four into eight until—a year ago, at twenty-four, why, she was more than ready to marry and start her own nursery. Be lady of her own home, despite whatever hesitations she had about the groom.
She might rub along just fine with her parents, but the older she became, the more her own thoughts and ideas—and hopes and aspirations—had to be stifled.
Because, after all, she was their daughter, dependent upon them until she became dependent upon a mate.
What a merry thrill indeed, Harriet might rhapsodize, waxing on about Anne’s upcoming phantom nuptials. Her younger sister always one to exaggerate and exclaim.
But then they’d received word of Robert’s demise.
And after a suitable, if mild, period of sadness and grief, rather than feeling elated that now she could find her own beau…
Or even devastated—that her long-time betrothed (whom she’d never harbored any affinity toward) was no more, Anne only felt… Well…
Rather apart from the whole thing. Neither sad nor relieved, only frustrated with herself for not taking a more active role in her own future before now.