Not allowing himself to reconsider, he leaned forward, his lips brushing hers. Marian’s hands rested against his chest, trapped between them as his eyes slid closed. It felt as though the very world around him sighed at the touch as a thousand daydreams culminating in that simple kiss.
But when Marian remained rigid in his arms, his eyes opened to find her staring at him, her own eyes wide in shock. Her fingers rose to touch her lips.
“I—” Marian blinked at him, her brows fixed so high up on her forehead that they might never come down. “I—”
George couldn’t breathe. Wasn’t certain if he ever would again as she stared at him. Then she pulled away, her hand reaching backward for the door handle as she slid the greatcoat off her shoulders and shoved it at him.
“I must go to bed,” she whispered, stumbling through the door and shutting it in his face.
Letting the coat fall to the ground, George sank to the stairs and groaned, covering his face with his hands.
*
Back pressed against the door, Marian stared at the dark hallway. Hallucinations were a byproduct of exhaustion, weren’t they? She was certain she had read that somewhere, though she had never experienced it herself. Surely she wasn’t so worn out that her mind was playing tricks on her, but what other explanation was there for that kiss?
She touched her lips once more, certain they would burst into flame. During the first months of their marriage, Rachel and her brother had not been discreet in their affection, and Marian had seen quite a few passionate embraces. This kiss had been nothing like that, yet she felt his faint buss to her very core. It slid through her with a strength and power that made it difficult to remain on her feet.
It couldn’t have happened. She had dreamt of just such a kiss for so long that her exhausted mind had conjured it up. A waking dream. That was all.
Though she had been nearly asleep on her feet mere moments before, her body now thrummed with energy, and she scurried up the stairs. Slipping through the hallway, Marian locked herself into her bedchamber and hurried to the window. She looked out over the front walk and found Mr. Finch standing there, his shoulders slumped and head hanging low.
Holding back the curtains, Marian watched as he trudged down to the lane. Turning back to the house, Mr. Finch looked up at her, and she flinched, pulling the curtains in front of her—though even in the dark, he must have seen the movement. She inched the curtains open a crack and watched him as he stared up at her window.
That was real. Mr. Finch had kissed her. Marian’s eyelids fluttered as she considered the situation. Ought a lady to call a man by his given name in such a moment? They had kissed, after all. Shaking her head, she tried to gather her frenetic thoughts, but they bounced about, slipping through her fingers.
Mr. Finch had kissed her. Of that she was certain. She could still smell the scent from his greatcoat lingering on her skin.
George had kissed her.
No matter how many times she repeated that sentence, she couldn’t believe it. Though she had been party to it, she couldn’t believe it any more than she could his halfhearted proposal.
What did it mean?
No doubt Rachel would laugh at that question, for it would seem quite clear to her, but Rachel did not know George. His voice echoed in her ears, whispering words from the far past. Ones she had repeated so many times that they were undiluted by the years.
“You are my dearest friend, but I have always thought of you as a sister, not a woman… Of course you are a woman. Just not a woman, woman. The sort I would court and marry and…” George’s rejection had been as much about her as it had been about Juliette Hutton.
Then Papa’s voice entered the fray, whispering,“Widowers are far less interested in the whole courting dance, and you might come to an understanding with him.”
A proposal and a kiss. Marian hadn’t thought to receive either of those from Mr. Finch, yet they had happened. Yet not once had the man spoken of love.
Her thoughts replayed all the many wonderful things he’d said throughout the weeks, but even as her heart argued with her, she had to admit George was free with compliments. He’d said such things before, all while he’d been enamored with another—all while Marian was “not a woman, woman.”
She stared at the man, though she couldn’t see anything of his features, shrouded as they were in shadow. But George's posture was so dejected that she couldn’t help but wonder if he truly was disappointed. Was it due to her kiss? Or her reaction to his?
Her breaths quickened, and she struggled to keep her hands from shaking as she considered a possibility. It wriggled past her protections, burrowing into her heart as she watched him. What if George were in earnest? What if it were true? What if he kissed her not out of obligation or wanting to rescue her from her father’s edict, but because he desired it?
Desired her?
Marian’s heart groaned as long-dead parts shuddered to life. What if George’s feelings had changed? The thought quickened her pulse in a manner that was both thrilling and terrifying. She bit her lip, worrying that bit of flesh as she tried to sort things out, but both emotions increased in equal measure until she wasn’t certain if she was more terrified to marry a man of her father’s choosing or George: the latter had far more power to destroy her heart.
Peeking out from around the fabric, she watched as George pressed a kiss to his fingers and raised it in farewell. Dropping the curtain, Marian collapsed onto her bed and stared at the shadows. Sleep was not going to come tonight.
Chapter 33
“Stop fidgeting.” Mother’s tone was more humorous than censorious, and George forced himself not to tug at his jacket sleeves. Straightening, he slanted a look at her, though she was already occupied with another guest, greeting the newcomer with a smile and a few words of welcome. George cast a glance at his sister beside him, and Evelyn gave him a rueful grin and patted him on the arm before curtsying to the next guest.
Receiving lines were torturous. Few enjoyed the pomp and circumstance of it all, and there were always those guests who couldn’t bear to give their host and hostess a simple greeting and move on their way. They remained before the pair far longer than necessary, determined to have a proper conversation, which slowed down the line. When that inevitably happened, George always found himself standing before a lady or gentleman who was not a friend and had nothing to say beyond vague pleasantries; so, they stood there, staring at each other whilst hoping the ones slowing the line got a move on. Surely someone with far too much self-importance and too little care for the wellbeing of others had decided receiving lines were a necessity.
