“I’ll go,” Cecilia said.
“Only if you insist,” her aunt murmured.
“Most kind of you,” the Queen added.
Cecilia frowned, suspecting foul play, but Miss Darlington and Queen Victoria merely smiled in unison and sipped sherry.
23
great balls of fire—italian kissing—explosions (sensual)—a shocking sight—cecilia is not unwell—departures—allergies—a bechdel test conversation—alas, back to men again
False requests to locate lost property are highly injurious to the progress of science, and Cecilia was determined to take a scientific approach to her association with Ned Lightbourne. She knew perfectly well he had not left anything in the cockpit, and she intended to chastise him as soon as they were beyond earshot of Miss Darlington, Queen Victoria, the royal bodyguard standing alert in the foyer, the ladies-in-waiting leaning tiredly against the balustrade, and the downstairs ghosts.
But the moment he opened a random door along the upstairs hallway and pulled her through it, science went the way of the dinosaurs. Which is to say, obliterated by sudden overwhelming fire. All that remained were a few birds fluttering madly in her stomach. Ned shut the door, pushed her back against it, and was kissing her before she could utter a single word of stern advice.
Cecilia knew she ought to resist, but every good sense in her hadmelted into a pool of heat. She put her arms around him, grasped his coat, and as his tongue stroked into her mouth she heard bells.
Church bells.
She gasped and shoved him away.
He blinked at her dazedly. “What’s wrong?”
Her own eyes were dazed too, in addition to her limbs, heart, brain. “The bells are ringing and I cannot marry you regardless of what convention may demand following our wanton behavior, for although I may be inclined to follow that course upon the merest further persuasion, I am also bound to the loving service of my dear aunt, who needs me for her comfort and—”
“Cecilia.” He laid a finger against her lips. “It’s only the clock chiming.”
She looked over his shoulder at the clock on the wall, its pendulum knocking methodically against the hour. “Oh my God,” she blasphemed, and pushed Ned even farther away. He stumbled slightly, and his brow lined with bewilderment.
“What is the matter?”
“This room,” she breathed.
He glanced about at the brown wallpaper, the bed plumped high with quilts, the dressing table and washbasin. “It’s a bedroom,” he said.
“It’s Aunt Darlington’s bedroom,” Cecilia elucidated. “You kissed me in Aunt Darlington’s bedroom.” A shudder went through her whole body.
Ned smiled wickedly. “And I’m going to do it again.”
“No.” She tried to back up but the door behind her was unrelenting in its material properties.Damn science, she thought. At least the Brontës would have had the door swing open or a madwoman burn the house down.
“No?” he asked, stepping toward her.
“Absolutely not,” she declared. The heated look he was giving her did not bode well for calm, reasonable discourse.
“All right,” he conceded, stepping back again, and she grabbed his coat lapels, pulled him to her, and kissed him until he tipped forward, pressing his hands against the door. Then, ducking beneath his arm, she slipped away, leaving him staring with frustration at the decal of a cherub Miss Darlington had pasted to the door. With luck, his internal calm was now restored and they could have a measured conversation.
Her own internal calm had disappeared somewhere she could not find it, but that was of no account—she was a woman, and therefore stronger willed.
Although perhaps not stronger boned. It felt like the only thing keeping her upright was that aforementioned will. My goodness, and Aunt Darlington had kissedtwomen?
(Cecilia was disinclined to think of Aunt Darlington doing anything more thankissingmen, despite the evidence otherwise. Even that was disturbing enough. It was akin to recollecting where milk came from. Cecilia glanced at the bed, and her internal calm leaped onto a boat and sailed for the West Indies.)
“Cecilia—” Ned began, his hand in his hair, his voice heavy.
“No.” She shook her head, trying to convince herself. “No. If I married you, Aunt Darlington would dwell in a constant state of terror that I’d contract lunacy or some other marital disease.”
“She could come and live with us. Or I could live here.”
