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"...You see, she'll be a pupil, and teaching would be impossible unless pupils were sacred. I've taught scores of American millionairesses how to speak English: the best-looking women in the world. I'm seasoned. They might as well be blocks of wood…"
LIZA. That’s not what I want; and don’t you think it. I’ve always had chaps enough wanting me that way. Freddy Hill writes to me twice and three times a day, sheets and sheets.
HIGGINS [disagreeably surprised] Damn his impudence! [He recoils and finds himself sitting on his heels].
Marylebone
1938
The boy was there again, damn him, and damn the brightening in Eliza Doolittle's already lively eyes when Mrs. Pearce announced his presence.
"Respectable young ladies don't grin, Eliza," Henry Higgins scolded, dropping her hand and essentially ending their sad little waltz. How she could hop around like a little German on their third cup of coffee for an energetic polka or a reel, but not muster the elegance and control needed for a waltz, was beyond him. He chalked it up to youthful impatience and waved an irritated hand at Mrs. Pearce.
"Send him away!"
Eliza released a soft sigh, which sent a renewed prickle of annoyance behind Henry's eyes. He took off his spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose. Would they have picked any other day to have tea with his mother… It just had to be the day she was entertaining the insipid Eulalie Eynsford-Hill and her chinless children, of all the stupid luck. Now, Henry couldn't rid himself of the boy if he tried.
"If the boy is worth having, he will wait until you've finished your studies," said Pickering. Henry turned to see the man patting Eliza's hand sympathetically. She shrugged.
"It is quite alright, Colonel Pickering. What is a chap's attention to what we are trying to achieve here?"
Henry felt pride blossom warm in his chest at her words. He clapped her on the shoulder like he would any chum.
"That's the spirit, Eliza! Come on, now, let us find your footing. If you conquer the waltz by teatime, we shall all go to the Criterion for dinner, how about that?"
This was precisely the motivation. She was gliding like a swan by tea time, and spent an inordinate amount of time getting dressed by the evening, only to float down the stairs in a cap-sleeved gown of jade chiffon, an orange lily tucked behind one ear.
"Her shoes match the lily, oh, how clever!" Pickering enthused, holding out his white-gloved hands to her. She grinned and took his proffered hands, allowing herself to be praised and spun about.
"Oh come now, vanity," Henry scolded, rather toothlessly. He glanced at himself in the looking-glass and frowned, pushing an errant lock of hair back into the waving sweep of his forelock. God, was his hair thinning already?
The car was brought around, and the three piled into the backseat, with Pickering sitting across from Henry and Eliza. It had only just dawned on Henry that they were sitting so close together that their knees touched before he felt himself being roughly shoved to one side.
"Mind the dress," Eliza warned, her eyes flashing dangerously.
"Sorry," he murmured, blushingly. He could still feel the warmth of her. It was obnoxiously pleasant. He occupied his mind with an exercise in subjectivity—the top five ugliest prime ministers. He supposed Lord North was up there somewhere.
The journey was mercifully short, and Henry found himself lamenting aloud that they could have simply walked, so sweetly humid was the night air after the earlier rainfall.
"Not in these heels," Eliza stated. "Satin on damp streets?"
She sounded downright imperious. He could see her now, standing regally atop the grand staircase at the Transylvanian Embassy, his crowning achievement—diamonds glittering like stars at her neck and ears as she gazed humorlessly at her subjects below. They were so close to achieving this, the obstacles, once towering, were toppling like little toy blocks. She would be an immense success; he would be world-renowned. Perhaps he would take her to the continent on a lecture tour. She was so clever with organizing his planner.
They were seated in the Marble Hall, allowing Henry to explain the history of the room, which had once been the Long Bar ("Which, as you know, Eliza, featured heavily in those Sherlock Holmes mysteries you are so fond of"). Eliza seemed dazzled by the Venetian glass and the gold-ground mosaic—all of which Henry thought was rather overdone, but she thought it all charming indeed, even if she wasn't paying attention to his little lecture.
"Could we dance in the Italian garden?" Eliza asked, breathlessly.
"Oh, I don't see why not," was his magnanimous reply. He turned to Pickering to find the man staring incredulously at some spot in the distance.
"What's the matter, old man?"
"The boy is here, and he's brought friends."
Henry glared over his shoulder to see a pack of youths being shown to a large round table, the lot of them pink-cheeked and grinning with drinks in hand. Freddy seemed unsteady on his feet, relying on a broad-shouldered chap for balance. His suit was a bit shabbier than his chums', Henry noticed, the cut a decade or so out of vogue; his father's, no doubt.
"Why, they're all drunk," Eliza remarked disdainfully.
"A stag night, I believe," explained Pickering. "The lad with all the dark, curly hair is the son of one of my old school chums, and he is set to be married next week."
"Condolences," Henry stated, a little too loudly, for Freddy turned his head in their direction. He gave Eliza an enthusiastic wave before another young man pushed him rather forcefully into his seat. The young man made a shushing gesture at Freddy, who was now beaming stupidly at Eliza.
"Dancing another night, Eliza," Henry decided aloud. "It wouldn't do for that boy to embarrass you."
"Too late," she sniffed, turning her chair so her back faced the rowdy table.
Dinner went along swimmingly, if Henry did say so himself. It counted as another lesson of sorts, as Eliza was taught how to eat oysters the correct and lady-like way, as well as how to choose wine based on her meal. She did not care for the oysters or the wine, but she was delighted by the ice cream and managed to take a cheeky scoop of Henry's pudding. They were about to leave when the curly-haired, almost-groom shouted Pickering's name. He looked up from his task, which was gallantly helping Eliza into her coat. The boy hurried over to their table and bowed.
"Colonel, pardon the intrusion, but my friend Freddy is perishing from love and is too shy to ask your permission to take your comely ward out for a drive this evening."
Henry furrowed his brow. "This evening? The boy can hardly see straight."
Pickering nodded gravely. "Mr. Eynsford-Hill is welcome to call on Miss Doolittle during the daytime hours, Mr. Arnold, but an audience tonight would be quite out of the question. I certainly cannot permit her to go out driving with the poor devil, not in his condition."
Mr. Arnold shrugged and turned to Eliza with beseeching eyes.
"He says he's never allowed to visit your home, that you're always studying or some silly thing—will you see him?"
Henry's glare deepened when Eliza looked over Mr. Arnold's shoulder and waggled her gloved fingers at Freddy, smiling sympathetically. "Tell him I am flattered by his attention, but Colonel Pickering is quite right. Tonight is out of the question; I am simply too fatigued, and I do have quite a bit of studying to do this evening, still."
"When can you see him then?"
"When it is appropriate!" Snapped Henry, stepping forward to offer his arm to Eliza. Curt farewells were exchanged, and the three went on their merry way.
It ought to have been the end of the madness that evening, truly, and for the most part, it was. They went home, changed into their at-home clothes, and settled in the study for title drills.
"How do you address an archbishop?"
"Your Grace," Eliza replied, yawning. She was curled up on the sofa, her knees drawn to her chest, and her head propped up by two throw pillows. Her eyes had a glazed look, which was no surprise, really. Pickering had retired an hour earlier, beseeching Henry to 'be reasonable' with Eliza. She'd been mixing up titles steadily into the night, and Henry suspected it had everything to do with that boy.
"Finally, we are getting somewhere," he sighed. He sat on the floor in front of the sofa and leaned back with a heavy sigh.
"To Bedfordshire… with any luck," Eliza murmured. He turned in time to see her close her eyes, her eyelashes thick and curling upward. She was, he had to admit, rather sweet-looking in repose. Unburdened. It was almost a shame to remind her that the work was unfinished.
Perhaps a few minutes' rest wouldn't hurt. He removed the woolly afghan blanket from the back of the sofa and threw it over her. The light in the fire was dying, and there was a slight chill in the study. It would not do for her to catch a cold so close to the Embassy Ball. He retrieved a book on Chinese dialects from the shelf and returned to his post in front of the sofa.
"Your… holiness…" he heard Eliza mumble. He smiled, shook his head, and chuckled softly.
"The pope won't be at the ball, Eliza. Rest now."
Something soft and cool caressed the back of his neck. He turned again to see Eliza's outstretched hand, her fingers resting lightly on his neck as she snored softly. He leaped to his feet and went to his desk. A booming knocking noise from beyond the study caused him to misjudge his chair and land flat on his arse. He cursed sharply and stormed out of the room toward the foyer. He threw open the front door, hoping he appeared as thunderous as he felt.
Freddy stood on the landing, flanked by two of the youths from earlier, one of whom was Mr. Arnold. All three lads had the same unfocused and unapologetic grin.
"It is two in the morning," Henry announced by way of greeting. "What on earth could you be needing at such an inhumane hour?"
"Steady, old man," slurred Mr. Arnold. "Freddy here has a letter for Eliza." He reached into Freddy's breast pocket and produced said letter.
"That is Miss Doolittle to you," Henry scolded, snatching the letter from Mr. Arnold's hands. He glared at Freddy. "If I catch you on my stoop past five P.M. one more time, I will alert the proper authorities. Is that clear?"
"Yessir… Sorry, sir."
Henry fished in his trouser pocket and pulled out his wallet. He pressed a few coins into Mr. Arnold's hand. "I assume you wretches are all cash poor, given the late hour; use this for a taxi home, I beg you."
"Thanks awfully!" Piped the youth of the other side of Freddy.
Henry slammed the door in their faces, caring little if the trio broke their necks on his front steps. He frowned at the letter in his right hand.
"Impudent boy."
He supposed he ought to give the letter to Eliza, it being the right thing to do. It wasn't addressed to him, and what was more, it had absolutely nothing to do with him. Nothing at all.
He held it up to the light for no reason other than he wished to catch a glimpse of the boy's undoubtedly childish scrawl for a bit of good laugh. He was entitled to a bit of merriment after all of the ridiculousness of the evening.
Freddy's handwriting was atrocious, that much was clear… but not as atrocious as the word Henry spied first when the light filtered through the folded bit of paper.
Cunt.
He blinked rapidly and narrowed his eyes, hoping he'd misread the thing. He hadn't. Henry tore the letter open and peered at its contents, a hot, flushed sort of outrage coursing through him.
Darling,
You may think me very bold, but I must tell you that my thoughts have contained nothing but you. I admire your humour, your wit, your beauty, and your magnificent breasts. I cannot imagine how charming they would look, bare beneath my gaze, pink-tipped and trembling for my kisses. I long for a moment in which we can be alone, so that I may push up your lovely skirt, and bury my face between the heaven of your thighs. I wish to devour your pretty little cunt. I wish to pry open your pouting lips with my throbbing…
"Damned puppy!" Henry cursed, crumpling the letter. "Bloody nuisance!"
He let loose a few more choice curse words as he stormed back into the study, intent on tossing the letter into the dying fire. He paused before the sofa, struck dumb by Eliza's slumbering presence, temporarily forgotten amid his righteous anger. She'd kicked the blanket away and lay before him, her skirt hitched up well above her knees, revealing long, shapely limbs clad in sheer stockings, a bit of ivory flesh just above cuffs, and a tantalizing glimpse of garter. He reached forward and pulled at the hem of her skirt, jerking his hand away once he'd restored her modesty. He'd forgotten to breathe. He felt itchy under his collar and hot everywhere else. He was painfully aware that he'd accidentally breached something he once held sacred.
"Lord North, Lord Grenville, Sir Robert Peele, Asquith, Chamberlain…" Henry chanted as he backed away from her. He fled the study and sprinted up the stairs to his private washroom. Once there, he disrobed, turned the cold tap on full blast in the bathtub, turned the lever that funneled water to the shower head, and stepped inside.
"Certainly, Law would be somewhere on the list—face of a spree murderer."
How dare that boy do this to him? Henry thought bitterly while drying his wet hair. How dare he paint Eliza in such a… a sensual light?
The letter sat on top of his escritoire, intact and unsinged. Henry tried to ignore it as he fumbled with the buttons of his pajama shirt. Eliza’s features, her limbs, they were all meant to serve a practical, clinical purpose in Henry's mind:
Her mouth, her throat… those were for producing sounds signifying her intelligence and refinement. Her legs were for moving about elegantly in a waltz that had taken days to perfect.
Her breasts.
Those did not… well, those had nothing to do with him, not a thing. And the burn in his cheeks the other day when he overheard Eliza mention the need for a new brassiere to Mrs. Pearce had all to do with the unpolished wretch mentioning her underclothes without a bit of discretion.
Eliza was a student. Students were sacred. He would simply not think of such things. He would burn the letter in the morning.
He did not burn the letter in the morning. But he did not revisit it either.
Henry dressed for the day and made his way downstairs, conscious of the fact that he'd overslept by nearly two hours. His breakfast tray, undoubtedly brought up to him once the staff despaired he'd make it down in time, boasted lukewarm porridge, cold toast, and bitter tea, none of which he'd partaken in besides an experimental nibble. He hurried downstairs, newspaper in one hand, while the other attempted to button his cardigan.
Eliza was not in the study, but Pickering was.
"Ah! We thought we would never see you among the living. Too many brandys last night?"
"I never drink to excess," Henry protested. He looked around wildly, as though expecting to see Eliza hiding in some undiscovered nook.
"She is in the parlor with a visitor."
Henry blinked hard and swallowed. "Who?"
Pickering smirked. "Oh, just that silly boy."
"What? Alone?" An animal panic rose in Henry's chest.
Pickering laughed. "Quite the Victorian, eh? Come, man, she is a young woman in the bloom of her life, and young people are different now."
"Are they alone?" Henry demanded in a slight bellow.
"Mrs. Pearce might be with them; she seemed as reluctant as you to allow the audience."
Henry bolted for the parlor and threw open the doors to a curious sight:
Eliza and Mrs. Pearce stood side by side, gaping down in horror at Freddy, on his knees in his rumpled suit from the night before, hands clasped together in contrition. His face was crumpled and streaked with tears.
"Oh, thank goodness, Mr. Higgins!" Mrs. Pearce cried; she grabbed Eliza's arm and led her away to Henry.
"Freddy's gone mad!" Eliza added, her eyes wide and wild. "He keeps apologizing for a letter, but I never received such a thing, nor can Mrs. Pearce recall taking it from him."
"Miss Doolittle, you mustn't pretend!" Freddy moaned, rising to his feet. "My chums wrote it, actually; they said it might move you to allow my courtship, but they never told me what it said until we handed it off, I swear!"
"He. Is. Cracked." Eliza moved to stand behind Henry as Freddy approached. It made him feel rather smug as he scowled at the boy.
"Now see here; are you telling me that your friends wrote an obscene letter to Eliza, passed it off as yours, and delivered it last night?"
Freddy nodded, raking a clutching hand through his already chaotic hair. He had a pinched appearance about the mouth, as though he might vomit at any moment.
"And you recall this very clearly?" Henry pressed, feeling the spirit of mercy coursing through his being.
Freddy appeared to be ruminating on this. He looked from Henry to Eliza, to Mrs. Pearce, and then back to Eliza.
"Lord… Not really. I recall the writing of it, and an awful lot of walking, but I…" He trailed off, blushing fiercely. "Miss Doolittle, I don't wish to offend your delicate sensibilities (Eliza snorted at this), but I was quite heavy with drink, you see. My chums assured me we handed it off here."
Henry nodded, lips pursed and chin high as though regarding a particularly unruly child. "Well, sir, Eliza cannot recall your visit, nor can Mrs. Pearce; is it quite possible your friends are having you on?"
Freddy nodded slowly, a tremulous smile appearing on his pale and sweaty, but handsome face.
"Eliza, Pickering is waiting for you in the study. Have him go over titles with you until I return; Mrs. Pearce, could you go to the kitchen and prepare my cure for Mr. Eynsford-Hill?"
Mrs. Pearce nodded and dispatched with Eliza at her heels. Henry leveled Freddy a most severe look.
"Now see here, boy; there was a letter. You and those Neanderthals you call chums handed it over to me."
Freddy hung his head and made a low, pained sound.
"Miss Doolittle is a guest under my care and protection," Henry continued, his tone glacial and commanding its quiet. "I am responsible for her. She is here to become educated and accomplished, not to suffer the attentions of a crude, impulsive cad."
"Oh, sir, I would never play her false, my friends and I—"
"You are to stay away from her until her time here has commenced. We, meaning she and I, will decide when that shall be. In the meantime, no more letters; no more coming around at ungodly hours, and no more sleeping on my stoop. You have a home. Go to it, and stay there."
"I promise any letter she receives from me won't be quite—"
"No letters," Henry reiterated. "Or I shall encourage Miss Doolittle to involve the law in this situation, and I will show her the letter as proof of your unworthiness, is that understood?"
Freddy nodded. "But what if she has forgotten me at the end of all of this?" He asked despairingly. Henry felt a muscle in his eyelid twitch.
"That is hardly my problem—ah, here is Mrs. Pearce with the drink." Henry nodded at his housekeeper. "Please be so kind as to show Mr. Eynsford-Hill the door once he's finished his cure."
"Yes, sir."
Henry bowed curtly and left the room.
It was determined, on the same day, that things had been a bit too grueling as of late, and the three of them deserved a trip to Brighton & Hove. Wishing to keep things aboveboard, Henry invited his mother.
"This way, Eliza can observe a real, quality lady in the wild, as it were," Henry told his mother on the telephone. It was just the right amount of cajoling, and he found himself strangely relieved that Eliza would be spending much of the two-day trip following his mother about, which would give him some space to not think about the letter. He could occupy his mind with cigars and long walks along the promenade, where he could observe other people. Focus on voices that weren't hers.
It worked up until Mrs. Higgins proudly declared that she'd convinced Eliza to purchase a swimming costume, and that they were all going to enjoy an afternoon on the beach, seabathing, and teaching the girl how to swim. Mrs. Higgins made a cozy nest along the shore with blankets and Adirondack chairs nestled comfortably beneath two enormous umbrellas. She would not take in any seabathing, she declared, queenly in her sunshine-yellow silk beach pajamas, enormous sunglasses, and white turban.
After some cajoling from his mother, Eliza unbuttoned her linen beach gown to reveal a peach-hued swimming costume with a halterneck that exposed quite a bit of her back, and a short, flared skirt that revealed her legs from ankle to mid-thigh. She pulled self-consciously on the hem, as Henry retaught himself the art of breathing.
Eliza gawped at him, and Colonel Pickering, and he realized that he was not the only one bowled over by swimwear. He and Pick made quite an informal pair in their belted trunks and form-fitting black tops. She covered her face with her hands and shyly retreated to where Mrs. Higgins sat, whispering something Henry could not make out. He started buttoning the front of his linen shirt, feeling just as wrong-footed as Eliza.
"Nonsense, darling," his mother said soothingly. "Look around; the beach is packed with men and women all dressed as you, my son, and the colonel are dressed. No one is staring at you; they are too busy enjoying this glorious afternoon."
With some coaxing and reassurance that her moral character was absolutely still intact, Eliza allowed herself to be led to the water by Colonel. Henry, not quite ready to join the masses, sat under the umbrella next to his mother and read the newspaper. A companionable silence followed, stretching until Henry turned to the police blotter.
"Oh, blast," muttered his mother, squinting over the top of her sunglasses. "We really ought to have gotten her a cap for her hair." She stood. "Excuse me, darling boy, I am just going to run to the hotel salon and get her an appointment before dinner."
Henry looked over to the water. The beach was packed, and there seemed to be a small army splashing about, but he spotted her immediately. She stood clutching Pickering's arm as they were battered about by the waves. She was soaked and glistening in the sun. Her hair, far longer than he realized without its usual curl, fell to the middle of her shoulder blades in dark auburn ribbons. He had an urge to join them and push the thick strand of hair pasted across her forehead, to be closer to her wide, delighted grin. He began to rise, but then noticed a young man with a brawny figure and a wealth of wavy, ginger hair, who turned to Eliza with a bright, inviting smile. They were exchanging words, pleasant ones. Colonel Pickering shook hands with the boy and whispered something to Eliza before leaving the pair.
The boy reached over and pushed the hair from Eliza's face, and she did not slap him. In fact, she kept smiling her beatific smile. More young people joined them. Henry turned to Pickering, who was heading towards him.
"Oh, she took to swimming like an absolute shot," said Pickering as he grabbed a towel from the large wicker basket near Henry's chair.
"Why have you left her?" Henry demanded. "The girl could drown."
Pickering shook his head. "I should say not; she is making friends, at any rate. It didn't seem right to linger." He took a seat on the chair opposite Henry and plucked up the paper. "I need a bit of a breather. If you think it necessary to hover, by all means go."
He did not go. While he was an excellent swimmer, he did not care for crowded water and loud chatter. He watched with a sore feeling in his throat as Eliza frolicked about, looking freer and happier than he'd ever seen her. The ginger-haired boy was clearly enchanted by her and stayed close even as she seemed to divide her attention among his friends. There were women as well as men in the little group, and one young lady was gushing about Eliza's bathing costume—Henry could tell by the way she waved enthusiastic hands toward the skirt. Eliza laughed and gave an exaggerated twirl, causing the skirt to lift and shift with her, and then a flash of ivory thigh, and the curve of her buttocks. There was an exchange of looks between the young men, wolfish and smug. The hot, itchy feeling rose over Henry again, and he decided he'd better get in the water, where he could not avoid Eliza, but at least it was cold.
"Oi, Professor!" Eliza cried when she spotted him.
He nodded as he approached the group. "Lovely weather we are having."
"I was beginning to think you were allergic to water," she teased.
"Hardly," he nodded at the group as he offered his arm to Eliza. "Mother is booking you a hair appointment at the hotel, so perhaps we'd better make this a short swim."
"I didn't know you were married," said the ginger-haired youth. His face contained such open, pouting disappointment that Henry was reluctant to contradict him. Eliza had no such reluctance.
"Oh, he's just my teacher!" She turned to Henry with a twinkling expression. "And he's here to teach me how to swim, isn't that right?"
"Perhaps over there," said Henry, pointing to a distant spot not occupied by merrymakers.
He led her away to the spot. The water was a bit deeper, reaching his chest. He wrapped an arm about her to keep her afloat and found himself murmuring reassurances when he felt her stiffen. The words stuck in his throat when she turned to cling to him, her wet curves pressed brazenly against his chest. She was shivering, and he felt a trembling sensation tear through him, quite unrelated to the water's temperature.
"St-steady," he mumbled. She felt like heaven, soft and smooth. Her face was buried against the crook of his neck, and he could almost feel the brush of her lips. "I am going to teach you how to float, but you must not cling to me." He thought for a moment when she did not relent. "I rather thought you were a good girl."
Propelled by outrage, she shoved away from him and promptly lost her footing, submerging with a stunned cry. He darted forward and pulled her, sputtering and furious, from the water.
"I am a good girl!" She managed to utter through a fit of coughing. She slapped at his arm and swam off to the shore. He lingered in the freezing water for a moment before following her, trying very hard to look at anything but her backside as she stalked away with the ramrod straight bearing of an outraged goddess.
He thought of her later that night. He hadn't intended to think about her, but he did. Usually, when these things happened, and they'd been happening quite a bit since reading that thrice-damned letter, the images in his head were those of Eliza with Freddy, which tended to enrage him, rather than fill him with perverse yearning. Not so tonight:
He wondered what her lips would've tasted like if he'd been so bold as to steal a kiss while they were swimming. The salt mixed with the plump, pouting softness. He wondered if some of the ocean still clung to her thighs, and what it would feel like to exist in Freddy's clumsy letter, with his face buried between her long, shapely legs, seeking out her ecstasy with a strong, eager tongue. The noises she would make in his ear when he… when he…
When he fucked her.
He was fully hard. He ached in a way he hadn't experienced since his youth, when he had a slight predilection for older, seasoned women; mostly widows, but there had been one love affair with a married woman that had gone a bit too far. He'd certainly never felt this way for a student of all things. He'd labeled them as sacred, and as if by magical decree, they had all remained so. Blocks of wood.
Bloody Freddy Eynsford-Hill.
Touching himself to the thought of her would have been an egregious, mortal sin, but his erection showed absolutely no sign of abating, so Henry went to the washroom and filled the tub with icy water. He recited his list of prime ministers as he submerged himself.
He was raging. Utterly furious and not to mention hurt. He'd attempted a dignified retreat to his room, and had even managed to have the last, devastating word… which had cut him open and exposed his heart to her entirely.
The treasure of his regard and intimacy … Why had he put it that way? It was one of his weakest moments; he knew this to his marrow. He revealed his soul to her and then made a clumsy, hasty retreat, stumbling upwards. He did not care to philosophize over it. He was tired.
She'd been magnificent beyond belief in her fury. Boudicca in ivory liquid satin. He'd been positively bowled over by the electric combination of her utterly feral anger and the vision of her, jewels glittering softly in the dim light of the study. They went tit for tat until she'd dealt the killing blow:
"This ring… It isn't from the jewelers; it's the one you bought for me in Brighton." He'd turned to her, his breathing ragged as she extended her arm toward him, the little silver ring with the seaglass stone surrounded by seed pearls, pinched between her thumb and forefinger.
He'd gotten it for her as a silent act of contrition. A token to lay at the altar of her dreamy-eyed mercy. She'd taken it, blushing and modest with tears in her eyes. He'd told her not to behave like a flibbertigibbet, that it was merely an acknowledgement of her hard work.
"I don't want it now."
There was a searing heat beneath his skin, and he felt at once as though he could not breathe. He snatched the ring from her grasp and flung it into the fire. She recoiled immediately, arms flung defensively in front of her face.
"Don't you hit me!"
God, that she would think that. That something in him that only she saw made her shrink and fear for her safety. He felt breathless with shame. Still, he thundered on, for her passion was touching and invigorating… But his pride held him with steely, piercing claws.
He blustered about being the abused party. Unfazed, she pressed on, more bitingly, if possible. She expressed feeling glad that she'd hurt him, and the gleeful twinkle in her eye as she crowed spitefully. He needed to retreat from her before… before what?
Before her trembling lips, still stained red from lipstick and wine, and her bosom, heaving from outraged, hyperventilating breaths, became too much to resist. Before he pulled her to him and kissed her roughly, with one hand twined in her glossy curls, and the other one running along the satiny length of her side. Before he held her against him tightly enough that she felt the crux of his shame press against her, and then she'd know, truly know, what a filthy, disgusting lech he truly was.
He damned the entire household, her included, and didn't draw breath until he was safe in his room. He was painfully hard by the time he flung himself backwards on the bed. He turned his head towards the bathroom door and pondered his situation. His desire mingled strangely with his outrage. His previous, unfortunate musings had been downright tender up until this evening, soft and abstract. It felt different this evening.
He imagined, shamefully, that he'd somehow plucked up the courage to storm back downstairs, probably to her room, at this point, and pound on the door until she opened it, standing before him, still sparkling in her regal finery. Perhaps her hair had been combed out, framing her sharp, gorgeously outraged face with a deep auburn fire. The same fire would still be in her eyes, but she would step back and let him inside, keen to resolve the ego-shattering row that had occurred earlier. The apology would barely leave her lips before his would be upon hers, and he'd pry that chatty, venomous mouth of hers open with his tongue as he pressed her against the door. He'd swallow her moans and sighs, while his hands trailed over her, memorizing her, until they invariably cupped her satin-covered breasts, gently at first, and then with intent. He'd loosen those jeweled straps that held up the bodice and press hot, feverish kisses against her neck, drifting lower until tongue and teeth sought out her breasts, paying particular attention to her pert, blush-colored nipples—he wished to deepen their color, to pull down her dress, and leave little red marks along her belly, hips, and finally…
Henry groaned, rubbing his face with his palms. It would have to be the ice bath; to do the alternative would be wrong somehow, said the good angel on his shoulder. It was unfortunate, therefore, that his ire was fueling the other angel, who told him to think about how lovely it would be to pull her to the floor and run his tongue along her quim, to allow her silk-stockinged legs to rest over his shoulders as he drank greedily from the very core of her.
Or to persuade her to put her mouth to good use.
He was not in the bath. His head was thrown back, and his hips were lifting and falling gently as he ran a hand up and down the enflamed, silken column of his cock. He imagined her under his desk, her pouting lips wrapped around him, as he attempted to perform the mundanities of life: keeping up with correspondence, paying bills, or even receiving visitors.
His grip tightened, and his pace increased as his body went tense with the tell-tale signs of imminent release.
His final, shameful thought was of how blessedly tight she would feel sheathed around him as he plunged into her, of bending her over against his desk, and holding steady to the back of her neck. He came with a pained sigh, heedless of the suit he'd very likely ruined in his ecstasy. He shuddered and panted as shame pricked his skin with scalding needles. He went to the bath, turned the tap, and watched as it filled with water and steam.
Tomorrow, things would be better, he told himself. Everything would be water under the bridge, and he and Eliza would never need to speak on it again. He would, of course, make a tidy, appreciative speech about her accomplishments at the breakfast table. Perhaps offer to take her to the continent for a celebration tour. Paris, Milan, bloody Bruges, he supposed. Anywhere she'd ever dreamed of going, they would go—Pickering included, of course—and all would be well again.
Man plans, God laughs.
Henry had no idea where he'd first heard the phrase, but he did get a true idea of its meaning. There had not, in fact, been talk of a European tour at breakfast the morning after the ball, for Eliza had run away. Henry, who had never been much for catastrophizing or putting stock in divine punishment, spent the agonized search imagining all manner of misfortune befalling her. It had been so late when she fled that she could have easily been beaten or murdered in the night. She could be floating lifelessly in the river. It would have been his fault entirely, and subsequently his punishment.
Finding her alive and at his mother's took a lot of the guilt from his gut and replaced it with renewed outrage. They rowed, and the row ended with her absolutely gleaming with a triumph that elevated her in his eyes. He'd felt that he could spend the rest of his life striving to be worthy enough to draw her same air. To be in comfortable proximity to her brilliance and warmth. He loved her utterly the moment she said she could do without him, and then she left, storming away to Freddy Eynsford-Hill's sleek roadster and tearing off into the afternoon. It was then that he truly knew despair… for approximately one hour.
He did not question her return, but he did try to mask his jubilation with a cheeky joke. She saw through him, removed the hat that obscured his face from her sharp, probing eyes, sat on his lap, of all things, and kissed him. His response to her boldness left little doubt as to where he stood on eternal bachelorhood. They were married within the month.
"Henry, what is this?" Eliza asked on the night of their wedding. She'd been moving things about in one of the drawers in his—now their—room, making space for a few of her things, and he truly hadn't been paying attention to which drawer, for he'd been in the bathroom, brushing his teeth and preparing for the evening. He frowned when he spied the drawer she'd chosen, and then felt the blood drain from his face when she held up an opened letter. She was smiling a tight, flummoxed smile with her brows drawn together in concern.
"You are looking quite charming in your pajamas, my dear," he deflected. It wasn't an untruth either; her mauve satin chemise and matching trousers complemented her rosy cheeks and dark eyes.
"Why do you have a letter from Freddy?"
"He gave it to me."
Eliza's jaw dropped. "He wrote to you?"
"He gave it to me," Henry repeated curtly. "It was meant for you."
He was not expecting her to shriek, but she did. And then she guffawed.
"Madam," he intoned, his cheeks aflame. "I do not see what is so humorous about this situation."
"Why would he write such a thing?" She asked through her gasping laughter.
"Drunk," said Henry. He looked her up and down. "He never wrote you a letter like this?"
Eliza shook her head, and he almost sighed. "No, he was such a ninny, he wouldn't have dared. But I suppose he was sober when he wrote the other ones." She tilted her head to one side.
"Why did you never deliver it to me?"
Henry scoffed as he regarded his bride. "It was… it is full of the most outrageous filth I have ever read, and I have read James Joyce… as a lark, of course. Eliza, you were a guest under my care, I could hardly expose you to such disgusting—"
"You didn't want me to see the word 'cunt'?"
"Eliza!" He went to their bed and sat on the edge, feeling mildly stunned. He looked up at her, dazed.
She stormed over and plunked herself next to him, nudging him with her shoulder. "I am not ignorant of the world." She chuckled. "Lawks, you didn't want me to read that word—I thought it was my father's Christian name until my mom died and my first stepmother called him Alfred."
He turned to her with an alarmed expression. She was laughing wickedly, and he felt that drum-tight tension melt away. She did not ask any more questions about the letter, and although he knew for certain she would follow up with questions about why he still had the letter, why it wasn't cinder floating through the London air. He did not have that answer yet, even as they fell against the pillows, laughing and kissing until they were both breathless and yearning to be closer.
The End