Briar giggles as her fingers work the balm over and into the sore muscles of Emmeline’s forearm. She had recounted the story of Mr. Sinclaire and herself in the clearing and how it felt to feel him pressed to her back as he corrected her form several times now. Each time Briar asked to hear it again, Emmeline could almost feel the dread of the disgusting man she was engaged to melt away. Perhaps that was Briar’s plan. Briar moves behind her, to pull the pins from her hair and brush it before she was to turn in. Her hair falls over her shoulders and down her back and Briar catches her eye in the mirror and asks for the story once again.
“Tell me what he said when you-”
She is cut short by a loud click followed by a second one coming from her window. The sound jolts the two of them so that Emmeline isn’t quite sure how the both of them hadn’t screamed.
Emmeline looks out the window, her eyes widening at the sight before her, Mr. Sinclaire gazing up at her window on the abandoned and darkened street. The hopeful look on his face that he would’ve caught her attention was enough to send her heart racing. However, upon taking in her appearance at the window, her sleeping gown, the fabric light and low cut, her hair cascading about her face, her Ernest appears to cough into his shoulder in shock and turn away. If it wasn’t so dark, she’d be sure he was flushed a bright shade of crimson.
“Briar, I believe I’m going to need your assistance to get dressed and lowered from this window.”
Briar peers over Emmeline’s shoulder and gasps before a fit of giggles take over. “Mr. Sinclaire… acting so improper, what have you done to him Emmeline?”
Briar helps her into one of her more simple dresses, only placing it over her sleeping gown without her short stays. After much hissing conversation, their voices in harsh whispers to not alert anyone who may be passing by in the hallway, the two come to a consensus. The best way was not for her to sneak down the hall and out the servant’s entrance, no. She may be seen. Emmeline insists that the only way for her to reunite with Mr. Sinclaire is for her to be lowered from her window. Surely Mr. Sinclaire could catch her or help her as she got lower to the ground.
She opens the window, her hair still down, there was no time to fix it again. Mr. Sinclaire is drawn to the soft squeak of the hinges and he looks up, this time not looking away. He looks as if he wants to speak, but doesn’t for fear of being discovered. When Briar tosses Emmeline’s twisted bedsheets out the window, Ernest’s eyes widen in complete shock at what Emmeline was about to attempt.
“It’s fastened quite well to the bedpost Emmeline. I can’t imagine it budging. Have at it.”
Emmeline swings one of her legs over the windowsill. When she glances down, the ground is rather further away than she anticipated and Mr. Sinclaire’s jaw is agape in complete and utter surprise. She grips the bed sheet, wrapping it about her hands for a better hold on it, and brings her other leg to the outside of the house. Her elbows dig into the windowsill as Briar grips her upper arms to help her lower herself gingerly from the window.
She can no longer see Mr. Sinclaire, but Briar’s smirk from above her tell her that he must be in such a state of panic and shock. She wishes she could see it.
Emmeline is now completely out the window, dangling by the sheet, her hands gripping at it tightly, begging it doesn’t slip from her hands entirely. She feels the fabric burn her hands as it slides against her skin and she begins to work at lowering herself, gingerly, slowly. She manages a couple feet and her arms are aching, her forearms burning, she isn’t sure this was a great idea.
She can barely hear Ernest below her, pacing and sighing, if hand wringing had a sound, she’s sure she would’ve heard it from him. She lowers herself a bit more and feels his hands about her ankles gripping them, then her calves, his touch firm but still somehow trembling.
His grasp is firm on her and she supposed he was as ready as he could be for her to let go. She releases one hand and as she begins to slide down much quicker and the fabric runs against her skin so rough she drops her other hand almost immediately. The result is her falling from where she dangled, much quicker than she had wanted to, into Mr. Sinclaire’s arms. His hands grip her legs as they slip through his grasp, sliding up her calves to her knees then her thighs. He manages to wrap his arms around her tight enough that he stops her. She sits nearly atop one of his shoulders, but her skirts are bunched nearly to her hips and she can feel the summer night air on her legs. Emmeline isn’t sure if it’s her own heart rate she feels racing through her body or his, where his wrists press into her flesh. The feeling of his palms on her bare skin, gripping her thighs just so, made Emmeline’s breath hitch in her chest and she feels disappointment as he lowers her gently to the ground.
She fixes her skirt, before turning to him, and again she wishes the lighting was better as the look on his face is one of utter embarrassment with something else added, something akin to the way he looked at her in the thicket today, the hallway at the Duke’s townhome a few days earlier, the carriage all those weeks ago. His hands find her waist, holding her there for a moment as he regains his breathing and stills the turmoil behind his eyes, his pupils blown wide even for the low light.
He blinks slowly and it seems to fix his state, allowing him to speak. “There is a nice secluded garden around the corner from here, if you’d wish to join me. I had to see you.”
“Of course.” She takes his arm and leans into him as they walk the short distance.
The small garden is quiet and rather abandoned, many of the plants growing into the pathways and in need of trimming. He leads her to a bench and motions for her to sit before he does the same. They sit for a moment, their sides pressed together, in silence before he speaks.
“I did not mean to see you in such a state of undress. I hadn’t thought that you might be ready to turn in.” He looks at his hands as he runs them over one another anxiously. “I would never presume that you might wish for me to-”
He cuts himself off and takes a deep breath. “I apologize if my touch lingered when I caught you, I thought I…” He sighs. “You make me lose myself, Emmeline, my love.”
Emmeline shifts on the bench so that she might face him. In the motion, she brings her thighs over his, her legs draped between his. She tucks her head under his chin, against his chest and draws herself as close as possible to him.
“You could never do any wrong by me, Ernest.” She tips her head up and kisses his neck, working her way up to his jaw. He groans, gripping her waist tighter than before, adjusting his seat on the bench, before he pulls her to his lips. He kisses her and it is strong and searching, his tongue dares between her lips and when he withdraws, he pulls her bottom lip between his teeth.
Emmeline shifts, bringing one leg on either side of his, so that she might be able to cradle his face his her hands or wrap her arms about his neck while looking him in the eyes. The movement of her body against his as she settles down into his lap causes him to draw a shuddering breath, in and out slowly, he buries his face in her neck so that he may breathe her in.
“Emmeline,” he whispers against her neck, his breath warm and rushing across her skin.
Her hands search under his jacket, her fingers drawing circles about the buttons on his overcoat, down his torso, towards his abdomen. She feels his hands leave her waist reluctantly and they stop the trail of her fingers, trapping her hands in his and bringing them to his lips, where he places a gentle kiss to each of them before turning her hands over and kissing her palms on each hand in turn, then her wrists.
“Not like this, my love.”
Emmeline looks at him, squinting against the darkness for a sign that she had over stepped some sort of boundary with him. She could find no such emotion etched in his barely moonlit features.
“You are not mine, not yet, Emmeline.” He says, bringing his lips close to hers but not yet touching. Emmeline can feel her own mouth twitch at the notion of being so close to him but not kissing him. His lips brush hers as he finishes his thought before surging forward to capture her in his kiss once again. “But I am yours.”
As Emmeline leans into his body, she can feel just a bit of that resolve crumble, but it wasn’t for tonight. The two remain a bit longer, just so they are sure the streets will be entirely abandoned and the townhouse entirely quiet, so that Emmeline might be able to enter through the main door. He kisses her deeply on the doorstep, whispering promises to make it a point to see her again tomorrow evening. As she closes the door behind her, resting her back upon it with a heavy dreamy sigh, Emmeline hopes this rendezvous becomes a habit for them—she isn’t sure how she’d survive this charade without it.