I look down at myself, raising my arms and slapping them down on my voluminous skirts. “I have no idea what to do with all this stuff,” I complain. “And if I don’t get out of this corset soon, I’m going to pass out.”
“I can help you with that.” The corner of his mouth lifts in an irresistible smile.
“Here? In a garden?”
He just looks at me, and the memory comes flooding back. Oh, yes. In a garden. More than once.
“Oh,” I say, and I blush again.
“I was merely going to suggest that you let me adjust your laces, love. Give you some more breathing room.”
I glance around, but we’re behind a set of bushes not visible from the main path, and there’s nobody out here now that dessert is being served.
“Okay,” I say, turning so my back is to him. His fingers are deft and quick as he unfastens my gown. I can feel the breeze on my skin, and I let out an involuntary groan at how good it feels.
His fingertips brush my skin, raising gooseflesh on my arms as he pulls at the corset strings, loosening them another inch. I feel him tie them off, then suddenly his hands are inside my gown, sliding over my shoulder blades as I feel his lips meet the back of my neck.
“You feel like my Jessa,” he murmurs.
I look over my shoulder and his lips touch mine softly, and then he turns me so he can deepen the kiss. I lift my arms to circle his neck and it’s like we ignite. My hands thread into his hair, clinging, and his hands move and shift across my back to my waist, pulling me in, and it’s all I can do to breathe, despite my loosened corset.
His lips slide down to my neck again and I’m gripping his shoulders hard when suddenly, he pulls away and flips me back around so he can fasten up my gown.
I hear the sound of heels crunching on the gravel walkway that runs along the other side of the bushes a moment later.
“Jessamyn? Are you out here?” My mother’s voice carries clearly in the night air.
I turn panicked eyes to Finn, who puts a finger to my lips, signaling me to keep quiet. He leaves the finger there, stroking it slowly back and forth as he smiles down at me. Finally, her footsteps fade into the distance, and I can breathe again.
I push his hand away and get hastily to my feet.
“Where d’you think you’re going?” he asks, reaching out for my hand.
“I—I really should get back.” I didn’t come here to make out with Finn. Did I?
I take a deep breath in an effort to calm my racing heart, and I’m grateful that I actually can. “Thanks for the adjustment,” I say. “That’s so much better. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” I scoop up my reticule and gloves, holding them both in front of me.
“I’ll walk you inside,” he offers, falling into step beside me. “No one will notice me in this crush.” He puts his hands down deep into his pockets, just like my Finn does. I can’t help but smile.
“What?” he asks.
“You do that just like my Finn. Your hands in your pockets.”
“Is he very like me, then?”
“In some ways. You’re a lot more … outspoken.”
“So are you,” he answers. “And that’s all right with me, love.”
His words do something funny to my insides. “Come on. I’ve got a party to escape from.”
We step through the French doors, and I can’t help but squirm a little. Finn steps closer, lowering his voice so we can converse.
“What are you doing?”
“My back,” I say. “It’s itching … ugh.” I look up at him. “You didn’t tuck in the ends of my corset laces. They’re bunched up between my shoulders and tickling me.”
He lifts his eyebrows apologetically. “Well, I can’t very well adjust them again here, love. You’ll have to retire to the ladies’ salon. I’m sure one of the attendant maids there can assist you.”
“You’d better get out of here before my father recognizes you,” I say. “And I need to get home.”
He reaches for my hand, pressing a kiss to the backs of my fingers. I can’t help but feel—and remember—how soft and warm his lips are.
“As before, Jessa … it’s been a pleasure.”
“Good-bye, Finn.” I know I’m staring, but I’m somehow helpless to stop. The corner of his mouth quirks up.
“Right through there, love,” he says, pointing the way.
“Yeah … I’m, uh … I’ll just be going,” I stammer. I turn to go, but I have to take one more look back. He’s still standing there with that lopsided grin, and the butterflies are swarming in my stomach.
I look off toward the crush of women coming and going from the salon and heave a sigh before I head off into the fray. I make my way inside and push through the throng to put my hand to a mirror. Just as I start to transfer, a shout goes up. I could swear I smell the faintest hint of smoke, and then I’m through.
And I’m staring at myself in a small, circular mirror next to Ben’s worried face as his arms tighten around me.
“It’s definitely bruising,” the lady from the historical society says as she shoves the compact mirror closer toward me. “Right there, on your cheek.” She’s kneeling next to me as well, and gently prodding at my face with her free hand.
My hand is resting on the mirror still, and I push it out of my way.