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‘There are as many forms of love as there are moments in time.’
― Jane Austen
‘I’m not used to being loved. I wouldn’t know what to do.’
— F. Scott Fitzgerald
The London weather was drab, dull and grey. Upon arrival, European autumn had been in full swing and it had only gone downhill from there. The city felt like quite the literal watercolour painting, with once vibrant colours that had been watered down to murky pastels. Sometimes, it felt as though the only splash of colour in her rather bland society-existence was her signature Rosewood lipstick.
London in and of itself was quite alright – with its entertaining acquaintances and its abundant soirées – but she missed the exuberance of Melbourne. The bright blue of the skies, the vivid green of the lush vegetation, the deep red of her Hispano-Suiza.
She turned to look out the window from her supine position, tucked up in bed. Marie, the young maid, had just been in to open up the curtains but really, she shouldn’t have bothered. It was pouring with rain – had been for a week – and it was about to drive Phryne stark, raving mad.
She had managed to recover the Somerset estate and secure the family fortune, for the most part. Her father had not yet succeeded at bartering away all of their possessions, so the damage had been rather limited.
The damage to her parents’ marriage was another matter. She could hardly blame her mother for not trusting her father, neither could she blame her for staying by his side. It was clear to her that her mother loved her father dearly, despite his shortcomings, and that she would stick with him until the bitter end. It was an unconditional kind of love, the kind that would make one lose all reason.
Her mother had told her once that it had felt much like falling into a natural step with someone else, without even thinking twice about it, much like the first waltz her parents had danced.
The words had echoed in her mind when Jack had put his large palm on the small of her back, encompassing her elegant hand in his slightly callused one. His warm grip certain, his face serious. The prelude, their improvised choreography, that had led them to the execution of an actual waltz. Slow and close. It had almost been perfect, except for the gut-wrenching fear that was tying knots in her belly.
She was no stranger to love. She loved feeling loved, and adored loving others. But to feel loved, in the most romantic and most straightforward, yet intricate way, was something that terrified her.
She wasn’t used to being loved in that sense, had not allowed herself to feel that kind of love, had not allowed anyone this close to her heart in a very long time. By now, she was unsure if she would even know what to do, if true love came knocking.
And it had been knocking, rather persistently. It was just a shame she appeared to have swallowed the key.
She turned onto her side, willing for sleep to come, to allow her troubled mind a few more hours or rest, but it was no to be.
She wasn’t one for fantasies, per se, or fantasizing, preferring to live life to the fullest, to grab the bull by the horns, so to speak. Why fantasize about something when you could spend that time making sure the fantasy would become a reality?
But the number of times she’d spent fantasizing about Detective Inspector you-might-as-well-call-me-Jack Robinson, pressing his lips to hers was, quite frankly, innumerable. Maybe they hadn’t even been fantasies, but more along the line of fervent wishes? Each time had been different, but each time had been significant in its own way.
Kiss me, Detective Inspector.
The first time she’d felt the urge to kiss him, or rather, to encourage him to kiss her, was when they had been discussing the ancient Hebrew text. She’d mentioned her estimated guess at Miss Lee’s and Mr. Michaels’ affair. He’d appeared slightly ruffled – affronted, maybe – at her implied, inelaborate dismissal of marital vows. She’d been unaware of his own marriage coming to a close at the time, although he’d confided in her soon after. She’d been curious about him, about his true persona, his burning passions, the man beneath the buttons. She’d wondered if she could, if he would let her. An affair. He had still been married.
It happens.
Did he just kiss me?
Granted, it had been a means of distraction – and a rather successful distraction at that – but it had been a kiss. The insistent and sudden press of his lips against hers had caught her completely off-guard – a feat in and of itself – as she had been utterly distraught mere seconds prior. As soon as she’d recovered from her initial shock, however, she’d reciprocated with more vigour than she’d anticipated. His kiss was rather urgent, coaxing, successfully attempting to draw her attention away from the appearance of René Dubois. His lips were slightly chapped and he’d tasted of garlic, but his mouth had been so hot, his tongue slipping into her mouth with a practiced ease that had left her wondering when and where he’d learned to do that. His one hand had been cradling her head, the other had been planted firmly on her back. He could deny it all he wanted, but he had been invested in that kiss.
Let’s call a spade a spade.
Kiss me, Jack Robinson.
Oh, she vividly remembered this one. He’d arrived at Guy and Isabella’s engagement party looking completely impeccable, yet entirely dishevelled. She’d known of his divorce, this time around, and she’d felt so sorry for him. It weighed heavily on him, and she could only imagine what the blow of a failed marriage had done to the self-esteem of an honourable man who held nobility in such high regards. He wouldn’t take kindly to her pity. She’d wanted to comfort him, wanted him to let go for one night. And more importantly; she’d wanted him. For the first time, she had felt a strong physical desire for this man, this colleague, this friend. When she’d loosened his tie and had the first two buttons of his shirt undone, she’d almost become undone herself at the smouldering, yet pained look he’d sent her way. It was all she could do not to lick the hollow of his throat as he’d swallowed audibly, his Adam’s apple bobbing enticingly.
Just one gaudy night?
Kiss me, Jack.
She could easily – far too easily to her liking – recollect and recreate the flutter of excitement she’d felt on two memorable occasions. The first time had been when he’d come to Wardlow after the fashion show to return her Columbian emeralds to its rightful owner (and oh, for the way his mouth had opened in disbelief at her double entendre!). He’d called the possibility of lingerie dangerous, but the only dangerous thing had been the way he’d looked at her then, as if picturing the aforementioned lingerie on her body. As if imagining taking it off. She’d longed for him to. He had been different that night; bold, daring. Her arousal had been persistent, and not for the first time, but there had been something else there. Something that had made her cross the invisible line, inviting him up for a nightcap. He was a detective and she was certain he’d read right between the other invisible lines.
The ‘something else’ was what had brought forth the true stampede of butterflies at the football match between Abbotsford and West-Melbourne. The wondrous scarf-exchange would be forever ingrained in her mind. He’d looped the scarf around her neck with care and had drawn her closer than ever before. She was, in fact, certain that he’d never before taken the liberty to willingly invade her personal space in such a manner. It had been utterly enticing, and she’d burned for him, knowing he wouldn’t kiss her in such a public venue (especially with his ex-wife and former father-in-law nearby) but wanting him to, all the same.
A Collingwood-girl and an Abbotsford-man.
Jack, please.
The slow burn had turned into a true inferno by the time he’d come to her home late one night, after she’d escaped the clutches of one Sidney Fletcher and had been just about ready to fall into bed, exhausted and bruised. She’d been confused; not by his behaviour, but by her own feelings. Jack was a good man, she had no doubt about that, and comforting his ex-wife had obviously been the right thing to do. So why had she felt so perturbed about the whole thing? Why had she felt such a strong stab to the gut, and dare she say, the heart, when he’d held Rosie in his arms? She had no reason to be upset. He wasn’t hers. She’d chalked it up to fatigue and had almost convinced herself that all she needed to see things right was a good night’s sleep, when he’d knocked at the door.
She believed, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he would have kissed her, had it not been for the interruption of Aunt Prudence, enquiring about the baby and telling him off, all in one swift monologue. It had left her mind reeling. She’d needed to feel him, to hold him, to affirm that he was alive and that they were both still here. She’d wanted it, and she was convinced he’d wanted it as well. What was more, he had almost acted upon his baser instincts and this had aroused her beyond measure, to the point of pleasuring herself to the sound of his voice, his low timbre, his dark eyes. She wanted to hold him forever and keep him safe. He was such a good, noble man and she longed to feel him come apart in her arms.
Not always, Miss Fisher.
Not now, not yet.
There had been one instance in which she’d desired the feeling of his warm mouth on hers, his pliant muscle seeking out hers in the hot cavern of her own orifice, whilst at the same time feeling as though the moment was just not right. They’d been standing in her parlour, all her friends and family had gathered to celebrate Christmas in July, and judging from the look Aunt P had sent their way, Jack was standing much too close for propriety’s sake. She’d not given a hoot. Their forced-upon kiss had been too public a display of an affection she was too afraid to recognize, yet she could clearly recall the moment when everything else had ceased to exist. His low rumble near her ear, his penetrating stare, the heat of his body, desire dripping from her every pore as his raw masculinity rolled over her in waves. She could almost taste him on her tongue, could see the need mirrored in his own eyes as his regard spoke of an unspoken understanding.
Hemi-parasitic, of the genus Viscum.
Oh, God, Jack...
He’d been so deliciously wrong-footed, so wonderfully compromised, that in the moment she realised he was familiar with certain ‘appliances’, she’d felt quite lustfully compromised herself. Was there no end to his never-ending source of mystery? He intrigued her where no other man had managed to do so before, and this aroused and worried her in equal measure. She wanted to take him apart, to know him from the inside out, and put him back together again, leaving not one follicle unturned. It was a now constant want, a need, a desperation and a desire to know him completely. To take him inside of her, until the intimacy of it all would cause them to explode.
Perhaps some other time, in a more intimate setting?
Come after me, Jack Robinson.
The airfield had hardly been an intimate setting – what with her plane about to set off and her father yelling in the background – but it had hardly mattered. She’d challenged him, rather foolishly, to come after her. But she supposed people had done sillier things when they’d been in love. There was no point in denying it any longer. It thrummed through her veins, made her toes curl, had her cunt throbbing in anticipation and caused her heart to clench with desire.
He’d kissed her, and although it had been lovely, something hadn’t been right. She was leaving, and thereby leaving him behind. It had been all wrong, somehow.
She frowned – pulled from her reverie – then checked the clock on the mantelpiece and her eyes widened.
He was to arrive shortly, and she rushed to get dressed.
When the time came, she found she couldn’t find her voice, standing on the docks like a mute, rain plastering her hair to her forehead as she’d omitted to bringing an umbrella in her haste. No uttered demands, no carefully rehearsed greetings, not even a breathless plea. She wanted to tell him she was so glad he’d come all this way, that he shouldn’t have bothered, that he was a fool for following someone like her, that she was undeserving of his kindness, of his love...
She wanted to tell him that she was madly in love with him, and that she didn’t know what to do.
The only sound that left her red-waxed lips was a small, strangled sob as he stood before her, finally, after all of these months spent apart.
He kissed her then, and it was perfection.