The Great Grey

She startled like a deer or rabbit caught unawares, and immediately Alistair stepped back, hands raised in placation. Some of it was also self-preservation; Eppie was many things, but particularly graceful with her long limbs was not among her talents.

The question, though, had Alistair's ears and neck burning, and again he was grateful for the poor lighting. Reflexively his tongue darted out to wet his lips in nervousness, and there was the strong temptation to play stupid; to deny understanding her, even as she gave him a way out with her dismissal.

"You should be kinder to yourself," was what he said first, neither denial nor confirmation, but a firm chiding. It was easier to hide his own nervousness that way, spine straight and hands held behind his back, where she wouldn't be able to see how tightly he held his fists. "I didn't write anything I didn't mean. I am– I have become terribly fond of you, Eppie." It was the nearest thing he could manage to spit out, laughable in its inadequacy even as his entire face now burned with the admission. It was wildly inappropriate, something that should earn him her scorn and spite, but he would not contribute to her self-doubt, and he would respect her enough to be honest with her.

How odd to hear D's oft-repeated words issued from Alistair's mouth. All this time, she'd brushed the idea away with the promptness she had believed it was deserving of — The gentle praise from a biased source that could not be further from the truth. Oh, Eppie was not without self-worth, she simply understood where her strengths lay. They were decidedly not in being attractive to anyone, least of all someone like D or Alistair Campbell, who was so stunning he might have anyone in the world at all.

Yet at his next declaration, her head whipped around to stare at him. "Fond," she echoed, dark eyes made golden in the firelight as they bounced between his own, searching. "And that which you love?" Like so much else she said aloud, the words were out before she was entirely aware of saying them, but she did not quail this time in embarrassment. She recalled with acute clarity what he had penned on that page; she must have read it over a hundred times.

With how hard his heart was beating in his chest, she surely had to be able to hear it. Eppie was a very direct woman, and yet it still shocked him to hear the words – his words, damn him – coming from her mouth.

He had not fully regretted them, even after doubting himself when he'd pushed the letter beneath her door. And, in truth, he did not regret the message, but rather that he had given her such effective ammunition to render him speechless before the sheer weight of truth. "I–" Alistair started, only to cut himself off abruptly. What on Earth was he to say?

Tell a married woman that, yes, he had fallen in love with her over the course of weeks and months, through the letters that she had written him and their singular meeting years before?

Moving with an exaggerated slowness, well aware of her habit of startling, he reached to take the lamp from her hands, to set it aside on the floor where it flickered with a merriness that did not befit the situation. "Stand before me," he finally answered, voice far softer than he intended, still not daring to say it quite so directly himself.

This would ruin the both of them. He could not marry her – he could not give her the life she would deserve. And, damn her and Duke both, she was married! How cruel was it of Duke, to do this to them? It was all well and good for him to approve, and to speak of the idiosyncrasies of this place, but there was a much larger world beyond their lands, and both Alistair and Eppie had to live within it.

But he took her hand in his anyway, mindful of any lashing out or other spasms that might overtake her for the intimacy of the moment.

"I— Oh— All right—" Eppie stuttered as the lamp was lifted from her hands and set aside. Her gaze swung back up as Alistair straightened, and she then blinked, her mouth silently working.

"You could have— All right," she began, motioning with her hand to indicate that he might have stood in front of her instead, but the man clearly had a plan. A plan to... To what? To stare her down? To kiss her? No, surely not—

Oh God.

One sidestep placed her dutifully and directly before him, and she swallowed roughly against a throat gone dry. That was unfortunate, the dryness. It couldn't be optimal for kissing, could it? She couldn't know at all from experience, but biologically speaking—

Oh.

Eppie dropped her gaze to their linked hands. It was nice; his hand was warm and not as soft as you'd expect from a duke, which was lovely in its own way. Still—

She lifted her face to him and leveled him with an unblinking stare. "I must warn you that if you are considering declaring to me that you consider me like a sister, I am obligated to punch you."

So far she had yet to spasm or slap him, which both seemed like an improvement over the last few times he had dared to touch her. Of course, any thought was quite derailed by the very serious warning. Alistair did his best to resist; stared at her with a matching seriousness.

Then, nose tip twitching with the effort not to give into his boyish grin, he said, "Sisterly love is very noble, you know," but he could go no further before laughing. And then, to stave off both the punch earned for that, and the blows he was very certain he was likely to receive out of sheer surprise, he gently took her chin in his other hand and declared softly, "I'm going to kiss you now."

It was a soft, chaste thing. He had no illusions about her lack of experience; she'd been quite forward about that. It hardly mattered to him, so long as she was content with what passed between them.

Despite understanding he was teasing, for a tick there Eppie nearly struck him anyway. She reckoned Alistair would have deserved it, for so provoking her in such an intense moment. But then his fingers were upon her chin — A startling level of physical intimacy — and he was declaring his intention to kiss her.

Briefly, Eppie thought she might faint, and she truly was not the fainting sort. Perhaps she ought to reassess her critical judgment of women who so dreamily insisted certain men made their knees weak. Eppie's knees were all right, as those things went — She felt they were a bit knobby, but perfectly serviceable — but she was nonetheless afraid she might simply pitch over like one of those peculiar goats.

But then, well. The kiss left something to be desired, she felt, and then immediately felt guilty for feeling so: Alistair wouldn't have bothered with the kiss had he not wanted to kiss her, and clearly he felt she needed kid gloves. Thus far she had been skittish as a new colt, and could she blame him? But really now; his mouth was warm, which was quite nice, but the action itself was downright brotherly.

Even Eppie understood passion well enough to know this was not it.

With a soft mew, her fingers curled into his lapels and she pushed up onto the balls of her feet to better meet his mouth. Her lips parted with a sigh, but she was too uncertain to slide her tongue forward à la française. Overall, her technique may have been lacking, but her enthusiasm could not be denied.

It was an awkward thing, and almost immediately Alistair hated himself for it. For all his wild ways, he'd never truly enjoyed chasing the skirts of those chaste and refined. There was always a fear to push too far, too quickly, and that was without the extra considerations of becoming involved with a woman of fine breeding.

Eppie deserved better; certainly she seemed to agree, with how she pulled at him, and he couldn't help but make a small noise of surprise. His arm slid about her waist, his hand shifting from her chin to cup her cheek. This was far more what he had desired; far more what she deserved. If nothing else, he had no doubts that her interest was her own, and as genuine as his own.

There was still an ache in his chest; an awareness that the dark and quiet protected them here, in this room. No further. It was unfair, he couldn't help but think petulantly, at least in the safety of his own mind. She was nobility; was intelligent, beautiful, far too fine a match for his mother to have denied him... If she were not already married.

Perhaps there's yet a way, he thought desperately, even as their lips finally parted and he looked down at her with half delight, half concern. "Would that I could've done that years ago," he murmured. In another lifetime, maybe; for this one, they would simply have to enjoy the indecent moments that they could but steal. A dark prospect, and one he didn't wish to linger upon over-long.