Page 76 of John Eyre

“Far above my sphere of life,” he said. “So much as to be from a different world.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. Shared struggles have brought us closer—the difficulties with Mr. Poole and with the boys. But it’s an illusion of intimacy. It isn’t real.”

“It feels quite real to me,” she said. And then, before he could guess what she was about, she stretched up and kissed him, very softly, on the mouth.

John’s breath stopped. His heart followed suit. He had a vague notion that he should draw back. That he should set her away from him just as he’d set Helen away during their single fateful encounter.

But Mrs. Rochester was no Helen Burns.

At the touch of her warm, half-parted lips, the simmering in his belly swiftly transfused to his blood—to his heart, and head, and loins. His breath stuttered to life, his pulse along with it. Without thought—without reason—he bent his head to hers, and returned her kiss in full measure.

It wasn’t wrong. Not in that moment. It was perfect.

She was perfect.

Her eyes were closed, her lips soft and pliant beneath his. Though boldly initiated, there was a carefulness to her kiss. A trembling uncertainty. “We shouldn’t.” Her faint protest whispered against his mouth, their breath mingling.

“No. We shouldn’t.” Their fingers twined tighter.

“John…”

“I know.” His forehead came to rest gently against hers.

“That was…”

“Yes.” He loosened his grasp on her hand. But he didn’t pull away from her. He hadn’t the will for it.

It was she who pulled back, drawing away from him to meet his eyes. Her cheeks were flushed. “If you like, we can forget that, right along with all the rest of what’s happened today.”

“I think it unlikely that either of us will forget.”

“No. Probably not.” Releasing his hand, she stood, folding her arms at her waist. A gust of wind blew through the arbor. It stirred the loose strands of hair at her face. “Do you have a future in mind for yourself, Mr. Eyre?”

Mr. Eyre.

He slowly got to his feet, conscious of her changeable mood. He’d be a fool to presume anything from that kiss. Not only a fool. A cad. It was plain she was already regretting it. “What do you mean?”

“After you leave here. You must have an idea of what you’ll do next.”

He regarded her with increasing wariness. “Am I leaving?”

“Eventually. Stephen and Peter won’t remain boys forever.”

“True enough.” He propped his shoulder against the damp wall.

“Well? Do you intend to seek employment elsewhere? Or have you some other plan?”

“I wouldn’t call it a plan. But…I suppose, I’d always hoped that I might save enough money out of my earnings to set up a small school of my own somewhere.”

She flashed him a look. “When?”

He shrugged. “Someday.”

“Someday,” she repeated. “That means never.”

“What about you?” he countered. “What does your future hold?”