It was not a tentative, polite press of lips. It was a collision. It was the breaking of a dam. Charles kissed her with the hunger of a starving man, his mouth warm and demanding. Mary gasped, her hands clutching the rough kersey of his coat, pulling him closer.
The world narrowed to the point of contact.
Mary Bennet, the girl who lived in books, closed her eyes and realised that no novel had ever captured the reality of being wanted. She kissed him back. She poured every ounce of her hidden passion, every suppressed emotion, every secret longing into the embrace.
Charles groaned and deepened the kiss. He pulled himself off the floor and onto the bench, wrapping his arms around her, burying his face in her neck. They were a tangle of wool and kersey, laughing, kissing, oblivious to the world.
"Say yes," he murmured against her skin. "Say you will stay. Say you will play for me and critique my waistcoats and let me love you."
Mary pulled back, breathless, her spectacles askew, her lips swollen. She gazed at him, and she saw her own reflection in a man's eyes not as a shadow, but as the centre of the universe.
"Yes," she nodded vigorously. "Yes. I will stay."
They smiled at each other, two exhausted souls who had finally found their way home.
From the hallway, a low, menacing growl shattered the peace.
It was followed by a shriek that sounded suspiciously like a bird predicting financial ruin.
"Unhand the poultry!" a voice boomed from the corridor. "Tepper! Flank him! He has the bird!"
Charles and Mary froze.
"Was that..." Charles blinked. "Was that a parrot?"
"And a cat," Mary whispered. "And a Viscount."
The double doors did not open so much as explode.
A streak of aggressive orange fur shot across the parquet. Charles-the-cat entered the music room not as a pet, but as a conqueror returning from the Crusades. He trotted with his head held high, tail twitching, carrying a prize that squawked, flapped, and shed expensive green feathers with every step.
"Liquidate!" the prize screamed from inside the feline jaws. "Dump the consols!"
Robert Fitzwilliam, a peer of the realm, skidded into the room, his boots losing traction on the polished wood. He flailed, his arms windmilling, before regaining his balance. He brandished his cane like a sabre. "Unhand the bird, you ginger demon! That parrot cost forty guineas to a Duke! It is a depreciating asset!"
Charles-the-cat ignored the shouting giant. He spotted the bench—and the frozen, embraced couple—and decided it offered excellent high ground. He leaped.
Charles-the-human yelped, pulling Mary back as the cat landed between them, the parrot still firmly clamped in his mouth.
"Squawk!" Sir Polonius thrashed, a wing hitting Charles in the nose. "Taxes! Legacy duties!"
"Colonel! Secure the perimeter! Do not let the beast swallow the bird!" Robert roared, charging to the instrument.
Colonel Lindon burst in, breathless and red-faced. "I fought Napoleon," he wheezed, bracing his hands on his knees. "I did not sign up for this."
"Get the bird, man!" the Viscount commanded, circling the bench. "He is trying to digest Sir Polonius!"
Tepper materialised from the hallway. The valet moved with the silent, deadly grace of an assassin. He did not run. He glided. He approached the snarling cat, his face a mask of professional indifference.
Charles-the-cat hissed, tightening his grip. Sir Polonius let out a sound like a tearing sheet.
"My Lord," Tepper stated calmly, reaching into his pocket. "The Dutch beef."
"Bribery?" Robert shouted. "You want to negotiate with thugs?"
"It is the only way." Tepper produced a dark, cured slice of meat from a folded piece of waxed paper. He held it out.
The cat stared at the meat.
