Work Text:
“ROMEO
If I profane with my unworthiest hand
This holy shrine, the gentle sin is this:
My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand
To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.
JULIET
Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,
Which mannerly devotion shows in this;
For saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch,
And palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.
ROMEO
Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?
JULIET
Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.
ROMEO
O then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do.
They pray: grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.”
Romeo & Juliet, Act 1, Scene 5
—
Thomas Hayward was a dangerous man.
Not, Mary thought, in the sense that fathers would eye him from the other side of a ballroom with distrust and a barely there concealed promise of violence were he to ever approach their daughters to take them for a dance or — God forbid — offer them a glass of punch, or that mamas would steer their daughters away with a firm grip and even firmer warning to not look at him lest their freshly debuted daughters did something that would give cause for gossip - or worse, ruin.
No, Thomas Hayward was dangerous because he was the kind of man that fathers would smile broadly when spotted on the other side of the ballroom, inviting to join them with a nod and a raised glass to discuss business and inquire over his recent cases, and that mamas would swoon when he brought glasses of punch to not only their daughters but also them, would swoon when he took their nervous and shy debuted daughters for a dance to ease their nerves and make sure they were not wallflowers but noticed by proper gentleman.
If one were to ask him, he would say that he was not like William Ryder — not easy to converse with, not comfortable being in the spotlight or spending too much time amongst society in parties or soirees with people he was not familiar with.
He would say that he had to work for everything he had ever had, that he could not offer a life of riches or jewelry or Italy.
But what he did not know is that some mamas had whispered amongst themselves after his understanding with Miss Ann Baxter had been called off and started to plan their daughters attire and hair for the next social event where he would be in attendance. That some fathers had looked appreciatively over his recent successful cases, taking notes to introduce him to some connections they had at law that could help boost his career, just a helpful nudge to nurture talent that soon would be talked about.
And, Mary thought as she felt Tom - her Tom, her friend and soon to be husband - pull her even closer to his chest, his other arm caging her on the patterned wall of the Gardiner’s entry hall corridor where they stood, the faint light of the gas lamp illuminating his face just enough that Mary could see how his eyes had darkened, Thomas Hayward was dangerous because he was the picture book example of a gentleman and exercised careful maintained control over himself.
Mary had wondered, in the weeks after their engagement, when she felt a little braver to let her imagination run in the privacy of her chambers and picture Tom as her husband (her husband!), what would be like to see his carefully placed attire of propriety taken off. She would remember their dance at the ball, recalling with a faint blush the way his gaze had not left her face and how she swore he had inhaled deeply when they got particularly close to each other, how his hand had seemed to linger a beat longer than the dance required whenever they touched.
They had only kissed twice, those two times right after his apology for disappearing and his proposal at the park, and Mary would catch herself remembering the feeling of his arms around her and his warm lips over hers when she least expected.
To her amusement — and slight frustration — her Aunt and Uncle had started to chaperone them strictly after they had announced their engagement. They had not been able to steal a moment alone since, with Mrs. Gardiner deploying even her cousins to act as buffers whenever they would not be able to keep a close eye on the young couple.
They usually let slip by a small act of impropriety: a small touch of the hands, a shared look a beat too long and heavy… with Tom’s gentlemanly ways that was the most he would do that could be considered improper.
And maybe that was why on that particular Saturday night, after they had left Ann’s (now Mrs. Powell) first soiree at her new house, Mrs. and Mr. Gardiner had allowed them to be left alone for a short while before Tom left, excusing themselves to retire to their chambers.
A few minutes at most and with the entire family present in the house (although the little ones were sleeping deeply and Mr. Gardiner was bound to sleep just as deeply given the day’s fatigue added with maybe one too many glasses of punch drunk with Mr. Powdell’s father — Mrs. Gardiner liked to think she would be easily woken up, but after three children who liked to wake earlier than she would prefer on weekends her body knew to savour every minute slept) the Gardiner couple had no reason to doubt that the young couple would be able to maintain their interaction brief and restrained as they should. Afterall, they had no reason to doubt Mary and Tom given their past interactions after the engagement.
And that had been their mistake, for even the most controlled ones were bound to lose their reason someday.
Later that night when Tom had already left and Mary was in her room, cheeks bright red and dreamy look in her eyes, replaying what had occurred in a vicious cycle over her head, she would not be able to pinpoint exactly what had made the mood suddenly change into a heavy and charged one.
All she could remember was that they had been quietly saying goodbye, lingering near the door, neither wanting to part ways just yet. Tom had gotten closer to her, his hand reaching slowly to cup her cheek, giving her time to decide if she wanted it or not.
But Mary wanted it, had been wanting to kiss him again for several weeks now.
So she took a step closer to him and inclined her head up, giving him a silent yes.
The kiss was soft and lovely and oh so sweet and Mary felt herself floating as Tom kissed her as if she was something as precious and delicate as a blooming flower.
Feeling bold, she moved one hand to his shoulder, the other resting over his heart.
“My dear Mary,” Tom breathed against her lips, looking adoringly at her before kissing her again.
This second kiss (their fourth overall, fourth!) was not as tender as the previous ones.
Tom’s other arm had wrapped around Mary’s waist, bringing her closer as he deepened the kiss.
And maybe it was their closeness, how Mary could feel his heart beating as fast as the metronome she placed on top of the pianoforte when she played a particularly tricky piece, or maybe it was her wandering hand that somehow had risen from his shoulder to play with the soft curls at the base of his neck, or maybe even the way she felt Tom’s arm hugging her tighter while his other hand angled her head to kiss her just the way he wanted to, but Mary felt the small hallway getting warmer and herself lightheaded as the butterflies in her stomach doubled, tripled their nervous dance.
Her head emptied, all her thoughts scattered away like leaves in the wind and she felt herself floating away, the hand on Tom’s chest now clutching his waistcoat as if to anchor herself.
And then she let out a little sound — could have been a whimper or a sigh or even maybe a groan as Tom’s mouth became more insistent, she could not say exactly and did not even care.
All she knew was that the moment that small barely there sound left her Thomas Hayward and his carefully maintained restraint snapped.
He walked until Mary’s back hit the patterned wall behind her, who let out a small gasp of surprise that was promptly swallowed by his hungry mouth, the hand at her waist tightening so much that she had half a mind to wonder if he was also afraid of her floating away from the power of his kisses.
Mary’s hands gained a mind of their own, the one on his chest now on his neck while the one which had previously been politely on the hair at his nape was now running through his silk soft curls.
It was Tom’s turn to let out a small whimper as Mary gave his hair a little tug, and she felt warmth pool low on her belly at the sound, at the evidence of his control so thoroughly lost.
It was madness what they were doing. Truly utterly madness when her aunt and uncle and the children were sleeping just one floor above them, when any noise could make one of them wake up and search downstairs for the reason.
But Mary, serious and rational Mary, who liked to study facts, who read non fiction as pleasure and who liked geology and history and geography because those were areas that made sense to her, that spoke clearly what they meant… that Mary was lost somewhere in the haze of pleasure that Tom was making her feel.
She felt so hot as if she had a fever and when she felt Tom’s tongue gently seeking permission — because even in the haze of passion her Tom was kind and gentle, never rough — she felt herself burst into flames.
She tugged at Tom’s curls again and he took that as an incentive, for he doubled his efforts on what appeared to be his mission: to leave her completely breathless.
His mouth was insistent on hers, Mary truly past all sense of shyness or meekness for she reciprocated his kisses with equal fervour, her tongue doing an exploring of her own, meeting his without shame.
They broke apart after what could have been minutes, hours or days, but still staying a hair’s distance from each other, noses touching and both breathless.
Tom’s arm now caged her against the patterned wall of the Gardiner’s entry hall corridor where they stood, his other arm still secure around her waist, as if he was trying to ground them both, to make sure that this was real, that Mary was real and that what was happening was not a fragment of his imagination after too many cups of tea and sleepless nights going over his cases.
“Do you have any idea what you do to me, Miss Mary Bennet?” he whispered as ran his nose over cheek, his voice a low caress against her ears “How thoroughly you unravel me?”
No, she thought, I had no idea the power I had over you until today, until you lost your restraint and I realised that you are as wrecked as me whenever we are close, that you held your control in a leash so tightly that the cord was merely of brush of hands away from snapping.
But Mary had lost the ability to speak, her tongue and lips still tingling after his kisses. All she could do was try to remember how to breathe properly.
However, it seemed that Tom did not care to wait until her soul had returned to her body to hear an answer. In fact, it seemed he required no answer at all, for his lips found hers again.
He was a man possessed, kissing her as if she was water and he was a lost man wandering in the desert. As if she was oxygen and he needed to get as much of her as possible before his lungs collapsed, before he ceased to exist.
Using the arm wrapped as tight as a vine around her waist, Tom raised her a few centimeters from the floor, flushing their bodies even closer (if that was even possible), as if he could not bear to not be in contact with her at all times, as if he wanted to fuse them together until he breathed the very same air that she breathed.
Mary was so adrift in the throes of passion now, of what he was making her feel that all caution truly went out of the window as her arms embraced his neck.
Later Mary would blush as red as a tomato freshly picked from a summer field when she recalled how Tom — reserved, bookish Tom, who quoted poems unprompted and needed her assistance to know how to correctly swing a fishing rod when fishing — had held her suspended on air for quite a little while solely in one arm.
Mary already knew she had a very unhealthy and somewhat scandalous obsession with her betrothed's forearms, but from now on those forbidden thoughts would wander to his biceps, shoulders, his chest and back… what other defined muscles were being hidden away from her wandering eyes by some revolting piece of cotton shirts and thick waistcoats?
At the present, nevertheless, Mary was too busy being thoroughly kissed to think clearly and realise that Tom had been blessed not only with very attractive forearms but that his upper arms and the rest of his body were just as eyecatching.
Tom had now moved his kisses to her neck, mumbling words of endearment against her soft skin that she could barely hear above the way her heart was beating loudly.
“Thomas,” Mary let out in a breathless voice as Tom nipped at her skin just below her ear, that spot turning her body liquid.
And it was the way Mary said his name — not Tom as he reminded her to call him now that they were engaged but Thomas, a certain cadence in her voice in the way she had pronounced those little two syllables making him freeze and realise just where they were and what exactly they had been doing for maybe the past hour, reality crashing down on his head like a rock and knocking him down.
Because the way Mary had sounded… the way she had sounded was reserved for closed doors late in the night after they had retired themselves to their chambers and he could listen to her let out all those little noises that had made his restraint snap like a fragile piece of grass, could make those little noises turn into something bigger, louder.
Could hear her say Thomas in repeat until it was all she could do, her own name a forgotten memory.
The way she had said his name was definitely not to be uttered in a dimly lit hallway, against a wall (a wall!) while the Gardiners slept peacefully upstairs.
The Gardiners, who had taken him in like a son when he was freshly arrived from Yorkshire to London and who had trusted him to behave in a gentlemanly way with their niece.
With his betrothed.
Tom slowly set Mary down on the ground, but he didn’t let her go.
He had promised himself to never run away after the Lakes, so even if he wanted to go to the other side of the house and apologise for the liberties he had taken, he just could not bring himself to part from her.
“Tom?” Mary said his name now with a tone of uncertainty, of confusion, one of her hands gently running through his hair as his head fell to her shoulder, his posture crumbling.
“I am sorry,” he apologised to her shoulder, kicking himself over his loss of composure “I should not have— I did not think—”
“It is quite fine, Mr. Hayward” Mary replied, and just by that — the use of such formality, of him going back to Mr. Hayward, not Tom or Thomas — he could feel Mary retreating inside herself, her mind most probably coming up with reasons their passionate embrace had been interrupted, reasons he was certain were entirely mistaken and wrong.
“Mary, no” Tom said in a rush, rising his head so he could look at her face, his arm finally letting go of her waist as both hands came up to cup her lovely face, so he could look deep into her maddening lovely blue eyes and make her understand that whatever reason she had come up with was not to be entertained.
“Mary Mary Mary,” he chanted religiously, as if she was a deity, one of the goddesses from his romantic poems and he a poor and lowly follower who dared to worship her.
He could see, even in the dim light he could see her trying to shrink and make herself smaller.
As if he had rejected her.
“My sweet wonderful beautiful intelligent Mary,” he whispered, not weakly but with certainty, his thumbs brushing her cheeks “Do you have any idea what you do to me? Do you ever wonder how my honour hangs by a thread whenever I so much as get a sniff of your lovely scent? How I have to hold myself back from doing something that would make your Uncle challenge me to duel?”
“I thought—” she took a deep breath, and his heart broke because he could see that she was trying to hold back tears.
“Oh love,” Tom kissed her, a soft brush of his lips against hers “I treasure you too much, respect you too much to let myself be so overcome with passion and desire that I end up doing something like take you before our marriage at the front of your aunt’s well decorated hallway.”
“Forgive me, for losing reason and taking so many liberties” he felt his ears getting warmer, shame overtaking him “I fear that I cannot control myself if I am left unchaperoned with you, not now that I am certain that you love me and that in a few weeks I will be allowed to call myself your husband.”
“You have nothing to apologise for, I was a willing participant,” Mary sniffed, her hands closing around his wrists.
“And besides, I—” her face warmed, that blush he so adored staining her round cheeks “I enjoyed it immensely”
“Dear God, Mary,” Tom groaned, closing his eyes and letting his forehead rest against hers, hearing her giggle “You shall be the death of me.”
“You are forbidden to die and leave me a widow before we have even taken our vows” Mary replied, and he opened his eyes to see her blue eyes sparkling with mischief.
Tom smiled gently at her, glad her unfounded doubts had been swiftly put to rest.
“I should go, I have already overstayed my stay and at any moment anyone could wake up and rush down in a panic when they find your bed empty.” he reluctantly said, leaving a kiss on the corner of her mouth.
She nodded, intertwining their arms as they walked the short distance until they stopped in front of the door, having to part ways for good this time.
“I shall call on you tomorrow as soon as I can get away from the office,” Tom promised, holding her hands “And I shall miss you terribly until then.”
“Oh hush,” Mary said fondly, rising on her toes to give him a sweet and brief kiss (they could not have a repeat of their earlier actions in front of the door and it truly was quite late).
“Goodnight, Tom” she whispered as she saw him go down the short steps from the front door to the street, the moonlight reflecting on his spectacles as he turned to her.
“Goodnight, Mary” he replied, already thinking if he shortened his lunch he could make it faster to Gracechurch Street.
Thomas Hayward was a dangerous man, Mary thought to herself as she closed the door, slowly making her way up to her room.
But he was hers.