Rakes and Radishes by Susanna Ives

in his ear: You came here to forget about her.
    Kesseley took her to her door. He was about to launch into a casual reminder of dinner when she grabbed his hand. Her eyes were large, her lashes still wet from the rain. She suddenly looked so fragile. Kesseley’s heart swelled like some overprotective goose, ready to challenge any thick-necked, squawking fowl on the pond for her.
    “Kesseley, I saw—” she began, then stopped, the small, soft concave in her throat contracting. “I mean, thank you for…” She rubbed her thumb over his palm. “For being so kind to me.”
    He took her hand and brought it to his lips.
    “Oh, Kesseley,” she whispered.
    A long quiet moment passed between them.
    “I sh-should change for dinner,” she said. Then she slowly closed her door, never taking her eyes from his.
    Kesseley waited. Under the door, he could see the shadow of her feet. She stood just behind the door, inches from himself.
    Was she as paralyzed as he was? Stuck, unwilling to part.
    A tiny tremor ran through him.
    Hope.
    One day soon, he would be on the other side of that door, untying her bonnet, letting her hair fall loose, running his hands down her body to her neat ankles, plucking off her shoes, then lifting her and taking her to that snug little bed, while several stories below, the rain washed London clean.
    He was positively shaking as he came down to the kitchen, feeling that sweet, yet scary sensation akin to holding a new calf born too late in the summer. A tiny, fragile miracle about to face the cold winter. Hope and fear.
    In the kitchen pots steamed, and a hen spun in the spit. Along the gleaming wooden table servants laid out china and cutlery. In the center the chef rushed about barking unintelligible orders and waving a large spoon like a baton. Kesseley received a dark, hostile eye when he asked the animated Frenchman, “Is dinner good?”
    The insulted chef broke into a long stream of fast, violent French, waving his arms, whapping various pots with his spoon. The servants scurried to their corners and cowered in fear.
    Kesseley wasn’t sure what the chef said, but he heartily agreed it would be the best dinner of which he would ever partake, and then hastily retreated to his chamber.
    ***

    Baggot gasped when Kesseley opened his clothespress, flipped past all the “yeller” coats and pulled out his only blue one. Why would Kesseley want to wear something that looked like mud?
    Yet Kesseley wouldn’t relent, not tonight, even if it took an hour or more of persuading Baggot. Patiently suffering through his little digs about how gentlemen of good sense listened to the advice of their valets, and why well-dressed, influential gentlemen wore “yeller” coats.
    When finally Kesseley was alone, he slapped cologne on his neck, patted down his side-whiskers and brushed his hair back from his eyes, the way she liked. Henrietta came out of her chamber as he stepped into the corridor, still smoothing his cravat and coattails. She had pulled her hair into a braided knot, letting it fall into ringlets around her dark eyes. She wore the same silvery-white gown he had admired at the Ely assembly last fall. Little rosebuds dotted the sleeves and a beaded lace ruffle ran along the bodice. His sex stirred, as it had when he’d dancing with her those months ago, trying to keep his eyes from straying to that little ruffle flopping under her round breasts.
    She gave Kesseley a flustered smile.
    “Good evening.” He bowed, feeling like his skin could barely contain him. She curtsied. Kesseley’s eyes fell to the tiny ruby pendant falling between her breasts. Her mother’s, he knew. He had diamonds. Many diamonds. He would give them to her.
    “You look very handsome,” she said shyly. Was she as nervous as he?
    “Do you like my coat?” he said. “It’s blue. You said blue matched my eyes.”
    Her brows drew down. “Blue,” she said, like a quiet echo. “It’s very nice.”
    He had this sudden