Star's Crossing

21: No Decadent Vice

"Good day." Mare felt the heat of his mouth upon her hand even as he released it, and could not help but hold those keen eyes as she ducked beneath the low-bent bows and accepted the offered arm of Theodore Bridge.

"Geoffrey," he said to his brother.

"Teddy," answered Geoffrey, returning hands to his pockets and reclining against the great bur with a smile settled upon mischievous lips.

Mare was remiss to watch him vanish back into the trees as he'd come.

She was remiss, she realized, stupidly, stupidly, to have wished Theodore Bridge had not found her so easily.

And then, of course, was the matter of finding her in so compromising a position! Prone, in the dirt and grass. His brother poised above her. Lips, faces, hearts inches apart. Practically touching.

Kissing.

Oh, God. Mare did not comprehend the severity of her fault until a dozen feet had bloomed between her Geoffrey. By then the sweeping shadows had swallowed them all, and Mare and Teddy tread fast over the path, the same upon which they'd met not a week ago, in rain and storm.

Teddy had yet to say a word, though they drew nearer the fringe of the wood with every step. He owed her nothing, not a warning, not a chide; they were, after all, not friends, nor allies, not family, not...

Anything.

What deal had Mare to strike? What options had she? What offers, what pleas? Had she anything but what she'd always possessed—desperation?
"Teddy..."

He slowed as she did, stalling on the path, her hand wound through the crook of his elbow. "It is all right, Mare. You owe me no explanation."

"You..."

"What?"

She swallowed. "You shouldn't call me that."

Now he looked at her, lowering his arm. "Ms. Atwood," he said, softly, with a slight shake of his head. "What is it you intend, with my cousin? My brother?"

"I don't know." She did not think before she spoke, though as always, she should have. "I feel helpless."

He stared at her, eyes bright but not keen. A breeze rose between them, but it felt separate; distant, part of the woods. It felt like it pushed them together. "You and Camden," he said, voice trailing.

Mare shook her head once. "I have not offered myself; nor has he."

Teddy watched her inscrutably. "You say so as though it is a victory."

"No! I..." Was it? In some strange, liberating way? "I am only...unsure." Mare shook her head. Wind lifted between the trees and coursed, powerfully, through the canopies, like blood through the vein. Mare stepped from the path and leaned against a tree, its stable bones a mercy. "It all happened so quickly. I thought I was sure..."

"Why?" Teddy followed with slow, measured steps, halting before her with hands behind his back. Again his expression was unreadable, a furrow between his brows, a glimmer in his warm brown eyes. Mare once more relished his height, lacking to most, but for her, an even match that levelled their eyes.

Why had she been sure? She nearly laughed at the notion of offering explanation. The letters, Almagest, the Star's Crossing Gazette; but how would Teddy reply? How could he? Only with vitriol or the most extreme displeasure.

But yet...Teddy, among all of Mare's acquaintances, had spoken the most gently—or quite contrary, the most passionately—about those things propriety might frown upon. Mare worried her lip, and thought with a skip of her heart, how close they'd come today, to another's.

How close she'd wanted them to.

"So often," Mare admitted, "I am blindsided by what I want, rather than what I need."

Teddy stared at her. He said nothing.

"I know it is improper to speak thus," she said, searching his stoic eyes, shaking her head. "But I must. There is no one I trust, Teddy."

Now he straightened, just a hair, and inclined his head. "And you trust me?"

She considered this. It was not a statement she was readily prepared to make, yet as she puzzled over the inquiry, her instinct said yes. What was it about him, she wondered, searching his face? Was it the kindness in his gaze, or the curiosity? The absence of judgment? The challenge, beneath it all, a running current, a rush of blood?

"You spoke of passions that night," Mare said, straightening. The quiet swept around them, conspiratorial, a hush like the tide. "You said it was condemnable. Yet you urge me to indulge—"

"Not indulge, Ms. Atwood," said Teddy, somewhat sharply. "It is no decadent vice. I urged you to have mercy."

Mare stared at him, attempting in vain to read between his words. "Upon you?"

"Upon yourself." He'd taken a step nearer, hands lowered to his sides. "And upon us all, as giving voice to your heart, your truest instincts, is certainly no trespass but a gift. Had Austen or the Brontës fallen silent, would not your heart be lonelier, your well run dry? What young girl or boy should be remiss, incomplete, perhaps, having not heard you read? Write?"

"Write." She beheld him differently now, a jewel lifted to light. Every facet required, no, deserved scrutiny—every word he'd spoken was one she'd later dissect—yet it was this last, the brightest, that seized and held hostage her attentions. "Who, pray tell, says that I write, Mr. Bridge?"

"No one," he answered, unblinking, jaw tight. "No one says you read, either. In fact, given the word of the company, I'd be inclined to believe you a cold, heartless, predator in dire need of a deep pocket and a warm body."

"You'd be so inclined," repeated Mare, answering his step with one of her own, a hot spark of anger rising against her skin. "Implying you are not. What makes you believe any differently?"

"Instinct of my own."

"You are a follower of instinct, then, Mr. Bridge? And yet you mimic the pattern of your cousin and brother, of your father and his father before him?" Mare relished the falter in Teddy's cool mask, and sought to crack it further. "Do not advise me on my path when you deny your own. Your doubts are traitors as much as mine."

Teddy froze then, no answer rising readily to his lips, and in good timing, too, as both Camden Doores and Lilith Gilbert appeared at the head of the path.

"Perhaps it is best we keep apart from one another," said Mare quietly, turning toward the wood. She was both surprised and relieved to give the pit in her stomach voice.

For no longer did she relish the dares of Teddy Bridge; no longer did she wish for a clever young man to appear, a shine in her shadow, at times of need or distress. He was a sign of warning on her clear road—her road to Camden Doores. Theodore Bridge was another path, soft and faded, crowded with the perfume of white jasmine and fresh rain.

He was dangerous. A catalyst. And Mare could not afford to stand out. No matter how unsure she felt.

Or how right he was.

"Well, well," said Lilith as she strolled along the path. "It looks like Mare is not so difficult to find after all."

"No," said Teddy softly, "though she is quite skilled at hiding."

Mare closed her hands into fists, accepting Camden's arm when he offered. She looked once over her shoulder, and held Teddy's eyes: burning coals. Fire upon her own tongue. "Aren't we all?"