Page 29 of Thus with a Kiss I Die
A question designed to send me into a frenzy and so I framed a question to return the favor. “Who ever said men were the logical sex? I’ve never seen that to be true!”
He snapped at the bait. “What doyoumean bythat?”
“My parents have every reason to wish that this union take place immediately, as you command. They were stunned at my good sense in capturing a prince, not quite comprehending that, in all truth, you captured me. And for all that the torches that lit us that night showed us both clothed, I spoke unwisely and it’s believed that we engaged in previous trysts.”
“As we did.”
At that injustice, I took fire. “I don’t think that you sneaking up on me while I stood alone outside on our veranda qualifies as a tryst. I believe to be a tryst, both must be involved in the arrangements.”
“Perhaps.” It was, at best, a grudging agreement to that, and at the same time, a deliberate reminder of an evening that seemed to me almost a dream, yet a vision of a heady future.
It would not do to dwell on past moments, and so I calmed myself. “I simply point out that word has gone out to all Verona that I was despoiled by the prince. If we wed as soon as you wish, that will be seen as a confirmation.”
“For fear a child is on the way?”
Did I really need to talk him through every arguing point? “If there’s no apparent hurry, doubt will be cast and my reputation restored.”
“No one will dare to disparage your reputation.” He drew himself up to his full height and exuded chilly dignity. “I’m the prince of Verona. I will forbid it!”
He was more unseeing than his blind and elderly grandmother. “When you look upon the sky, do you see muddy earth? When you gaze upon beautiful Verona, do you see the grandeur of ancient Rome?”
He didn’t so much deflate as stand down. “I don’t understand.”
“You suffer from the worst sort of powerful illusion if you believe that your forbidding will do more than confirm their suspicions. Please, Cal, I beg you, don’t do such a thing. The sniggering at my expense is already loud enough.”
He seated himself in a velvet-upholstered chair, put his fingertips together, and pretended to think. Or maybe he did think, but they were man thoughts and thus indecipherable to me. Finally he looked up. “I never meant for laughter to be the burden of this match.”
“I acquit you of that. Mockery is not something that could afflict you as prince.” Again I thought to clarify that which seemed beyond his experience. “Although for the most part, men don’t suffer the ordeal of sniggering amusement due to, for instance, their skill at swordplay.”
“You’re accomplished at swordplay yourself.”
That was true. My father, Romeo the quick with a blade, believed all his children—his daughters, as well as his son—should know how to defend themselves. “Unless provoked unto death, I lack the mettle to eviscerate an opponent.”
“I suspect I’m grateful for that.”
I remembered that night, the unruly passion lit by torches, the nasty flavor of mortification, of knowing I’d been so befooled, and the resultant betrothal. With all the sincerity in my being, I assured him, “You are.”
Wisely, Cal didn’t even so much as hint at a smile, but offered his hand, palm up.
Gentle reader, let’s stop and discuss my moral quandary. Do you understand that a man’s hand that does not grasp or insist is an invitation, and palm up means even more? It was an offering of peace and a hope it will be accepted. Thus the question is . . . should I accept the gesture and return it with a handclasp?
Since that night of the humiliating scene in the garden and its postmortem of a marriage offer, I’d steered away from any deliberate contact of my skin to his. I didn’t want to remember those moments of passion, with all the stars of the dark night that fell from the sky and wrapped us in their flame. I still felt the burn; I waited impatiently for it to fade. Would this simple touch ignite it again?
Yet to ignore his gesture would indicate a decline of his goodwill, and in the marriage of my Capulet grandparents, I’d seen what damage could be done to a family when warfare lives between the couple.
I was the Montagues’ sensible daughter. Should I be sensible now?
The prince was not a man to long wait for rejection; his hand had gradually begun to retreat and close.
With unromantic haste, I snatched it in mine.
There. It was done. I had maintained my good sense. A handclasp was a simple thing, a common thing. I held my mother’s hand, my father’s hand, my sisters’ hands, Cesario’s hand. This gesture was no more than that. I was myself, Rosaline of the Montagues, prudent, rational, not given to flights of unreasonable and unforeseen craving for a man I barely knew. I was comfortable, nothing more.
Cal gazed at our hands and rearranged the grasp so his fingers deliberately intersected mine, reaching between, pressing our palms together. As if to give reign to sensation, he closed his eyes. With his thumb, he stroked my palm, creating the agitation that I’d told myself lacked importance; and in his still face, I saw the truth. I could scoff at myself, at my own passionate imaginings. It was Cal’s passionate imaginings of which I should beware.
He opened his eyes and caught the sunrise of comprehension that lit my face. He gazed; then in an austere voice, he asked, “Are you thinking of Lysander?”
“I am not, and I’ll be uncomfortable if you are.”
