Her breath hitched as he put a hand to her face, but Jemima was almost less nervous in that moment – because it meant it really could be tonight, if he was actually willing to kiss her. (Not just in obligation at the ceremony, not just as something to be said for show.)
And he was being very gentle with her. In theory this wasn’t a problem at all, but it did make Jemima very conscious of herself. Because – firstly – kissing him back felt like a betrayal of Jack (whom she had kissed enough times to make it feel like second nature), and secondly she was worried about giving him, Ford, the wrong impression. She didn’t want to seem too eager or too... unchaste; so she was afraid to let herself melt into it as if it had been an ordinary kiss.
At least (?) she would not need to feign shyness with the rest of this: anything else was entirely new. She had been given an instruction, in any case, so the next few minutes were accounted for. “Alright,” she echoed, heartbeat still fluttering too fast, but she smiled back. “I’ll – be right back.” She tugged the new nightdress down from where it was hanging, and ducked into the adjoining bathroom. She looked at herself in the mirror as if she were a stranger – pressing her hands to her cheeks to feel how warm she was; tracing her fingers over her lips where he had just kissed her, as if she could make herself used to it by sheer contemplation.
But she oughtn’t take too long in here, or she might lose the courage she had. So – one thing at a time. Jemima swallowed, and started undressing in earnest. Carefully, she shrugged off her bodice, stepped out of her skirts. She fumbled on the corset clasps as she undid them from the front, perched on the edge of the bathtub to pull off her stockings, and by the time she’d pulled the nightdress over her head she was trembling a little – from nerves or from anticipation. Or perhaps the goosebumps on her skin were only from the lack of layers, from feeling newly exposed. She looked critically at herself again in the mirror now. The nightgown was of lighter, thinner, floatier fabric than her cotton ones – she could see the natural shapes of her body by how it fell on her. There was some lace and embroidered decoration around the neckline, and a bit of ribbon at the back, her arms left bare.
She should do something about her hair. It felt rather a shame to ruin it when he said she had looked pretty today, but – she wouldn’t be able to sleep in it like this, so she teased out the pins, watching the curls fall out of place. She twined a few strands of it back from around her face, just to look a little more presentable – but how presentable could she really be, ready for bed?
Was he ready yet? Jemima counted a few seconds more, hovering in the doorway, and then, uncertainly, stepped out to see. “Hi,” she said, awkwardly, to announce her presence; she felt herself blushing again.
And he was being very gentle with her. In theory this wasn’t a problem at all, but it did make Jemima very conscious of herself. Because – firstly – kissing him back felt like a betrayal of Jack (whom she had kissed enough times to make it feel like second nature), and secondly she was worried about giving him, Ford, the wrong impression. She didn’t want to seem too eager or too... unchaste; so she was afraid to let herself melt into it as if it had been an ordinary kiss.
At least (?) she would not need to feign shyness with the rest of this: anything else was entirely new. She had been given an instruction, in any case, so the next few minutes were accounted for. “Alright,” she echoed, heartbeat still fluttering too fast, but she smiled back. “I’ll – be right back.” She tugged the new nightdress down from where it was hanging, and ducked into the adjoining bathroom. She looked at herself in the mirror as if she were a stranger – pressing her hands to her cheeks to feel how warm she was; tracing her fingers over her lips where he had just kissed her, as if she could make herself used to it by sheer contemplation.
But she oughtn’t take too long in here, or she might lose the courage she had. So – one thing at a time. Jemima swallowed, and started undressing in earnest. Carefully, she shrugged off her bodice, stepped out of her skirts. She fumbled on the corset clasps as she undid them from the front, perched on the edge of the bathtub to pull off her stockings, and by the time she’d pulled the nightdress over her head she was trembling a little – from nerves or from anticipation. Or perhaps the goosebumps on her skin were only from the lack of layers, from feeling newly exposed. She looked critically at herself again in the mirror now. The nightgown was of lighter, thinner, floatier fabric than her cotton ones – she could see the natural shapes of her body by how it fell on her. There was some lace and embroidered decoration around the neckline, and a bit of ribbon at the back, her arms left bare.
She should do something about her hair. It felt rather a shame to ruin it when he said she had looked pretty today, but – she wouldn’t be able to sleep in it like this, so she teased out the pins, watching the curls fall out of place. She twined a few strands of it back from around her face, just to look a little more presentable – but how presentable could she really be, ready for bed?
Was he ready yet? Jemima counted a few seconds more, hovering in the doorway, and then, uncertainly, stepped out to see. “Hi,” she said, awkwardly, to announce her presence; she felt herself blushing again.
