Henry Higgins liked to think that he was a good man. He paid his staff well; he was loyal to the few friends he possessed; and he went to church every – every other – he was known at his local church -that is not to say he was ignorant of his shortcomings as a human being; but, when push came to shove, his moral compass generally pulled North.
Henry's mother had painstakingly imparted wisdom on how to treat others to him and his siblings, and - though he had minor quibbles with some of the social rules she set before him - he had done alright in his thirty-eight years. Truly, he valued himself as a level-headed, knowledgeable, and morally upright member of society – up until Eliza entered his boyhood room in her nightgown, spouting off about attraction and touching.
Now, he felt goodness in his character melt away, replaced by a different sort of good altogether. Kissing Eliza felt good – no – he had no patience for repetitive words, even when they only existed in his mind: Kissing Eliza felt essential . He, who had all but eschewed romantic attachment for the majority of his life (there had been one or two dalliances; but he had been young – even younger than Eliza at the time), found himself positively feral with want over the infuriating, magnificent, irritating, lovely, angel of mercy that writhed beneath him on his bed. She was all softness and instinct as her lips parted beneath his, and his hands wanted desperately to feel more than silken fabric and frills as he ran them up and down her sides. Surely, she had proved her point, and he would be able to stop; to let her go back to the safety of her own bed until morning. Then they could have a civilized, fully dressed chat about the state of things; one where she wasn't cupping his face and plunging her sweet tongue into his mouth. Yes, he found himself quite ready to put a stop to the proceedings… but then she hooked one gloriously bare leg about his waist, and pulled his hips flush against hers – then she lifted her hips, and dared to exhale a soft moan that turned his entire worldview on its head.
"Henry," Eliza sighed. Her hips lifted once more, as one hand drifted away from Henry's face, and slid down his back. His own hands went reflexively to her hips, grasping at them to aid in her need for more delicious friction – he needed it too; would perish, he thought, if he didn't have it. The scant layers of clothing between them did little to mask the evidence of his all-consuming need for her; Eliza's nightgown was rucked up over her hips, and their only barrier preventing full consummation was his pajamas, and her knickers. The heat from her center fairly scorched through the layers… and there lay Henry's impetus to put a full stop to the proceedings. Henry took gentle hold of Eliza's wrists and pinned her to her sides, as he shifted his weight to his knees, and carefully straddled her in a way that prevented any further contact, save for his hands on her wrists.
"You've made your position very clear, my dear," he announced in a small, strained voice. "But I made a promise to not do - this - here. "
"Then let's go home and continue there," came her stubborn response. There was a blurry quality to her words that raised concern in Henry's chest, even as his mind imploded at what she was suggesting.
I am fully capable of resisting temptation… I am fully capable of resisting temptation…
Henry released his hold on Eliza's wrists and maneuvered himself so that he was lying on his side, observing her as she regulated her breathing. He saw that her gaze was slightly unfocused. His mind went back to earlier in the night: Eliza with a full glass of wine. He had not, to his knowledge, ever spied so much as a glass of cordial in her hand before that moment.
"Eliza, how many glasses of wine did you have tonight?"
She frowned at the ceiling and shrugged. "Two?"
"Aha. Now, how much wine have you had… ever?"
She puffed her cheeks and exhaled slowly before giggling. "Oh, that - well, didn't I say no one had ever seen a drop of liquor on me when we first met?"
Henry groaned and covered his face with his hands. "You did."
"Well, there you have it." She turned to face him, a dopey grin playing across her features; it was maddening and adorable in equal measure. She leaned forward, and he had to pull away from her kiss.
"Eliza, you are intoxicated. Proceeding any further tonight would be totally unethical."
He noted a flicker of hurt flash across her dark eyes. Damn.
"Listen," he continued, softening the previously jagged edges of his tone. "My dear, I feel as though I've spent much of our acquaintance taking advantage of you in one way or another -" Eliza's eyes widened at this, and he saw her begin to open her mouth to protest "-Please let me continue. I did. I took advantage of your desire to better yourself to further my research; to puff up my already overblown sense of self; and I – I regret not caring enough to take care of your sense of self at the time. Your feelings." Henry took a deep breath and brought a hand forward to cup her cheek.
"After what I've put you through – to take advantage of you in this way, while you are not in a sober frame of mind would be an utter violation."
Eliza blinked slowly turned onto her back, and fixed her eyes back on the ceiling. Her voice quavered as she finally stated: "You must think me very foolish."
"Never! – well, rather, not in this instance. No; I don't think you are foolish at all. You are…" Henry trailed off. He was beginning to feel the start of something overwhelmingly vulnerable burst forth, but he wasn't certain he had the strength to dam it up.
"I am… ?" Eliza echoed.
"You are so important to me; despite there being so much evidence to the contrary, I need you to believe that what happens to you matters to me. Your happiness matters in particular." He brushed a chaste kiss against her temple.
"Well, that's quite nice," Eliza hummed, a content smile appeared at the corners of her mouth as her eyes closed. "I don't think I've ever mattered before."
"Nonsense."
"I suppose I should go back to my room," she murmured with a yawn, as she turned to snuggle against his side. He pulled her close and began to stroke circles along the nape of her neck.
"I disagree; I think you ought to stay here with me. If Father Christmas catches you out and about, he won't leave presents, you know."
"Right then." Eliza became heavy in his arms as her body went slack with sleep.
Eliza awoke several hours later, tangled pleasantly in Henry's arms. As was their custom when it came to sharing sleeping space, the sun had yet to filter through the curtains, and the room was nearly full dark. Eliza sat, stretched her arms above her head, and gave a gentle yawn that was cut off when she felt, rather than saw, Henry wrap his arms about her waist and pull her back down beside him. Her sharp gasp was cut off by his mouth covering hers, and they kissed at a slow, sensuous pace.
"I do believe this is the very definition of 'playing with fire'," Eliza murmured when Henry pulled away to press brief kisses against her jawline and the side of her neck. Her head fell back against the pillow, and she closed her eyes, dreamily. His hands were stroking soft, gently circles along her ribs, and then upwards. Her eyes flew open when she felt the weight of one hand cup her right breast through thin layers of fabric. She caught his wrist and urged the hand back to her side. No one had ever touched her there , and she found herself slightly disturbed by how much she – self-proclaimed 'good girl' – had not minded in the least.
"I have a mind to let them catch us," Henry confessed, as he rolled onto his back with a frustrated groan. "Then at least we'd have to make the decision to stop, or do this every morning for the rest of our lives."
Eliza blushed a deep scarlet as she processed Henry's bold statement. "Oh… and would you – If you had to choose– what would you–"
"I should think it would be rather obvious what I would choose."
"Is it?"
She could feel the heat of his glare as they regarded one another. He was the one to break the silence:
"Eliza, I have a great amount of respect for your independent spirit; I fully understand that when you return to St. Ignatius after the Winter holiday, you will be studying as well as earning your keep, that what we have been engaging in is – as you so elegantly put it – a distraction." Henry took both her hands in his and brought them to his chest, where she could feel his heart beat a frantic pattern against her palms.
"But I should like to know we have an understanding before time and duty pulls us in opposite directions – not a proposal, but an understanding that…" He trailed off, and she took note of the visible struggle that played across his features.
"That you are mine, and I am yours," Eliza finished with a serene smile.
Henry chuckled softly. "Just so; and perhaps, that someday you might feel inclined to return to Wimpole Street as my wife."
"Yes."
The image of Henry's wide, relieved grin branded itself across Eliza's memory. It was something she would put away, and take out whenever she needed to remember that she mattered. They sealed the agreement with a brief kiss, and she reluctantly left the warmth of his bed to return to her own.
Eliza did not have much experience in the way of happy Christmases; the quality and quantity of food the day of had usually depended on Alfred's ability to put money aside; and, what he made up for in verbosity, he had sorely lacked in economy. When Eliza was very young, he had tried his best in the way of presents, but she usually ended up settling with their local church's yearly bag of peanuts, apples, oranges, and sometimes penny candy. There had been no stockings, no songs; and sometimes – when his Christmas Eve pub antics landed him in the drunk tank – there was no Alfred at all.
Mrs. Higgins' parlor on Christmas Day was entirely different from anything Eliza had ever experienced; there was color, light, and warmth, where she had only previously known the frigid gray bleakness of want, dappled with the occasional snatches of joy. The twins and little Robbie were positively primal with enthusiasm, and decided to collectively forgo any morsel of breakfast, so excited were they at the prospect of presents.
Eliza sat on one of the sofas adjacent to the richly appointed pine and bounced Little Reg on her knee as the other children tore apart box after box, creating a little ecosystem of wrapping paper. Lilian sat at Eliza's side, and sipped a glass of wine as she encouraged her younglings to remember their manners; her position on the sofa also gave her ample opportunity to tease.
"Hen-ry, doesn't Lizzie look so natural with a baby in her arms?" Lillian inquired. Henry, who was sitting in a blue damask armchair and reading a newspaper, rolled his eyes without looking up. Lillian repeated herself. Henry folded the paper with a snap and a glare in his sister's direction.
"I think she looks polite but put-upon; please stop treating her as a receptacle for your infant." He looked back to his paper, and added, "Detestable nickname, 'Lizzie'. She's not a bloody heroine in a Jane Austen novel, you know."
"Language! Henry, the children…" Mrs. Doolittle pleaded from her position on the floor, where she was frantically retrieving pieces of discarded wrapping paper.
"Have they had their fill of treasures? May the adults open their gifts now?" Henry asked, in a rather grumpy tone. "Children, have you gorged yourself sufficiently?"
Robert – taking his cue – rose from an armchair and began to rally the children to one corner of the parlor with their toys. Nanny Forsyth and the rest of the staff, save for the housekeeper, were away with their families for the day.
"Who wants Daddy to read about this Bilbo fellow?" Robert asked as he held up one of the books Henry had given to the girls; Henrietta, Lucille, and Little Robbie chorused an affirmative cheer and settled around their father for their first trip to the Shire. Eliza found herself glancing over her shoulder at them, straining to hear the story, until she felt someone tapping on her shoulder. She looked up to see Henry, smiling shyly at her, gift in hand.
"That's just a silly book one of Reggie's old school chums wrote," he explained as he waved a hand toward Robert and the children. "I put a little more thought into this gift."
Henry plucked Little Reg from Eliza's arms and placed the gift in her lap. It was technically two gifts; one slender rectangular box twined together with a slightly larger parcel, both wrapped in practical brown paper. No ribbons or bows. It was very Henry.
Lillian leaned over and made an 'Ooo' of astonishment at the offering. "I'm so very proud of you, Hen."
"Shut up," Henry grumbled. Eliza was amusing herself with the sight of him; awkwardly trying to find a comfortable way to hold his nephew. She wondered, for the briefest moment, if they would ever want children, and what kind of father he would be. She snapped back to focus when he added, "Please, open it, Eliza."
Eliza did - the first box revealed an onyx and gold fountain pen; Eliza gasped as she examined it, removing the cap to reveal a nib of gold, with an engraving of a star; above the star was the name: Montblanc. She knew that name; she had been tasked with placing an order for one for his study. She remembered sneering at the obscene price while dreaming of possessing one (despite her rudimentary hand-writing skills).
"Oh..." she breathed as a deep blush crept to her scalp - she heard Lillian make a disappointed noise.
"A pen? Henry, really-"
"It is perfection," Eliza spoke, with real sternness.
"The other one," Henry urged softly. She looked up at him, and tried to wordlessly convey how touched she was by the first gift; she felt – for the first time – a sting of annoyance towards Lillian. He seemed so open and earnest at that moment, and she needed him to understand that she saw him. Satisfied that his confidence had not been wounded by his sister's dismissive reaction to his gift, Eliza tore the paper on the parcel to reveal a notebook bound in soft brown leather – her initials were embossed on the cover in winding, looping letters.
"This is lovely," Eliza sighed, and traced a finger along the E on the cover. Her heart felt both light and breathtakingly expansive. "I've never really had something to keep track of my thoughts; this is – this is the most – thank you." She reached up and took hold of his hand; their fingers intertwined. Her eyes met his, and she held his gaze until Mrs. Higgins cleared her throat and declared Henry was tasked with handing out the rest of the gifts.