Chapter One

Burning the Candle at Both Ends

Professor Duncan, Eliza's tutor, was dry as dust, and probably twice as old. He had been Head Boy when Pickering had started attending Harrow, eons upon ages ago. He had absolutely none of the Colonel's grandfatherly warmth, nor any of Professor Higgins' charisma when it came to delivering instruction. He put Eliza in mind of one Sister Mary Eulogia, her old Maths teacher at St. Agnes. They both shared the same, froggish stretch of mouth, and unsettling blue-white irises in the middle of large, slightly bulbous eyes. Professor Duncan had a great white beard, and would have resembled Father Christmas if he hadn't been rail thin, and dour as a funeral sermon.

Lessons took place in the library (Monday through Wednesdays after breakfast) with a chaperone in one corner or the other, usually Higgins. Pickering had been exiled for flagrantly monopolizing Professor Duncan's focus with talks of the good old days. Mrs. Pearce and other members of the household had a tendency to fall asleep within the first quarter hour of Eliza's lessons. Higgins was neither chatty, nor sleepy, but he had a wicked tendency to pull faces behind Duncan's back.

"Miss Doolittle, the source of the Nile is Lake Victoria, not Wimbledon."

Eliza flushed scarlet, and jerked her head towards Professor Higgins, who had mouthed the incorrect answer, when she had turned helplessly towards him. This time her expression was more murderous than pleading. The bastard shrugged with wide, innocent eyes. Eliza grabbed a throw pillow, and shied it clear across the room, where it glanced off Higgins' shoulder and sent a nearby vase wobbling.

"MISS DOOLITTLE, AND PROFESSOR HIGGINS!" Professor Duncan was thunderous; Eliza and Higgins both straightened their spines in unison, their eyes wide. Professor Duncan stood with some difficulty, waving away Eliza's proffered hand.

"My time is valuable," the older man scolded, his arms crossed in front of his chest as he glared at the disruptors. "And my experience is vast. Professor Higgins, I've been warned about your behavior from my colleagues. Brilliant, but obscenely immature, and undisciplined."

Eliza felt her cheeks burn at Duncan's blistering admonishment of Higgins, and could see that the younger man was feeling the criticism quite keenly: his head was bowed, as he intently studied the floor – though he appeared humbled, Eliza took note that his shoulders were squared and tense. Despite all appearances of contrition, she knew he wanted nothing more than to lobby a few verbal volleys back at the older man, and she wondered what possibly could be holding him back.

"Professor Duncan, please do not be so harsh with Professor Higgins, I-"

"And you, Miss Doolittle; I am as shocked at your behavior as I am unsurprised by Professor Higgins'. You are a serious, steady sort of girl, and should be above engaging in flagrant flirtation, when your focus should be solely on unlocking the potential of your brain."

"Flirtation!" Yelped Higgins.

"Out! If you insist on a chaperone, then send me that housekeeper of yours. I assume she has no romantic attachment to Miss Doolittle that may derail the girl's studies."

Higgins leapt to his feet, his face a veritable storm cloud of outrage. "Banished from my own library? It's an outrage! I daresay I shall–"

Professor Duncan repeated his directive with a great deal more force. Sufficiently out-thundered, Professor Higgins beat a hasty retreat while bellowing for Mrs. Pearce.

"Now my girl," began Professor Duncan, "Where is Lake Victoria?"

Henry Higgins found Tuesday and Thursday afternoons to be an unparalleled delight, though he'd never admit it aloud for God or Country. Mrs. Pearce and Eliza had worked out that Tuesday and Thursday afternoons were typically the most eventful, in terms of Henry's lessons schedule, and therefore Eliza would be most helpful as an urge to present those days as the prettiest option was strong within Henry, and he took care to ensure that the candy dish in his study overflowed with sweet generosity, all with Eliza's favorites. Henry also took extra pains to tidy and organize the area himself, as no member of his household staff were allowed to carry out cleaning tasks in there, for fear of something being a scandalous few millimeters from the spots he designated.

Eliza was, to absolutely nobody's astonishment, a fiendishly quick study. True, she had picked up proper elocution with relative ease, but that was merely learning how to speak – this was learning how to teach. Henry's clientele was a mixture of high society and not-so-high society on the make, and he was receiving more inquiries every day, due - allegedly- to Alfred Doolittle bragging loudly in pubs and drawing rooms, that his daughter had gone from selling soggy blooms, to dancing with a prince. Everybody wanted to dance with a prince, it seemed… but not everyone had the thickness of skin required to take lessons from Henry, so he assigned a few shrinking violets to Eliza, who had the gentleness and patience to reach the fools where they were at.

"The flame is out," Eliza announced mournfully, one Tuesday afternoon as Henry entered his study, set to prepare for a lesson with one of Alfred's old drinking chums. The man was a builder, and keen to branch out for a more quality clientele, but was afraid his thick, Geordie dialect would put off a swankier set.

"Pardon?" Henry looked up from his notebook, and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Eliza was at his desk, glaring at his revolving mirror and flame contraption, while angrily striking a match that failed to ignite the flame. The match joined its siblings on a haphazard pile atop the desk.

"Steady, Eliza, it's merely out of oil."

Eliza sighed sharply, and shifted her gaze to the ceiling. "I know that. I forgot to have Mrs. Pearce order more."

Henry could see the dark circles under her eyes, and the gauntness that accentuated her high cheekbones. She was exhausted, and he could not blame her.

"It's alright." He assured, softly and - he hoped - comfortingly.

"Curly drops his haitches like they're hot pies," Eliza moaned. "This thingamajig did wonders for me, I thought I might have it ready for you."

Higgins crossed the room and crouched at her side, one elbow propped atop the arm of his desk chair, as he tilted his head to observe the thingamajig in question, resting his cheek against the palm of his hand.

"Teaching tools can become faulty, Eliza. When that happens, one must simply improvise. Tell me quickly, before he darkens our doorstep: What ought we do instead? The haitches are definitely a priority, and our friend needs something real and tangible to get those concepts to click."

Eliza turned to him, and the realization that their faces were tantalizing close nearly sent Henry off balance entirely. Good heavens, when had her eyelashes gotten so intoxicatingly long? They stared at one another for a long moment, and he recognized her lack of expression for deep thought. Once her brow furrowed, he knew something was dawning on her, and her slow, satisfied smile confirmed it.

"There you are, Eliza. What have you got?" His pulse raced as he awaited her answer, unable to suppress an eager grin.

Eliza licked her bottom lip and reached down to close her hand over his wrist. Henry jolted at the contact of her hand in his, her bent head so close he'd be quite able to brush his lips against her forehead, but the opportunity was lost when she pulled his hand up until it was a breath away from her lush mouth.

"Open up and show me your palm," she instructed, firmly. He wondered if she was aware of the havoc she was wreaking on every atom within his body. The heat that had risen to his cheeks was beginning to travel downwards. He tried to think of Robert Walpole's jolly wigged visage as painted by van Loo, but it did little to quell his body's betrayal.

"Your palm," Eliza repeated. He obeyed. Eliza pulled his palm a bit closer to her lips, and recited:

"In Hartford, Hereford, and Hampshire, hurricanes hardly ever happen." Each puff of air sent a new wave of electricity and heat to travel from his scalp, straight down his spine.

"V-very good," Henry replied hoarsely. He turned his back to her before pulling himself to standing, and strolling to the hearth on the opposite end of the room. He fixed his eyes upon his father's dour portrait, a strategy that had an immediate calming effect on his lower regions.

"Of course, it might be wise to have old Curly breath on his own palm."

—-

Eliza's fingers slowly danced across the keys of the drawing room piano, as she wondered how much longer she could bear the weight of her head and eyelids. Her piano lessons were scheduled for after dinner on Thursdays and Fridays, and she began to resent it being the One Last Thing that had to be done before she could settle into the weekend. Two weeks into her schedule she knew, of all of her areas of study, Piano was by far the least enjoyable.

Eliza imagined that the lure of post-dinner cigars and brandy overrode the need to give her a proper chaperone, and the staff were simply too busy. Mr. Burns, her piano instructor, had strictly banished cigar smoke and loud conversation from the drawing room during his time, so if Mrs. Higgins was not visiting, Eliza was very much alone with a tall, dark, and tactile young man.

"Touch is necessary to correct bad form," Mr. Burns explained, when his hand lingered too long on the small of her back during their first lesson. That time, Mrs. Higgins had been present, and accepting of his explanation. Eliza tried very hard to keep her posture ramrod straight, as his touch sent a strong jolt of revulsion throughout her body. Handsome, though he was – all Byronic curls, and smoldering eyes – he was also condescending, presumptuous, and sneaky; He never acted overtly untoward when others were present, and he attended dinner with the inhabitants of Wimpole Street every Thursday, and Friday. Alone, he set her teeth on edge, and her skin crawling with his long stares, and his wandering hands.

"Miss Doolittle, you lack passion tonight," Mr. Burns declared, as Eliza battled fatigue in order to keep her wits about it. It was not working, and she had nodded off slightly during scales. She barely registered the insult, save for a mildly outraged burning at the tips of her ears.

"Mmm?"

Eliza jumped when she felt Mr. Burns slide a hand across the small of her back that came to rest at the curve of her hip.

"Why don't we take a quick pause so you can rest a while?" She gasped when she felt his hand give her hip a little squeeze. "This is a very fetching skirt."

Eliza twisted away from his touch, and ended up sliding off of the bench (damn satin skirt!), and landing painfully on her hip. She nearly screamed when she thought Mr. Burns was about to throw himself on her, but he was merely coming to her aid. He was crouched at her side with an extended hand that she rejected in favor of anchoring one hand on the bench to pull herself to standing. She lurched forward - he caught her fast and pulled her close.

"Unhand me," she growled when his grip did not loosen.

"Miss Doolittle, you must know I adore you," he breathed, his face obnoxiously close to her own. Eliza could smell onion and custard on his breath, remnants of the meal he had shared with them all. The outrage of him abusing the household's hospitality in order to play the cad with her was simply too much, and just enough to pull her to high alert. There was a flash of satin, lace and metal, and Mr. Burns found himself with a stiletto to his throat.

"Look 'ere mate - don't pull away now, me knife may slip," Eliza felt a satisfied smile quirk at the corners of her mouth at the squeak that emerged from the bastard's throat at her change from debutante to guttersnipe.

"M-miss…"

Eliza made a gentle shushing sound. "'Ere now, Mister B, don't cry, I'll let ya go as soon as I've said me piece. Now them, 'ave ya ever 'eard of a Glasgow Smile?" Mr. Burns' thin, strangled wail was all the confirmation she needed.

"Ah, ya ain't as much of a toff as I thought, that's good. Now listen, I ain't keen to learn from you no more, but I don't want ya doin' what ya tried on any other unsuspecting girl, savvy? Nod."

He obeyed.

"Part o' me makes ya want to choose between two options that will ensure future professionalism: I could either carve a permanent smile on that pretty face," she lowered the knife and pressed it against the front of his trousers, "Or I could add another octave to your range. I ain't afraid of a little bit o' blood, unlike them dandies out there."

Mr. Burns shook his head violently, tears now rolling down his ashen cheeks.

"But I'll accept an apology and yer word as a gentleman."

"I'm sorry, Miss Doolittle, by the gods I've never been more sorry!" He gasped.

The sound of the double doors being flung open caused Eliza to startle and jolt back.

"Eliza, what on earth?" She turned to see Professor Higgins frozen at the entrance to the drawing room, his mouth agape at the sight of Eliza brandishing a knife at her piano instructor.

Mr. Burns bolted from the drawing room without so much as a backwards glance. Professor Higgins crossed the room to be at Eliza's side as she lifted one side of her skirt, and tucked the blade into a sheath on her right thigh. She gave Higgins a sad smile before bending to pick the discarded sheet music from the floor where it had scattered.

"Eliza, why were you embracing Mr. Burns with a knife in your hand?" She allowed Higgins to lead her to the bench, where they sat opposite one another.

"He was embracing me without my permission. The knife was a natural consequence."

Higgins was immediately apoplectic with undisguised rage. He slapped an outraged palm against the bench.

"That rapscallion! He can't have gone far, I'll-" Eliza pulled him back down when he tried to stand.

"You'll do what? Duel?" She was quite unable to resist leaning over to kiss his inflamed cheek. "It's taken care of, Lancelot."

"I'll make sure he never so much as plays in a pub ever again," Higgins uttered as he brought a hand up to touch the cheek she had kissed. His expression was almost tender as he regarded her.

"You ought never feel threatened under my roof, Eliza. I'm so dreadfully sorry."

His tone was so gentle, so open and earnest that Eliza felt tears prick at the corner of her eyes.

"T'weren't me wot felt threatened," she replied cheekily.

Higgins' sharp and sudden burst of laughter caused a pleasant tingle in Eliza's scalp, and she found herself grinning up at him, before a mighty yawn overtook her, and her head drifted to one side, coming to rest against his shoulder.

"We must get you off to Bedfordshire," she heard him murmur against her hair, as her eyes began to close.

"Mmm."

"Eliza?"

"Yes, Professor Higgins?"

"How long have you had a stiletto attached to your person?"

"Since I was ten."

—

"Higgins, I'm getting old," Pickering declared over brandy, after Mrs. Pearce exited the drawing room with Eliza trailing behind, engrossed with taking notes. Saturday afternoon to evening was Eliza's crash course in keeping house.

Henry snorted before taking a pull of his cigar, the admission putting a damper on what had been a pleasant evening. Mrs. Pearce had allowed Eliza to set the dinner menu, and everything from the beef stew down to the bread pudding had been divine simplicity.

"Stuff and nonsense," was Henry's reply, his mind conjuring up Eliza in her Cornflower blue silk blouse, and her wool skirt of brown and gold plaid. Not for the first time, he lamented how pleasing she was in character and form. Lamentable, because he was completely stumped as to what to do with the realisation, other than making sure the candy dishes were filled. He also tried to put himself in situations where inadvertent touch was a high possibility, such as standing near doorways she needed to pass through, or cabinets she frequented for necessities – except now she called him Professor Underfoot because he was frequently in her way. Henry wasn't entirely sure what pining felt like, but he imagined he was in proximity of the feeling.

"It's not stuff and nonsense," Pickering shot back in a wounded tone. Visions of Eliza faded as Henry switched focus to the older man.

"Are you ill, Pick?"

Pickering took a long pull of his brandy and shook his head, gravely.

"Just tired, and aware that I'm limping towards the big finish."

Henry felt a stab of pre-emptive grief tug at his innards. Pickering's latest birthday had been celebrated at Mrs. Higgins' townhouse, because he shared the day with Henry's mother, who was five years Pickering's junior. If his dear friend was heading towards the big finish, that meant his mother was as well, and life without his mother seemed cold and terrifying.

"Momento mori," was Henry's soft and unsentimental reply.

"Quite right. It's getting time to leave this world to the young, which is why I intend to bequeath my country home in Oxfordshire to Eliza after I die. The bulk of my fortune, actually."

Henry's eyes widened - Pickering's wealth was considerable, borderline obscene really.

"I'll be dashed," he muttered faintly.

Pickering chuckled and relaxed into an easier posture in his chair as he examined the snifter in one hand. He gave the reddish liquid a lazy swirl before setting it down.

"I'm the last of my line, there's no one to fight her over this, and I want to die knowing she's comfortable. I could give it all to the church, I suppose, but I'd rather she have it than an Archbishop. She will be absolutely beset by fortune hunters, you know, Higgins… unless you act fast."

Henry felt a familiar blush creep up his cheeks. He decided to feign innocence:

"You'd like me to stay close and advise her. Keep her safe from scoundrels, eh?"

"Not at all. I'd like to see you marry the girl, you utter clod. All this moaning and groaning is becoming rather tiresome. Either speak up or lose her like you nearly did to that Hill boy."

Henry pushed back in his chair and stood, his entire atom bristling with indignation. "I've neither moaned nor groaned a single, solitary moment in my existence!"

Pickering shrugged in the face of Henry's minor outburst. "Have it your way. Guide her away from fortune hunters, and watch as she marries some chap or the other."

"Eliza said she has no mind for marriage," Henry stated confidently, as he, his cigar, and his brandy made their way to the piano. He flopped onto the bench and began plunking out the tune to 'Three Blind Mice' with one finger.

"Minds change."

The tune turned discordant for a few beats, before Henry slammed the fallboard over the keys. He felt positively cantankerous all at once.

"She'd never have me."

"She might."

Henry shook his head, and felt the sting of his bad humour dive into something akin to hopelessness.

"Never."

"Have it your way, then."

Henry returned to the table and snubbed his cigar smack in the middle of the ashtray.

"I shall. You know she'll be absolutely furious to find herself in your will. She's quite determined to be her own person."

"She'll be in a better position to be her own person with a fortune to fall back on. Best to keep this information to yourself if you could, though. I'd hate to give her another reason to flee."

"I'll take the secret to your grave."

Henry ruminated on the sliver of hope brought on by Pickering's news. Eliza was immensely practical, and while she would no doubt show initial outrage at being an heiress to an enormous fortune, she may see it as the blessing it was. She may never feel the need to marry at all, with that kind of money, and if she saw no reason for marriage, things could stay very much as they were, and he'd never lose her again.

It was so perfect.

"Eliza, that is an exquisite stitch," Mrs. Higgins praised.

Sundays were dedicated to spending time in Mrs. Higgins' elegant townhome, absorbing information on how to conduct one's self as a lady, and to shadow the older woman's own ladies' maid, Marion. Marion only spoke French, which Eliza did not understand, and if Mrs. Higgins was not nearby to translate, all was lost. Thankfully, Marion was not one to engage in much conversation without her lady present, especially when she discovered that Eliza's presence was purely for learning Marion's trade. Eliza had the distinct feeling that the woman felt threatened by this knowledge, and the few words that were directed towards her when Mrs. Higgins was not around did not seem particularly friendly.

Mrs. Higgins beckoned Marion to observe Eliza's stitchwork on a bit of lace, pride evident in the older woman's voice. Marion's face darkened as she observed the lace, but she nodded in what appeared to be approval, her white-blonde curls bouncing slightly.

Eliza wished she could find a way to let Marion know she was not a threat; being a ladies' maid seemed like a crashing bore – all mending, laundry, and getting bossed around. She liked it more than piano, but less than running a household, and nothing even touched getting to teach.

"Thank you, Mrs. Higgins. Mercy, Marion." Eliza cringed when the woman gave a gentle, tinkling laugh at her mangled French. Mrs. Higgins turned to Marion, and said something that sounded a great deal like scolding.

"Please don't be hard on Marion. My French is very bad, and I feel as though she might be confused as to why I'm following her all over creation."

Mrs. Higgins gave Eliza a gentle smile. "You are an absolute saint, my dear. Perhaps I did not explain things well to her at all… do you think she imagines you are going to usurp her?"

"I'm afraid so… could you enlighten her?"

Eliza felt her stomach unclench as Mrs. Higgins turned to Marion, and spoke gently, and softly in words Eliza did not understand, though the tone and warmth told her it was meant to be comforting. The tenseness in Marion's delicate face relaxed, and the young woman gave Eliza a smile and a nod.

"Now, Eliza, have you settled on what you would like to do with yourself?" Mrs. Higgins asked, after the mending was set aside and a tea tray was delivered to the trio.

"I enjoy learning. Once I've passed my exams, the Colonel would like for me to attend the School of Economics, so I can get a better grasp of business. I've sat in on a few lectures here and there."

"Ah."

"But I find I infinitely prefer attending to the students your son kindly provides for me," Eliza added. "And getting to learn his methods, while developing my own."

Mrs. Higgins shot her a curious look. "You enjoy spending time with my son?"

"Oh yes," Eliza replied breathlessly. The answer had been automatic, with a tinge of dreaminess, and she felt her cheeks burn with the realization.

"That is to say, he knows an awful lot about things that interest me."

Mrs. Higgins hummed thoughtfully, before taking a long sip of her tea. She set the cup onto its dish, and squared her shoulders. Eliza took note of the older woman's stern expression, and steeled herself for a scolding.

"Eliza, I must tell you that that odious Mr. Burns has been talking to others about your final lesson with him. I have done my best to stem the turn of the more serious accusations, but I am afraid people are talking about you and my son."

Eliza's hands began to shake, sending porcelain to rattle against porcelain. She set her cup and dish onto the table. "Pardon?"

"The most absurd thing I've ever heard, truly, but: did my son engage in fisticuffs with Mr. Burns over you?"

Eliza shrieked with laughter that turned tearful. Mrs. Higgins and Marion levied her with astonished stares as she found herself quite unable to stem the tide of giggles for several long moments.

"Goodness no." Mrs. Higgins had only received the very basics regarding the Mr. Burns incident: he had gotten fresh, and subsequently banished.

"Well, Henry has gone on the warpath, and has managed to get the boy to lose quite a few clients, and several halls refuse to book him now. The foolish cad is furious, and, as I said, has started his own smear campaign. A few of my friends have granddaughter's that absolutely stalwart towards him, but for the most part, people have seen Mr. Burns for what he is."

"Wonderful."

Mrs. Higgins nodded. "Yes, but some are reading between the lines with Henry's behavior, and they've come to the conclusion that he is quite in love with you; your living situation has raised a few eyebrows. Some have implied indecency between you both… those who engage in spreading that sort of nastiness will not be received in my home ever again."

"Thank you, kindly."

"I do, however, find myself agreeing that the living situation leaves something to be desired."

Eliza shook her head vehemently. "There's no desirin' going on, I swear!"

Mrs. Higgins reached across the table and laid a gloved hand atop of Eliza's trembling one.

"What I mean to say is, I don't feel it is appropriate for an unmarried, single girl to be living with two bachelors, but I know enough about your father that returning to his home, with your stepmother, would be a degradation."

Eliza nodded while blinking back anxious tears.

"There's nothing untoward happening, I promise."

"I understand, but please, have a care, my dear."

"For your son's reputation?" Eliza asked, sardonically. She imagined Mrs. Higgins to be completely scandalized that her son might be taken up with a lowly creature of the gutter. She felt her stubborn pride rear up and darken her expression.

Mrs. Higgins squeezed Eliza's hand. "For yours."

"I haven't got a reputation, ma'am. I'm just a poor, ignorant girl."

"The moment you stepped into my parlor for tea for the first time, you've had a reputation, dear girl."

Eliza shrugged. "I'm not sure where I could go. As you said, I'd rather die than live in my father's house, and I am not financially independent enough to keep a place that would be located anywhere respectable-like."

"You could live with me."

Henry, cursed with a bout of insomnia, found Eliza in the library, late in the evening, after she returned from his mother's home. She had not been herself that night – usually he was able to have a laugh with her over the more ridiculous aspects of being a ladies' maid, and her impersonations of some of his mother's silly friends were always of good value. This particular night, she quietly returned to their home with barely any acknowledgement, and bypassed small talk with him and Pickering entirely, and instead opted to assist Mrs. Pearce with preparing the household for the evening hours. Henry had never been particularly sensitive to the moods and feelings of others, but this shift upended his entire evening, and he found himself feeling almost disturbed by it.

Eliza was curled up in one corner of a large, overstuffed, leather sofa with one of Professor Duncan's enormous history texts, a throw blanket covering her lower half. She had not yet dressed for bed, even though it was close to midnight, and was idly toying with the neat little bow on the neckline of her soft pink blouse as she frowned down at the open book. Henry suddenly felt very underdressed, and took care to tighten the belt of his dressing gown.

"Burning the midnight oil?"

Eliza glanced up from her book, her eyes widening ever-so-slightly at his disheveled appearance. She unfurled her legs from beneath the blanket, and lowered her feet to the floor; she donned a pair of green velvet slippers that had been previously discarded. She set the book aside, and stretched her arms over her head with a sigh. Henry tried not to let the image of her, all tousled hair and tantalizing, press a brand upon his memory; when she tilted her head to one side and blessed him with a slow, bleary-eyed smile, he knew he had failed.

"There's no time to waste," was her casual reply. "Why are you up at this hour?"

"I haven't the foggiest clue, actually."

Eliza plucked the book from the side table and extended it towards him.

"For old time's sake?"

"A quiz?"

"Please."

Henry, not one to pass up the chance to play drill instructor, settled onto the opposite side of the sofa.

"What were you poring over when I arrived?" He asked, while rifling aimlessly through the dry-as-dirt tome.

"The Battle of Waterloo."

"Ugh. Ghastly."

Eliza giggled. "My history teacher at St. Agnes always made it seem so thrilling. I think she had a bit of bloodlust in her soul. Professor Duncan teaches it like a symposium on paint drying."

"It's all old hat to him, since he was there, obviously. The man's probably tired of talking about it."

Eliza's sudden burst of laughter was both raucous and silvery. Henry, inwardly pleased that he had managed to get such a reaction out of her, shushed her as sternly as he could with a grin on his face.

"Now then, Miss Doolittle, what year did the Battle of Waterloo take place?" He inquired, poorly taking on Professor Duncan's sonorous timbre.

"Oh, last Tuesday, I should think," Eliza replied, her eyes twinkling with merriment. Henry chuckled at her impertinence, and then nodded approvingly when she corrected herself.

They went back and forth with the text, skipping around to different time periods; Eliza would sometimes give a cheeky answer, but as with most subjects, her mind was a steel trap, and she was able to demonstrate her knowledge with ease. Henry became aware of an almost magnetic pull closing the space between them, and before long, they were shoulder-to-shoulder, taking turns at paging through the book.

The clock chimed two, when Henry noticed Eliza's energy and focus begin to ebb. She began to regard his inquiries with a markedly drowsy expression, and the pauses between his questions and her replies began to stretch. Her head came to rest against his shoulder as she nodded off.

"Eliza?"

"S'matter, Henry?" She slurred, her eyes still closed.

His Christian name on her lips sounded like a sin, and he nearly lost his nerve, but her withdrawn behavior earlier drifted back into his sleepy consciousness.

"Did something happen at Mother's?"

Eliza, not fully awake, snuggled against his side. He could sense the proximity of her lips to the side of his neck, and fully felt the press of her lush curves, and his brain began to fire off electricity. "Something 'bout impropriety…"

DANGER. DANGER.

Henry gently lowered Eliza to a lying down position before shifting back to his own side of the sofa. She pulled herself into a fetal position as he brought the blanket that had been on her lap, up to cover her shoulders.

"Impropriety, ha," Henry muttered.

"She wants me to live with her."

"Oh my," Henry replied.

"... I wan' to stay with you…"

Henry leaned over to brush an errant strand of hair from her eyes. Her forehead was smooth and cool to the touch. The swell of tenderness in his chest was consuming, and heavy enough to anchor him to the sofa, where he watched her snore, rather inelegantly.

"Damn fool," he scolded himself aloud. "Get up at once, and go to your own bed."

Instead, he took the book they had been sharing, and read about the Jacobite Rebellion until sleep took him quite by surprise.

—

Eliza awoke with a dreadful crick in her neck, with one of Henry Higgins' arms draped over her side, his other arm serving as a pillow for her head, and the full length of his body pressed against her back. He was snoring softly in her ear, his little puffs of breath sending delicious prickles of delight down her spine. Despite the discomfort in her neck, Eliza found the situation to be not-all-unpleasant.

Except for the impropriety, Eliza corrected, her inner-voice sounding remarkably like Mrs. Higgins. She struggled to prop herself up on one elbow, and craned her neck until she could just make out the street-facing window to the right. Dawn was just beginning to shift the inky black of full night, to a navy blue. The staff would be rising soon to fulfill their duties, then the pair would really be in for it.

Eliza turned in Higgins' arms, so they were practically nose-to-nose. A prominent part of Higgins pressed, hard and persistent, against her stomach. She was inexperienced, but not entirely ignorant – she knew exactly what it meant.

"Professor," Eliza whispered, her gentle voice tinged with anxiety. She gave his shoulder a shake.

"Call me Henry again, 'Liza…" he murmured in his sleep before nestling against the side of her neck, and pressing a kiss there that made Eliza's body sing.

"Henry!" Eliza barked, trying to convey sternness without bringing the whole household into the library.

Higgins' eyes snapped open, and his head jerked up so they made full eye contact. From the expression on his face, all wild eyes and slack mouth, Eliza thought he might shove her from the sofa, but he made no such move. He did not move at all, actually.

"How…" he trailed off as color rose, dark and high, to his cheeks.

"We fell asleep," Eliza explained weakly. She attempted to wriggle free from beneath Higgins, but froze and gasped (in unison with him) when her hip brushed against the still very present evidence of his arousal.

"You must get up, Eliza," Higgins pleaded, hoarsely.

Eliza decided the best course of action was to roll forward and allow herself to tumble awkwardly to the floor. Higgins pulled himself to sitting, and dragged the blanket over his lap. Eliza stood, and fixed her eyes to the floor – for several moments, the only sounds in the room were their heavy breathing as they both took measures to regulate themselves.

"Your mother would be scandalized," Eliza finally spoke, her eyes still on the floor.

"There's few people that wouldn't be scandalized," was his terse reply. Eliza looked up at him, anxiety rising in her throat.

"Please don't be angry with me," she pleaded. "I didn't mean to compromise you, and your reputation as a professional-"

Higgins' demeanor softened, his scowl disappearing. "You, compromise me? Eliza, that's not - you only need worry about your own reputation. I'm afraid I am the scoundrel here."

Eliza shook her head, and exhaled shakily.

"Your mother said people have been talking since the nasty business with the piano."

Higgins raised his eyebrows at the news.

"What has that nasty piece of work, Burns, been saying?"

Eliza covered her face with her hands and groaned before replying: "That you fought him, and that we're living in sin."

She lowered her hands and glared at Higgins' sharp bark of laughter. "I fail to see what's so funny about all of this - we've proved them right, haven't we?"

"Nothing happened, Eliza."

Eliza's face went pale, and she cleared her throat.

"Oh God, did I do something to you while I was sleeping?"

Higgins stood and stepped forward. He cupped Eliza's face between his hands, and his eyes searched her face, as if investigating for damage. Eliza's hands came up to close around his wrists, gently pulling his hands down to his sides.

"You kissed my neck, and…" She looked downwards, and hummed.

Higgins brow furrowed and he took a step back. "Th-that's just… that happens every morning!"

"You kiss a woman's neck every morning?" She asked, all faux innocence.

"God no! Look here; A man's body is complicated, Eliza. A lot of it is purely involuntary, you know. As for kissing your neck - well - I was asleep. You can't fault a man for what he does when he's dreaming!"

Eliza bit her lower lip. Despite the seriousness of the situation, she couldn't resist needling him a bit:

"Dream of me often, do you?"

"Yes, damn you!"

Oh. That knocked things off their axis, alright.

Eliza took a step forward. Higgins did not take a step back.

"So I ought to move to your mother's. For propriety's sake?"

"You think I can't resist ravishing you, now you've realized my interest isn't strictly academic?"

Eliza reached up and smoothed a lock of his wavy blonde hair. She tucked it behind his ear and inhaled sharply when he planted a kiss on the palm of her hand.

"Oh you'll be alright, I'm sure… but it would be a dreadful distraction for me, knowing what I know now."

His lips brushed the pulse point in her wrist, and her knees were perilously close to buckling.

"Irresistible, am I?" He teased.

"Arrogant, is what you are," she replied as he pulled her flush against him.

"They'll expect us to marry if you stay," he warned.

"And I can't do that. Too much of a–"

"Distraction," Higgins finished as he pressed a light kiss to the tip of her nose.

"Off to your mother's I go." His next kiss landed on the corner of her mouth.

"But… in for a penny?"

"Quite," she murmured before his lips descended on hers.