Summary: Mr. Rochester catches you dancing by yourself...

Warnings: Mr. Rochester is his own warning, the darn flirt.

A/N: I edited this from 1st person POV so if you see any pronouns I missed let me know!

1860

➤ ➤ ➤

you found yourself alone in one of Thornfield Hall's spacious rooms, without much to do, nor much on my mind, and so you danced. You listened to the music of your mind, piano and violin accompaniment, and took the hand of your invisible partner. He led you to the dance floor where you began to spin and twirl, ballerina's in the glory of the dying sun. You smile as you move, lost in your imagination. Your mind searches for a face to put to this ghost whose arms you rest in. Your immediate choice is the master of this house, and the man whose ward you instruct.

Mr. Rochester.

A tempered man, humorous when he means to be, firm, yet deeply passionate and loving of those he deems worthy.

Of whom you pray you are among.

You have reason to believe you are...

You are...friends...of sorts.

But you should like to be more. Yes, a scandalous thought indeed. One you keep to yourself, like this dance, or so you thought.

A sudden figure in the doorway startles you out of a spin and you stagger to a stop, coming face to face with the man on your mind.

Mr. Rochester.

He sheds a smile and steps further into the room.

"You like to dance?"

You fumble for composure and choke out a simple, "Yes...I do."

"But you dance alone."

"I have no partner."

"Should you like one?"

"I should," You began, cautiously, weighing your words with care. "None have offered me their hand as of yet."

"And what if I did? Right now?"

Right now, the clock chirps, swinging its pendulum steadily.

You meet Mr. Rochester's imploring gaze. The sparkling hue of his eyes is blanketed by the dimness of the room. "Then I should accept."

Mr. Rochester smiles. Step by step, you cross the floor towards one another. As you meet in the center of the rug, he offers you his hand, just as your invisible partner had. His hand, however, is real. You feel it's size; it's warmth; it's rough, calloused texture. You've seen him, Mr. Rochester, working alongside his own servants. Pulling weeds, gardening, gutting the trophies of a good hunt. Such labor would toughen any man's hands. You've never held a man's hand before. Not, at the very least, in such intimate circumstances. You are alone. As his hand practically swallows yours, you find the coarseness of his palm to be more pleasant than uncomfortable. Your hands slot together, like pieces of a puzzle.

"Shall we?" He asks.

"There is no music," You remark.

Only silence.

Only the clock.

And the unnatural beating of your heart, halfway up your throat.

"You had none when you danced alone."

At this you can't help but blush and hide your face in the swift ducking of your head, but he draws your gaze back up with a touch to your chin.

"Will you sing for us?"

For...us.

Younod once.

A charming grin lights Rochester's face. He rests his free hand on your waist and draws you closer. You stumble in his direction and carelessly lay a hand on his chest.

"I believe you're to hold my arm but I suppose this works just as well."

"I – I'm sorry –"

"Don't be," he replies. "I'm never unhappy to have your hand on my heart."

"Your heart is on the other side, Mr. Rochester," You tease.

You begin to sway to the rhythm of his laugh.

"Too right, my apologies."

"I require no apology for the mistake regarding human anatomy, although I would accept one for the flirtatious nature of the mistake..."

"Flirtatious nature? I see...you disapprove of my comments."

"No...not necessarily."

"Then you enjoy them?"

"Perhaps."

'Perhaps,' Mr. Rochester repeats, amused and under his breath. You let slip a small smile, your own apology, for teasing him more than usual. Despite flirtations and jests, neither of you seem out of spirits. In fact, you sway fluidly, without music, to the ticking of the clock and the crunch of your feet on the rug. Whatever cold lingers beneath your skin is held at bay by the natural warmth amassed between your conjoined hands. You can feel the firm curl of his fingers around your waist, even through the layers of your dress. You wonder...can he feel the curve of your flesh as easily as you feel his hand? You try to hide the question from your eyes so he cannot read them. Your eyes have never strayed from the other's since he lifted your chin. You search his soul through their lovely doors. Your eyes flicker from the light you see inside to the crinkling skin and dark brows that frame the entrance. The light is warm, inviting. Not unlike a fire in the winter. Winter, like the cool, icy glow of Mr. Rochester's irises.

A beautiful marriage of flame and ice.

The grip on your waist tightens suddenly, and you're guided chest to chest with the master.

A gasp penetrates your chest as you feel his lips hover by your ear.

"You promised to sing."

Your eyes flutter shut.

His warm, heavy breath seduces you.

Blind to all else but his all encompassing presence, you begin to sing softly, a song you often hum when you're walking through the gardens or doing little Adele's hair.

You sway.

You stay pressed to his chest...

His breath leaves your temple and instead wafts over your scalp, startling the loose hairs. No sooner does his chin perch there, warm and firm. You keep your eyes sealed tight but turn your cheek to his throat. Also warm. Is all of him to be a furnace?

You take pleasure in the thought.

The song bleeds into another.

You sink deeper into each other.

Mr. Rochester's hand glides along your lower back. His arm loops around you, his thumb strokes the back of your hand. Your arm weighs heavily, so you stretch it upwards and wrap it around his neck, allowing your fingers to stroke what skin and hair lies at the nape of his neck. With a single curl around your forefinger and his Adam's apple beneath your ear, you find some semblance of peace.

This must be heaven.

Warmth, comfort, love.

The odd bit of music.

As if you were both thinking the same, Mr. Rochester murmurs, "Your voice is that of an Angel's you know..."

You jumble the notes when you laugh. "There's no need to flatter me."

"It was not my intention."

"Was it not?"

"No...though I confess, I'm honored that you deemed it was."

The two of you fall into a stretch of silence for quite some time, slipping out of it only when your consciousness starts to wither. You stifle a yawn and raise your head, accidentally budging Rochester's from its perch.

"Sorry."

"No need, are you uncomfortable?"

"No –" You mistakenly meet his gaze. His eyes awaken you. "I...I was only wondering the time, it must be terribly late –"

"I suppose so..."

You're assailed by a second yawn.

Rochester's grip slackens, "You are tired."

You bite your lip bashfully, "Only a bit..."

"But tired, nonetheless."

He studies your face, smiling fondly. "We've danced enough. Time for bed."

"You say that as if I were a child."

"Oh you're anything but."

"How so?"

"I'm sure I should not have danced so long, nor enjoyed a dance so much as I have with you tonight, were you a child."

There's a leap in your heart.

You smile, oh so broadly. Could it be? Could this really be?

"I...I have never had the pleasure of such a dance partner."

"Indeed?"

"Indeed," You laugh softly. "None so...warm."

Mr. Rochester is immediately amused by your remark and raises both brows inquisitively, wearing a smirk that you instantly regret inciting. "Oh? Am I to understand you find me pleasant not because of my incredible dance skills nor my flattery but because of my body heat?"

You slump forward into his chest, shaking with laughter.

And embarrassment.

"Stop please."

"Do I embarrass you?"

"Yes," You moan.

His laugh rumbles in his chest against your face. Both his arms wind around you, embracing you lovingly though you're still too flustered to dare look him in the eye just yet.

"I'm sorry, I was teasing."

You nod.

"You're quite warm too, you know?"

You listen eagerly, though your racing heart makes it difficult to hear.

"Having you in my arms is like embracing summer. To hold all the heat of the sun and yet be spared the wrath of it's burn...warm, inviting...like a –

"Fire in winter."

You pause.

Slowly, yo unwind yourself from his arms and look into his face, finding the very same surprise you feel mirrored in those handsome features you so desperately love.

You count the seconds that tick by as you stare, openly, desirous. Not a shred of shame for the time lost, beholding the other. You let yourself imagine what it would be like to dance every night with Mr. Rochester. To serve him, not as his paid governess, but as someone dearer to him. To be a part of this house not because of money, nor a sort of lawful duty but a sense of loyalty; duty of the heart. These hopes, these wishes spin into visions that entertain your eyes, coaxing them to droop...to close so you can experience them fully in a world of dreams.

For the third time, you yawn.

"Come," Rochester whispers, taking your hand. "I will take you to bed."

Hand in hand, you walk the empty corridors of Thornfield Hall. The moon lights your doorway where you part from Mr. Rochester. Your hands detach and you turn to go, but his hand finds your elbow.

"Is that how you intend to leave me?"

You swallow hard.

No, tis not.

Uncertain, you face him. "How should I leave you?"

Shadows mask his expression. It is all the more difficult to determine his true feelings when he suggests, "With a kiss, perhaps."

Your breath catches in your throat.

Sometimes you wonder if this man can read your thoughts.

How else could he have known...

Unless...

"Would you like me to...kiss you?"

The floorboards creak. You may not be able to see his face clearly, but his figure you see well enough. It approaches, dark, intimidating, yet entrancing as your boundary is broken. You stand as closely as you did dancing. You feel his breath, this time, on your face; over your eyes and nose and mouth. You feel the murmur of his reply ripple across your aching skin.

"Yes."

And you respond in the only way you are able.

With a kiss.

On the balls of your feet to reach his height, you kiss Mr. Rochester.

You feel him reciprocate...

And you hear his heart, beating in harmony to your own.

Somewhere in the distance, you hear the ticking clock.

"Goodnight," He murmurs, breaking from your lips and taking your breath.

You lean forward for another kiss, but he's gone and you open your eyes to the moonlit wall and the shadow of your figure staring back at you. You go to bed wondering if you danced with a ghost the whole night, and if you kissed him at the door...