The Neckline

Cold are the hands that hold her, the fingertips unsure of how to act. Instead they lie flat against her back, trembling. He’s never been this close to a woman before, and some part of his brain wonders why he has never endeavoured to. Because it would have been improper, he chides himself silently, but as he thinks it he knows that this, what he is doing now, is far from proper.
She gasps in surprise as he gains a rush of sudden confidence and pulls her closer, leaning down to inhale the delicious scent wafting about her petite form. His nose grazes the length of her pale neck, and he realizes by the time he reaches her jaw that his mouth lies just below his nose, and is good for something too.
He grasps her tight and forgets she has the ability to resist or reject him – as would be proper – and gently kisses her neck, the first time women’s flesh, save their pretty little hands, has touched his lips.
Before this moment, her hands have been rather motionless, only quivering against the wall – quivering in anticipation or fear, he did not know. Now she took them and slowly placed both hands on his neck, holding him to her with force he did not know women possessed.
He takes slight advantage of his somewhat restricted position, taking her force to be silent acquiescence, and kisses down her soft neck to her chest, where the corset forces her breasts to swell well above the low neckline of her dress.
She has small breasts – which he prides himself on being able to tell from a glance as well as touch, now – but this doesn’t matter to him; besides, the corset does its job well. He takes one of his trembling hands and runs his fingers slowly across her chest, attempting to memorize this feeling before it is gone from under his hands.
She sighs in apparent desire and releases the hold on his neck, the latter of which he takes to mean she’s had enough of his explorations. He kisses over her heart once in what he considers a gallant gesture of thanks, and turns to re-enter the public areas of the ball.
“I wasn’t finished,” she catches his sleeve and tugs, and he spins in surprise. Her eyes are reckless, and he should have known that picking one so young was a mistake.
As he looks at her now, he wonders why he never saw it before: her neckline is indecently low, her hair is half-loose and wild, and he knows from touch that a ridiculous amount of her midriff is exposed. She’s clearly a rebel, tired of the rules of society…
He shakes his head in disbelief. He loves the rules of society; every man, woman and child in his parish thought him an exemplary specimen of the sophisticated Englishman.
He knows what had drawn him to follow her – yes, that’s right, he thinks, I followed her… - and as he stares at it now, her bosom heaving wildly just above it, he curses women’s fashion and promptly strides out of the room.
It was intentional, meant to draw in proper men like him, who never see the likes of such attire. It was her neckline.