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“Will you have me, lady?”
“No, my lord, unless I might have another for working-days…”
Holiday, holy day, day of revelry and wildness, and Benedick is the King of Misrule. Beatrice is laughing at him, pulling his crown askew, and Don Pedro, watching from a little distance, is overcome again with the memory of her words. A joke, a merry jest for a merry lady, and even then he knew she would wed Benedick – who else would suit her so? – but if she had said yes, he would have married her the next dawn, and she had not quite said no.
And here is a chance to dance with her, so he pulls her into the whirling crowd, dirt on the hem of her skirt and her hair half-undone and never so beautiful as today; and when the music stops he finds them in a little niche in the vast gardens, out of sight and out of mind, and surely there is no harm in a kiss, when her eyes are so bright and her lips are so red? If she refuses, that is all one; in the morning it will seem a dream.
She does not refuse. Her lips are soft, but she kisses hard, as if this were a battle; and when she breaks away from him she laughs, and says, “My lord husband!”
Benedick is there, crown still sideways on his fair hair, eyes still laughing – and yet this is a man who challenged his bosom friend to death for the sake of Beatrice’s favor, and Don Pedro wonders suddenly if he has lost a friend and a good servant. But Benedick only laughs, and says merrily, “Well, and if I am King tonight, I make command that you shall kiss again – but you must kiss me first.”
Beatrice kisses him, soft kisses that say they are accustomed to the act, and Don Pedro glances at the distant revelry and knows no one will come near and steps forward. Benedick kisses like his wife, all wild heat and unexpected skill, and Beatrice embraces them both and watches wide-eyed and desiring.
There is no time for thinking, then, only for kisses and more kisses, addictive as sweet wine, and Beatrice pulling them sideways until a door closes behind them and they are in a little side-building, a storage-room, dark and secret, and Beatrice lets go and steps away to pull her loose gown off her shoulders and stand in a shaft of moonlight, bare and pale and lovely as the dawn. Benedick smiles to see her so, and she says to both of them, “I have a husband for working-days, my lord, and glad I am for him; but it is not a working-day today.”
Don Pedro kisses her. Benedick is somewhere behind him, laughing, and Beatrice pulls at his clothing until Don Pedro is as bare as she is; and Benedick pulls them both around to where he has found a table. Beatrice spreads herself upon it, offering – demanding – everything, and Benedick kisses her hard, beckons to Don Pedro, who hesitates.
“If I am King tonight, I may make gift of what is mine,” says Benedick. “Tomorrow, when you are Prince again, I could not give you this.”
So Don Pedro kisses both of them, hard and sweet and loving, and kneels between Beatrice’s legs to take what she is – what they are offering, and it is almost like a dance, like the loud music urges him on, moving hard against Beatrice and kissing Benedick and never so content in all the world.
He is almost sad to finish, to slip out of her warmth and kiss her one last time and step away; but Benedick smiles, and kisses his wife, and she rises to dress with a smile that says that she will not forget. Benedick helps her put her hair back up – it is in utter disarray – and Don Pedro cannot help stepping forward to offer his hands, because it is its own kind of pleasure to bury his hands in her glorious hair. Benedick kisses him again, there behind his wife, and says softly, “There will be other holidays.”
It is a promise, and Beatrice nods against their hands and adds, “Next time we must find a place where all of us can disrobe.” Don Pedro, speechless with joy, tugs his clothing on again and follows them back out to the dance, which has not missed them.