Disclaimer: I don't own "Northanger Abbey" or any of Jane Austen's works or characters, wishful thinking aside.

Authors Note #1: I wanted to explore the scene on between Catherine and Henry on the path towards the Allens just after Henry proposed.

Warnings: romance, frottage, drama, resolved romantic tension, unresolved sexual tension, missing scene.

Bibliomania

"What did he say to you?"

"Let me instead tell you what I said to him. I told him that I felt myself bound to you, by honour, by affection, and by a love so strong that nothing he could do could deter me from-"

"From what?"

"Before I go on, I should say, there's a pretty good chance he'll disinherit me. I fear I may never be a rich man, Catherine."

"Please- go on with what you were going to say."

"Will you marry me, Catherine?"

"Yes! Yes, I will! Yes!"

In truth, she could not have imagined a more romantic proposal. She had read more than a hundred of them. Novels upon novels with swooning climaxes and soaring excitement that lasted all the way to the final page. Moments where the intrepid hero declared their undying love – usually on a cliff-edge or in the middle of a daring escape. But now, it was apparent that not one of them could compare to the events of that afternoon.

She breathed unevenly, her hand in his as they walked. Lips still tingling from the kiss - buzzing with the rasp of stubble. As if that morning when he'd set out, he'd been in such a hurry he'd neglected to shave as close as was his habit.

Oh, it seemed like a dream! A lovely, glorious dream!

She did not deserve it. And yet, it seemed like everything had worked out after all.

She resisted the urge to run her fingers over her lips. Swearing she could feel his echo. She'd been so forward, kissing him like that. But found she did not regret an inch of it. In fact, her stomach tightened with something so close to pleasure that she blushed. Remembering now he'd caught her against the tree. The solid strength of him far more impressive than her daydreams.

How wicked was she?

Thinking such things?

And yet- judging from the heated, hungry look that had been clear on his face when they'd parted, perhaps he wouldn't mind?

Her blush heated to a near fever pitch. Distracted, she almost stumbled as the dirt track slicked with mud. They had been pressed together so intimately. Her skirts hiking up when they'd fallen into the trees. Stockings rubbing against his trousers. He'd gasped, throat hitching through a rough swallow when she'd brushed against his middle. No, lower.

She'd felt emboldened by it. Wanting to see him look like that again - sound like that again.

So, she'd dared to repeat the motion, deliberately this time.

Oh.

Her reward had been thrilling. His lips had parted beautifully, he was so caught in it. Eyes impossibly blue as they fluttered shut before snapping open again. Holding her there until the part of her sex caught on a protrusion in his trousers - sending sparks through her - before his hands were suddenly around her wrists, breaking them apart.

Oh.

"Catherine," he'd rasped, near wrecked. Almost hers in every way.

She had just smiled, chewing on her lower lip as she imagined the scandal if anyone had seen them. But even that only served to make him groan. Leading her out of the trees and back onto the path with a firm hand.

Not even Lord Byron had been so wicked!

She felt like she was floating as they neared the house. All thoughts of visiting the Allens soundly removed. Perhaps they would have them for dinner? She was sure Mama would approve of the company to help celebrate the news. But for now, Mr. Tilney - her Mr. Tilney - needed to speak with Papa.

She chanced a glance, suddenly shy, but found he was already looking at her. Lifting her hand to his lips for a soft kiss, wordless. As if there was nothing they could say to equal their mutual euphoria.

Indeed, she was deliriously happy. Just as she should be, she supposed, as the heroine of her own story. It seemed a far better ending than a great many of the books she'd devoured over the years. While reading about endless pining and romantic despair had its merits, she found her current situation far preferable.

"Tell me what you're thinking?" he posed playfully, when they turned onto the lane.

"I hardily know," she replied, perhaps a bit too quickly. Gaining herself a knowing smile as Mr. Tilney shook his head. Smile playful, but not completely indulgent.

"You hardily know or can hardily tell me?" he replied. Smiling gamely as the sound of her siblings playing in the adjoining field drifted between them. "I don't blame you. I find my own thoughts far more suited to a sordid novel at present."

Less than a day ago, such a comment might have wounded her. But she knew he meant it in jest - or even as an olive branch. A reminder that fiction might be fiction, but it had its foundation in human truth.

She eyed him archly, deciding she would meet his jest in kind. Close to bursting with happiness as she took a moment to collect herself. Attempting to smooth her expression but failing to completely vanish her smile

"Indeed?" she inquired with false inflection. "I am surprised at the limits of your imagination, Mr. Tilney. …I find my thoughts far better than any novel at present."

His laugh startled the birds from the hedgerows. Gaining herself another breathless kiss as his palmed settled in the small of her back. Claiming her close.

Later, when she got her breath back, she would remember to grateful for her own happy ending.

A heroine was always gracious after all.

A/N: Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think. – This story is now complete.

Reference:

- Bibliomania: the excessive desire for acquiring and possessing books. It is characterized by a deep, borderline obsessive fascination with the love of beauty of books and literature.