by KJ Charles
“Can I?” Fen heaved herself and her skirts onto the bed with some difficulty, and leaned back against the wall. “It’s like being a schoolgirl again. Are those sandwiches?”
“Midnight feast.” Pat collected the platter. “Here you go.”
Fen gave a laugh that might have been a sob. “Oh goodness. Sitting on a bed in satin and jewels, with beer and sandwiches.”
“Better a dinner of ham sandwiches where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith,” Pat misquoted.
“I oughtn’t even be hungry. I ought to be pouring out my heart about my fiancé or talking about that dreadful man, but it’s nearly ten and we only got through the soup course.”
“Dig in. I was starved as well.” Pat picked up a sandwich to keep her company as she ate, and to stave off whatever revelations were coming. She didn’t much want to hear about Fen’s fiancé, least of all now when it seemed her brother was investigating Fen’s future father-in-law.
Fen polished off her sandwich with evident relief. The maid had only brought two glasses, and Bill had walked off with one of those, so Pat refilled the other and held it out. “We’ll have to share.”
“I don’t mind that.” Fen took an unladylike swig and wiped her mouth. “Oh goodness. It’s terrible to think about food at a time like this but one simply can’t be sensible when one’s hungry.”
“No, one can’t,” Pat said. “Are you being sensible?”
“That rather depends what sensible is.” Fen took another swig and handed back the bottle. “I’ve broken off the engagement.”
Pat stared. Fen twisted to face her, looking somewhat alarmed. “Pat? Do you think that was a bad idea?”
“No! That is, no, if what that ghastly man said had any truth in it. Is that why?”
“It was lots of things,” Fen said. “I asked him point blank if there was someone else, and he said yes. He said he’d broken things off after I agreed to marry him, and he’d thought that would be enough, that he could be a good husband and so on, and then he’d realised it wasn’t and he couldn’t, and he apologised.”
“I should hope he did.”
“Oh, Pat, he was a dear. He was awfully sorry, and he said the odd way he’s been behaving was never because of me—which I did need to know—but because he’d thought he could forget this affair and he couldn’t. He said he simply hadn’t realised that he was dreadfully in love until it was too late. It was actually very romantic, you know, although not for me. He’s terribly upset.”
“Good,” Pat said. “I should imagine he’s upset this other girl considerably as well.”
“I said that too. I said it was a rotten thing to do, breaking off a love affair to marry for money, and he said very nicely that he hadn’t just wanted to marry me for my money, with all sorts of complimentary things. It made me remember why I thought I could marry him in the first place. He said he’d had every intention of falling in love with me and that if it wasn’t for this other person he thought we’d have been very happy, and he wished he could have been the man for me— You’d better hope the wind doesn’t change, pulling a face like that.”
“I’ve never heard anything so sick-making in my life. He’s behaved thoroughly badly, and I hope the other girl gives him what-for if he has the nerve to go back to her.”
“Oh, so do I,” Fen assured her. “I hope she kicks him. But I didn’t say so. I stayed on the moral high ground, you know, looking wronged and letting him say nice things to me, and it was such a relief, Pat. To know that he wasn’t simply tired of me, that it wasn’t about me at all. And to have a really good excuse this time, because Jimmy has said he’ll take all the blame for not fulfilling his obligations. But also, to be honest, it’s an absolute joy to be unengaged again.”
“Is it?” Pat asked, with a little flutter in her chest.
“Oh, yes.” Fen attempted to twist round a bit more, hampered by her skirts. Pat shifted instead, bringing them closer. “I don’t want to go from my father’s household to a husband. I want to find out more about what I can do, which is more than who I can persuade to marry me. I want—I don’t know if you realise what you look like when you shoot, Pat. Utterly focused, and confident, and your whole body and face and everything caught up in it, and you radiate knowing what you’re doing. That’s what I want. To find that balance that you have, that certainty. Everyone says a woman has to get married to settle down—to have someone else possess her—but you’re self-possessed. That’s what I want.”
“But I’m not balanced or certain most of the time,” Pat said. “I’m awfully awkward.”
“You aren’t, you know. You might feel it, but you don’t look it, and honestly, I think everyone feels terribly awkward inside. It’s the human condition. But do you see? That I want to have ideas of my own, and believe them myself, and—and have a leg to stand on?”
“Two is better. Good for you, Fen.” Pat realised she’d reached for her hand. Fen’s fingers curled responsively round hers. “Jolly good for you. I think you’re absolutely right. There’s not the slightest need for you to rush into marriage. You’re far too wonderful to need anyone else telling you how you ought to go on.” Fen’s smile at that was dazzling. Pat made herself say, “And—and of course it’ll be much easier, once you’re sure what you really want, to find a husband who’ll suit you and listen to you, and—”
“Oh, to hell with husbands,” Fen said, and pulled her forward. Her mouth met Pat’s, as warm and real as the night before but tasting of beer with a tang of mustard rather than brandy. She wriggled into Pat’s arms, and Pat’s hands were in her hair, and they kissed with open-mouthed wonder, because Fen was free and wanted to be here with Pat, and it was all right. It was all wonderfully, marvellously all right.
Pat could have shouted. Instead she slid a hand up, cupping the edge of Fen’s breast, and felt her whimper. Fen’s hands were on her now, sliding over what was by comparison a deeply inadequate bosom, but which still did the job because they both quivered at the touch. They were kissing wildly. Fen strained forwards into Pat’s grip, and pulled back again with a mumble of annoyance. “Sitting on this miserable dress.” She tugged at fabric to no avail.
“Take it off,” Pat said, and clapped her hand to her mouth as Fen’s eyes widened. “I meant, take it out. From under you. I really did mean that.”
“How disappointing.” Fen’s eyes were sparkling bright. “Would off be bad?”
Pat reached around her, enjoying the brush of arms against bosom. In an ideal world she would have undone a couple of clasps. As it was, her questing fingers encountered what felt like infinite buttons, and she gave up. “Blast. I need to see.”
“Help me up?”
Fen stood, shaking out the sadly crumpled dress and holding up the tendrils of hair. Pat stood behind her, unfastening each in the long row of tiny buttons, one by one, exposing a V of creamy skin and then the lacing of a corset, cinching Fen’s flesh. She ran her finger along the top of it, felt Fen shiver.
The dress was unfastened. She wasn’t sure what to do—it looked expensive—but Fen pushed it down so it fell to the floor in a rustling silken heap, turned, and stepped out of it. The corset pushed up her bosom, still adorned with sparkling jewels.
“I don’t suppose you’d like to take that off too,” Pat said. It came out slightly hoarse.
“I’d love to take this off,” Fen assured her. “Turn round first, though?”
Pat turned. Fen’s fingers slipped nimbly down her back, dealing with buttons, easing her dress over her shoulders. “You don’t corset.”
“Never started. No mother to insist.” She turned back, stepping out of the dress.
“I had governesses. And I’ve a great deal more that needs lacing in.” Fen ran her hands down Pat’s sides, eyes crinkling at the edges with concentration. “Have you done this before?”
“It depends what you mean by ‘this’.” Kissing and stroking, absolutely. She had a feeling that wasn’t what Fen meant. “I thin
k you should probably assume I’m a novice. You?”
“Finishing school,” Fen said elliptically. “Can I be the instructor now?”
“Please be the instructor.”
Fen’s eyes brimmed with mischief. “Good. First things first: you’re allowed to squeal. In fact, I positively encourage it.”
“I’m locking the door, in that case.”
She suited the action to the word, and turned to find Fen presenting her back. The white laces that secured her corset were the most delectable things Pat had ever seen. She tugged at the fastening bows, feeling the binding give.
“Oh, that’s better,” Fen said, easing the corset off. “I can breathe.” She did so, a demonstrative filling of the lungs that did remarkable things to her chest. Squealing began to seem a very likely outcome. “Now, that petticoat...”
Pat had never felt both so grateful for and so annoyed by her many layers of clothing. They stripped each other amid kisses and stroking and a certain amount of giggling, and when they were down to combinations—Pat’s sensible muslin, Fen’s silk—Fen took her hand and tugged her to the bed, pulling her down so they lay face to face, in kissing distance. Pat ran her hand over Fen’s flank, glorying that she was permitted this, and thrilling at the delicate trace of Fen’s fingers on her own skin.
“Oh Lord,” she murmured against Fen’s lips. “You are lovely.”
Fen leaned in to kiss her, and Pat felt the hand on her bottom give a decided squeeze. She yelped, the sound muffled by Fen’s mouth, and wriggled into the touch as though it were quite natural to do so. Bodies pressing together, legs tangling, and an urge for more building between them as Fen’s thigh pressed between hers. Fen’s hand was on her breast, palm rolling over the nipple, and the movement of cloth against flesh was glorious torture.
Pat whimpered. Fen stilled. “All right?”
“Yes. Oh, yes.”
“Could I touch you?”
“Please.” Pat wasn’t even sure what that meant—surely they were touching now—but the answer was yes anyway, to anything Fen wanted. Fen nudged her so she rolled onto her back, and leaned over her, and Pat gave herself up to the sensation of kisses and strokes, and her own hand on the generous curve of Fen’s plump bottom and—
—a hand sliding up her thigh.
She jolted. Fen snatched her hand away. “Sorry! Was that not—”
“Just startled,” Pat managed. She could hardly breathe with the thought she’d spoiled this. “Novice, remember?”
“Shall I not do that?”
“No! That is, yes. I mean, please don’t not do that.”
Fen’s eyes lit with laughter. “So, just to be sure, you definitely don’t want me to not stop continuing?”
“Oh, shut up.” Pat swatted her behind.
Fen squeaked, and then narrowed her eyes menacingly. “Excuse me, who’s the schoolmistress here? You need to listen to my sage advice.”
“I’m sure it’s extremely sensible,” Pat managed. Fen’s hand was roaming again, sliding up over the cloth to the opening of her drawers. Fen was going to touch her there, and Pat’s heart was thundering with alarm and glory and anticipation. They both inhaled sharply as a finger touched a curl of hair.
“Oh Lord,” Pat whispered. Her hand was clenching convulsively on nothing, and Fen’s free hand came to hold it, interlacing their fingers. Fen’s face was close, with an intently serious look in her pansy-brown eyes, and Pat breathed into the sensation of exploring fingers sliding up and down, touching her, thumb brushing over curls, a finger sliding even more intimately close. Pat didn’t even know a name for the place Fen touched that made her gasp, but she was well aware how it worked and she let her legs relax and widen, giving Fen’s fingers access to stroke and circle. Tiny circles, a repetitive movement that was just what Pat would have done for herself but a thousand times better because it was Fen’s touch, Fen’s breath hot on her skin.
Pat realised she was moaning, little mewling noises in her throat. She stopped herself with a stab of self-consciousness, but Fen’s finger slid up and down, slick and wet now, and she forgot about anything but the building need, the familiar cresting wave of pleasure.
“Oh, I do want to see you enjoy yourself,” Fen whispered. “Please do.”
Pat couldn’t have spoken if she’d had anything to say. Her whole consciousness was narrowed to the point where Fen’s fingers and thumb were working, concentrating on reaching that elusive, glorious peak. She clutched Fen’s hand; Fen gave a breathy whimper, and Pat spasmed against her fingers, unthinking and untrammelled, rubbing fiercely up to prolong the pleasure as she reached the peak and her body clenched tight with throbbing joy.
She sank back onto the bed, mouth open. Fen was looking into her face and her expression washed away any nascent second thoughts or fears, because she looked enchanted.
“Oh,” she said, and curled to kiss her. Pat kissed her back, brain still slow with the aftershocks of that glorious feeling, and slid her hand over Fen’s backside with more confidence now. “Mph. How lovely.”
Fen sat up after a moment. They seemed to have disarranged her combinations, somehow, and her bosom was spilling out of the top. Pat reached up and tugged at the fabric, dragging it down, then slid her hand under one warm, heavy breast. Fen said, “Ooh.”
“That was awfully good instruction,” Pat said. “Could I have a go now?”
“I think you should.” Fen lay back, one arm behind her head, one knee invitingly bent, bosom unrestrained.
Pat caught her breath. “You look...I don’t know. Like an odalisque.”
Fen blinked. “One of those Egyptian stone things?”
“No, odalisque. You know.” Pat wasn’t sure of the definition herself, now she came to think about it. “A voluptuous barely-clad lady in a painting looking no better than she should be. Except you couldn’t get any better.”
“On the contrary,” Fen said with a luxurious stretch. “I could be dramatically better. Try it and see. And don’t forget, you want me to squeal.”
CHAPTER NINE
It was two hours or more before they parted, Fen leaving her with a final kiss and slipping out semi-dressed and with an armful of underthings to return to her room. Pat went to bed in a state of dazed and satiated joy and snuggled into the sheets, enjoyably aware of the damp between her legs, and ready for unconsciousness.
Unfortunately, the weather had other ideas. The wind howled around Rodington Court, banging the shutters and shrieking down the chimney. Rain lashed the walls as if thrown by the bucketful. Pat did sleep, but fitfully, and her dreams were mostly peculiar explanations for the racket. After her brain spun a tale of the house’s invasion by a hunt in full cry including horses and several screaming foxes, she gave up trying to sleep, and simply lay and listened to the storm.
It wasn’t blowing out. If anything, it was getting worse: there was a deep rumble that sounded like thunder approaching. No shooting today: they would all have a day in Rodington Court, trapped with the others after last night’s revelations.
Pat had forgotten the horrors of the previous evening in its glorious ending, but now they returned tenfold. The set-jawed shame with which the Earl and Countess had endured Haworth’s accusations said a great deal; Lady Anna had been as good as called an adulteress, and Jimmy’s peccadilloes exposed. Haworth was a cancer on the family, eating them out from within and the only thing Pat could do was leave them to their misery.
The day would be awful for Fen in particular, since she would doubtless need an interview with the Earl and Countess, assuming she carried through with her determination to end things with Jimmy.
Surely she wouldn’t change her mind, not after last night. Louisa had changed her mind, though, and decided that men and marriage were the only sensible option. One can’t expect these things to last, Pat dear, can one?
Pat didn’t want to think about that now. She would retreat, she decided: find one of the quiet nooks with which Rodington Court was liberally
equipped and settle down with a book. If she wanted company there would, God willing, be Fen; perhaps Miss Singh too. She’d avoid Haworth at all costs, sit it out until the storm passed, and then leave. There was nothing else to be done.
She went down early for breakfast, on the grounds that the ghastly man was a late riser. Miss Singh was already there, with a book propped in front of her.
“Good morning,” Pat offered, just as a clap of thunder broke almost overhead.
“Not much of one,” Miss Singh remarked. “What a shocking day.”
“No prospect of improvement, either.” Pat hesitated, but it needed to be said. “Are you all right, Miss Singh? You’ve been having a rotten time of it. I’m sorry for setting off yesterday’s explosion.”
“If it hadn’t been your comment, it would have been someone else’s. Believe me, I’ve seen enough of that man to be sure.”
Pat nodded. “I dare say. Good work with the water. It’s the only way with a biting dog.”
“Quite.”
“Are you going to stay?”
“Here?” Miss Singh made a face. “I don’t want to leave Aunt Mattie—the Countess, you know. She’s my godmother, but I grew up calling her aunt; I lived with the Wittons for a couple of years while my parents travelled. I don’t want to abandon her in time of trouble. Unfortunately, my presence makes Haworth worse.” She spoke with remarkable calm, considering the amount of insult her words encompassed. “It is hard to know what to do.”
“Yes.” Pat contemplated the chafing dishes, and helped herself to sausage and mushrooms. “So...will Mr. Keynes stay?”
She tried to ask it casually—delicately, even. Miss Singh sounded equally calm as she replied, “Unless the Earl asks him to leave for attempting to murder his son-in-law.”
“Oh, yes, true. Sterling effort. I’m sorry I drenched him.”
“It was probably for the best.”
Pat caught Miss Singh’s eye at that point. They both started laughing at once, Miss Singh’s shoulders shaking, Pat forced to put down the toast she was buttering. “Oh goodness,” Miss Singh gasped, wiping her eyes. “One shouldn’t laugh, but really.”