The Care and Feeding of Waspish Widows

by Olivia Waite

  Griffin’s eyes narrowed. “But?”

  “But . . .” Penelope sighed. “Do you think she’s entirely wrong about marriage?”

  Griffin’s jaw clenched, and she took another long draught of mead. “No,” she admitted. “Which is why it’s so damned hard to argue with. But I’ve spent all night thinking it over, and I believe I know where to start.”

  “Tell me,” Penelope said.

  “My son is right that Eliza stands to lose the most if they married,” Griffin said. Her hand began spinning her glass again, round and round on the old wood of the kitchen table. Her face had gone rosy, whether from drink or determination Penelope couldn’t say. Griffin went on: “The problem is that Eliza also stands to lose the most if they aren’t married. Her reputation will suffer far more than his, if people take note of their intimacy. And I don’t know if she’s told her family, or how they’ll react.” By now she was turning the glass so fast it was beginning to ring a little against the wood. “Because it’s not only marriage that’s the trap—it’s being a woman. And I don’t have a solution for that, either. But I have to do something. Ideals are all very well on paper, but in the real world sometimes one has to be practical.”

  “I’m not so sure.”

  “What?”

  Griffin’s tone was such a thunder crack that Penelope winced a little. She tucked her hands between her knees, squeezing hard. “I made a thoroughly practical marriage,” she countered softly, even as her cowardly heart wailed a protest. “I thought it was the right choice at the time. But now . . . I am not so sure.”

  Griffin’s head snapped up, her eyes widening.

  Darkness and the warmth of the mead lured Penelope forward, into a confession she would probably regret in the cold, clear light of morning. “There are times when I think . . . there are some things that would be easier if I did not have such a knot in the fabric in my life.” She took a breath, hoping it would steady her, but it was only a desperate gulp for air, a momentary respite and nothing more. Her stomach twisted, and in a burst of recklessness she blurted out the truth: “Perhaps if I hadn’t married John, I wouldn’t feel as though it were betraying him to love someone else.”

  “Someone else,” Griffin said thickly. “Who, Penelope?”

  Penelope was already starting to feel hot regret seep in through the cracks in her composure. She’d sink beneath it before too long. She shook her head as though she could shake the world away. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. Then she did something foolish.

  She looked straight at Griffin.

  Agatha Griffin’s eyes widened.

  Penelope’s bravery crumpled, and she looked away again.

  The silence stretched on for years.

  Griffin’s voice came slowly. “When I was younger, I thought kissing was something only girls did.”

  It was hardly more than a whisper, but it sliced through the night like an arrow and nailed Penelope to her seat.

  Griffin continued, as Penelope held her breath so as not to miss a single soft word. “Plenty of us treated kissing like practice. For when we were grown up and could do it with men. It all seemed so innocent, really—holding hands, sharing clothes. Sharing a bed. Wrapping your arms around each other while you both dreamed. Kisses . . . and caresses.” She fidgeted with the shawl on her shoulders, plucking at the fringe on the hem.

  Her gaze flickered to Penelope, then away; Penelope shivered.

  “When Thomas came courting—when I felt I had to grow up—I put all those feelings aside. They complicated things, and I wanted simple. Sure. But lately . . . Well, lately I have been thinking perhaps it’s not something I’m going to grow out of after all.”

  Penelope remembered to breathe, and suddenly couldn’t seem to breathe deeply enough to satisfy. She felt dizzy, disoriented. And not from the mead. “You’re saying you could love women.”

  “Not just that.” Griffin raised her head, and her eyes met Penelope’s with a clarity that made the spinning world pause in its orbit. “I’m saying I could love you.”

  Penelope’s heart was a firework, bursting into sparks in the middle of the night. The explosion propelled her forward, right into Griffin’s arms.

  Kissing, it turned out, was not something Agatha Griffin did by halves. Firm hands seized Penelope by the shoulders and held her in place, while Agatha’s hot tongue slid hungrily between Penelope’s lips. Penelope let her own hands tangle in the long waves of Agatha’s hair, happy to let herself be devoured. There was no room for hesitation now, not a drop of reticence; only this wild, desperate entwinement.

  Penelope’s world split nearly in two: Before this kiss—and After. Nothing would ever be the same. She twisted Agatha’s long locks around her fingers and kissed back as hard as she could.

  Eventually, Agatha broke away. “My god,” she gasped, “I’ve been wanting to do that for months.”

  “Then why stop now?” Penelope demanded, and reached out to pull her back.

  Agatha caught her hands, amusement curling that long, beautiful mouth of hers. “A temporary respite, Flood,” she said. “I don’t want to get so lost to the world that the kitchen maid catches us when she comes to lay the fire.”

  Penelope sat back, chagrined. “Of course,” she murmured. Chill air crept over skin heated by contact. It was good that one of them was thinking clearly, and making sure this would stay a secret. Penelope was no Isabella, with vast wealth and ancient bloodlines to protect her from gossip and the poisonous wagging of malicious tongues. She and Agatha would have to be careful. Discreet.

  Just like every other time.

  Agatha skated thoughtful fingers over the plane of Penelope’s cheek. Aching, Penelope turned so her mouth could press against Agatha’s palm. The scent of lemons from the balm she’d made as a gift speared through her, citrus sharpened and warmed by Agatha’s skin.

  Penelope throbbed hopelessly, and parted her lips to breathe in as deeply as she could.

  Agatha’s fingers slid lower, brushing teasingly across Penelope’s mouth. Tingles like sparks flew up wherever she touched. “Come upstairs with me, will you?”

  “Yes,” Penelope replied. Instantly, and without question.

  In all these long and lonely months, she’d never dreamed she’d have the chance to say yes to such an invitation. The word was honey-sweet on her tongue.

  Agatha’s eyes gleamed in the low light as she pushed up from the table.

  They put the mead and bread away. Agatha grasped the candle in one hand and Penelope’s hand in the other—just like she had in London. As if she feared Penelope might escape if she didn’t keep hold of her.

  Ha, thought Penelope fiercely, not a chance.

  Agatha paused, candle raised, when they reached the twin bedroom doors. “Mine,” Penelope whispered, opening the door and dragging Agatha in behind her.

  “Why’s that?” Agatha blinked.

  “You were downstairs before I was,” Penelope said. She shut the door and leaned back against it, hands still anxiously wrapped around the handle. “So my bed will have stayed warmer than yours.”

  “Ah.” Agatha set the candle by the dressing table mirror, where it would give the most light. The fire had burned low and sultry in the grate. She tugged the cream shawl off her shoulders, draping it over the back of the chair. Penelope’s eyes strained to trace Agatha’s shape beneath the nightgown. Staring, but not ashamed to be caught this time.

  The smile Agatha tossed back over her shoulder was wry and knowing. “Do you manage all your trysts so practically?”

  Penelope licked her lips. “Why don’t you share a few with me, and find out?”

  Agatha let out a bark of laughter, then bit it back when the sound bounced too boisterously off the walls. “I’m glad to hear this isn’t just about tonight,” she said more softly. She took one step forward, and another, making Penelope’s heartbeat skip from a trot to a canter. “It’s been a long time for me, Flood.”

  Penelope gulped. “Does that
mean you want to go fast, or slow? Because if you are out of practice, and want to move slowly, we can do that.”

  Agatha took another, very deliberate step nearer, putting her only an arm’s reach away.

  Penelope couldn’t seem to get enough air no matter how rapidly she gasped for it. Her voice was thready with desire. “But if you’re feeling impatient—or needy—or desperate—Lord knows I am—”

  Agatha bent down and took Penelope’s mouth, smothering the rest of her words.

  The first kiss had been a surprise. This was a seduction. Agatha licked into her, breath and heat melting away the cold of the door at Penelope’s back. One of Agatha’s hands trailed up the long line of Penelope’s neck and fingers threaded into her hair, pulling to tilt Penelope’s head back. “No pins?” Agatha murmured.

  “Prefer to keep it short,” Penelope answered, half reply and half moan. “People only think I pin it up on account of how it curls.”

  “Handy,” Agatha murmured. She tightened her grip, holding Penelope in place.

  Penelope whimpered again, as pinpricks of not-quite-pain lit like stars in her scalp. She was slightly but inescapably in Agatha’s control, and it made her whole body sing. Penelope’s hands dropped away from the door handle, plucking at the ties of her own winter robe.

  Agatha’s mouth slanted harder against hers, little scrapes of teeth and long strokes of her tongue sending fire through Penelope’s veins. Penelope reached out, tugged open the knot of Agatha’s wool dressing-gown, banded an arm around her waist, and pulled.

  Agatha’s long body jerked forward and came up tight against Penelope’s soft, plump shape.

  They both shuddered at the contact. Agatha’s free hand flattened against the door by Penelope’s head. “Dear god, Flood,” she groaned, a low tone that Penelope felt in every inch from throat to thighs. She wanted to rub herself against that sound—instead, she undulated and rubbed as much of herself as she could against Agatha, layers of warm linen sliding and shifting between the creases and curves of their bodies.

  “I knew you’d be trouble,” Agatha laughed, and took Flood by the wrist to tow her inexorably toward the bed. They scrambled together beneath the blankets, an absolute tangle of limbs and cloth and racing, hungry hearts.

  Penelope snuggled up against Agatha and pressed her mouth to the base of her neck, just above her collarbone where her night rail gaped obligingly. Agatha shivered. “Still cold?” Penelope whispered.

  “Still talking?” Agatha replied, in a voice equal parts amused and strained. She shifted, sliding one leg in between Penelope’s, who sighed happily and hooked one thigh high over Agatha’s hip. Heat bloomed between them; Agatha groaned again and pinned Penelope’s shoulders to the bed with eager hands.

  With neither patience nor grace, they stripped one another. The rise and fall of blankets as they flung nightclothes to the floor let in flashes of warm light to illuminate the shapes revealed: the soft expanse of Penelope’s belly, the raindrop curve of Agatha’s breast with a dark nipple puckered by cold. Penelope raised her head and sucked happily on that nipple, while her hands grasped their fill of Agatha’s solid hips. The hands on her shoulders flexed, pressing flesh against bone; it was impossible to say who was holding on more tightly.

  On top, Agatha wriggled, pressed close but still eager to get closer. Penelope gave a mischievous flick of her tongue—making Agatha gasp—and slid a hand into the dark curls between the other woman’s legs. Agatha froze, panting, her sex slick and hot against Penelope’s fingers. “Flood, please,” she hissed.

  “Please stop?” Penelope whispered teasingly.

  Agatha shook her head, convulsive. “Please more.”

  “Anything you like,” Penelope purred, and slid one strong, calloused finger into Agatha’s cunny.

  Agatha shuddered, arching her back, her long hair falling like a curtain around both of them, her hips working as Penelope toyed with her. Penelope flung the blankets back, the better to watch. She wanted to remember every bit of this—every sight and sound, each gasp and groan—because it was the first time, and whenever there was a first time, there would be a last time, too.

  She shoved that thought aside; it could wait until the morning.

  Agatha’s hips rocked faster, matching Penelope’s rhythm. Firelight shimmered on the lights and darks of her hair, swinging with every movement. Soon one finger wasn’t enough; Penelope added a second, and thrust harder, feeling the sweet channel pulse and stretch around her fingers while her thumb strummed the bundle of nerves throbbing above. Agatha was making the loveliest sounds in the back of her throat—high almost-whimpers, desperate and needy—and when Penelope moved over to flick a mischievous tongue against her other, neglected nipple, Agatha tightened up everywhere and came with a choked, wondering cry.

  Penelope kept her hands moving, keeping Agatha flying, drinking in the sounds and the smells and the taste of sweat on skin.

  And then Agatha clapped one hand over her own mouth, and sobbed.

  Penelope froze for a moment in shock—then wrapped her arms around Agatha’s shaking shoulders and pulled her down into an embrace. “It’s alright, you’re alright,” she whispered, over and over, smoothing the wildness of Agatha’s hair, pulling the blankets tight again around them both. “Everything’s alright.”

  Agatha made a strangled noise; after a moment, Penelope realized she was laughing. Still crying, but also laughing, and scrubbing a hand over her eyes to clear the tears from them. “Oh, Flood,” she said, “I’m sorry about that. It’s just that . . . It’s been so long, and here you are, and it was so, so beautiful.”

  The awe and conviction in that one quiet word went straight to Penelope’s head. She grinned, as her heart warmed with pleasure and triumph.

  Agatha sniffled one last time, and pushed herself up. Her forearms were on either side of Penelope, their legs tangling together and sliding gently, unable to hold still. Agatha’s gaze drifted down, and Penelope felt her nipples tighten beneath the heat of that gaze. One tear still sparkled in the corner of Agatha’s eye—but then she smiled, and that curve of lips held so much naked carnal intent that Penelope went hot and breathless and trembling, all at once.

  “Now then . . .” Agatha said, and bent her head.

  And Penelope was lost.

  The kissing had been marvelous. But it was nothing compared to what Agatha Griffin could do when she set her sights on a person’s whole body. Her hands stroked and gripped and teased, her touch going from featherlight to almost bruising. Her mouth followed, hot and wet with the occasional light graze of teeth that made Penelope shiver and melt. By the time Agatha slid lower, settling her shoulders beneath Penelope’s quivering thighs, Penelope was a gasping, writhing wreck of arousal and need.

  She’d never felt so alive in her life.

  Agatha grinned up at her, one palm pressing against Penelope’s inner thigh to keep her spread wide. “God, I’ve missed this,” she groaned. “You have no idea.”

  “Some,” Penelope gasped. “It’s been a while for me, too, Griffin.”

  “Well, then.” Agatha slipped two fingers into her mouth, wetting them. “Let’s not keep you waiting.”

  And then she was licking Penelope’s cunny, openmouthed, and thrusting those fingers inside her as deep as they would go.

  It was rough and forceful and Penelope damn near screamed with the pleasure of it. She bucked up helplessly, one hand clutching at the sheets, the other slamming against her mouth to muffle the sounds that fought to escape from her throat. Agatha groaned ravenously against Penelope’s flesh and the low sound set her off, every last quivering bit of her exploding in showers of sparks so bright she could swear she heard them sizzle.

  Then she snapped back to herself, and it was only the rasp of her own panting breath.

  Agatha slid back up for a kiss, long and slow and satisfied. Penelope groaned satisfaction into Agatha’s mouth and pulled up the blankets again, her eyelids heavy and her brain starting to spin w
ith drowsy delight.

  Agatha nuzzled into Penelope’s throat, and flicked her tongue against the pulse point where her neck met her shoulder. “I shouldn’t stay,” she murmured.

  “Of course not,” Penelope agreed. “You wouldn’t want to risk anything lewd happening. Again.”

  Agatha sighed. “Nothing lewd about it, Flood.” She raised her head; her eyes were serious, a little anxious.

  Penelope’s amusement turned to something more tender. “No,” she agreed. One corner of her mouth hitched up. “Beautiful, as you said.”

  That made Agatha kiss her again, and then harder, which was precisely what Penelope wanted. But as soon as her hands began to wander, Agatha groaned in regret and pulled away. “I shouldn’t sleep here,” she said, slipping free of the blankets and retrieving her night rail. That damned garment, which was both too revealing and covered too much. Then the dressing-gown, of course, covering everything.

  Penelope rolled to her side beneath the blankets and stretched, catlike. She would ache in the morning, she was sure. But it was all worth it, because Agatha’s eyes ate up every movement even from across the room. A bolt of something bold lit up Penelope’s core. “Do you know, Griffin? I am prone to bouts of sleeplessness in the middle of the night.”

  Agatha froze in the act of cinching her robe tight. “That sounds so unpleasant, Flood.”

  “It’s a curse,” Penelope said happily. “All those hours—with nobody else awake—no one to hear anything . . .” She put her chin in her hand and contrived to look innocent.

  Agatha snorted, but a flush had risen in her cheeks. She strode back toward the bed, footsteps beating the floor like a soft, hurried heartbeat. “And what if I tell you I want an uninterrupted night’s rest?” she demanded.

  Penelope widened her eyes. “Do you?”

  “No,” Agatha said, and kissed Penelope so soundly that all her impudence melted away into lust and longing. “At least,” Agatha went on, in a sigh, “not yet. Good night, Flood.”

  Penelope grinned, nestling deep into the blankets. “Good night, Griffin.”