Page 48

Elfreda had never been in Georgie’s bedchamber.

It was like every other room in the house, colorful and plush, hung with brightly patterned wallpapers.

Only the fencing foil on the upholstered bench at the foot of the bed, and a periodical— The Farmers’ Magazine —carelessly splayed on the elbow chair, announced anything about the individual occupant.

Georgie had been away for years, after all, and was poised to go away again. Their personality hadn’t seeped into the décor.

“The King Georgie .” She spotted the model ship on the mantel and went to it, gathering up the excess fabric of her borrowed nightgown, one of Georgie’s, much too long.

“I brought it with me from London.”

Something in their voice cautioned against questions.

She bit her tongue instead of asking about the letter—if they’d brought it too.

They hadn’t answered her the first time, except to close the subject.

Why would they answer now, at two in the morning, as the bond they’d formed across these weeks unraveled?

Georgie flying off, and she…staying right where she was, stuck.

The ship had gunports fitted with tiny gold cannons.

Her eyes got lost as she tried to trace the threads of the elaborate rigging.

Many of the sails were set, as though drawing wind.

Square topgallant and topsail. Larger triangular sails fore and aft.

Georgie’s mother’s letter had been hidden among those spans of cloth.

Her eyes fell to the painted name on the stern.

The i in Georgie had been added clumsily, and obviously. She could picture them painting it, could summon an image of that headstrong child, eyes too blue, brazen red hair not yet mellowed to auburn. Provoking in every way.

Her heart skipped a beat. Georgie had been under her skin from the beginning, jangling her nerves, rankling her mind, stinging her pride, and she’d shied away from the intensity of her reaction.

Tried not to look at it too hard, to recognize it as infatuation.

And now she understood the wisdom of that ignorance.

She couldn’t return to her old life. She’d been kissed in starlight, kissed by starlight. She knew how it felt. Everything was different.

She hovered her pointer finger over the i . “Your father really didn’t notice?” The disfigurement of an object in his collection was the only sort of thing her father ever did notice.

“If so, he didn’t let on.”

She turned and met Georgie’s gaze. Their hair had dried in errant waves, and the candle they held made their eyes glisten like melting ice.

“We should sleep.” She crossed to the bed. “You have to meet Mr. Arbuthnot at the inn by ten.”

Their gaze tracked her movement. “So early?”

“That’s what Miss Linley said.” The bed was narrower than hers, and lovelier, and fresher, the mint-green blanket swirled with pale pink florals, the sheets sweet smelling and butter soft as she slipped inside.

They snuffed their candle, and then the two on the bedside table.

The room turned black.

The mattress dipped beneath their weight. She rolled onto her side, her face next to theirs.

“I’ll be there at ten, then.” Their statement had a nearly imperceptible lilt.

Tell me what to do.

They’d begged her permission to leave. As though permission were hers to give, as though they’d listen if she responded Stay .

But it wasn’t, and they wouldn’t. She might have been angry at their emotional deceit.

Indeed, beneath the willow, she’d almost screeched like some taloned bird of night.

The next moment, understanding blunted her anger, dulling it to an ache.

They had been abandoned, and it had hurt them deeply, more deeply than they’d admit.

Now they worried they were abandoning her and needed to convince themself they’d considered her wishes.

But they didn’t owe her such consideration.

They’d never made her any promises. She’d always known they were leaving.

If she’d failed to protect her heart, that was her own concern.

This pretense of reluctance—it was the only thing for which she could fault them. It forced her to pretend too.

“I’ll come to see you perform in Manchester,” she lied.

“Your father will permit it?” they asked, and her throat relaxed. Their skepticism invited honesty.

“No.” She exhaled. Papa would return soon, with baskets of artifacts for her to sketch and describe.

They’d fall back into a rhythm of working on Ancient Derbyshire , and soon it would be time to prepare his presentation for the next Society meeting.

The weeks and months would pass. She’d dig on the bluff, during her few spare moments.

She’d do what she could to keep the twins from climbing out windows and into trunks.

She’d call on Mrs. Alderwalsey. She’d take that good lady’s blue satin and see if she couldn’t sew it into a prettily trimmed spencer for Agnes.

Georgie’s breath warmed her cheek. “I didn’t think so.” They slung their arm over her waist and curled her closer.

“I’d like to,” she said honestly. “Maybe someday.” When the twins were grown. When she made Fellow and had the resources to travel.

Maybe someday. Maybe never.

“I won’t be gone long,” they said, and she kissed them, urgently, to stop their words before they could say anything else reassuring and untrue. They kissed her back, their hand sliding up to her nape, their tongue in her mouth, matching her urgency.

They thought never too.

Their kiss tasted like the end, the final sip of summer cordial, in which all the crushed berries had settled, a sweetness that scorched.

She wiggled to work the nightgown up her thighs, wrestling up Georgie’s as well, with an impatience that would have shocked her if she had time for it.

Their bare legs threaded hers, and she gasped against their lips.

She tore at the ruffles interfering with her access to their breasts, fumbling for an opening.

They heaved up, wrenching their nightgown over their head, and she did the same, buttons snagging in her hair.

She hadn’t learned finesse from previous encounters.

It was the opposite. She was rougher now, but so were they, dropping down on her, pressing her flat beneath them, pinning her wrists.

“Elf.” They gulped air. “I—”

She pushed up, fusing their mouths. Kissing instead of speaking. Kissing instead of thinking, instead of breathing. A world of lips and tongues and teeth.

Abruptly, they rolled them both onto their sides.

She groped for their breast, and they grabbed her bottom, kneading it, reaching around, and…

she cried out as their fingers slid into her from behind.

She gripped their breast convulsively, too hard, but they arched their back, and their moan meant not enough .

She struggled to wedge her other arm between their bellies, panting, and finally, her finger struck that springy, jewel-toned hair, which gave gloriously onto their sopping wet cleft.

Her wrist burned from the angle, but when she moved her fingers, the sounds she pulled from Georgie’s throat made a different fire go everywhere.

She cinched her legs around their thigh, trembling, her fingers stuttering out of rhythm, because the way they plunged their fingers up inside her, again and again—she couldn’t control herself.

Her mouth was open on their neck, and she screamed as she climaxed, shaking into delirious pieces.

Georgie thrashed and shook with her, and then they sighed—not a Romeo sigh, a richly satisfied sigh, pure contentment stroking her over like velvet.

They held all the pieces of her in their arms. She slept so soundly that she awoke in the same position, their arms still around her.

For several blissful minutes, she didn’t move a muscle, committing everything to memory, the feel of their body tangled with hers, heavy with sleep. And then she extricated herself carefully, dressed, and tiptoed from the room.

It was eight in the morning. Mrs. Pegg would be making breakfast, wondering what delayed her.

She descended the stairs and bumped into a housemaid hurrying out of the drawing room.

She was round faced and young, with a feather broom and a friendly smile, and she agreed readily to waking Georgie in another half hour.

Another minute, and Elf was outside in the cool morning light, the dewiness of the air soothing her sandy eyes.

She was tired. She was simultaneously hollow as a reed and spilling over from fullness. She was running away, perhaps, from goodbye.

When she reached Holywell Rock, she paused to put her hand on it, the lichen slightly damp, itching under her palm. It seemed more significant than usual, the idea of passing by the boundary stone.

The pause extended.

She found a toehold, a handhold, and she was atop the rock. She didn’t stand long to gaze between the two houses. She sat cross-legged to think.

—

Georgie resisted being roused. They could hear the maid, Jenny, rustling about, thumping chairs unnecessarily, rattling the fire iron in the grate, although no fire had been laid.

They pulled the covers over their head when she opened the curtains and the windows, light and fresh air galloping into the room.

“Have mercy,” they muttered.

“It’s almost nine,” came Jenny’s chirping voice. “And the lady said as she was leaving that you had to rise.”

Elf was gone. They’d been struggling against that awareness, and now the sense of loss paradoxically weighed them down.

“All right,” they said at last. They kicked free of the bedclothes and prepared to confront the day.

Downstairs, the house reverberated with the sounds of a merry brawl. The drawing room door stood open. Georgie peeked inside to investigate the racket.