Page 18 of Ladies in Hating (Belvoir’s Library Trilogy #3)

She knew not how to curb the fierce and maddening fever that raged within.

— from Georgiana’s private copy of GLENARVON by Lady Caroline Lamb

It was only after the peculiar dancing lights appeared that Cat realized she had fallen asleep in the Renwick library again.

Three days after Georgiana had taken her to the garden—after her discovery of Sarah Sophia Penhollow’s name on a plaque—Cat found herself curled beneath her familiar worn cloak on her favorite armchair in the library, the room deep in shadow except for the south end, where moonlight gleamed off the tiles.

She had fallen asleep in the room three nights running.

It was peculiar—the library was far too cold, and the armchair was not especially comfortable, and the dreams she had in the room were always ghostly and unsettling.

But each night, she had been one moment poring over the book in her lap and the next struggling back into wakefulness, her half-conscious brain full of queer lights and roses the size of teacups, bloodred in her palm.

This night, she seemed to have slept longer than usual. The moon was fully out, and the sky must have been especially clear, because she could see the reflection of stars flecked across the tiles beside the white coin of the moon.

The lights on the tile—the stars—flickered, shuddered, and then seemed to go out.

Cat squeezed her eyes tightly shut. When she reopened them, the reflection of the stars had returned, sprinkled like salt on the tiles.

She shivered and tried to shake off the vestiges of sleep.

She lifted the books in her lap and moved to return them to the shelves.

A half dozen account books and the records of the architect’s design had been her most recent discoveries in the library.

By now she knew a great deal about the original construction of the manor and had encountered reams of exasperated wrangling between the architect, James Wyatt, and the originator of the building, Nathaniel Renwick—inheritor of a vast fortune in industry and collector of rare art.

But she had found almost nothing about Nathaniel Renwick’s beloved wife, Ellen, or any of the other female Renwicks—and no mention, anywhere, of Sarah Sophia Penhollow.

Who had she been? Why was her name preserved in the rose garden—and why did the strange, isolated garden exist at all?

In the correspondence and accounting regarding the house’s construction—and Cat thought she’d read every single word ever written on the subject by this point—there had been no mention at all of the garden.

Carefully, Cat replaced the account books and records where she had found them.

She trailed her fingers across the crimson bindings, faded and water-stained.

It had been such a beautiful library once.

Her imagination roamed across the shelves, around the circumference of the room.

In her mind’s eye, she could see it as it had been in the height of its glory.

The ceiling would have stretched above her whole and undamaged, lit by chandeliers.

The rows and rows of books would have been not a waterlogged burden, but a universe.

She wished—

It was silly. Softhearted.

She felt for the house, that was all. The strangeness of it.

She had felt odd and out of place for so much of her life—not quite the same as the people around her.

It had been her father’s generous, unhesitating love and the spaces he’d kept safe for her that had enabled her to live her life as she chose. And she wished—

She wished she could give this queer, lovely house the same kind of patience. The same sort of unstinting care.

She hesitated as her fingers brushed across a small volume offset from the others on the shelf. It was shorter, pushed in and half-hidden, and its binding was not the now-familiar faded scarlet but a soft cream kidskin.

Her fingers hovered over the volume for a single breath and then, slowly, she slid it free from the shelf.

She opened the little book. It was easy to hold in one palm, scarcely larger than her hand. Its pages were covered in a large, generous script, and as she read it, gooseflesh rose across her skin. It wasn’t an account book—nor was it another novel.

It was a diary. She could make out the first page clearly, despite the unfamiliar hand and the faded black ink.

Property of Luna Renwick.

Luna. She had been the daughter of Nathaniel and Ellen—one of the first inhabitants of the house.

Cat felt a strange, charged thrill as she flipped through the little book, its entries haphazard and disordered. Some were long reflections and others brief notes—recipes, reminders, lists of books and garments to order from the dressmaker.

Weather uncooperative—again—Papa in fits over construction delay of so. transept.

Mama Christmas—lacquer box to go w. table? For Florimell—harp composition? Import composer directly?

Remind Mama for Tu. dinner—no smelts!!

And then, halfway through the little book, Cat’s eyes caught on a handful words:

Lancelot says we must order roses fr. Malmaison—Sally horrified by expense—ha!

Sally.

Cat’s heart squeezed in her chest, and she ran her fingers cautiously across the name, the bold S and looping l ’s.

Sally—and roses.

Could this Sally be her Sarah Sophia Penhollow?

It seemed plausible—even likely. If Luna Renwick had been the originator of the rose garden—the daughter, not the father—that would explain why Cat had seen no mention of it in Nathaniel Renwick’s correspondence.

But who had Sarah Sophia been ? A relative? A friend?

For whom would Luna have built this wild, lavish garden? And why keep it hidden?

A noisy scrape, as of a door against stone, broke Cat’s fervent concentration, and she whirled toward the library’s entrance, the diary pressed to her chest.

It was Georgiana. Her pale blue dressing gown—silk, again—was wrapped tight around her body, and her hand gripped the fabric together at her neck. Her hair was loose against her shoulders, and her eyes were bright and wild.

“Cat?” she gasped. “Catriona?”

Despite herself, Cat took a step toward Georgiana, out of the shadows. “I’m here. Is everything all right?”

To her shock, Georgiana crossed the room in feverish strides and took her by the arm. “Cat,” she said again, and her fingers clutched Cat’s upper arm for just a moment before she whirled to look out into the library. “I thought—I heard—”

She’d placed her body between Cat’s own and the south end of the library, where the moon shone brightest. Cat peered around Georgiana’s slim form, but nothing seemed obviously amiss. “What’s wrong?”

Georgiana spun back toward her. The moonlight worked upon her hair and skin, silvered the pale gold and ivory shades of her. Her fingers still clutched at her wrap. “You’re all right?”

“I’m fine.” Cat lowered the book from where she’d been holding it to her chest. “Are you all right?”

“I heard you scream,” Georgiana said. “At least—I thought—” A pink flush was rising above her dressing gown, knotted in her fist at the base of her throat. “Did you scream?”

“Why—no. I was only reading.” This did not seem the precise time to illuminate Georgiana on the topic of Luna Renwick and Sarah Sophia Penhollow. “Could you even have heard me in here, all the way from your bedchamber?”

Georgiana’s blush was still rising: her throat, her cheeks, her brow.

Her skin was so fragile, almost translucent. It revealed her emotions even when her voice and body were all glossy shield.

Cat did not know how she had not realized that before.

“No,” Georgiana said, and she sounded unsteady before she got herself under control. “No, of course not. I can’t imagine what I was thinking.”

There it was—her crisp precision, her clipped voice that might as well have been a wall of thorns.

But it was no use. Cat could see her there, her sleep-tousled hair and hot cheeks, and know her composure for a lie. Georgiana had come into the library for Cat —because she thought Cat was in trouble. That tangled urgency, that blurred dishevelment—it was all for her.

Cat moistened her lips. She thought about the way Georgiana had held her wrist in the rose garden.

And then she took a step closer.

Georgiana did not move. One hand was tangled in the blue silk of her dressing gown and the other was open at her side.

“Where’s Bacon?” Cat asked.

“I left him in the bedroom. He was sleeping—whatever I heard didn’t wake him.” Her lips parted, and Cat realized she was staring at Georgiana’s mouth. “I ought to have known then. I must have—I suppose I dreamt it.”

Cat took another step, and then there was nowhere to go, no space to cross, only a sliver of moonlight between their bodies.

Her nose was full of Georgiana’s unnameable scent—amber-dark woods, earth and honey.

She reached out and brushed her fingers across Georgiana’s knuckles, white with tension at the base of her throat.

Georgiana gasped, and Cat’s belly pitched, hot and unsteady.

“I want you to tell me something,” Cat said, her voice low in the stillness of the library.

Georgiana’s fingers loosened beneath Cat’s, but she didn’t say anything, only stood, breathing shakily, not quite returning her touch.

“Do you still think I stole from you? I need to know.”

Georgiana’s lips parted. The freckles around her mouth shimmered in the pearlescent light. “No. I don’t.” She swallowed, and Cat could see her throat work soundlessly. “Not for a long time now.”

“Good,” Cat said, and then she slid her fingers up to Georgiana’s skin. She touched the side of her neck, her throat, the line of her jaw.

Georgiana shivered under Cat’s hand. Her skin was inexpressibly fine, softer than the silk of her gown, and warm, and trembling.

Cat brushed her fingers beneath Georgiana’s ear, and Georgiana made a tiny raw noise, almost a moan.

Cat had been on the verge of something—decision, action, a hot and reckless plunge—and that hoarse, wanting sound swept her over the edge. She nudged her fingers into Georgiana’s hair and pulled Georgiana’s mouth down to her own.

She kissed Georgiana. And—

Oh God. Georgiana kissed her back. Georgiana’s lips were soft, and her hands came, very gently, to Cat’s waist.

Cat heard herself make a little sound against Georgiana’s mouth, and she slid her hand down Georgiana’s back to tug her closer.

She wanted more. She wanted Georgiana’s lips parted, wanted the taste of her, wanted to feel every inch of her skin. She dropped the journal, heard it fall, and could not bring herself to care about anything except the warmth of Georgiana’s body through silk.

Georgiana’s mouth came open over Cat’s. Slowly, deliciously, the kiss changed: softer, hotter, wetter, deeper.

Somehow, Georgiana’s kiss was demand and plea at once.

A sweet and urgent thrill passed over Cat’s skin as Georgiana licked at her lips, then sucked, then bit.

The artless greed of it was the most erotic thing Cat had ever felt, and when Georgiana’s hands began to move across her body, she had to cling to restraint with both hands.

She wanted. God, she had wanted Georgiana for days—not just the week they’d been at Renwick House, but from the first moment she’d seen her in an alley behind Belvoir’s.

And Georgiana was hungry for her too. Georgiana’s hands and mouth told the same story: I want you; please let me; don’t stop.

Cat’s body was flushed and sensitive, and the urgent pressure of Georgiana’s hands pulled desire taut inside her.

She could feel the slim bones of Georgiana’s ribs beneath her dressing gown, and she wanted to slide her palm to where the garment parted, slip her fingers beneath it and find Georgiana’s skin.

But then—slowly, thickly—the barking of a dog penetrated the carnal haze in Cat’s mind.

She tried to breathe. She pulled back from Georgiana’s body, all heated silk and dark woods scent, and felt her stomach pitch at the loss of contact between them.

Georgiana’s eyes blinked open, slow and heavy. Her pupils were wide, and her mouth was a long, elegant curve, flushed and wet from Cat’s own.

“Your—dog,” Cat said. She tried to steady herself. “Do you hear that? Is that—Bacon?”

Georgiana blinked again, a delicate sweep of those pale lashes casting shadows on her cheeks. And then—

And then her whole body went stiff. Closed in on itself—pulled away from Cat, somehow, though she did not seem to move.

“Yes,” she said, “that’s Bacon. I”—she looked around, almost fearfully, as though she were trapped in the room—“I should go, I have to—”

Cat took a step back; her hip bumped against the shelves of books.

Georgiana was breathing hard as she yanked her dressing gown more firmly into place, wrapped it tight around her body. She wasn’t looking at Cat as she stepped away. “I have to go.”

Her voice was taut—icily formal—but Cat knew to look past that now. To see the tremble in her fingers and the flush at the base of her throat.

Cat put a hand to Georgiana’s elbow, a tiny brush of skin on skin somewhere between a grasp and a caress.

“Do you want me to go up with you?” Oh God, that sounded more like a proposition than she’d necessarily meant.

“To make sure everything’s all right, I mean.

You said you heard something earlier, and—”

“No,” Georgiana said. She shook off Cat’s hand and spun toward the door, already in motion.

Cat looked down at her empty hand. She wanted—

She wanted to follow. She wanted to help.

But she knew herself. If she was not careful, she would make of this more than it was. Would find herself trading on dreams beyond hunger and heat, beyond bodies pressed together in the night.

So she held herself still, though her feet strained to go after Georgiana.

Georgiana paused at the threshold, her fingers on the ebony jamb. “I imagined it,” she said. “Before. There was nothing. I—” Her fingers tightened on the wood, as though to wring more words from it.

Cat waited. She— wanted.

Georgiana did not turn around. “Stay here,” she said finally. “Don’t follow. I don’t want you to come with me.”

She passed through the threshold and turned, and then she was gone. Her warmth, her scent, the moon-pale column of her body—all of it vanished as cleanly and completely as if she’d been a ghost.

Cat did not go after her.