Page 33 of Ladies in Hating (Belvoir’s Library Trilogy #3)

I’ll return home in the morning.

Something has come

Perhaps you will not be shocked to

All my life I have

Would you mind terribly seeing to Bacon?

— from Georgiana to her mother, dispatched by messenger

In the kitchen, Pauline had finished the washing and was doing something vigorous with a ball of dark, ginger-scented dough.

“Jem’s gone to bed,” Cat said. “I came to see if you needed any help before I retire.”

“I’m nearly done.” Pauline paused mid-whack and turned her sharp-eyed gaze onto Cat. “Is Lady Georgiana staying, then? I did not hear the door.”

“She’s staying.”

“I see.” Pauline picked up the ball of dough again and thumped it against the floured wood table. She didn’t say anything else.

“Is something wrong?”

Pauline’s eyes closed for a moment, then opened. “No. Only—be careful, all right?”

Cat felt bemused by the reaction, perhaps the tiniest bit displeased. They had both entertained nighttime guests on rare occasions these last six years. This seemed a peculiar time to have qualms. “What do you mean?”

“She seems… I don’t know. Different from you. Cold.”

“She’s shy. ” Cat’s temper crackled more strongly to life. “She’s reserved. She has not been properly lo— appreciated before.”

“Oh, Kitty.” Pauline let out a soft puff of air, an almost noiseless sigh. “Do not let her break your heart.”

Cat took a breath. She quelled her indignation, and then bade Pauline good night.

As she mounted the stairs to her chamber—the attic bedroom, where she’d told Georgiana to wait for her—she tried not to fret over what Pauline had said.

She’d thought the same thing herself, had she not?

But she had seen Georgiana there in front of the fire, watching the rest of them talk and laugh, and Georgiana hadn’t been cold at all, not to Cat’s eyes.

She’d looked hungry —like a child outside the window of a bakery, watching steam rise off hot cross buns, unable to touch them through the glass.

When Georgiana had spoken of dukes to Jem, part of Cat had wanted to contradict her. She had not wanted Jem to feel hope where none was warranted.

But she knew why Georgiana had said it. It was concern that had motivated Georgiana’s words, kindness and compassion. Cat recognized all of it now, though Georgiana wrapped that part of herself in thistles and refused to let the rest of the world see.

Cat pushed open the door to her chamber, closed it behind her, and threw the latch.

Georgiana looked up, a trifle guiltily, from the stack of books she’d been perusing.

As Cat looked at Georgiana—at the flustered flutter of her eyelashes, the color that crept up her throat apparent even by candlelight—she felt tenderness rise in her like a tide. Felt affection snuff out the anxiety engendered by Pauline’s words.

This was Georgiana. Cat knew her.

She crossed to the desk and wrapped her arms around Georgiana’s waist. “Find anything of interest?”

Georgiana was stiff—still a trifle embarrassed, Cat thought—and then she softened, curling into Cat’s embrace. “You have one of my books on your desk.”

“Do I?” Cat tipped her head and pressed her smile against Georgiana’s throat. She smelled like heaven—that unnameable scent, dark and woody and infinitely complicated.

“That one is nearly a decade old. I can—I’ve written much better since.”

What a delight she was. “I like that one. That’s why I’ve kept it all this time.”

“Have you?” Georgiana’s fingers found their way to the back of Cat’s frock and toyed with the place where the fabric ended, just at the nape of her neck.

“Mm. There was something quite dashing about your lady knight.” Cat blew out a breath and watched gooseflesh rise along Georgiana’s skin. “Do people tell you that often?”

“Ah”—Georgiana shivered—“no.”

“What a shame.” A thought struck Cat, and she pulled back. “Nearly a decade old?”

“Well. Seven years.” The pink was back in Georgiana’s cheeks.

“You were eighteen when you wrote The Tale of Josiah Raven ?”

“Yes?”

“Sweet sainted Margaret.” She yanked Georgiana back up against her and gave in to the desire to slide her lips along Georgiana’s jaw. “That is remarkable. You are remarkable.”

Georgiana brushed the side of Cat’s neck, delicate, seeking. Her fingers settled beneath Cat’s ear, and Cat felt desire curl inside her, warmth rising to the surface of her skin.

“You needn’t flatter me,” Georgiana murmured. “I’ve read your books, you know. I know how talented you are.”

“Who’s the flatterer now?” God, she could die like this, with her face pressed into Georgiana’s translucent skin and her head full of Georgiana’s scent. She ran her tongue very lightly along the curve of Georgiana’s ear and murmured: “How old were you when you wrote your first novel?”

Georgiana was shivering harder now. Her skin was hot beneath Cat’s mouth. “Ah—sixteen.”

Her normally crisp consonants were blurred, and the sound of it made Cat feel a little dizzy.

Her nipples had gone tight as they brushed against Georgiana’s body.

“So clever.” She took Georgiana’s earlobe between her teeth and bit down, and the gasp Georgiana made felt like a spark falling on tinder.

But she wanted Georgiana to keep talking. She wanted to listen as Georgiana came undone.

So she slid her hands down, molding the slim curve of Georgiana’s waist, and then back up to the underside of her breasts. “How did you choose your nom de plume?”

To Cat’s surprise, Georgiana went stock-still beneath her hands.

She drew back instantly to look into Georgiana’s face. Had she gone too far, somehow? Perhaps—

But Georgiana did not look offended, only startled and scarlet-cheeked.

“What is it?” Cat asked.

“Ah—nothing.” Georgiana blushed even harder and pressed her knuckles against her mouth. “It’s nothing.”

What on earth… Cat’s gaze fell to the book on her desk, Georgiana’s pen name stamped into the green cloth. Geneva Desrosiers.

She glanced back up at Georgiana. “You do not have to explain it if you do not wish to. You are entitled to your privacy.”

“It’s—it’s—” Georgiana’s lashes flickered down and then back up. And then back down again. “It’s mortifying,” she said, and to Cat’s shock, her elegant voice was almost a wail. “I was only sixteen! Everyone makes impulsive decisions when they are sixteen.”

Cat looked at the name on the book again, which did not seem obviously embarrassing in any way.

Geneva Desrosiers . Geneva was a city in Switzerland, and Desrosiers meant “among the roses,” if her execrable French was to be trusted.

Geneva. Desrosiers.

Among the roses.

Her mouth fell open. She looked up at Georgiana. “You—you—”

“No,” Georgiana protested plaintively, and then buried her face in her hands.

“You chose your pen name for… me?”

Among the roses.

Catriona Rose Lacey.

She did not know how Georgiana even knew her second name—but she’d heard Georgiana say it, just once, when Cat had been frozen in terror atop a wall. Her voice had been low and soft and soothing, and Cat had blinked open her eyes to land upon Georgiana’s perfect, plaster-dusted face.

She had not forgotten the sight. She would never forget it.

At this precise moment, however, she was not able to see Georgiana’s face, because Georgiana had her palms clamped over her eyes. “Please,” she mumbled, “let us never speak of this.”

“Heartling, I would do a great many things for you, but pretending to ignore this revelation is entirely beyond my capacity.”

Georgiana groaned into her hands. “I was sixteen, ” she repeated. “I thought—I thought—”

“Yes?”

“Oh God. I suppose I imagined that you would know, somehow. That you would see my books and—and see me. Take notice of me. Finally.” She lowered her hands just enough to glance at Cat through her lashes.

Her cheeks were still a preposterous shade of red.

“I am perfectly cognizant of how ludicrous that sounds.”

Cat felt the smile tugging at her lips and could do nothing about it. “Georgie mine.” She pulled one of Georgiana’s hands from her face and pressed a kiss to her palm. “It’s sweet. Charming.”

“I think I shall die.”

Cat laughed and freed Georgiana’s other hand, then twined their fingers together. “Do you want to know something regrettable I did at sixteen?”

“If it allows us to change the subject.”

She tugged Georgiana closer with their linked hands, close enough to go up on her toes and brush her lips across Georgiana’s. “I missed the opportunity to do this,” she murmured.

“I would have incinerated on the spot,” Georgiana said, but one of her hands crept around Cat’s waist and anchored her there, their bodies notched together.

Cat kissed her again, slowly, lingeringly. “There’s still time.”

“For me to incinerate?”

Cat unfastened the pearl buttons at Georgiana’s throat, one after another. And then, very deliberately, she licked her way down between Georgiana’s breasts. “To burn.”

Georgiana’s breath caught. Her hand dipped from Cat’s waist down to her buttocks, and she made a tiny, hungry sound as she gripped Cat’s flesh.

Their bodies came harder together, and Cat’s thoughts grew hazed.

She wanted her hands everywhere—all over Georgiana’s skin. She wanted to feel the slick heat of Georgiana’s mouth.

Already her lower belly had tightened, an urgency building between her legs. Her fingers were clumsy as she unfastened the rest of the buttons of Georgiana’s bodice and helped peel the fine wool from Georgiana’s arms.

And then Georgiana’s dress dropped to the floor.

“God,” Cat heard herself say. “Oh God.”

Georgiana wore no stays—her breasts were small and high, and the thick fabric of her frock had required no structural undergarments. She stood, her face flushed and her pupils wide, in nothing but a chemise fine enough to see her nipples through.

She looked like some figure from myth, an exquisite sculptured virgin poised to be sacrificed to a lusty god. Her lips were parted. So were her thighs.