“You were alone in the gardens last night?” Melanie was frowning.
“You made love with the Marquess of Dorset in the gardens?” Angeline exclaimed.
“We kissed,” she said, feeling distinctly uncomfortable beneath the scrutiny of her friends. “And…kissed.”
Andkissed.
“Do you mean to say that the entire time I was enduring Miss Sinclair’s singing and Lady Eleanor’s piano accompaniment, you were off kissing the Marquess of Dorset in the moonlight?” Olive asked, sounding scandalized. “I could have been in the ruins had I realized it was so dratted easy to escape Miss Julia’s clutches.”
“Is that the reason for the mark on your neck?” Charity asked, still sprawled on the bed in repose, though having rolled to her belly once more at some point during their conversation.
Clementine’s hand flew to the place where the marquess had sucked on her throat last night, where his teeth had tenderly raked over her flesh until she had wanted to come apart at the seams like a poorly constructed gown.
“I have a mark?”
How had she not taken note when she had looked at her reflection? Ah, yes. Her wretched blush must have covered it.
Charity chuckled. “Iknewit was from the marquess.”
Oh, this was truly terrible. Where was her pearl powder, and why had her lady’s maid not discreetly informed her of its presence? Had that been the reason she had been so quiet when she had delivered the ointment Dorset had sent from his valet for Clementine’s bee sting?Good heavens, what if Keating believed the ointment had been specifically for the mark on her neck?
“If you like kissing the marquess, then why do you wish to end your betrothal?” Angeline asked.
“Because he is a rake,” she said, her misery reaching a crescendo, “and because he has no more wish to marry me than I do him. My heart still belongs to Walter, and Ambrose holds me responsible for the Marchioness of Huntly throwing him over for the marquess.”
“Ambrose, is it?” Melanie asked, her brows raised.
“Ye ken his given name,” Raina added, with emphasis.
She bit her lip. Yes, she knew his given name. And yes, it felt natural on her tongue. As natural as his tongue in her mouth had been.
“He told me.”
“You have been spending a great deal of time with the marquess for a lady who does not like him,” Olive pointed out.
“Have you fallen in love with Dorset?” Angeline pressed.
“Of course not!” Clementine denied, horrified at the prospect.
“In lust, then,” Charity suggested, grinning.
Lust? It was a base emotion. One which was beneath her. Mama would be horrified to know Clementine was friends with a lady who would utter the word with ease. And worse that her own daughter could be caught helplessly in its throes.
Lust.It was the wrong four-letter word beginning with anl, the opposite of everything she had experienced with Walter. And still…
Could that be the reason for the butterflies that had taken up residence in her belly? For the heaviness and ache between her thighs when he had kissed her? For the strange urge to see him again? For the yearning she could not seem to banish even when he was nowhere near her?
“I do not lust after him either,” she denied, though even to herself, her refutation rang hollow.
“It would seem that you do havesomefeelings for him, dearest,” Angeline said softly.
Once again, one of her friends was not wrong. Which made Clementine wonder what else they were right about. They had been immediately drawn to each other from the moment they had first entered Twittingham Academy, and they had all remained the best of friends despite the time and distance intervening between them. She trusted these five ladies with her deepest secrets. They had been the ones to whom she had turned in her time of mourning over Walter. Their letters and visits—from those who had not been out of country, as Angeline and Raina had—had helped her shattered heart to become whole once more.
“I cannot have feelings for Dorset. I do not evenlikehim.”
But a voice inside her, one she had been doing her utmost to ignore, reminded her that was not entirely true. The marquess had undeniably ingratiated himself to her over the course of the house party. He had carried her in his arms all the way to her chamber when she’d been stung. And had he not caught her, keeping her from injuring herself in the library when she had lost her balance and fallen from the ladder?
Yes, and he had remembered about the ointment this morning for her sting.
