“No, Mama. I haven’t seen him for a while.”
Grace cocked her head. “Are you certain about Mr. Barclay, Louisa? If not, you must say so before anything else occurs. It wouldn’t do to lead him on.”
From the corner of her eye, Louisa noticed Maxwell Harlow and Miss Chessington nearby. They were talking to another couple who were vaguely familiar, although their name and title, if the latter applied, eluded her. At that moment, Maxwell saidsomething, at the same time placing his hand in the hollow between Miss Chessington’s shoulder blades.
And Louisa knew exactly how it would feel. How the heat of Maxwell Harlow’s touch would traverse the thin fabric of the gown and warm the flesh beneath. And how, despite the heat, a shiver would then ensue, travelling up and down the spine in a delicious fashion.
“I’m certain, Mama,” Louisa replied, smiling over a mild ache in her chest. “Quite certain.”
*
Louisa opened thedoor to the ladies’ retiring room, flinching as she met a barrage of florally scented air and a babble of female voices. No, this would not do. She’d be expected to smile and exchange niceties and felt like doing neither. All she needed were a few quiet minutes to herself. A little time to clear her head.
She stepped back into the hallway, barely closing the door before it opened again and two young women exited. They gave Louisa a cursory nod, linked arms, and then sauntered off, leaving a swirl of perfume and giggles in their wake.
Louisa glanced about and wandered farther down the hallway to another door, partially hidden in shadow. Her curiosity stirred. A parlor, perhaps? She glanced around, seeing no one, and then turned the handle, opening the door just wide enough to peer inside.
It appeared to be a large sitting-room or parlor, dimly lit, the chill air within tainted by the odor of stale tobacco and a more pleasurable hint of beeswax. Candles burned at each end of a carved black mantel, while another cast a circle of light across an ornate, leather-topped desk that stood near the door. A large damask settee and velvetchaise-longuemonopolized the areaaround the unlit hearth. On the far wall, a cascade of plush, velvet curtains tumbled from ceiling to floor, closed against the winter’s night. The rest of the room lingered in shadow, with a variety of furnishings forming intriguing silhouettes.
As Louisa looked about, something overhead caught her attention. A fresco of sorts, decorating the ceiling, the details not quite apparent. Intrigued, she opened the door wider and stepped over the threshold, an intrusion that stirred the air and caused the candles to flicker and dance. Standing directly beneath the artwork, she squinted up at it, her gloved hand stifling a subsequent gasp of shock.
Having spent time in Rome and Florence, she was no stranger to what might be termed as risqué artwork, specifically the naked human form, both sculpted and painted.
But she had never seen anything quite like this.
These men and women, depicted in a variety of sizes and shapes, were not only naked, but engaged in various acts of a blatantly carnal nature. The artistry, if one could call it that, was substantial, covering most of the ceiling.
Louisa was not entirely ignorant of the sexual act. Her brother, Josiah, had explained the basic process of conception to her several years before. She’d been horrified at the time and declared as much, shocked that their parents had obviously performed the appalling act six times. Josiah had laughed at that, assured her it really wasn’t as terrible as it sounded, and sworn her to absolute secrecy. “If Papa or Mama find out I’ve told you, I’ll be in serious trouble,” he said. “And don’t tell Julian either.”
“Well, Josiah,” Louisa muttered, craning her neck as she continued to examine the brazenly erotic display, “this goes way beyond what you described.”
Turning her head this way and that, she studied the various depictions, not sure if she felt appalled or fascinated. Both,in truth. So absorbed was she, that a creak and a click from behind made her jump. Just the door, she realized, swinging gently shut. Given the nature of the indelicate display, Louisa wondered that the door had not been locked. She knew she was trespassing, but the room, though chilly, at least offered some peace.
A subdued buzz of conversation and merriment could still be heard, however. At that moment, the orchestra struck up their next tune. Galopede. Louisa’s favorite country dance. She wondered if Maxwell was on the dance floor, and with whom. As if it mattered. In less than three weeks, he’d be married to Miss Chessington. Come summer, he and his new wife would be residing in Northcott Manor, the latter somewhat reluctantly, it seemed.
“For God’s sake, Louisa,” she muttered to herself, “stop it.”
To continue like this was folly. Perhaps Mr. Barclay would end up stealing her heart after all, which would then take her mind off Maxwell Harlow.
Perhaps.
Shivering, she turned back toward the door, halting as a woman’s voice could be heard in the hallway. Then the door handle turned, and the door opened several inches.
“This will do,” the woman said. “It won’t take a moment.
“This is obviously a private room, Sybella,” came the masculine response. “Can’t it wait, whatever it is?”
Maxwell?
Louisa’s eyes widened in horror, her mind trying to decide whether to announce her presence, or to hide. To be discovered poking about in a room with a decidedly pornographic ceiling was, she decided, the greater of the two evils. She couldn’t bear the thought of trying to explain to Mr. Harlow, and more especially, Sybella Chessington.
Looking about wildly, she sought refuge. The curtains! Holding her breath, she hurried over and quickly slid behind the velvet wall, gratified to discover a window seat. Trembling, she shuffled onto it, her petticoats and skirts all but filling the gap. Then she sat, still as a stone, hardly daring to breathe, her heart pounding like a bass drum in her ears.
Maxwell and Sybella. Of all people!
“What I have to say will not take long,” Sybella said, and Louisa heard the door close with the same quiet click. “And it is simply this. I want you to stop telling everyone that we’ll be living in Yorkshire after we’re married.”
“Why?” Maxwell replied. “Since that is where we will be living.”
