“Mr.Tarton and my husband are old friends. We stay here anytime we’re traveling toward the coast, or back toward the city. It’s a charming little monument, but Tarton’s made it his life’s mission to introduce everyone he can to it, and it is tiring. Still, for that dinner?”
Catherine laughs. Lady Jones takes her arm, linking their elbows to keep following after the men. “It was delicious,” she admits.
“And the rooms are spectacular. Were you and Rosalie comfortable?”
Catherine swallows, keeping her smile steady. “Very.”
“Good,” Lady Jones says brightly, apparently unable to feel the anxiety that rolls off Catherine in waves. “I’m glad the two of you are getting to know each other better. You seem kindred spirits, and Rosalie can always use more of those.”
Her kind smile is wide, cheerful, but somehow also knowing, in a way that makes Catherine’s insides twist.
There’s no way she can know. Rosalie says she sleeps like the dead, and they were very careful to be quiet just in case. Lady Jones can’t know Catherine spent most of the previous night with her tongue between Rosalie’s legs.
Last night it seemed a wonderful solution, to simply move forward, spend more time together, and leisurely figure out their mutual future, whatever that is, however serious, however difficult, as they go.
But in the harsh light of day, all the worry starts to flood back into her system.
They’re here, with Lady Jones, and Christopher, and Mr.Dean, whom they’re both supposed to be chasing.... One of them is supposed to end up marrying him at season’s end.
How do they avoid that?
“Mr.Dean and Mr.Tarton are thinking about walking the hunting trails, but I thought perhaps the three of you might enjoy an amble through the hamlet instead,” Christopher says, jogging up to them and beckoning Rosalie to join them.
Mr.Tarton and Mr.Dean keep walking toward the forest without even a backward glance. Rosalie catches Catherine’s gaze, rolling her eyes. Mr. Dean has made absolutely no effort to engage either of them in conversation this morning. Catherine’s been too anxious to give it much mind, but really, how ridiculous.
“Ah, the hamlet. Yes. Let’s amble,” Lady Jones says, leaving Catherine to take Christopher’s waiting arm. “And let’s make up lots of scandalous stories about the staff who inhabit the house.”
“Should the housekeeper be in a secret tryst with the carriage driver, or the cook?” Christopher asks.
“Oh, the cook would be far more interesting,” Lady Jones agrees, walking them off in the opposite direction.
But Catherine’s not listening, too distracted by Rosalie striding up to her, all confidence and sly smile.
“We could get lost in the woods for a while. Your dress couldsnag on something and it could be ages getting untangled,” she suggests.
In her cream walking dress and her green-ribbon-rimmed bonnet, her curls frizzy and cheeks lightly flushed, Rosalie looks like a decadent dessert. When it’s just the two of them, Catherine’s worries fall clean away. And they’re blissfully alone right now. Would be a shame to waste the opportunity.
So she lets Rosalie drag her off the path into the dappled green shade. Lets her press her against a tree. Takes her chance to spin them and press Rosalie against the trunk, using their height difference to hike Rosalie up on her thigh, giving her purchase. Lets herself watch Rosalie grind herself to a quick release, head thrown back in glorious pleasure.
It’s almost enough to keep her calm when they’re back in the damned carriage, pressed up against each other with Christopher and Mr.Dean across from them again, and Lady Jones on Rosalie’s other side. Rosalie’s pinky brushes hers on the seat while they both nod at... something Mr.Dean is saying. Maybe about horse racing?
Rosalie’s skin is so soft and warm against hers, even at that tiny point of contact. Catherine’s never felt like this before, for anyone. This rush of feelings, the joy of laying with her, the excitement of her touch and her taste and her smile—it’s intoxicating.
It would be so easy to fall head over arse in love with Rosalie. All it might take is a few more kisses and another few hours spent talking about books and silly men and their favorite places.
There’s no diagram for the life she and Rosalie could share together. They’d literally have to dream it up and make it come true. Catherine’s not sure if they’re really clever enough to finda way to outsmart society and find true happiness together. But she so desperately wants to try.
When they finally reach Bath, Lady Jones has the carriage drop Catherine off first, and Rosalie hops out to see her to her door, as if she might get lost walking the eight steps, and the driver might get similarly lost bringing her small travel case behind them.
Rosalie seizes the opportunity to take Catherine’s arm, standing a hair too close on her doorstep. The street is empty and gray with rain.
“We’ll see each other soon,” she promises.
“We will,” Catherine agrees, trying to soak up the way her eyes sparkle in the lamplight. The way her cheeks are still lightly pink. The way she looks, travel-worn and still sated from last night.
It might not be love just yet, but she thinks she wants a future with Rosalie.
Rosalie briefly takes both her hands, squeezing tight. “Soon,” she insists.
