In an exploratory way, wondering, at the same time, what she looked like.
The skin was sensitive there. Plump. And while tracing her seam, Amelia’s heartbeat sped up. She’d known there was something to this, but never been brave enough to experiment for more than a few seconds.
Her knees fell open and, resting them against the sides of the tub, Amelia tentatively explored her…personal bits, as Sally had called them.
Unbidden, Mr. Beckworth’s image danced in her mind. Eyes darker than any she’d ever seen. His scruffy jaw. His throat.
His hands.
She found herself recalling the warm pressure as he’d massaged slow circles on her chest. “I’ve got you.”
She remembered how she’d appreciated the strength of his hands, a stark contrast to Lord Northwoods’, or any gentleman’s, really.
Mr. Beckworth’s fingernails were not buffed. His hands were not soft.
Rough hands represented labor. Rough hands were indicative of the lower classes. A person with such hands, Amelia had been told, was beneath her.
Was Mr. Beckworth, in fact, actually beneath her?
Not at all!
The thought was as startling as the urge building beneath her fingers.
“These gowns are lovely. Do you want to wear the pink one, with the rosebuds embroidered on the bodice? Or the yellow? It’s got daisies with green stems all around the hem.”
Amelia blinked. She wasn’t alone. Really. But she was close to something…
“You decide.” Amelia’s voice came out a little strained.
Her heartbeat thundered in her ears now, suddenly mortified that Sally might guess what she was doing. Amelia pressed her knees together and frantically searched for the washcloth. When she’d found it, she was sitting up. She splashed some water over her arms and cleared her throat. “I’m ready to get out now!”
“Be right there.” And when she appeared, there was nothing unusual about the maid’s demeanor. She simply smiled and listed off the attributes of both dresses which had been waiting in the chamber when Amelia arrived.
The maid didn’t suspect a thing.
And if she did, she didn’t seem to care.
Stepping into the large, warm towel, Amelia breathed a little easier as she cinched it over her breasts.
“Sit by the fire, miss, and I’ll brush out your hair.”
Amelia lowered herself onto a cushioned stool while Sally went right to work.
“Do you want a twist or braids? I don’t have many pins…”
“Braids. If that’s easier.”
Instead of unsympathetically pulling the brush through Amelia’s hair like she was accustomed to, Sally slowly untangled the ends first, holding each section of hair away from her head so it didn’t tug so painfully, and then gradually worked her way up the strands. It was soothing. Hypnotizing.
And just when Amelia thought she might drift off to sleep, Sally stepped back. “There you go, then. Have a look in the glass and tell me if you like it.”
Staring into her reflection, a smile tugged at Amelia’s mouth.
Sally had plaited two sections of hair, it seemed, and then wound them around Amelia’s head like a crown. It looked simple but pretty at the same time. Best of all, Amelia hadn’t had to endure the pain of having dozens of decorative pins stabbed into her scalp.
“I… love it.” Amelia touched the sides. “Is it hard to do?”
“Not really. I do my own the same on Sundays.” She was standing behind Amelia and made a face looking in the mirror. “Otherwise, I just tuck the braids under my cap.”
