Catherine’s eyes flicked up, and the intensity there pulled all the air from Lucy’s lungs and replaced it with fire. “Neither,” the countess said softly. “You are the type of scholar who cares most about the truth. There is nothing so rare, and so much to be valued by the rest of us.”
Lucy swallowed hard. “You flatter me.”
“Do I?” Catherine’s lips curved—it was a teasing smile, full of promise, and it lit Lucy up like a torch. “You’ve just told me how much you’re working to keep your translation true to Oléron’s writing. You are trying to add yourself to it without standing between the world and the original author. It’s a very difficult prospect.” She set down her wineglass. “It’s also the exact right thing to do. And not one in a hundred other astronomers would think of doing it.”
Lucy had no response to this. Her cheeks were burning and she couldn’t seem to find a safe place to look for more than half a minute together.
It wasn’t as though she’d never been complimented before—her father had always lauded her mind (if not her femininity), and her past lovers had had plenty to say about her wit (if not her beauty). But she couldn’t offhand think of any other time when someone had been so adamant in praise of something she’d not even succeeded yet in achieving.
Catherine had complimented Lucy’s judgment, and there was something in that that intoxicated her more than strong spirits might have done.
They went straight to Catherine’s room after dinner, as though it were now understood.
Lady Moth’s maid gave Lucy one brief, keen look, then smoothed out her expression and curtsied as she was dismissed for the night. “Will you please go and tell Eliza I won’t be needing her any more this evening?” Lucy said, blushing.
“Yes, miss,” Narayan said, and the door snicked softly shut behind her.
Lucy looked at Catherine, whose cheeks were pink but whose shoulders were tight and tense. She reached out and put a hand on Catherine’s cheek, gratified beyond reason when the countess leaned into the caress with a sigh.
Lucy brushed the softest of kisses across the shorter woman’s mouth. “I’ve thought about this all day,” she said.
Catherine’s blush deepened. “So have I. I am terribly embarrassed about how I behaved last night.”
“You needn’t be.” Lucy guided Catherine over to the chaise and sat her down on one side. Her posture was poker-straight, but Lucy wasn’t surprised. For herself, she leaned back affably against the cushioned curve. They would both feel better if they cleared the air a bit. “You said you’ve never kissed a woman before.”
“Yes, but it’s not as though I’m entirely new to the business,” Catherine said tartly. “I was married for fifteen years.” She glanced away. “Plenty of time to outgrow youthful ardor. And this is not precisely the kind of conversation one has with a... with a new lover.”
“You forget,” Lucy said mischievously. “I’m an astronomer, remember? I care much more about truth than about propriety.”
Catherine blew out a breath. “So I am something in the nature of an experiment?”
Lucy bit her lip. “I might ask you the same question.”
“But I amnotan astronomer, nor any kind of naturalist,” Catherine shot back. “I do not perform experiments.”
“No,” Lucy agreed. “You are a well-traveled lady of quality—prone to sudden whims and prey to dissipated impulses.”
She laughed as Catherine sputtered objections. But the countess was looking less anxious, and the corners of her mouth were tilting up.
Lucy pressed onward. “Was George the only lover you’ve had?”
“No,” Catherine replied. “There was another man, after George died. But he— I...” She shook her head, clearly struggling to find the words. “With George, there had been no pleasing him. I was thrilled to find a man who wanted pleasing, and I did everything he asked of me simply for the sake of that approval. But some of the things that pleased him...” She paused. “How much of your innocence can I ruin in the course of one evening?”
“I’m already reasonably ruined,” Lucy said. “You can tell me.”
Catherine bit her lip, then steeled her spine. “He was... rough.”
“Ah,” said Lucy, in a tone of complete understanding. “He hurt you.”
“He never laid a hand on me in anger.”
Lucy was quietly insistent. “He hurt you, and you didn’t think you were permitted to object.”
“He found particular ecstasy in giving pain, and I tolerated the pain because it was so novel to bring someone happiness instead of misery or anger. Sometimes when he hurt me more than I could bear I lashed out in return. He enjoyed that, too. The struggling, the hurt. I felt like a wild thing, most of the time—but my lover was ecstatic about it. It baffled me even as it gratified. And I thought, maybe all the better kind of passion had been drained from me, from too many years of neglect.” She dropped her eyes. “He was always very kind, after.”
“There are people who enjoy giving pain, and people who find suffering brings them pleasure.” Lucy leaned forward, resting a hand on Catherine’s wrist. “It doesn’t make their pleasure any more or less real than yours—it’s just a matter of taste. Like preferring mint tea over chamomile.” She trailed her fingertips up Catherine’s skin until the tender turn of the elbow. The other woman’s breath hitched, and Lucy licked her lips. “And you’re anything but passionless.”
“What if I lose control again?” Catherine whispered.
