“He did.” Lucy stripped off her gloves, one finger at a time, as deliberate and vicious as poniard stabs. “Poorly. And then he begged me—yes, I do thinkbeggedis the proper word—to help him with the Society’s official translation of Oléron.” Oh, there was still a flare of satisfaction at being deemed worthy, even by so unworthy an authority. Lucy’s smile was all arsenic, a metallic, bitter curve of lips as she all but marched back into the parlor, glared at the tea things waiting there, and stomped instead to the small decanter of sherry kept here for rare male visitors. She slopped some into a small glass and drank it all in one go, the heat of it soothing the burn in her throat where bright rage fed on shame.
Catherine perched gingerly on the sofa, her hands fluttering slightly before settling close in her lap like startled birds. “Did he offer you a proper share of the royalties, as he did with Mr. Frampton?”
Lucy poured a second glass, to sip from, and stared into the amber depths of it. She wished Catherine hadn’t asked about the financials. “He offered to be my mentor.” She spun the glass, watching the light dance on the liquid. “He told me I could go far, with the right sort of supervision. He mentioned my father, and that it had been clear I’d taken over the equations long ago. He laid all of English science before me and told me it was mine to cultivate and cherish.”
Catherine’s rosebud mouth twisted. “So hedidn’toffer you money.”
“He also declined to permit me Fellowship in the Society. Even though he was asking me to step in and save them from what honestly sounds like a disaster in the making.” She took another gulp of sherry and turned back to Catherine. “I told him no. Flat-out, and irretrievably. I said some accurate things for which I will not likely be forgiven. He won’t be writing me again, I should think.”
Catherine nodded, but some wariness held her still and stiff. “He should have offered you proper payment, if he wanted you to drop your translation and take over someone else’s,” she said. “That way it would have been a real choice, and you could have picked which arrangement suited you more. A bird in the hand—” She snapped her mouth shut and looked away, flinching as though she expected to be struck.
A ray of sympathy broke through the storm clouds of Lucy’s mood. She plunked the sherry down on the side table and slid onto the couch. Her hands slipped into Catherine’s, untangling tight fingers and warming them between her own. “He could have offered to put the whole world in the palm of my hand, and I’d still have chosen you over him. Sweetheart, it’s not about the money.”
Catherine made a sound of disbelief.
Lucy shook her head, chuckling. “Yes, alright, but it’s notjustabout the money. When you offered to sponsor my translation, what did you ask for in return?”
“I...” Catherine shook her head. “What are you talking about? I blurted it out in a moment of anger when the Society mistreated you.”
“Yes—but you didn’t take it back when your anger cooled. And you let me take charge of the translation as if I were an expert.”
Catherine’s fine brows slashed down into a piqued frown, and her hands gripped Lucy’s with some ferocity. “Youarean expert. Why would I have you work on a project if I didn’t trust the work you would produce?”
“But sweetheart,” Lucy said softly, “that’s just what Mr. Hawley did this afternoon. And what he’s done to many others, no doubt, in the course of his presidency. He demanded I undertake only the work he permits me, when and how he deems proper. But you...” She bent forward, brushing reverent lips against Catherine’s temple. She felt the countess’s soft gasp feather along the side of her neck, and smiled. “You simply made room for me to do the workIchose to do. You gave me a space for it and time for it and you offered support whenever I struggled. All because you believed I could do it, and do it well.”
“Yes,” Catherine huffed, “but it wasn’tjustabout the work, either. Not after a while.”
Lucy blinked and looked down.
Catherine’s mouth was turned down but her eyes shone up at Lucy with helpless, hopeful affection.
Lucy slid wondering fingers along the countess’s jaw, as though any movement too quick or eager would shatter the moment like glass. “Oh?” Lucy whispered. “What else was it about?”
Catherine took a deep breath and let it out again in a rush. “I am trying to tell you I love you,” she said, adorably grumpy, “and you are making it impossible.”
Lucy fought the urge to laugh in pure elation. “So tell me.”
Catherine bit her lip, then lifted her chin. “You first.”
Lucy did laugh then. Was still laughing when her mouth met Catherine’s, the kiss tasting of sherry and sunlight and words still yet to be spoken.
“I love you,” Lucy whispered, breaking the kiss. Her smile curved against Catherine’s cheek. “Your turn.”
The countess bit her lip, sighed, and drew herself up. “I love you, Lucy Muchelney.”
“There,” said Lucy. “That wasn’t so impossible, was it?”
Catherine pulled back, her frown shading into something more serious. “The first time I told someone I loved them, I thought it was the end of all my troubles. I was young, and romantic, and very naïve. I am older now—”
“Oh, so very old,” Lucy teased, and snorted. “I doubt there’s a full ten years between us.”
“Time weighs on you more once you’re married.” Catherine had meant it as a joke, but it fell rather flat.
Lucy’s smile dimmed.
Catherine cleared her throat. “What I meant to say is: I’ve learned some since then. Loving someone shouldn’t be the end of anything. It should be a beginning.”
“What are we beginning?” Lucy began unpinning Catherine’s hair, letting the rich gold locks trail through her fingers. “Not a marriage, this time.”
