“I trust you, Charlotte.” Mary shrugged, as if it were as simple as that. “I would be surprised if you had not already guessed at something similar.”
“I had,” Charlotte confessed. “Though of course I never would have pried.”
Not to her face, anyway, but you are bold enough to go through papers and trunks when it pleases you, the little voice in her head reminded her, causing her stomach to clench unpleasantly.
“I was angry with Lydia for a long time,” Mary admitted. “I still am.” She tapped her glass absently with a finger, staring into the low flames as they danced. “It’s just like her to do something rash and not care a whit about the consequences of her actions for herself or anyone else. She believes that she is the only one who has ever felt passionately about anything and therefore all her actions may be explained away in the name of love.” She scoffed. “I do not believe it ever was love, not really. She is too flighty and he too cunning for that. It will be a miracle if they do not separate within five years, or have some other scandal.”
Charlotte sipped her drink and waited. Mary was on the verge of saying something, she was certain of it. Mary lay back on the rug, crossing her hands behind her head, and after a moment Charlotte did the same. “You feel passionately about things, too,” she prompted.
“Of course I do, but I have been careful to pursue them in secrecy, to keep my family name free from any whiff of impropriety. I would never—” She broke off, turning to face Charlotte, who mimicked her movements. “Have you never thought of what you might do, if you thought nobody would discover it?”
Charlotte bit her lip. “Does not everyone?”
Suddenly Mary’s eyes were sharper than they had been. Charlotte wilted under the steady beam of that penetrating gaze. “To whom do you tell your secrets, Charlotte Lucas?”
“To—to no one,” she stuttered, “though they are not interesting ones, I am sure.”
“I doubt it. I find you quite—” Mary’s eyes dropped to Charlotte’s lips “—fascinating.” Her gaze flickered back up and held Charlotte’s own.
The moment stretched out unbearably. Charlotte was acutely aware of her every breath catching, and the placement of her body, so close to Mary’s that a single movement could bring them into intimate contact. Was it her imagination or was Mary leaning closer? Or was she? The situation was rapidly getting out of hand. For a moment, she wondered what might happen if she simply leaned in. She might aim for a goodnight kiss on the cheek, and who would mind terribly if her aim—imperiled by the spirits—was a little off? She was shocked to find she was actually considering this as a potential course of action, and even more surprised to find Mary close enough for Charlotte to feel warm breath on her lips.
“Would you say these spirits are strong?” Mary asked.
An odd question, Charlotte thought. Her head was clear enough, though her senses were pleasantly fuzzy and her courage apparently high. “A little.”
“You did not answer my earlier question. What would you do if you thought no one would ever find out?”
“I am quite tired,” Charlotte said, rolling backwards abruptly, and gaining her feet in a rather ungainly way. “Perhaps it is time for bed.” If she had not been looking directly at Mary, she would have missed the strange expression that flickered across her friend’s face. As it was, she saw it, but could make no sense of it. “You know, I rather miss the sound of your snoring,” she teased, keen to alter the mood.
“Oh, do you, indeed.” Mary grinned. “Cannot you hear it well enough through the walls?”
“I am afraid it is not quite loud enough to wake the dead. You shall have to improve upon the volume.” She hesitated, the spirits giving her courage to suggest something she ordinarily would not. “Would you stay with me tonight? It was such fun in the inn, though I understand if you desire your own bed. You were away from home for more than a week already.”
“Of course.” Mary studied her. “And I suppose you were very used to sharing a bed at Hunsford.”
“Not as often as you might think,” she murmured, and was surprised to find that tears had sprung to her eyes. Mary’s arms were around her in an instant and the tension from earlier transformed into a comfortable fire, burning steadily and brightly.
She inhaled the scent of violets, and felt Mary’s chest rumble with a chuckle. “Enjoying my scent again?” Charlotte hummed, neither willing to confirm or deny the act. “Let me change,” Mary added, disentangling herself, “and I shall return momentarily.”
In bed, Charlotte wondered why she had chosen to put herself in such a position again; the first time had not been her choice or fault, and yet she had asked for this torture. Mary, already blinking sleepily, dark hair fanned out across the pillow, reached out and touched her hand. Charlotte allowed their fingers to become entwined—perfectly friendly, she told herself,perfectly normal—and she faded into unconsciousness with a smile, delighting in the slight pressure of Mary’s warm fingers against her own.
Chapter Thirteen
Charlotte could not remember having got out of bed, but somehow she and Mary were lying in front of the fire again, though the rug underneath them was not a rug at all but rather a mat of fresh, green grass. Puzzled, she looked down the length of her body and found that they were wearing matching dresses, dark green with hems and necklines edged in tiny tuberose. She stroked the hem of her dress, awed at the way the flower seemed to bloom as if it were alive. Tuberoses signified dangerous pleasures; the scent was sweet and dark, like candied poison, intoxicating in a way that neither the brandy nor the whisky had been.
“What would you do,” Mary asked again, and Charlotte startled, having almost forgotten she was there, though her lips did not move and her voice seemed to come from somewhere distant, “if you thought no one would ever find out?”
This cannot be real, Charlotte thought, her pulse leaping in excitement.If it is a dream then I may do as I please. No one could possibly hold me accountable for a dream.
“Anything?” she asked.
“Anything,” Mary whispered, her eyes darker than Charlotte had ever seen them, reflecting two small images of herself, pale and brilliant.
She wasn’t sure which of them had moved first, but suddenly they were kissing, and all worries about caution and propriety were swiftly overtaken by desire. Mary’s hands were on her waist, pulling her closer, in exactly the way she’d tried to stop picturing in the past week. Letting her imagination out to pasture had been a mistake, for now it gamboled free as a colt, escaping her every attempt to rein it back in.
Mary’s lips were on her neck, her hands now in Charlotte’s hair, tugging at the roots and producing a quiver of longing. Charlotte had never felt such want, such desperate desire, and allowed her own hands to trail down Mary’s collarbones, her fingers tracing the pattern on the neckline of the dress, cupping her bosom with all the bravado she’d never felt while awake. Her hands drifted down further and further, finding Mary’s knees, pushing up her skirts, rolling until Charlotte was on top of her, rutting wildly, hardly knowing what to do or how to do it, but Mary writhed under her as if she were doing something very right indeed, gasping encouragement with every thrust, until something built inside her like the crest of a great wave and—
Charlotte awoke with an ache between her legs, deep and unsatisfied, and Mary’s arm slung across her, body pressed to Charlotte’s side. Any attempt to move away was met with resistance and, afraid to wake her friend, she relented and lay still. The blaze of lust still raged inside her, thrumming through her bones. Mumbling something incoherent, Mary tucked her head under Charlotte’s chin. Though her heart was pounding and her stomach swooped and stuttered like a wounded bird, Charlotte couldn’t help turning the dream over and over in her mind.That is as close as I will ever get to what I want, she reminded herself.Enjoy it while it lasts, and then put it aside.
