Chapter
One
George Somersby is going to propose to me tonight.
So says the small box I found hidden between the pressed shirts in his valise. The navy velvet whispered that after six disappointing Seasons, I have finally made my match.
Visions of my future nuptials provide patience while George toils between my legs in a downstairs powder room. He’s been at it for quite some time.
I’m starting to suspect he has no idea what he’s doing.
I shift my hips to chase his tongue, and my skirts flip up to reveal mussed brown hair.
“What’s the matter with you?” George rests a hand upon my thigh, swipes his mouth with the other. “Why can’t you get there?”
Oh, my sweet soon-to-be husband.
What I want to say is,I can’t get there because you seem to believe my clitoris is located far closer to my navel than is anatomically possible.
Or perhaps,I can’t get there because I’ve had insufficient opportunity to train you. You’ve done this preciselythreetimes during our courtship, but who’s counting?
What I actually say is, “Keep going. I was close.”
I am nothing if not unfailingly polite. My chief virtue, according to George.
“It’s my fault, not yours.” I push down on his shoulder, subtly repositioning him. “Please don’t stop.”
He huffs an annoyed sigh, as if my orgasm is the heaviest of burdens. Exactly what I need to hear to make this happen.
But when he dips back down, his second attempt starts off much better than the first.Yes. Oh, please don’t move. I throw my head back as he tentatively flicks his tongue across my?—
Bollocks, he’s lost it again.
I smack a hand over the sweet peas climbing the wallpaper, then scoot to the edge of the washstand. I cant my hips forward, and my hunt pays off—oh, that’s it—he’s finally got it. I clench my thighs around his shoulders, forcing him to stay put, and even if he’s not using quite enough pressure, if I just hold my muscles tight enough, I could almost,yes, I think maybe I could?—
“Charlotte!”
George rears back, his head catching my dress and nearly pulling me off the washstand.
I could scream. And not the way I want to.
Was that Lizzie? My cousin is prone to dramatics, which means the threat is more likely to be a misplaced slipper than anything serious.
George frees himself from the trap of my petticoats, frowning. “What does she?—”
“CHARLOTTE!”
Tension seizes my spine. That was not Lizzie. That was Aunt Theodosia.
“Sorry. Sorry! I’ve got to … ” I jump down from the washstand, rearranging my skirts, then smack a kiss onto George’s pouting lips. He accepts my apology with all the grace of a man whose raging hard-on will not be immediately dealt with. “I’ll see you tonight.”
I slip out of the powder room, cut through the sun parlor, then zigzag past salons and the grand ballroom. Inside, an army of staff are preparing for tonight’s Season opening ball.
“CHARLOTTE EMILIE FITZROY!”
I grimace, valiantly overcoming an urge to flee in the opposite direction before racing toward my aunt’s voice, which sounds to have come from Lizzie’s bedroom.
Once inside, my anxiety dissolves into near hysterics when, atop the bed, I find my cousin and her mother clutching each other with matching expressions of terror.
