“My lord,” she said after a moment, her curiosity overcoming her hesitation. “Please explain it to me.”
He did not answer at once. Instead, he regarded her, something more contemplative passing through his expression.
“There are times,” he said at last, “when a person, be it man or woman, finds themselves alone. And in that solitude, a certain… restlessness arises. Not merely of the body, but of the mind. A heightened awareness. A wanting that lingers, seeking expression.”
Darcy listened, her attention fixed upon him.
“And when such a feeling persists,” he continued, “one may seek to quiet it. To discover some measure of ease… without the involvement of another.”
Her brow furrowed slightly. “Because they must?”
“Because they are constrained,” he said. “Or because they choose not to invite another into so private a need. There are moments when desire is less about another person, and more about the body’s own demand to be understood… and answered.”
“In what way are they constrained?”
“In the way society dictates what is permissible and what is not. Self-pleasure is precisely as it sounds. Bestowing pleasure upon oneself, without engaging with anyone else.”
“This… has been done? Bywomen?”
“Yes.” His gaze did not waver. “A woman is taught that to take a lover outside of marriage is a grave failing. A stain upon her character. While a man…” His mouth curved faintly, though there was little humor in it. “A man may indulge in such liberties and be dismissed as a libertine, yet remain welcome all the same.”
Darcy scoffed, though the sound lacked its earlier certainty. “Such rules exist to encourage restraint. To preserve propriety. And,” she added, with a faint lift of her chin, “to prevent the unfortunate consequences that may arise from… indulgence.”
“The world will judge regardless,” he said evenly. “And no child should ever be deemed unfortunate for the circumstances of their birth. It is a rather ludicrous notion that one can be brought into the world on the wrong side of the blanket and be judged dishonorable. I daresay there must come a day when such nonsense no longer holds sway.”
Darcy stilled. A sharp, unwelcome awareness rose within her of the quiet burden her sisters carried without fully understanding its source. Of the day that full understandingwould come, and how deeply it might wound them. She looked at him. He did not think of his sisters as dishonorable… or soiled. Warmth stirred, unexpected and unwelcome, within her chest. “I see.”
“Hmm,” he said, almost absently. “For myriad reasons, instead of seeking another’s touch to evoke pleasure, one might rely upon one’s own.”
“Is the pleasure the same?”
“No.” His gaze held hers, steady, certain. “Nothing compares to the real thing.”
The soft opening of the door halted their conversation. Lady Henrietta entered with unhurried grace, her movements languid. She was dressed in a sheer peignoir that clung lightly to her form, the fabric so fine it revealed more than it concealed, drifting about her like mist as she crossed the room.
Lord Raine inclined his head in a brief bow. “My ladies.” And then, without further word, he turned toward the door.
Darcy’s shoulders eased, a quiet release of tension she had not wished to acknowledge. She was relieved he was leaving. Only then might she draw a steady breath again, without the distraction of his evocative scent lingering too close about her.
“My lord,” Lady Henrietta called, her voice soft, yet edged with invitation. “Pray remain. I might need…your help.”
CHAPTER 13
Darcy stilled.
I might need… your help.
The words struck her rather unpleasantly, lodging deep within her chest, and a flicker of sharp, instinctive alarm passed through her before she mastered it. It was not her place to object. This was Henrietta’s choosing, and Darcy had no authority here beyond her art.
Drawing in a steadying breath, she forced her body to relax, though a faint awareness lingered beneath her skin. She would ignore him. She must. Resolute in that decision, Darcy turned her full attention to Lady Henrietta and reached for her brush, steadying her hand as she prepared to begin.
Henrietta did not speak. Nor did she seem to require instruction. Instead, she moved to the chaise and reclined with effortless elegance, her head tipping back slightly as though she listened to something within herself rather than to the world around her. For a moment, she was still. Then, slowly, she lifted her hand.
Darcy watched. At first, the touch was light—almost absentminded—as Henrietta’s fingers traced the line of herthroat, drifting downward along the graceful curve of her collarbone. Darcy’s breath slowed, her focus narrowing as she began to paint, her hand moving almost instinctively across the canvas.
Henrietta’s touch deepened. Her fingers lingered now, pressing slightly, exploring the contours of her own body with a familiarity that startled Darcy. There was something… unguarded in it. Something that felt both private and profoundly revealing.
Darcy had never imagined such a thing. The intimacy of it unsettled her. And yet she could not look away. Her gaze sharpened, her artist’s mind striving to capture not merely the form, but the feeling that seemed to animate it. The subtle shifts in Henrietta’s expression, the way her lips parted on a quiet breath, the faint flush that rose along her skin.
