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The heavens opened about ten minutes before the party arrived back at Rodington Court—sluicing rain that seemed to come in spears rather than droplets, accompanied by a distant, ominous grumble of approaching thunder, and made the Earl shout back at them all about India and monsoons. By the time Pat finally got inside, she was wet through to her smalls, and the Countess insisted on hot baths for everyone to prevent chills. Pat did not particularly enjoy sitting around in water, but hiding in the bath seemed like a better prospect than facing Fen, or Jimmy, let alone the Haworths. Please God this evening would be better than the one before.
Of course, in one particular respect, no evening could be better than the one before, but Pat had to put that from her mind. Fen had a choice to make about the course of her life, and Pat had no right to distract her. Unless she wanted to be distracted, of course. In which case she could come and find Pat herself.
Pat allowed herself to imagine that for a moment. A soft knock on the door, a rustle of skirts, Fen slipping into the room while Pat reclined naked in the bathtub. A giggling offer to help with the soap, a plump hand, frothy with lather, sliding over her shoulder, down to cup her breast...
This was not helping.
She sat in tepid bathwater a while longer, listening to the rain lash the windows outside, then heaved herself out. Her legs had the pleasant ache of an active day; the persistent ache between them was less welcome. She ignored it and set to dressing, wishing she had more interesting jewellery, or perhaps some face-paint and the experience to apply it, or the sort of hair that looked good in piled ringlets. Anything to make herself less workaday and practical. She settled for a bright Indian shawl that she always brought on visits and virtually never wore, and set off downstairs telling herself that dinner couldn’t possibly be more uncomfortable than yesterday.
The raised voices from the drawing-room suggested she was wrong.
Bill was standing outside the open door, looking smart enough in his dinner togs, but wearing the pinched expression of a man with a headache. Inside the room, Preston Keynes was speaking at uncharacteristic volume and without his usual cheerfulness—Pat clearly made out “damned offensive”—while Lady Anna, Miss Singh, and the Countess all seemed to be talking at once.
Pat sidled up on light feet, and whispered, “What on earth is going on?”
“Haworth,” Bill said, unnecessarily. “Suggested the Countess order her ayah to fetch her slippers, as a delicate reference to Miss Singh who is second cousin to a Sikh maharajah, and then called her a rather less flattering name, at which point Preston offered to teach him some manners, and Haworth suggested extremely crudely that he had an ulterior motive for doing so. Did you know Preston had an interest there?”
“Mr. Keynes is pursuing Miss Singh?” Pat attempted to picture the intellectual vegetarian and the boisterous hunter as a pair. “Really?”
“So it appears, judging by his reaction: the poor fellow went red as a beetroot. It seems to have come as a surprise to the Countess too. Haworth clearly has a knack for snouting out private matters.”
That sounded extremely bad to Pat. She had no idea if her face might give anything away when she saw Fen; she had no desire at all to be mocked as the unattractive spinster with a pash on a pretty girl. “Better stay out here then,” she said, half to herself.
“Sorry?” Bill said sharply.
“Until it’s died down in there.”
“Ah. Indeed.”
They stood together in the hall. Pat couldn’t help wondering how they’d look to any footman who came by, and then decided she didn’t care so long as he carried a tray of drinks. Bill leaned his shoulders against the wall.
“Decent shooting today,” she offered, after a moment. In the drawing room, the Earl was speaking in a placatory, almost pleading tone that sat ill on the man who’d been so confident walking his lands.
“I’m hopelessly out of practice.”
“You weren’t on form, certainly. Are you all right? You look rather worn and this isn’t precisely the rest cure you were hoping for.”
“You can say that again,” Bill muttered. “I’m fine.”
He didn’t look fine. There were dark circles under his eyes and his face had a tense look, as though keeping composure required an effort.
“Rotten luck about the weather,” she said, in lieu of pointing that out. “A few more days in the fresh air would do us all good.”
“That’s your all-purpose remedy, isn’t it? Not that I’m arguing. Suppose you take Haworth for a ten-mile forced march in the rain, there’s a good girl.”
“Suppose you do,” Pat said. “Should we...?”
It seemed to have quietened down in the drawing room. Bill straightened with obvious reluctance and offered her his arm, and brother and sister went in together.
Even if she hadn’t heard the row, it would have been obvious something was up from the flushed faces and silence. Preston Keynes looked ready to punch someone, and Haworth’s smug look made it obvious who. Jimmy was standing by Preston, a restraining hand on his arm. Fen had drawn Victoria Singh over to the side of the room. She flashed a glance over at Pat that held a certain amount of desperation. Outside, the wind howled. Nobody spoke.
“Well,” Bill said heartily, into the social void. “Nasty spot of weather we’re having, what?”
“Awful rain, yes,” Fen returned, voice bright. “Did you get a soaking?”
In true British fashion the weather carried them through the next fifteen minutes or so, with Pat, Fen, Bill, and Jack contributing remarks of varying relevance or interest about weather they had experienced, meteorological patterns at their various homes, and comparative rainfall in different parts of the country. By the time they were seated to dine, Pat felt like a chattering parrot but at least the atmosphere had reduced to a slow simmer. She was quite ready not to open her mouth again all evening, but Fen, who had borne a good half of the conversational burden and whose chirpy tone was starting to ebb, said, “So do tell us all about the shooting!”
Pat repressed a groan and launched into a detailed account of the day, despite Lady Anna’s audible sigh of annoyance: if nobody else was going to speak, they all deserved to be bored to death. Bill took over when she ran out of steam, giving an exhaustive account of all his shots and concluding each, “Missed the blighter,” with an entirely straight face.
Miss Singh had recovered her composure by then. Once Bill’s invention gave out, and as the soup bowls were being removed, she said, voice calm as ever, “Dear me, Mr. Merton, how regrettable. And how was your day, Preston?”
“Good heavens,” Haworth said, breaking his silence for the first time. “Do we understand that our principled—”
Miss Singh raised her voice, deliberately speaking over him though her expression and inflection didn’t change at all. “I do hope that you had an enjoyable time. I dare say it was somewhat damp in the latter parts but at least you had the sunshine all morning.”
Haworth had stopped speaking, apparently startled by the interruption. Clearly he expected to be the only one breaking the rules of good manners. He opened his mouth again as she finished, and Preston said, loudly, “It was a delightful day, thank you. I had a fine bag, but Pat here carried off the honours. She gave a very modest account just now, but the fact is, I’ve rarely seen such shooting. Privilege to witness.”
“Oh, so—” Haworth began, and Fen came in, at a pitch that threatened the glassware and cut right through his deeper voice. “How wonderful, Pat! You showed all the men how it’s done. Even Jimmy, and Mr. Merton?”
“I’m rather—”
“Especially me,” Bill said. “I’m used to it, of course. Even our eldest brother gives her the laurels, and he’s not one to admit himself second best.”
“Marvellous.” Fen clapped her hands. “Pat was teaching me to shoot yesterday, you know, and she was really wonderful. I learned a great deal. Not that I have any ambitions to be a champion, of course.”
“You—”
“You couldn’t have a better teacher.” Bill was clearly enjoying the game of talking over Haworth as much as Victoria Singh and Preston. Jack looked decidedly wary, and the family did not appear to be enjoying themselves at all. That was their hard luck. Miss Singh had no more volunteered to be Haworth’s punchbag than Pat had to be the audience to his nasty little games.
“Fen was remarkable,” she said. “Took to it like a duck to water. I think with practice you could be a fine shot.”
“I hope so, though of targets,” Fen said. “I don’t aspire to game, though I am happy to carry on with my wobbly and inconsistent principles and eat what others shoot for me.”
“Very reasonable.” Miss Singh smiled at her. “I might even join your next lesson, if I may, Miss Merton. I’m fired with a spirit of emulation.”
“Oh, yes, do!” Fen cried. “That would be great fun.”
“You’d be very welcome, although...” Pat couldn’t help glancing at Preston.
Miss Singh’s smile widened. “But surely I ought to learn from the best?”
“Argh,” Preston said, clutching his heart. “Cut to the quick. Actually, I’d be a rotten teacher—know what to do, but not how one does it, if you follow me—and Pat’s a better hand with a gun anyway. I own myself beaten on all points.”
“Do you know, I find it thrilling how many men of our party are happy to accept when they’ve been exceeded by a woman,” Fen remarked.
“There comes a point where even a chauvinist like myself has to face the facts,” the Earl put in, with a little bow to Pat.
“I should be careful, if I were you, Miss Merton,” Lady Anna said. There were red spots on her cheeks, and her voice was shrill. “You might win plaudits by beating men, but you won’t win hearts.”
It was astonishing how quickly the convivial atmosphere could be destroyed. Miss Singh shut her eyes, and someone gave a just-audible groan. Pat forbore to point out that she wouldn’t have taken Lady Anna’s advice on men for all the tea in China. “That’s all right, thanks. I shan’t worry.”
“I don’t think Miss Merton is interested in men’s hearts,” Haworth said, finally seizing an opportunity. “Why, she’s a man herself in all but the clothing. Give her a pair of trousers and nobody could tell the difference. I can just picture her wooing some pretty girl, can’t you?”
“And that will do.” Bill’s chair scraped in the frozen silence as he stood, tossing his napkin down. “Step outside with me a moment, Haworth.”
“Oh God,” Jimmy said under his breath.
“Did you not hear me?” Bill enquired, since Haworth hadn’t moved. “Get up.”
“Don’t be absurd, Bill.” Pat was pleased at how calm she sounded. “Sit down. I really can’t see he’s worth bruising your knuckles.”
It wasn’t a peacemaking comment, but she didn’t want to make peace, only to prevent Bill from hauling a fellow guest off the Countess’s dining table. All the same, she wished almost immediately that she had temporised, done the little performance of smiling and soothing that women so often used to turn away male wrath, because she could see Haworth’s face, and it was pure malevolence.
“Worth,” he repeated, spitting out the syllables. “What an interesting word, Miss Merton. Why don’t you ask my esteemed father in law about his net worth—”
“Maurice,” Jimmy said.
“—or about what his name would be worth if the truth about certain arrangements came out? Why don’t you ask the worth of my wife’s chastity, or Jack’s honesty, come to that?”
“Maurice!” the Countess and Jimmy said together, and Jimmy went on, “Curse it, man—”
“And tell us, Jimmy, how long do you intend to endure your empty-headed heiress before you return to the lover you keep in London?” Jimmy’s mouth dropped open. Haworth bared his teeth in triumph. “Or will your dumpy commoner put up with your illicit trysts as worth her coronet?”
Half the room was shouting now. Jimmy had gone chalk white; Fen was scarlet. Maurice Haworth’s eyes blazed with unholy pleasure. He leaned forward to see the Countess. “And you, madam—”
Victoria Singh picked up her glass of water and threw it in his face.
Then it was chaos. Haworth lunged for her, shouting a word that Pat wouldn’t have expected even from him, sending his wine glass flying. Miss Singh recoiled, but Preston was already on his feet, sprinting round the table. He grabbed the dripping Haworth by the shoulders and dragged him up and backwards, spun him round, and punched him square in the mouth.
The Countess was watching, frozen; the Earl had his eyes shut. Lady Anna and Miss Singh stood, staring, as the men grappled; Bill strode over, speaking in a commanding voice that was entirely ignored; and Fen got up and hurried to the door.
“Fen!” Pat turned, but before she could stand, Jimmy had pushed away his chair and was going after her.
Hell. Hell.
Preston had his hands around Haworth’s throat now. Bill was trying to separate them but the purpling of Haworth’s face suggested he wasn’t having much luck, so Pat took a leaf from Miss Singh’s book, picked up the water jug, and tossed the contents over both combatants.
Preston got most of the soaking. He recoiled, spluttering. Haworth, bloody-mouthed and dripping, lunged forward, and found Bill’s hand at his chest.
“You’d better get out of here before you get the thrashing you deserve,” Bill told him. “No, don’t speak. If you open your mouth again, I’ll close it for you.”
“Mr. Merton,” the Countess said. “Please. Stop. Let us deal with this. I would prefer everyone to leave. I— If anyone should like to order sandwiches, please do ring.”
Pat looked at her, sat among the ruins of her dinner table and her family, and said, “Come on, Bill. Let’s go.”
Bill took her arm as they left the room. “Crikey. Crikey.”
“I need to find Fen.”
“Do you?” Bill said dubiously as she set off for the drawing room. “She might be busy.”
Pat hoped she was busy giving Jimmy his marching orders. “We’ll see. I imagine Jimmy might need a shoulder to cry on too.”
“Jimmy deserves every damned thing he has coming,” Bill said, with quiet savagery. “Stupid swine.”
“Couldn’t agree more.”
The drawing room door was open. Pat and Bill came to it together, and stopped.
Jimmy and Fen were in there. They weren’t arguing. They were embracing, tightly—not kissing, but holding one another in a desperate grasp, so absorbed that they didn’t seem to have heard the Mertons’ footsteps.
Bill’s fingers clenched hard on Pat’s arm, almost spasmodically, then he stepped silently back, pulling her away. “Come on, old thing,” he murmured. “Come on. Better leave them to it.”
***
“CHRIST ALMIGHTY,” BILL said some time later. “Excuse my French.”
“Feel free.”
They’d settled in Pat’s room, since there was nobody in the house either of them wanted to speak to. The room had no chair, so the siblings sat on the bed, backs against the wall, as they had when they were children. The wind howled outside, flinging sheets of rain against the window with heavy splats.
Bill, taking the Countess at her word, had rung for sandwiches and beer. Pat supported that, since she’d done a lot of walking today, although the hollow feeling in her gut had nothing to do with the interrupted meal.
How could Fen forgive him? He’d ignored her, he didn’t appreciate her, he was keeping a mistress, for God’s sake. Why hadn’t she thrown the ring back in his face?
Men keep mistresses, she reminded herself. Fen’s a great deal more worldly than you are, when it comes to society marriages. She’ll be a countess. You only met her two days ago. It didn’t help.
She wrapped her arms around her knees, knowing it would probably crumple the dress. She’d put so much effort into looking nice.
“Are you all right, old thing?”
“I feel terrible,” Pat said. “I do wish I hadn’t said anything. If I hadn’t made that remark, given him that opening—”
“He’d have taken another. You heard him. He was going at Miss Singh all evening, and he didn’t like being snubbed at all.”
“Perhaps we shouldn’t have. Although, not provoking him is the Wittons’ tactic, and it doesn’t work either. One can see why they try not to, of course. I wonder if that sort of outburst happens often.”
“I suppose he builds up to it. What a nasty piece of work.”
“What do you think is wrong with him?”
“Being a nasty piece of work,” Bill said. “He enjoys making people unhappy; I don’t see anything more than that need be said.”
“Fen thinks he’s a drug fiend.”
“Does she, now.” Bill considered that. “Perhaps. But I’d think the drug-taking is an element of his delightful personality, rather than the root cause. That’s a man who enjoys the upper hand, and God help those he has it over.”
“Quite. Bill, shall we go home? This is really too awful and I don’t know how much more I can bear to watch.” She’d be leaving Fen to fend for herself, of course, but Fen wasn’t incapable and if she’d chosen Jimmy, with all his faults, as her protector, Pat had to respect that, no matter how much it hurt.
“I think you probably should. We’ll get you on a train tomorrow. I don’t imagine there’ll be shooting for a few days, and being trapped in this house with that swine—no, you should go.”
“And you.”
“I can’t,” Bill said. “You don’t mind travelling alone, do you?”
“What do you mean, you can’t? For heaven’s sake, come home. We can ignore Jonty; I dare say he’ll be wrapped up in Olivia. Or we could go to the seaside. You really do need a break, and this isn’t it.”
“It’s not that. I’ve a responsibility.”
“To Jimmy?” Pat said. “Really? Because it seems to me—”
“No, not Jimmy. Just a moment, I think that’s our dinner.”
A harried-looking maid came in bearing a platter of enough sandwiches for six and four bottles of beer, precariously balanced. Bill leapt up to take them with a word of thanks, and shut the door firmly after her. Pat took a sandwich more out of duty than pleasure, but the first bite reminded her that she was hungry, even if she was miserable. It was excellent thick-cut ham, mustard applied with a heavy hand, and she demolished two sandwiches while Bill ate four.
“Goodness, I needed that,” he said, taking a swig of beer.
“So did I.” Pat sipped hers more cautiously. “You were about to tell me why you can’t leave the worst house party since Julius Caesar invited Brutus for dinner.”
“Yes,” Bill said. “Mmm. Well.”
“Bill.”
Bill sighed. “All right, you may as well know. Have you heard of Threppel and Swing?”
“It sounds like a gymnastic exercise.” She frowned. “Although it does ring a bell. What is it?”
“A stockbrokers’ firm that collapsed a few months ago.”
“Oh. Oh. Is that the place Maurice Haworth used to work?”
Bill nodded. “He was a junior partner, invested all Lady Anna’s money in the company, and they were pretty much ruined in the crash. The thing is, there are a number of questions over what happened to the firm. Word was circulating a couple of months before the house of cards came down, you see: questionable practices, paying debts with borrowing.”
Pat nodded. “Does this have anything to do with the accusations Haworth was tossing at the Earl?”
“Indeed it does. The Earl was a major investor and on the Board of Directors. That’s how Haworth came to his position there in the first place, I believe. He was in some other City firm, rather a shabby outfit, previously.”
“And the Earl lost money in the crash?”
“Yes, a great deal,” Bill said. “Or so it appears. That’s the thing, you see. A lot of money came into the firm, and the question is where it went. Bad investments, of course, but the books are in the sort of muddle at which a clever man would work very hard if he wanted to hide his tracks.”
“You think there was something criminal going on?”
“It looks like malpractice, yes. It’s a tangle well beyond the Met to unpick—financial wrongdoing is an awfully tricky business—so my office is looking into it.”
“Your office is looking into the Earl’s affairs,” Pat repeated. “And by that you mean, you are?”
Bill made a face. “I declared an interest at once when I was given the job. I assumed they’d take me off it, but our chief thought it might be handy to have an inside track. The upper classes do close ranks, you know, even in this sort of business. I agreed because it never crossed my mind that I could do the old chap anything but good. It was unthinkable that Jimmy’s father should be dishonest. Only, you see, it isn’t looking terribly bright. His name is on a few papers it oughtn’t be on, authorising things that ought not have happened.”
“The Earl was embezzling from his own firm?”
“Call it robbing Peter to pay Paul. Using funds unlawfully to prop up the business, and losing people’s money.” Bill blew out his cheeks. “He was in over his head. I think he was steered to some bad decisions, and to sign things he didn’t fully understand, and I’ll bet I know who by. But it’s his name, in the end, and his responsibility if I can’t prove otherwise.”
“Oh, hell,” Pat said. “Does Jimmy know you’re doing this?”
“I told him at the start, and he was happy enough to think they had a friend in the business. We haven’t discussed it since.”
“But even so, if you believe the Earl is up to his neck in this, whether by accident or design, ought you have accepted an invitation to stay with him?” Pat demanded, and then it clicked. “Oh, no. Bill. In his own house?”
“I told them again I wanted to recuse myself when it started to appear that Lord Witton was likely to face charges,” Bill said. “I explained I had an invitation to shoot with him. And—well, there was a great deal of discussion, but the conclusion was that I ought to come here and see what I could dig out.”
“To spy on your host.”
“To see what I could dig out,” Bill repeated. “On the clear understanding that if I find anything favourable to the Earl, any evidence of manipulation, that will be taken into account. It’s his best hope, Pat. The net’s closing around him. He’s made a rotten mess of things and lost a lot of people’s money, and nobody else will be terribly interested in making excuses. I don’t feel marvellous about this, in case you’re wondering.”
“I’m sure you don’t. I can’t say I like it much either. Shouldn’t you be, I don’t know, palling up to Haworth instead of threatening to sock him in the jaw?”
“Probably, but I have some standards.”
There was a knock at the door. Bill muttered, “Oh God, what now?”
“Come in,” Pat called. The door opened, and Fen slipped in.
For a girl who’d just been in her fiancé’s passionate embrace, she looked miserable. Her eyes were red, as was her nose, and her hair was something of a mess. She registered Bill as he scrambled to his feet and said, “Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Not at all,” Bill said, vacating the bed. “I suppose you’re come for a word with Pat, Miss Carruth. Let me leave you to it. Pat, about that train—”
“We will speak tomorrow,” Pat said. “And I’ll decide for myself, thank you. Night night.”
“Sleep well, old thing. Miss Carruth.” Bill hurried out, nabbing another sandwich and a bottle of beer as he went.
Fen sniffled. “I’m sorry. I interrupted you.”
“Don’t worry about that. Do you want to sit down? There’s only the bed.”
“Can I?” Fen heaved herself and her skirts onto the bed with some difficulty, and leaned back against the wall. “It’s like being a schoolgirl again. Are those sandwiches?”
“Midnight feast.” Pat collected the platter. “Here you go.”
Fen gave a laugh that might have been a sob. “Oh goodness. Sitting on a bed in satin and jewels, with beer and sandwiches.”
“Better a dinner of ham sandwiches where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith,” Pat misquoted.
“I oughtn’t even be hungry. I ought to be pouring out my heart about my fiancé or talking about that dreadful man, but it’s nearly ten and we only got through the soup course.”
“Dig in. I was starved as well.” Pat picked up a sandwich to keep her company as she ate, and to stave off whatever revelations were coming. She didn’t much want to hear about Fen’s fiancé, least of all now when it seemed her brother was investigating Fen’s future father-in-law.
Fen polished off her sandwich with evident relief. The maid had only brought two glasses, and Bill had walked off with one of those, so Pat refilled the other and held it out. “We’ll have to share.”
“I don’t mind that.” Fen took an unladylike swig and wiped her mouth. “Oh goodness. It’s terrible to think about food at a time like this but one simply can’t be sensible when one’s hungry.”
“No, one can’t,” Pat said. “Are you being sensible?”
“That rather depends what sensible is.” Fen took another swig and handed back the bottle. “I’ve broken off the engagement.”
Pat stared. Fen twisted to face her, looking somewhat alarmed. “Pat? Do you think that was a bad idea?”
“No! That is, no, if what that ghastly man said had any truth in it. Is that why?”
“It was lots of things,” Fen said. “I asked him point blank if there was someone else, and he said yes. He said he’d broken things off after I agreed to marry him, and he’d thought that would be enough, that he could be a good husband and so on, and then he’d realised it wasn’t and he couldn’t, and he apologised.”
“I should hope he did.”
“Oh, Pat, he was a dear. He was awfully sorry, and he said the odd way he’s been behaving was never because of me—which I did need to know—but because he’d thought he could forget this affair and he couldn’t. He said he simply hadn’t realised that he was dreadfully in love until it was too late. It was actually very romantic, you know, although not for me. He’s terribly upset.”
“Good,” Pat said. “I should imagine he’s upset this other girl considerably as well.”
“I said that too. I said it was a rotten thing to do, breaking off a love affair to marry for money, and he said very nicely that he hadn’t just wanted to marry me for my money, with all sorts of complimentary things. It made me remember why I thought I could marry him in the first place. He said he’d had every intention of falling in love with me and that if it wasn’t for this other person he thought we’d have been very happy, and he wished he could have been the man for me— You’d better hope the wind doesn’t change, pulling a face like that.”
“I’ve never heard anything so sick-making in my life. He’s behaved thoroughly badly, and I hope the other girl gives him what-for if he has the nerve to go back to her.”
“Oh, so do I,” Fen assured her. “I hope she kicks him. But I didn’t say so. I stayed on the moral high ground, you know, looking wronged and letting him say nice things to me, and it was such a relief, Pat. To know that he wasn’t simply tired of me, that it wasn’t about me at all. And to have a really good excuse this time, because Jimmy has said he’ll take all the blame for not fulfilling his obligations. But also, to be honest, it’s an absolute joy to be unengaged again.”
“Is it?” Pat asked, with a little flutter in her chest.
“Oh, yes.” Fen attempted to twist round a bit more, hampered by her skirts. Pat shifted instead, bringing them closer. “I don’t want to go from my father’s household to a husband. I want to find out more about what I can do, which is more than who I can persuade to marry me. I want—I don’t know if you realise what you look like when you shoot, Pat. Utterly focused, and confident, and your whole body and face and everything caught up in it, and you radiate knowing what you’re doing. That’s what I want. To find that balance that you have, that certainty. Everyone says a woman has to get married to settle down—to have someone else possess her—but you’re self-possessed. That’s what I want.”
“But I’m not balanced or certain most of the time,” Pat said. “I’m awfully awkward.”
“You aren’t, you know. You might feel it, but you don’t look it, and honestly, I think everyone feels terribly awkward inside. It’s the human condition. But do you see? That I want to have ideas of my own, and believe them myself, and—and have a leg to stand on?”
“Two is better. Good for you, Fen.” Pat realised she’d reached for her hand. Fen’s fingers curled responsively round hers. “Jolly good for you. I think you’re absolutely right. There’s not the slightest need for you to rush into marriage. You’re far too wonderful to need anyone else telling you how you ought to go on.” Fen’s smile at that was dazzling. Pat made herself say, “And—and of course it’ll be much easier, once you’re sure what you really want, to find a husband who’ll suit you and listen to you, and—”
“Oh, to hell with husbands,” Fen said, and pulled her forward. Her mouth met Pat’s, as warm and real as the night before but tasting of beer with a tang of mustard rather than brandy. She wriggled into Pat’s arms, and Pat’s hands were in her hair, and they kissed with open-mouthed wonder, because Fen was free and wanted to be here with Pat, and it was all right. It was all wonderfully, marvellously all right.
Pat could have shouted. Instead she slid a hand up, cupping the edge of Fen’s breast, and felt her whimper. Fen’s hands were on her now, sliding over what was by comparison a deeply inadequate bosom, but which still did the job because they both quivered at the touch. They were kissing wildly. Fen strained forwards into Pat’s grip, and pulled back again with a mumble of annoyance. “Sitting on this miserable dress.” She tugged at fabric to no avail.
“Take it off,” Pat said, and clapped her hand to her mouth as Fen’s eyes widened. “I meant, take it out. From under you. I really did mean that.”
“How disappointing.” Fen’s eyes were sparkling bright. “Would off be bad?”
Pat reached around her, enjoying the brush of arms against bosom. In an ideal world she would have undone a couple of clasps. As it was, her questing fingers encountered what felt like infinite buttons, and she gave up. “Blast. I need to see.”
“Help me up?”
Fen stood, shaking out the sadly crumpled dress and holding up the tendrils of hair. Pat stood behind her, unfastening each in the long row of tiny buttons, one by one, exposing a V of creamy skin and then the lacing of a corset, cinching Fen’s flesh. She ran her finger along the top of it, felt Fen shiver.
The dress was unfastened. She wasn’t sure what to do—it looked expensive—but Fen pushed it down so it fell to the floor in a rustling silken heap, turned, and stepped out of it. The corset pushed up her bosom, still adorned with sparkling jewels.
“I don’t suppose you’d like to take that off too,” Pat said. It came out slightly hoarse.
“I’d love to take this off,” Fen assured her. “Turn round first, though?”
Pat turned. Fen’s fingers slipped nimbly down her back, dealing with buttons, easing her dress over her shoulders. “You don’t corset.”
“Never started. No mother to insist.” She turned back, stepping out of the dress.
“I had governesses. And I’ve a great deal more that needs lacing in.” Fen ran her hands down Pat’s sides, eyes crinkling at the edges with concentration. “Have you done this before?”
“It depends what you mean by ‘this’.” Kissing and stroking, absolutely. She had a feeling that wasn’t what Fen meant. “I think you should probably assume I’m a novice. You?”
“Finishing school,” Fen said elliptically. “Can I be the instructor now?”
“Please be the instructor.”
Fen’s eyes brimmed with mischief. “Good. First things first: you’re allowed to squeal. In fact, I positively encourage it.”
“I’m locking the door, in that case.”
She suited the action to the word, and turned to find Fen presenting her back. The white laces that secured her corset were the most delectable things Pat had ever seen. She tugged at the fastening bows, feeling the binding give.
“Oh, that’s better,” Fen said, easing the corset off. “I can breathe.” She did so, a demonstrative filling of the lungs that did remarkable things to her chest. Squealing began to seem a very likely outcome. “Now, that petticoat...”
Pat had never felt both so grateful for and so annoyed by her many layers of clothing. They stripped each other amid kisses and stroking and a certain amount of giggling, and when they were down to combinations—Pat’s sensible muslin, Fen’s silk—Fen took her hand and tugged her to the bed, pulling her down so they lay face to face, in kissing distance. Pat ran her hand over Fen’s flank, glorying that she was permitted this, and thrilling at the delicate trace of Fen’s fingers on her own skin.
“Oh Lord,” she murmured against Fen’s lips. “You are lovely.”
Fen leaned in to kiss her, and Pat felt the hand on her bottom give a decided squeeze. She yelped, the sound muffled by Fen’s mouth, and wriggled into the touch as though it were quite natural to do so. Bodies pressing together, legs tangling, and an urge for more building between them as Fen’s thigh pressed between hers. Fen’s hand was on her breast, palm rolling over the nipple, and the movement of cloth against flesh was glorious torture.
Pat whimpered. Fen stilled. “All right?”
“Yes. Oh, yes.”
“Could I touch you?”
“Please.” Pat wasn’t even sure what that meant—surely they were touching now—but the answer was yes anyway, to anything Fen wanted. Fen nudged her so she rolled onto her back, and leaned over her, and Pat gave herself up to the sensation of kisses and strokes, and her own hand on the generous curve of Fen’s plump bottom and—
—a hand sliding up her thigh.
She jolted. Fen snatched her hand away. “Sorry! Was that not—”
“Just startled,” Pat managed. She could hardly breathe with the thought she’d spoiled this. “Novice, remember?”
“Shall I not do that?”
“No! That is, yes. I mean, please don’t not do that.”
Fen’s eyes lit with laughter. “So, just to be sure, you definitely don’t want me to not stop continuing?”
“Oh, shut up.” Pat swatted her behind.
Fen squeaked, and then narrowed her eyes menacingly. “Excuse me, who’s the schoolmistress here? You need to listen to my sage advice.”
“I’m sure it’s extremely sensible,” Pat managed. Fen’s hand was roaming again, sliding up over the cloth to the opening of her drawers. Fen was going to touch her there, and Pat’s heart was thundering with alarm and glory and anticipation. They both inhaled sharply as a finger touched a curl of hair.
“Oh Lord,” Pat whispered. Her hand was clenching convulsively on nothing, and Fen’s free hand came to hold it, interlacing their fingers. Fen’s face was close, with an intently serious look in her pansy-brown eyes, and Pat breathed into the sensation of exploring fingers sliding up and down, touching her, thumb brushing over curls, a finger sliding even more intimately close. Pat didn’t even know a name for the place Fen touched that made her gasp, but she was well aware how it worked and she let her legs relax and widen, giving Fen’s fingers access to stroke and circle. Tiny circles, a repetitive movement that was just what Pat would have done for herself but a thousand times better because it was Fen’s touch, Fen’s breath hot on her skin.
Pat realised she was moaning, little mewling noises in her throat. She stopped herself with a stab of self-consciousness, but Fen’s finger slid up and down, slick and wet now, and she forgot about anything but the building need, the familiar cresting wave of pleasure.
“Oh, I do want to see you enjoy yourself,” Fen whispered. “Please do.”
Pat couldn’t have spoken if she’d had anything to say. Her whole consciousness was narrowed to the point where Fen’s fingers and thumb were working, concentrating on reaching that elusive, glorious peak. She clutched Fen’s hand; Fen gave a breathy whimper, and Pat spasmed against her fingers, unthinking and untrammelled, rubbing fiercely up to prolong the pleasure as she reached the peak and her body clenched tight with throbbing joy.
She sank back onto the bed, mouth open. Fen was looking into her face and her expression washed away any nascent second thoughts or fears, because she looked enchanted.
“Oh,” she said, and curled to kiss her. Pat kissed her back, brain still slow with the aftershocks of that glorious feeling, and slid her hand over Fen’s backside with more confidence now. “Mph. How lovely.”
Fen sat up after a moment. They seemed to have disarranged her combinations, somehow, and her bosom was spilling out of the top. Pat reached up and tugged at the fabric, dragging it down, then slid her hand under one warm, heavy breast. Fen said, “Ooh.”
“That was awfully good instruction,” Pat said. “Could I have a go now?”
“I think you should.” Fen lay back, one arm behind her head, one knee invitingly bent, bosom unrestrained.
Pat caught her breath. “You look...I don’t know. Like an odalisque.”
Fen blinked. “One of those Egyptian stone things?”
“No, odalisque. You know.” Pat wasn’t sure of the definition herself, now she came to think about it. “A voluptuous barely-clad lady in a painting looking no better than she should be. Except you couldn’t get any better.”
“On the contrary,” Fen said with a luxurious stretch. “I could be dramatically better. Try it and see. And don’t forget, you want me to squeal.”