by Olivia Waite
Lucy chuckled. “Good night, my lady.”
“Catherine,” she corrected the girl.
Lucy paused. “Catherine.” Her tongue lingered over the name, and her smile widened with pleasure. “Good night, Catherine.” She slipped out the door, leaving the countess feeling equally comforted and abandoned and thoroughly, thoroughly perplexed.
Chapter Six
The next day, despite her own amorous turmoil, Lucy was careful to follow the usual routine. She couldn’t stop remembering the pained throb in the countess’s—in Catherine’s voice, or the flash of fear in her eyes, when kisses had turned into more. Someone had hurt her before, and badly.
The obvious culprit was her late husband.
Lucy scowled around the library, as if a fierce enough gaze could banish George St. Day’s ghost. His letters to her father had never been truly warm, but they had been cordial enough that Lucy had never thought to suspect him of being secretly, cruelly cold.
But then, Lucy had never predicted that the intrepid and witty Lady Moth would have such a fragile side, either, or that she would ever choose to kiss Lucy so eagerly. People could surprise you.
Tea came, and dinner afterward. Lucy kept conversation light, aided by a usefully distracting passage of Oléron on the subject of tides that was giving her a world of trouble. “If I construe the verb the one way it’s talking about oscillation as a singular event,” she explained, “but construed another way, it’s an ongoing state. A constant. French uses the same verb tense for both things, but I cannot believe the mathematics line up properly if it is singular.” She stabbed her fork viciously into the innocent roasted chicken on her plate. “How can we agree on universal truths, when between the English and the French, we can’t even agree on what time was was! No wonder humans have had so many wars.”
Catherine snorted at this.
Lucy huffed, and moved pieces of chicken around. “It makes one pine for the days when all scholarship was done in Latin, and everybody knew what one another meant when they wrote.”
“Ah,” Catherine said, “but weren’t they then restricted by the rules and behavior of Latin grammar?”
“At least they were all restricted equally,” Lucy said. “I wouldn’t have to try and guess what Oléron might have been trying to say if the French tongue had had a progressive tense, like ours does.”
“You’re doing an expansion, not a strict translation. You’re already departing from the original. Why can’t you decide which verb is better within the bounds of that framework?”
“Because . . .” Lucy bit her lip, and huffed again, and finally burst out: “Because what if I get it wrong?”
Catherine pursed her lips, visibly amused. “I keep telling you: astronomers are supposed to be wrong.”
“But what if I get it wrong, and Oléron gets the blame?” Lucy persisted. “I have a responsibility not to misrepresent the material I’m basing this on, even if I’m going above and beyond its original aims. Maybe especially then. This will be the first time the work appears in English, and English scientists are going to want to base their own experiments and theories upon what this text says. Any errors I introduce will not only be repeated in the work that comes after—they will be taken as errors of the original, and Oléron’s reputation would suffer for my negligence.” She poked twice more at the chicken carcass before sighing and setting her fork aside. “Maybe this was why Mr. Hawley wanted multiple translators working on this: so they could better catch these problems before they went out into the world and multiplied.”
“Mr. Hawley wanted multiple translators so he could play them against one another,” Catherine said with some aspersion. “That way he preserves his authority in the Polite Science Society, without having to do any of the actual work himself.”
Lucy blinked, surprised. “That is a very harsh opinion of him.”
Catherine’s brow furrowed, as Lucy watched her curiously. “Yes, well, I have spent many years in the Society strictly as an unofficial observer. An aide, really. I had to know how the whole system functioned in order to help George make progress. Maybe I recognize Mr. Hawley’s manipulations because I have had to resort to them at times myself. Maybe we aren’t so different, and I should be more charitable to someone who may not be able to do the work in the manner that he would prefer.” She sat back in her chair, her eyes going distant.
Lucy leaned forward eagerly, by now recognizing the signs of Catherine St. Day about to tell a story.
“He was on our first expedition, you remember. It was his first as well. He took ill after we set out from Van Dieman’s Land. Very ill. Very nearly died. He was half a ghost still when we returned to England.”
“But his results were spectacular. He proved several leading magnetic theories were quite wrong, and advanced the state of knowledge on botany by an immeasurable degree,” Lucy interjected.
Catherine nodded, lips pressed together. “Oh yes, he was feted and celebrated and even invited to Windsor to speak with the King,” she said. “And he enjoyed the fame and the flattery immensely. He founded the Polite Science Society in the full flush of his glory, and people were eager to apply for Fellowship. But whenever someone pushed him to fix a date for his next voyage, there was always some excuse. He was still trying to nurture samples of species he’d brought back, or there was some matter among Society Fellows that required his careful attention for a while. So other botanists started going out on voyages, and Mr. Hawley stayed home.”
“But it’s not as if his work here stopped,” Lucy countered. “He’s been more successful than anyone at cultivating rare species: orchids, arboreals, even carnivorous plants.”
“I’m convinced it’s not enough for him. When did the King ever come to see his orchids? It’s the voyagers who get all the royal attention: the mapmakers and the navigators and those who chart the heavens. George had thoughts of unseating Mr. Hawley from the presidency, if he’d ever made a discovery big enough to justify the coup.”
Lucy pursed her lips. “Do you suppose Mr. Hawley knew it?”
“I’m certain he did. So now he stays very involved with the state of all scientific topics, keeping his fingers in as many pies as possible. Some people do benefit from his guidance—George wouldn’t have worked half so hard without Mr. Hawley there to needle him, I’m sure—but I have also seen him act to suppress those whose work doesn’t strike him as sufficiently noble.” She lifted her glass up, watching the ruby liquid swirl in the light. “He thinks of science as something to be cultivated, with offending offshoots cut away clean. And I do not always trust his judgment about which parts deserve pruning.”
Lucy grinned. “You’d rather have science a wild weed growing in the lane, discoverable by any urchin and liable to take over any ground where it’s planted?”
Catherine smiled. “Imagine what those urchins might think of, that we hothouse aristocrats can barely imagine.”
Lucy sniffed archly and set her chin as haughtily as she knew how. “I’m not sure whether to be insulted because I’m supposed to be the urchin, or because I’m supposed to be the aristocrat.”
Catherine’s eyes flicked up, and the intensity there pulled all the air from Lucy’s lungs and replaced it with fire. “Neither,” the countess said softly. “You are the type of scholar who cares most about the truth. There is nothing so rare, and so much to be valued by the rest of us.”
Lucy swallowed hard. “You flatter me.”
“Do I?” Catherine’s lips curved—it was a teasing smile, full of promise, and it lit Lucy up like a torch. “You’ve just told me how much you’re working to keep your translation true to Oléron’s writing. You are trying to add yourself to it without standing between the world and the original author. It’s a very difficult prospect.” She set down her wineglass. “It’s also the exact right thing to do. And not one in a hundred other astronomers would think of doing it.”
Lucy had no response to this. Her cheeks were burning and she couldn’t se
em to find a safe place to look for more than half a minute together.
It wasn’t as though she’d never been complimented before—her father had always lauded her mind (if not her femininity), and her past lovers had had plenty to say about her wit (if not her beauty). But she couldn’t offhand think of any other time when someone had been so adamant in praise of something she’d not even succeeded yet in achieving.
Catherine had complimented Lucy’s judgment, and there was something in that that intoxicated her more than strong spirits might have done.
They went straight to Catherine’s room after dinner, as though it were now understood.
Lady Moth’s maid gave Lucy one brief, keen look, then smoothed out her expression and curtsied as she was dismissed for the night. “Will you please go and tell Eliza I won’t be needing her any more this evening?” Lucy said, blushing.
“Yes, miss,” Narayan said, and the door snicked softly shut behind her.
Lucy looked at Catherine, whose cheeks were pink but whose shoulders were tight and tense. She reached out and put a hand on Catherine’s cheek, gratified beyond reason when the countess leaned into the caress with a sigh.
Lucy brushed the softest of kisses across the shorter woman’s mouth. “I’ve thought about this all day,” she said.
Catherine’s blush deepened. “So have I. I am terribly embarrassed about how I behaved last night.”
“You needn’t be.” Lucy guided Catherine over to the chaise and sat her down on one side. Her posture was poker-straight, but Lucy wasn’t surprised. For herself, she leaned back affably against the cushioned curve. They would both feel better if they cleared the air a bit. “You said you’ve never kissed a woman before.”
“Yes, but it’s not as though I’m entirely new to the business,” Catherine said tartly. “I was married for fifteen years.” She glanced away. “Plenty of time to outgrow youthful ardor. And this is not precisely the kind of conversation one has with a . . . with a new lover.”
“You forget,” Lucy said mischievously. “I’m an astronomer, remember? I care much more about truth than about propriety.”
Catherine blew out a breath. “So I am something in the nature of an experiment?”
Lucy bit her lip. “I might ask you the same question.”
“But I am not an astronomer, nor any kind of naturalist,” Catherine shot back. “I do not perform experiments.”
“No,” Lucy agreed. “You are a well-traveled lady of quality—prone to sudden whims and prey to dissipated impulses.”
She laughed as Catherine sputtered objections. But the countess was looking less anxious, and the corners of her mouth were tilting up.
Lucy pressed onward. “Was George the only lover you’ve had?”
“No,” Catherine replied. “There was another man, after George died. But he— I . . .” She shook her head, clearly struggling to find the words. “With George, there had been no pleasing him. I was thrilled to find a man who wanted pleasing, and I did everything he asked of me simply for the sake of that approval. But some of the things that pleased him . . .” She paused. “How much of your innocence can I ruin in the course of one evening?”
“I’m already reasonably ruined,” Lucy said. “You can tell me.”
Catherine bit her lip, then steeled her spine. “He was . . . rough.”
“Ah,” said Lucy, in a tone of complete understanding. “He hurt you.”
“He never laid a hand on me in anger.”
Lucy was quietly insistent. “He hurt you, and you didn’t think you were permitted to object.”
“He found particular ecstasy in giving pain, and I tolerated the pain because it was so novel to bring someone happiness instead of misery or anger. Sometimes when he hurt me more than I could bear I lashed out in return. He enjoyed that, too. The struggling, the hurt. I felt like a wild thing, most of the time—but my lover was ecstatic about it. It baffled me even as it gratified. And I thought, maybe all the better kind of passion had been drained from me, from too many years of neglect.” She dropped her eyes. “He was always very kind, after.”
“There are people who enjoy giving pain, and people who find suffering brings them pleasure.” Lucy leaned forward, resting a hand on Catherine’s wrist. “It doesn’t make their pleasure any more or less real than yours—it’s just a matter of taste. Like preferring mint tea over chamomile.” She trailed her fingertips up Catherine’s skin until the tender turn of the elbow. The other woman’s breath hitched, and Lucy licked her lips. “And you’re anything but passionless.”
“What if I lose control again?” Catherine whispered.
“I understand if you’re afraid,” Lucy replied, “but I’m not.” She lifted Catherine’s hand and pressed the softest possible kiss to the back of it.
Catherine’s breath shivered out on a sigh.
Lucy kept going—her fingers mapped the course of the veins in Catherine’s pale wrist, and her palm smoothed over the downy hairs on her forearm. She followed the line of her collarbone, the fluted column of her neck, and the small curls that escaped all hairpins to cluster where her scalp met her spine. Catherine hummed with pleasure as Lucy worked those pins free, one by one, draping golden locks over both of them. When she finally—finally!—pressed her lips to Catherine’s mouth, the countess was all but panting with delight, trembling and shivering and returning the kiss with something near to desperation.
Lucy allowed a flame of sensual triumph to flicker in her breast, unspoken, as Catherine’s arms twined luxuriously around her neck and pulled her close without the slightest hint of fear or hesitance.
The countess didn’t take things any further, though. Lucy didn’t mind. Patience was a game she was happy to play for the right rewards.
The next night, in between kisses, Lucy removed Catherine’s dress and then her own, as well as the stays beneath, but left their chemises and stockings in place. The night after that, she peeled off a single one of Catherine’s stockings, and the second the following evening. And so it went, night by night, one delicate piece of fabric at a time fluttering to the floor like seeds from a dandelion clock, until finally Lucy was able to press herself against Catherine, skin to skin.
Lucy shivered, though she felt anything but cold. Catherine was above her in the bed, sheets tangled around both their ankles, firelight flickering gently over miles of creamy, curving skin. “You’re so beautiful,” Lucy murmured, running a hand along the irresistible dip of the countess’s waist.
Catherine bent down for another kiss, lingering and lush. She hadn’t frozen up since that first day, but Lucy kept her hands soothing and steady anyway. She was determined not to rush this, no matter how hard her pulse was pounding.
Catherine slid a hand along Lucy’s side, then cupped her breast. Lucy groaned happily into Catherine’s mouth, her nipple going tight beneath the countess’s palm. She was focusing so intently on not rushing that she was utterly shocked when Catherine straddled one thigh and slipped a hand to the aching spot between Lucy’s legs.
Lucy cried out as every muscle in her body spasmed with pleasure.
Catherine froze, eyes going wide. “Too fast?”
“God, no,” Lucy groaned, and arched up against her hand demandingly. Catherine’s breathy laugh skittered hot over Lucy’s skin as she took the nipple she’d teased into her mouth. Her fingers continued playing between Lucy’s legs, and Lucy clutched her free hand hard in the sheets to keep from tangling it in Catherine’s hair.
Lucy’s other hand was still on Catherine’s waist, so she felt it at once when the countess shifted. Lucy cracked open the eyes she’d convulsively shut just in time to watch Catherine bear down against Lucy’s thigh, soft curls and wet heat grinding against Lucy’s feverish skin. The countess moaned at the friction and sank her teeth into her lip, a picture of desperate yearning.
And just like that, so suddenly she didn’t even have time to gasp for air, Lucy was coming. Her back bowed off the bed as pleasure stormed thr
ough her, sweeping everything else aside. Distantly, she heard Catherine whispering encouragement in her ear, and it only set her off a second time, climax rippling through her and making her shudder like the flames dancing in the hearth.
When she came back to herself, Catherine was lounging beside her, stroking her hip, the ample curves of her body tilted in languorous pride like some ancient statue of Venus. Lucy stretched out her arms above her head and laughed, half chagrined and half impressed. “Serves me right for trying to treat you like an untried virgin.”
Catherine stroked more of Lucy, her hand wandering teasingly across her belly and over her small breasts. “I managed to figure out one or two things, in fifteen years of marriage,” she said.
“Only one or two things?” Lucy teased. She rolled Catherine beneath her and settled on top of the countess’s delectable body. Catherine splayed out eagerly as Lucy’s hand roamed lower, but her eyes truly widened when Lucy slid down until she could set her shoulders beneath Catherine’s knees. Lucy spotted a dimple in Catherine’s left knee and pressed a sweet kiss to it, lightly spreading the other woman’s legs wider. Golden, flushed, and perfect—she was even lovelier now than in all of Lucy’s secret imaginings.
The countess leaned up on one elbow, the lightest furrow appearing between her golden brows. “Where on earth are you going?”
Anticipation shot through Lucy, comet-like. “Oh, so this isn’t one of the things?” Her hands drifted up, from the lady’s knees to her trembling thighs, and brushed her thumbs along the tender folds between the countess’s legs. “Let me show you a trick I learned in my school days. Though I promise, you won’t find it anywhere on the curriculum.” She bent her head and licked once, precisely where she knew Catherine needed it most.
