“I’ll be back as soon as I’ve dressed Mrs. Wraxhall.” Molly left Alice alone, her lap covered in swathes of pale gray silk, and when she came back almost two hours later, Alice was trying on the remade gown before the looking glass.
It wasn’t every woman who could make a colorless frock look like something special, but Alice managed the trick. The rest of her was pale to the point of colorlessness, from the white-blond hair that now hung loose around her shoulders, to the gray-blue eyes that regarded Molly’s reflection in the looking glass. Bright fabric would wash her out, but pastels were what Mrs. Wraxhall called insipid and Molly called boring. This gown was the palest gray, and the great joke was that Alice had likely chosen it because she thought it a safe, dull, unobjectionable choice.
And so it was, if you were blind and had no taste in either gowns or women. Christ, but she looked like one of those marble statues the gentry fussed over. Every other woman would look like gaudy rubbish beside her.
“I look like a harlot.”
Molly took a step closer. “Show me the harlot who wears dove-gray silk.”
“You can see my breasts.”
No, you really couldn’t, more’s the pity. The gown was depressingly modest, but if you were used to being covered chin to wrists, this was a bit of a change. Molly’s alterations had only removed the length of silk gauze that served to dowdily fill in the evening gown’s neckline, and then bring the waist up a crucial half inch to enhance the bustline.
“Only this morning you were telling me you don’t have any, so I can’t see what the fuss is.” Molly came to stand behind Alice at the looking glass and tugged the bodice so it sat where it belonged. She let her hands come to rest on Alice’s rib cage. Damn it if she couldn’t feel Alice’s heart beating, an almost frantic flutter beneath silk and skin. If she had only been looking at Alice, she might not have guessed—her expression was unruffled, her face placid and composed.
Molly slid her hands up a bit, her thumbs whispering against the bottom curve of breast, all the while keeping her eyes fixed on Alice’s in the mirror. Alice met her gaze, held it, and gave a little nod.
That nod did Molly in. She hadn’t been expecting anything so overt, had thought maybe they’d spend the next few days at the knife’s edge between flirtation and something more. A stray touch here, a suggestive comment there, but nothing that couldn’t be dismissed, forgotten, easily taken back.
She never thought they’d actually touch one another. That was the stuff of daydreams.
She could still step away. That would be safe. Molly had learned the hard way not to go to bed with employers. But Alice wasn’t an employer, and more than that, Molly had the sense that they could trust one another. That they were in this together. That they were both safe.
That was a daydream too, though. If they did this, then they would do it again, and they were already too fond of one another. Going to bed with someone you were fond of was a terrible idea. You either got your heart broken or you didn’t, and at the moment Molly didn’t know which would be worse. She thought she could handle heartbreak, but the other thing—trying to be with a person who grew to be ashamed of herself and of Molly—seemed unbearable.
But Molly was terrible at doing the safe thing.
She skimmed her hands up to cup the slight swell of Alice’s breasts, feeling her nipples pebble beneath the layers of fabric. “Just like I told you,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper. “Sweet.”
Alice’s hands clapped over her own, not stopping Molly but holding her in place. Molly let her gaze drop from Alice’s face to where their hands were joined. She leaned in, brushing a kiss against the place where Alice’s neck met her shoulder, relishing the shiver that went through her body.
“I need to dress your hair,” Molly said, because she didn’t know what else to say, and also because as a matter of professional pride, she couldn’t let Alice leave this room with her hair so plain. They only had a quarter of an hour before Alice needed to be downstairs for dinner. But Alice shifted her stance a bit, so her back was pressed against Molly’s chest, and that was all the invitation Molly needed to run her fingers along the freshly tacked neckline of Alice’s gown. She dipped a single finger beneath the thin linen of the chemise, but the neckline was still too damned high to get anywhere interesting.
She could feel the tiny, even stitches beneath her fingers, stitches Alice had taken because she trusted Molly to save her from the fate that awaited her downstairs.
“Sit down,” she said, pressing Alice into the chair. That hair, Christ. It was usually pinned in a workaday knot, no tendrils, no curls. Molly took it down and let it slip through her fingers like water, like moonshine.
And then she got to work.
“There’s nothing that can’t be cured with lip rouge and strong drink,” Molly said as she brushed Alice’s hair for what seemed like the ninetieth time.
Alice didn’t have any experience with either substance. “I’ll have to take your word for it,” she said. And she would. She had put herself entirely in Molly’s hands—literally and figuratively, she recalled, willing herself not to blush when Molly’s eyes were on her.
She blushed anyway, and Molly’s crooked smile only made her cheeks heat more furiously.
“Here’s what you’ll do,” Molly said, the hairpin she had clenched between her teeth causing her words to take on a rakish air. “You walk into the drawing room like you’re an heiress, like you’re doing everybody a great favor by being there. You aren’t here to wind yarn or fetch liniments for old ladies. You’re here because you’re young and beautiful—no, stop that, just look at yourself—and mysterious.”
Alice laughed. “I’m anything but mysterious. I’m a penniless spinster with no connections. There are hundreds of women like me in every county in England.”
“Not with your reputation, there aren’t,” Molly said, expertly twisting a lock of Alice’s hair.
“My reputation,” Alice repeated, taking in the meaning of what Molly said. “The only people here who I’ve ever met are Mrs. Wraxhall and Mr. Tenpenny. And I can only imagine what Mr. Tenpenny would say about me.”
“Exactly,” Molly said, as if satisfied that her pupil had caught on so quickly. “Use that.”
“Use it?” Alice echoed.
“Right. So, you’ve spent the day helping ladies embroider cushions. Nobody would think that you were turned out of your home for a scandal. More likely, you inherited a fortune and went to live with Mrs. Wraxhall to make connections suitable to your new station, and Mr. Tenpenny hopes to marry you.”
There was something about the rote precision with which she uttered those last words that made Alice narrow her eyes. “Have you been telling people that faradiddle?”
“Maybe,” Molly said, her expression pure wickedness. “Servants do gossip.” She twisted and pinned a few more strands of hair that somehow did not promptly tumble down, which was a feat Alice had never managed on her own. “Now for the lip rouge.”
“No rouge,” Alice said immediately. She could tolerate having the upper quarter of her meager bosom exposed, but lip rouge was out of the question. “And it’s no use telling me that Mrs. Wraxhall wears it, because I know she does and that doesn’t change anything.” Mrs. Wraxhall was wealthy, married, and—more importantly than any of that—she didn’t mind being the center of attention. She rather seemed to thrive on it, in fact. Alice preferred to blend into the background and manage not to embarrass herself overmuch.
“Only a little,” Molly protested. “Right here.” She traced her thumb slowly along Alice’s lower lip. Suddenly the touch had nothing to do with lip rouge.
“No lip rouge.” When Alice spoke, the pad of Molly’s thumb brushed the soft, wet inside of her lip. Sparks of warmth shot through Alice’s body, settling somewhere in the vicinity of her breasts, and sending a thrill of awareness somewhat lower.
“We can do it the other way, then,” Molly murmured, and leaned close, brushi
ng her own mouth against Alice’s. And if Molly’s thumb had produced sparks, her mouth created an inferno, burning away whatever doubts Alice had. This touch, this woman, this thing that existed between them, it was good and true and so very warm. She brought one hand up to reach for Molly’s face, instinctively trying to double their points of contact. Molly’s own hands were braced on the back of Alice’s chair.
The brush of lips against lips turned into something more insistent, a nibbling, then a sucking. Molly’s mouth was asking Alice a question, and all Alice knew was that the answer was yes.
“Yes,” she said out loud.
Molly pulled back and regarded Alice carefully, her mouth twisted in that crooked, rakish smile. “That’ll do very nicely.” She gestured to the looking glass, and Alice saw that her lips were pink, as if she had used the dreaded rouge.
Something about her rosy lips made her look more closely at herself, really examine her gown and hair. It was her own best gown, worn at least half a dozen times already, but with Molly’s alterations it looked almost fashionable. Had she seen another woman wearing such a dress, she might even have called it elegant. And her hair, even though it was dressed simply, was different enough from her usual style to make her gaze at her face in an entirely different way.
It was the face of someone who had just been kissed.
No, that was the least of what she saw in the mirror. What she saw was someone who wanted something, and who was allowed to have it. Not a person who had to pay rent for her place on earth by keeping busy, by serving others.
She could want something, and she could take it.
Chapter Five
The clock had already chimed two before Molly returned to the bedroom, her feet sore and her eyes stinging with fatigue. Mrs. Wraxhall had needed to be undressed, her hair put in curling papers, her face anointed with French creams. Then Molly had to see about a claret stain on her ladyship’s green satin gown and set out tomorrow’s many changes of clothing, from shoes to ear bobs and everything in between.
When she quietly pushed open the bedroom door, she expected to find Alice fast asleep, as she had been the previous night when Molly had finally collapsed into bed.
But there she was, sitting at the cramped table, pen in hand, writing by the light of a candle that had nearly burnt down. She looked up as Molly shut the door, her face arranged in an expression that gave nothing away. That, Molly guessed, was the face she used when dealing with her whoreson relations, like some poor little creature rolling up into a ball to look less interesting to a hawk.
“How was dinner?” Molly kept her voice low in case there were sleeping guests nearby, but it came out too husky and intimate.
The mask of nothingness dropped, and even in the sparse light Molly could tell that Alice was glowing. She was the brightest thing in this room, and Molly’s heart skipped a beat with relief and something else entirely. “I didn’t pay him the least bit of attention. Or at least I pretended not to, which amounts to much the same thing. I had other things on my mind. I suppose that was what you meant by kissing me, to provide a distraction—”
“Like hell it was,” Molly protested, her hands on her hips.
“I meant that if your intention was to take my mind off the matter of Mr. Tenpenny, you succeeded.”
Molly raised an eyebrow. “It wasn’t that either.” Alice had to know that, but if she needed reassurance, well, that didn’t cost Molly a thing. “What are you writing?” Sitting up late to write a letter made no sense if you had nobody to write to.
“Oh.” A faint flush crept up Alice’s neck. “I wrote another fairy story for your little girl. She seemed to like the one you read her last week.”
One of the reasons Molly was not only alive but also in possession of clean clothes and a full belly was that she knew how to keep a weather eye out for all possibilities. She hadn’t thought there was such thing as taking Molly Wilkins by surprise.
She was surprised now.
“Thank you.” She had gotten out of the habit of gratitude. What she had, she either earned or stole, and there was precious little difference between the two as far as she cared. But this, this was a gift. “Thank you,” she repeated. “She’ll enjoy it very much.”
“I always liked making up the stories, and without my nieces . . .” Her voice trailed off.
Those bastards. “Katie and I will be glad for any of your stories. Tell me more about dinner while I help you out of that gown.” It was a dirty trick and Molly knew it, even though there was scarcely any other way out of a gown like this one. Alice automatically turned her back for Molly to unwork the fastenings. Molly kept her movements brisk and efficient, flicking open buttons, unpinning hair. That much was no more than what she did for Mrs. Wraxhall. What was different was that she wasn’t doing this as a servant for a master, but as a service to a friend.
As Molly performed all these familiar tasks, she asked about dinner—who sat where, how that shiteating Tenpenny bastard reacted to seeing her, whether their suspicions about Mrs. Wraxhall having a lover were founded. Alice gloried in her triumph, and a sorry thing it was that for her a triumph was breathing the same air as the man who had gotten her tossed out of her home. Molly would dearly have liked to serve him up a nasty trick.
And right as she took the last pin from Alice’s hair, a plan began to form in Molly’s crooked, warped brain. Oh, she really oughtn’t think of anything like this, not with her position on the line, but it was just too excellent an opportunity to pass up.
But then Alice raised her arms for Molly to whisk the gown over her head, and all her thoughts went up in a cloud of smoke.
Molly was no stranger to ladies in their chemises. Ladies in their chemises, and sometimes in nothing at all, earned Molly her daily bread.
Alice was just another lady in her chemise.
Except for the look on her face. There wasn’t a hint of that bland, harmless mask. Alice’s jaw was set, her chin tilted up almost defiantly.
“What’s that about?” she asked, tracing Alice’s jaw with her finger.
“You were right.”
“It happens. What about?”
“I do like to look at you.” The words came out in a jumble, Alice’s voice higher than it usually was. She opened her mouth as if to say something more—Molly would have bet it was an apology—but she slammed her mouth shut. There was nothing to apologize for, and they both knew it.
Molly’s breath rushed out, relief at a tension she hadn’t known she was feeling. Alice wasn’t going to run from this. She rested a hand on the nip of Alice’s waist, only a wisp of linen in between them. “Good to know I didn’t dream it up.” And now her other hand was on the small of Alice’s back, not so much pulling her near as letting her know that coming closer was an option if she chose to take it. She didn’t want to frighten Alice off with clumsy boldness.
“I had an idea,” Molly said, suspecting that more talking was going to be required before Alice was entirely at her ease. “Tenpenny is a rich man.” Molly had conducted a bit of espionage belowstairs. “He came with six horses. Four hunters and two carriage horses.” Even among nobs, this was extravagant. “He also brought a valet, a coachman, and a pair of grooms.” The grooms and coachman would be no trouble, as they wouldn’t set foot in the house beyond the kitchens. The valet was a man and could be dealt with like any other man—with a little flirtation and a lot of gin.
Alice wrinkled her brow. “No, I don’t think he actually is rich. He depends on an allowance from his aunt and uncle. I overheard some ladies saying he needs to marry well.” Alice had stepped closer, and now was almost in Molly’s arms. Almost. “He certainly spends a great deal of money, though.”
“What do you say we take some of it off his hands?” Too late, Molly realized that she had made a miscalculation. All the warmth drained from Alice’s face. She was, after all, a proper lady, a clergyman’s daughter for God’s sake, and would not look kindly on wanton thievery. “Never mind,” she s
aid quickly, removing her hands from Alice’s waist and stepping backward. “I must be off my head.”
Alice opened her mouth and shut it again, then furrowed her brow, as if she were trying to work out a difficult sum. “But what would we take?”
Alice must have lost her mind. Here she was, not only condoning larceny but also offering to help. Surely this was wrong. It said so in the Bible. It said so in whatever books they wrote laws in.
But try as she might, she couldn’t make herself believe that stealing from Mr. Tenpenny was wrong. With his lies, he had ruined her reputation and gotten her cast off by her family. Wasn’t the Bible filled with rules about what to do when somebody had stolen one’s oxen or chickens or whatnot? Surely having one’s life stolen out from under one’s feet counted for more than livestock.
As for laws, it turned out that she didn’t give a fig for them. They were all made up by gentlemen who didn’t have to worry about having their lives come undone because one man decided to wave his prick about.
“He wore a diamond cravat pin at dinner,” Alice said. She wanted that cravat pin. She wanted six cravat pins. She wanted to pave a road with cravat pins stolen from lying reprobates. She was an avenging angel, she was justice with her scales, she was going to steal a diamond.
“That’s a start,” Molly said, and Alice’s heart soared with the thought that there was more that could be stolen, more that could be done to set things right.
“A thousand pounds,” Alice said, thinking for the first time of the precise cost of her exile, measuring it not in shame and loneliness, but in shillings and pence. Naturally, mere money couldn’t make up for the other things she lost—her home, her family—but it was a start. It was a necessary beginning.
“I doubt it’ll fetch quite that much,” Molly said. “Unless the stone is the size of a quail egg.”
“No, I mean the amount my father owes me. My mother left a thousand pounds for my dowry.” The word dowry left a bad taste in her mouth, because there had never been any question of her marriage. She would never have abandoned her siblings to her father’s tyranny and it wasn’t as if she had ever met a gentleman who caught her fancy.
A Little Light Mischief Page 5
