The Care and Feeding of Waspish Widows - Olivia Waite Page 0,90

matter,” she said. Then she did something foolish.

She looked straight at Griffin.

Agatha Griffin’s eyes widened.

Penelope’s bravery crumpled, and she looked away again.

The silence stretched on for years.

Griffin’s voice came slowly. “When I was younger, I thought kissing was something only girls did.”

It was hardly more than a whisper, but it sliced through the night like an arrow and nailed Penelope to her seat.

Griffin continued, as Penelope held her breath so as not to miss a single soft word. “Plenty of us treated kissing like practice. For when we were grown up and could do it with men. It all seemed so innocent, really—holding hands, sharing clothes. Sharing a bed. Wrapping your arms around each other while you both dreamed. Kisses . . . and caresses.” She fidgeted with the shawl on her shoulders, plucking at the fringe on the hem.

Her gaze flickered to Penelope, then away; Penelope shivered.

“When Thomas came courting—when I felt I had to grow up—I put all those feelings aside. They complicated things, and I wanted simple. Sure. But lately . . . Well, lately I have been thinking perhaps it’s not something I’m going to grow out of after all.”

Penelope remembered to breathe, and suddenly couldn’t seem to breathe deeply enough to satisfy. She felt dizzy, disoriented. And not from the mead. “You’re saying you could love women.”

“Not just that.” Griffin raised her head, and her eyes met Penelope’s with a clarity that made the spinning world pause in its orbit. “I’m saying I could love you.”

Penelope’s heart was a firework, bursting into sparks in the middle of the night. The explosion propelled her forward, right into Griffin’s arms.

Kissing, it turned out, was not something Agatha Griffin did by halves. Firm hands seized Penelope by the shoulders and held her in place, while Agatha’s hot tongue slid hungrily between Penelope’s lips. Penelope let her own hands tangle in the long waves of Agatha’s hair, happy to let herself be devoured. There was no room for hesitation now, not a drop of reticence; only this wild, desperate entwinement.

Penelope’s world split nearly in two: Before this kiss—and After. Nothing would ever be the same. She twisted Agatha’s long locks around her fingers and kissed back as hard as she could.

Eventually, Agatha broke away. “My god,” she gasped, “I’ve been wanting to do that for months.”

“Then why stop now?” Penelope demanded, and reached out to pull her back.

Agatha caught her hands, amusement curling that long, beautiful mouth of hers. “A temporary respite, Flood,” she said. “I don’t want to get so lost to the world that the kitchen maid catches us when she comes to lay the fire.”

Penelope sat back, chagrined. “Of course,” she murmured. Chill air crept over skin heated by contact. It was good that one of them was thinking clearly, and making sure this would stay a secret. Penelope was no Isabella, with vast wealth and ancient bloodlines to protect her from gossip and the poisonous wagging of malicious tongues. She and Agatha would have to be careful. Discreet.

Just like every other time.

Agatha skated thoughtful fingers over the plane of Penelope’s cheek. Aching, Penelope turned so her mouth could press against Agatha’s palm. The scent of lemons from the balm she’d made as a gift speared through her, citrus sharpened and warmed by Agatha’s skin.

Penelope throbbed hopelessly, and parted her lips to breathe in as deeply as she could.

Agatha’s fingers slid lower, brushing teasingly across Penelope’s mouth. Tingles like sparks flew up wherever she touched. “Come upstairs with me, will you?”

“Yes,” Penelope replied. Instantly, and without question.

In all these long and lonely months, she’d never dreamed she’d have the chance to say yes to such an invitation. The word was honey-sweet on her tongue.

Agatha’s eyes gleamed in the low light as she pushed up from the table.

They put the mead and bread away. Agatha grasped the candle in one hand and Penelope’s hand in the other—just like she had in London. As if she feared Penelope might escape if she didn’t keep hold of her.

Ha, thought Penelope fiercely, not a chance.

Agatha paused, candle raised, when they reached the twin bedroom doors. “Mine,” Penelope whispered, opening the door and dragging Agatha in behind her.

“Why’s that?” Agatha blinked.

“You were downstairs before I was,” Penelope said. She shut the door and leaned back against it, hands still anxiously wrapped around the handle. “So my bed will have stayed warmer than yours.”

“Ah.” Agatha set the candle by the dressing table mirror, where it would give the most light. The fire