The Care and Feeding of Waspish Widows - Olivia Waite Page 0,93

amusement turned to something more tender. “No,” she agreed. One corner of her mouth hitched up. “Beautiful, as you said.”

That made Agatha kiss her again, and then harder, which was precisely what Penelope wanted. But as soon as her hands began to wander, Agatha groaned in regret and pulled away. “I shouldn’t sleep here,” she said, slipping free of the blankets and retrieving her night rail. That damned garment, which was both too revealing and covered too much. Then the dressing-gown, of course, covering everything.

Penelope rolled to her side beneath the blankets and stretched, catlike. She would ache in the morning, she was sure. But it was all worth it, because Agatha’s eyes ate up every movement even from across the room. A bolt of something bold lit up Penelope’s core. “Do you know, Griffin? I am prone to bouts of sleeplessness in the middle of the night.”

Agatha froze in the act of cinching her robe tight. “That sounds so unpleasant, Flood.”

“It’s a curse,” Penelope said happily. “All those hours—with nobody else awake—no one to hear anything . . .” She put her chin in her hand and contrived to look innocent.

Agatha snorted, but a flush had risen in her cheeks. She strode back toward the bed, footsteps beating the floor like a soft, hurried heartbeat. “And what if I tell you I want an uninterrupted night’s rest?” she demanded.

Penelope widened her eyes. “Do you?”

“No,” Agatha said, and kissed Penelope so soundly that all her impudence melted away into lust and longing. “At least,” Agatha went on, in a sigh, “not yet. Good night, Flood.”

Penelope grinned, nestling deep into the blankets. “Good night, Griffin.”

Chapter Twenty-One

It was an entirely frustrating thing to attempt to supervise two young people resentful of your intrusive presence, while trying not to make obvious calf’s-eyes at the woman who’d fucked you senseless the night before.

After lunch, Penelope calmly announced her intention of taking an afternoon nap—with a twinkle in her eye that Agatha deeply mistrusted, but didn’t dare call attention to in company.

Sydney dared to look hopeful, the worm. “Eliza and I were planning on going for a walk into town,” he said.

“Excellent,” Agatha said viciously, and earned herself a double glare by continuing, “I believe I’ll join you. We ought to call on your grandmother.” Mrs. Stowe and Miss Coningsby had been invited to the festivities at Fern Hall, but of course Miss Coningsby wouldn’t come, and Mrs. Stowe wouldn’t come without Miss Coningsby.

Judging by the gloomy look Eliza sent Sydney, which Agatha caught from the corner of her eye while they were donning cloaks and bonnets in the front hallway, a chaperone and a visit to elderly relatives were not how the couple had planned to spend their afternoon.

Too bad. If they were determined not to wed, Agatha would give them no quarter for temptation. There was simply too much at stake, for all of them.

They bid farewell to Captain Stanhope and Mr. Flood, stopped partway to town to bid a quick Merry Christmas to Mr. Thomas and Mr. Kitt, who shared lodgings on the outskirts of the village proper, and then made their way to the high street. All Melliton was decked out in furze and greenery, bright against the velvet of snow and the sparkle of frost. Miss Coningsby let them in with a shy hello, poured hot cider for everyone, and then vanished upstairs, overwhelmed by the unwonted number of people.

Mrs. Stowe was enthroned in the window seat, cocooned in shawls, only a bare few panes of glass separating her from her slumbering, snow-shrouded garden. She curved her gnarled hands around her cup of cider and smiled through the steam. “And a very merry holiday to you, my dears.”

Sydney, bless him, lasted nearly a quarter of an hour before asking: “Can I show Eliza your beehives, Gran?”

“So long as you don’t wake any of my bees,” Mrs. Stowe allowed, and the two young visitors hurried to wrap themselves up again and tramp through the unblemished snow outside the window.

The two older women watched them, suspicions blooming from the mother and amusement from the grandmother. “Young Eliza seems sweet enough,” Mrs. Stowe said. “Why do your eyes go all daggers when you look at her?”

Agatha flinched, hating that she was so obvious. “They told me they’re not going to wed,” she said.

“No accounting for taste,” Mrs. Stowe said with a rueful shrug.

“They have every intention of carrying on as if they’re married, though,” Agatha added tartly. “They seem to think that’s more