The Care and Feeding of Waspish Widows - Olivia Waite Page 0,95

She forced herself to take a deep breath, in and out—and then, as her eyes ran over the text for the hundredth time she realized something new that snapped her back to alertness.

The typeface. Twenty-point Baskerville, with a chip in the lower serif of the capital L.

This handbill had been printed on Griffin’s own press, right here in Melliton.

She fought the urge to spin on her heel, march straight down to the print-works, and demand to know when this job had been authorized. It would do no good: the shop and warehouse were closed up until tomorrow, a holiday break for the pressmen.

Tomorrow, she could go and make some sharp inquiries of Mr. Downes.

She balled her hands in her skirts to keep the hem clear of the snow—god, but she missed her old trousers—and hurried to close the distance to where her son and her apprentice walked with hands almost touching.

It did lift her furious heart to see how dismayed they looked, and how they moved slightly farther apart, when she closed the distance. The trio stomped silently homeward, snow crunching and frost grinding beneath the unhappy rhythm of their boots.

Anger and impatience were a volatile combination, especially when one was trying not to ruin a holiday. Agatha buzzed inside like an angry hive the rest of the day, through Mrs. Braintree’s dinner and after, when Captain Stanhope and Mr. Flood regaled them with tales of the dazzling Arctic city of Smeerenburg. Eliza and Sydney were defiantly merry, dancing riotously to the captain’s shanties until Penelope’s boisterous brother threw up his hands and laughingly pleaded exhaustion.

They retired to bed. Agatha paced her bedroom floor, and noticed the gentle sound of a door opening, about an hour after everyone else had gone silent. A rumble in Captain Stanhope’s usual key followed, harmonizing with lighter notes in Mr. Flood’s softer tones. The door shut, and silence reigned again.

Agatha paced for another number of minutes, as many as she could stand. Then she slipped to the connecting door and tapped softly with one fingernail. The door opened at once, Agatha darted in, the door closed—and Agatha was backed up against the wall with her arms around warm, plump Penelope Flood.

Oh, an armful like this was worth any amount of trouble.

Penelope’s mouth was hot and hungry. She wore her night rail, and a gray woolen wrapper against the chill, but she’d left the wrapper open so Agatha’s hands could roam the rolling dips and valleys of her body. The shorter woman tore her mouth away on a gasp when Agatha’s hand plunged into the neck of her night rail and cupped possessively around the soft weight of her breast. “Christ, Griffin,” she groaned, warm breath against Agatha’s throat. “What kept you?”

“No idea,” Agatha groaned back. All her rage and frustration became mere kindling, and sent her blazing up now with love and lust and a need so sharp it was almost painful. She held Penelope tight and devoured her mouth until both women’s joints gave way, and they slid down to the floor in a panting, grasping tumble of linen and limbs.

Penelope’s knee landed hard on the bare floorboards and she cursed, then bit her lip and made a face. “This was easier when I was younger,” she muttered.

“I know just how you feel,” Agatha chuckled between kisses. And she did. A good hard fuck took a toll on a body at forty-five years of age. She could still feel last night aching in her muscles, and knew it would be even more noticeable tomorrow.

She couldn’t wait.

Agatha remembered when she’d gloried in smooth, unlined skin and the dewy litheness of youth. Now everything had relaxed, and folded, and new spots seemed to show up without warning, as though she were a potato left too long unattended in a cellar.

But Penelope—she had folds in the same places, and creases, and skin that had slackened and gone delicate with age. She was round where Agatha was rangy, but her body also bore the marks of her years, and it was glorious to behold. Agatha tugged Penelope’s hem up higher and higher, the better to see everything beneath, to learn it better than she knew her own body. Every freckle, every fold was somewhere to press wondering fingers, every roll was made to fit the greedy span of Agatha’s palm.

Penelope’s small teeth bit down on Agatha’s earlobe, and what little remained of her patience went up in absolute smoke. “I hope you want it fast, Flood,” she