The Care and Feeding of Waspish Widows - Olivia Waite Page 0,98

begged for more in whispers, pleading desperately as she rocked back and forth, a torrent of senseless words pouring from her lips.

Penelope’s low laugh skated over her inner thigh—and then a thumb pressed just so over the tight bundle of nerves buried in her folds, and all the striving and stroking and wonderful struggle of it burst like a glorious star behind Agatha’s eyes.

Her hands on Penelope’s thighs clutched tight and she rode that crest of pleasure until it faded and awareness of the world came creeping back.

Penelope’s hand eased itself away.

Joints shaking, Agatha collapsed to her side on the bed with a wheezing laugh. She felt like she’d been taken expertly apart by pleasure and then reassembled by some hapless amateur, not sure what bits went where. “Good god, Flood, you’ll be the absolute death of me.”

“I hope not,” Penelope murmured back. She went up on one elbow, eyes possessively roaming the long length of Agatha’s spent form.

Agatha rolled slightly so their sides were pressed together, even though they were nose-to-toes and slightly diagonal across the width of the bed.

Penelope looped a hand loosely around Agatha’s calves, curving one rough palm to fit them. “Stay with me tonight?”

Agatha sat up, hands clasping over her knees. “Could I? Won’t someone talk?”

Penelope shrugged. “We can say you heard something moving in the wood and grew frightened.”

Agatha snorted. “At least make it a ghost or specter or something, won’t you? For the sake of my pride.”

Penelope retrieved the he’s-at-home, cleaned it, and patted it carefully dry.

By the time she’d tucked it back in its box and hidden the box away, Agatha had blown out the candle and tunneled under the blankets. The fire was down to embers now. Only the moonlight reflecting off the snow was left, a cool silver illumination that touched only the barest outlines of furniture and curtains. “Thank you for thinking to keep it warmer in here tonight,” she murmured, as Penelope joined her and wrapped her arms tight around Agatha’s waist. “Apparently the ghost frightened me so much that I had no choice but to fling my nightclothes entirely off.”

Penelope cackled silently against Agatha’s shoulder. “If you’re worried, you could put them back on again.”

“No joy,” Agatha said, then wiggled so all their several bumps and valleys fitted perfectly against one another. Some part of her was only happy when skin to skin with this woman; she knew better than to lie to herself about that. And apparently most of Melliton already knew it, too. She grimaced. “Doesn’t it bother you? The things people say?”

Penelope shrugged. Her voice was already growing slow and sleepy. “It’s a small village. People always talk.”

“But then you have to look them in the face, and know they know.”

“And?”

Agatha shifted uneasily. “And how is that not terribly awkward, for everyone?”

Penelope shrugged again, less forcefully. “It might be, if that were the only thing they knew about me. It would feel more significant then. But they also know about the time my brothers and I stole Mr. Scriven’s newest baby goat, and tried to keep it as a pet. They know how many months Mr. Biswas spent courting Miss Calbert before she agreed to become Mrs. Biswas. They know how many enemy prizes Mr. Kitt helped capture during the war, and what battle Mr. Thomas was wounded in.” She shifted her cheek against Agatha’s shoulder, as if hunting for the right spot to settle in for the night. “So the things they might not approve of, the things that make us different—they don’t seem to stand out as much.”

“Until they do,” Agatha said.

“Until they do,” Penelope sighed.

Agatha stared up into the darkness. “Mrs. Stowe said that if someone’s looking for an excuse to hurt you, they’ll find one, and that’s all there is to it.”

Penelope hmmed at this. “Sounds sensible.”

“Sounds like London,” Agatha countered. “Maybe the two places are not so different. Maybe the city is just several small towns, that all happen to be stacked on top of one another.”

Penelope let out a puff of laughter, startled. “What?”

Agatha pursed her lips, warming to her theme. “If you live in town long enough, you find yourself meeting the same people wherever you go. You know someone who knows someone who knows someone, and it’s like they’re following you—when of course all it means is that you get invited to the same dinners and dances and such. And then you move to a different street, or you lose a fortune or gain one, or