Page 93 of A Much Maligned Miss

“Well, you may not know,” she said, wiping her eyes. “But I know what came over me. You did,” she said and gave a soft laugh. When he continued to stare, she said, “Because you call it coming—”

“No, I understand the jest,” he replied. “I’m just too relieved to laugh right now.”

“Relieved?” she echoed, dragging her hair out of the way so he could wipe her collarbone.

He swiped her nightgown down her cleavage. He had made a right mess of her. The reflection ought to fill him with shame, not satisfaction. “Yes. I thought you might be offended by such rude treatment.”

“Oh,” she said thoughtfully, then collapsed onto the pillows beside him.

He rolled into her, his eyes roaming over her neck and shoulders. “I think that’s the last of it,” he said, dropping the rag over the edge of the mattress.

She nodded. “Do you want to smoke?” she asked, glancing over at the bedside table.

“Yes,” he said sincerely. Then he changed his mind. “No. You should not really let me do that in bed.”

“What? Smoke?” She sounded startled. “Or…the other thing?”

Gervaise groaned softly. She really was going to be the death of him.

37

Mr. Bailey was in a bad mood. Caroline could not bring herself to care about it too much, for she still felt euphoric after the night she had spent in Gervaise’s bed. He had not resisted her at all, she thought giddily. Far from it, he had been flatteringly eager and receptive.

Initially, she had been so disappointed in herself when she had turned chicken-hearted and unable to bring up the “ventre a terre” thing. Then the ambrosia thought had occurred to her and she had redeemed herself. She smiled as she added more tiny stitches to the pink doll’s dress.

“You are looking smug, Ambrosia,” the artist grumbled. “Which is inconsiderate when I am harried on all corners about this wretched opening. Of what are you thinking? Hmmm?”

Caroline cleared her throat. “Maenads are supposed to have secrets, are they not?” she reminded him. “You told me that.”

“Indeed.” He scowled. “And women in general are overly fond of them, I find.”

She shrugged, not bothering to deny it. “Will you finish the painting in time, do you suppose?”

“Of course,” he snorted. “There can be no question of that.” He flung down his brush. “Where are your wretched familiars today?”

“Remus is currently sat under my chair. I am not sure about his brother.” Romulus had wandered off somewhere as was his habit.

“Which is Remus? Stripe or spot?”

“He is spotted.”

“Well, see if you can entice him out, will you? I need to add some texture to his likeness.”

Caroline pushed her sewing aside and leaned down to coax Remus out of his hiding place. She was forced to use one of the spools of thread from her new workbox as an enticement, rolling it across the floor to lure him out.

That did the trick, and after emerging, Remus batted the spool between his two front paws, enjoying himself thoroughly as the artist plied his paints. Caroline let her thoughts wander back to Gervaise. He had been so sweet again that morning, fetching her tea and treating her with such affection it had made her feel all aglow.

Last night he had brought her hot water to wash, quite regardless of the advanced hour, and had redressed her in one of his own nightshirts. He had insisted on ministering to her as though he needed to soothe and appease her after some great ordeal rather than the pleasurable experience they had shared. Apparently, he had felt rather guilty about it. Her lips quirked into a smile. He was so strange sometimes.

She had been rather surprised at first that he had not wanted to play along and call her Miss Pomfrey, but when she thought about it, it was very rare he addressed her thus. In the beginning, he had been happy enough to indulge in such pretense but somewhere along the way he had grown disenchanted with it.

When had that been? Now she came to think of it, it might have been after that day’s traveling with that mother and daughter, when she had told him he had blackened her name as thoroughly as her mother ever had. That had seemed jarring to him, she remembered, recalling the look on his face when she had said it. Since that point, he only seemed to use the device to obscure her identity here at The Citadel. She was decidedly “my dear Miss Halperston” when he oh so politely asked to kiss her arse.

At that moment there was a bang at the door, disrupting her thoughts, and Effie rushed through to answer it. “You’ll need to carry all that lot in,” she instructed someone loudly. “I’m not a bleedin’ pack ’orse!”

“Right you are,” someone agreed cheerily and Caroline craned her neck to watch two delivery men struggle through the door with a pile of boxes made up with ribbon. What on earth had Gervaise been buying her now?

“This way, lads,” Effie sang out, directing them toward the painter’s tableau. “Oo’s a lucky girl, then?” she asked loudly. “Look at all these boxes. From ‘Madame Durand’s in Conduit Street,’” she said, reading one of the labels.