Chapter Eight
Karl found himself wondering which was superior for climbing a mountain—his trousers or their skirts. The trousers did not get caught underfoot, but he noticed he was prone to being colder without the woolen layer trapping the heat of both legs together. But his trousers were dry, tucked into his boots. Their skirts dampened around the hems, and their complaint was the weight of the wet wool.
Karl could attest that hauling more weight up a mountain was almost an exponential problem. Not that he was a mathematician and understood precisely what exponential meant, but he knew that it was more than saying two or three times harder. Certain weights were not much of a burden. But once over five pounds, it changed. An additional ten pounds was significant enough to alter his pace. An additional fifteen or even twenty pounds would slow him down by more than a few minutes.
The women had devised an internal pulley device for their skirts, to hike them up as they hiked. Their hands were free to use a walking stick or catch themselves with both hands. A very smart innovation. He did not know the dry and wet weight of a woolen skirt, but by the pleased noises coming from them, the experiment was a success.
It helped to have all the women on the trail. With the four of them talking, their high-pitched English accents paired with the lower-pitched American one, he could forget about Justine. The past weeks had been agony. And then last night at dinner, what had he been thinking sliding in next to her for the photograph?
She was stunning in her dark green gown, her shoulders bared. He’d never seen her like that. Her hair was pinned up, but the idea of that silky hair brushing against her elegant shoulders was more than he could bear. It was how she looked at home, no doubt, the kind of woman who was accustomed to the ornate dresses, velvet ribbons, and silk stockings. The kind that ran smooth against her shapely calves, and he wondered what it might sound like to hear his hand running up her silk-clad thigh. But it was another reminder that she was not for him. A punch of reality admonishing him to do his job.
But she had smelled so good, powdery and vanilla and night and sex, and he wanted one last sensation of that before putting away his needs forever. So he’d slid next to her for the photograph. And the indescribable relief and heartbreaking want that surged through him when she’d lifted her finger, as if asking for him, asking if he thought about her.
It had given him a hope he shouldn’t long for. The hope he himself had tried to grind out of existence. They were only a week away from the Matterhorn climb. They all needed to be solid climbers with excellent stamina. And he needed to evaluate them, as if he hadn’t already been watching them on the difficult mountains they’d already climbed.
But Justine made him unable to see straight, unable to trust his own judgement. The joy he felt at the end of a day with a big mountain climb was shockingly close to the joy he’d experienced just being with her, talking with her. And that was impossible. The joy of a mountain climb had been second to none. He’d much rather climb a big mountain than plow a barmaid. He’d made that choice dozens of times.
So why was he unable to see that easy equation with Justine? Why was it different with her? And he wasn’t even plowing her! None of it made sense.
“Whoa there, Speedy!”
called Frau Moon. “Slow down and wait for us mortals.”
“Who needs to slow down?”
Justine called, surging through them, on his heels.
“Nutters,”
called Frau Bridewell.
“Justine, slow down before you injure yourself. I’m not carrying you down the mountain.”
Fr?ulein Bridewell’s words made the steps on his heels, which he’d wanted to hear closer and closer, stop short.
“My apologies,”
he called over his shoulder and slowed back to down to his normal pace. His mind had gotten too wrapped up, and he’d forgotten himself. Which was precisely why he kept his distance from Justine. Which was why he wanted to be with her. How proud he was that she wanted him. And how he wanted these two opposite things at the same time! It was so frustrating to have those both of them warring inside him at once. It made no sense.
“Mr. Vogel!”
Frau Moon called again.
“Oh, let him go,”
Justine said behind him.
And so he did. A guide should not abandon his clients, but the trail was obvious and the snow pack was stable. The season was warming up again, and the rotted snow had melted away. He left four women on the mountain while he went up ahead, pushing himself almost into a run.
He had to clear his head. How could he manage the next weeks with Justine, seeing her every day, talking around her every day, watching her laugh at dinner? He’d tried to ignore her, but she had wedged into him like a grass seed in a woolen sock. He’d have to return to his first strategy: wear himself out so completely that he didn’t have the energy to think of her.
The gradual ascent of this hill was not satisfying and the views were subpar. He huffed out his annoyance. Footsteps scrambled behind him, and he turned to see Justine emerge, charging ahead to try to catch up to him. Hope sprang up in his chest, a bloom he’d tried to dig out, but couldn’t.
“Karl,”
she said as she gasped for breath.
But on her heels came the rest of the group. They were loud with their staggering and panting, but they’d kept pace with her, which was impressive.
“You weren’t kidding about that,”
Mrs. Moon said, her hands on her hips. “That was faster than I thought I could go uphill.”
“Light feet,”
Ophelia gasped. “Brilliant image. Very helpful.”
Karl shifted, hoping he was able to maintain a placid, helpful expression. But Justine had said his name. She wanted to talk to him, and as much as that was terrible news for one half of him, it was the kind of joy that made climbing mountains look like nothing more than a swipe of honey on one’s finger after dinner.
**
“I cannot say that was anything but an unmitigated success,”
Ophelia said in the darkness.
Justine normally adored a midnight chat, the dark being a place where one could say more to one's friends because one didn’t gauge the look on their faces, didn’t have the walls in place to keep secrets buried.
“I agree,”
Justine said, because she wanted Ophelia to go to sleep. Justine gritted her teeth to keep from chatting, which was very difficult because Justine always had something to say.
There was a silence where Justine could hear Ophelia noting her verbal reticence. “Are you well, Justine?”
“Absolutely brilliant, thank you.”
“Are you upset with me?”
“Absolutely not!”
Why did she get in trouble for talking and then now get in trouble for not talking ? “I’m just—it’s only that—”
“You can tell me the truth,”
Ophelia said, her voice small and quiet in a way that Justine hated. It was the sound of her friend doubting herself, questioning what she had done wrong, believing herself to have made a grave social faux pas.
“Ophelia,”
Justine sighed. She rubbed her hands on her face. “I don’t want to say anything because I don’t want you to know.”
More silence, and Justine could practically hear Ophelia crawling up inside her shell.
“Not like that. I mean, that I don’t want you complicit.”
Justine gritted her teeth. Might as well say it now, she thought. Since she’d confessed to having a scheme.
“What would I be complicit in?”
Ophelia asked, her words dancing on the knife-edge of support and propriety.
“Maybe nothing?”
Justine said, not knowing what Karl would even say to her when she snuck down to see him. “But maybe everything?”
“Is this about Mr. Vogel?”
“Yes.”
“You like him very much.”
“More than I’ve liked anyone other than you. And well, Prudence and Eleanor. The first time I’ve liked someone that also came with a fluttery feeling in my throat. Like drinking too much champagne, or laughing so hard I can’t breathe.”
“I’ve never felt that.”
Ophelia sounded sad.
Justine could hear Ophelia’s nails clicking as she picked at them. It was her nervous habit. She didn’t do it often, typically only in midnight chats like this when she was in deep introspection.
“But if this leads to my ruin—”
Ophelia gasped. “You cannot be serious.”
“I don’t know what will happen, Fee!”
Justine felt as if she could take out all of her insides, hold them in a bubble, and put them aside. All of the bits of her that warned her away from Karl, all the propriety, all the need to obey Lady Rascomb, all of the wariness of ruining the reputation of the Ladies’ Alpine Society or Karl’s career. It was stupid, and she knew it, to put all of it aside for one night. But the compulsion to do so was irresistible.
“This is a very serious thing.”
“It is,”
Justine agreed. “But I feel like I must. Not that I should or that I want to, but it feels as if I am being pushed by something larger than me.”
“God? Fate? The devil himself?”
“I don’t know.”
Lust? Foolishness? Those were just as powerful.
“You’ll go to him when I fall asleep?”
Ophelia asked, her words once again careful and precise.
“Yes.”
“So it doesn’t matter what I say, because this will happen regardless of its folly?”
“Believe me,”
Justine snorted. “I know it is folly.”
“Then consider this a conversation of our dreams. I have been asleep, and I know nothing other than the blissful oblivion of rest.”
Justine sat up. “Truly?”
“What could I possibly say? To scold you is to only say what you already know. To tattle is to ruin you, and myself in the process. Why would I not say, be careful with not just your body but with your heart. And his. We need you both.”
She swung her feet to the icy floor, already seeking her slippers. “I’ll try.”
“Please don’t get pregnant.”
Ophelia sounded very grave. “You cannot have morning sickness while climbing the Matterhorn. It would slow us down.”
Justine barked out a laugh but then covered her mouth from its unexpected volume. “I don’t think that will happen.”
“Many a mother has thought that very thing, I believe.”
She’d left her dressing gown and shawl on the chair, which was four paces away. In her planning this evening, she’d done her best to figure out each step so as to not wake Ophelia. “You are right. Good advice as always. Wish me luck.”
In the thick darkness of their room, she could hear her best friend smile.
“Good luck, Justine.”
“Thank you, Fee. I mean it.”
Justine cloaked herself in the dressing gown and shawl and left the room as she heard Ophelia turning over in her bed, nestling down for sleep.
Tonight, Justine didn’t feel the cold in the stairway. Nor did she note when she could feel a warmer draught emerging from the dining room. She was so focused on talking to Karl, wondering how to start this conversation, that she wasn’t entirely sure of what it needed to be herself.
By the time she creaked the dining room door open, her heart was pounding like she’d just ascending their biggest climb. Walking into the brighter room made him almost seem to glow. He sat at a table, staring into the fire. The light caught his hair in a glow, and the blue of his eyes seemed almost transparent.
“You’re here.”
His voice was soft and low. Tired, but not unwelcoming. He still wore his clothes, and not his nightshirt. The pallet was not made up in front of the fire as it typically was.
Justine didn’t know what to say. She stepped forward, but then questioned herself again. Should she stay where she was? Should she approach him? What was she supposed to say? Finally frustrated with herself and all of this dancing about in her head, she blurted out, “This is silly.”
He raised his eyebrows, clearly amused. “Which part?”
“All of it.”
Justine stepped forward now, closing the gap between them. “I like you. You like me. We both like climbing mountains. Why is it agony to not speak?”
He looked down, but she was unable to read his face. Unable to see how he felt about her in return. “I have regretted these weeks. I knew it was correct to distance myself from you. But I hated every minute.”
He looked back up at her, and the vulnerability on his face unmoored her.
She closed the gap between them, coming to sit next to him on the bench behind the dining table. He had a cup of some kind of herbal tea at his elbow, a cup that looked like it had gone cold hours ago. She took his large calloused hand into her lap, letting her fingers trace along his wide, square palm.
He watched her fingers in his hand as if he were a wild animal in a children’s book trying to behave. His hand flexed, and for a moment she thought he would hold hers, but he didn’t. He relaxed again, and she continued her work.
“I want things to go back to how they were,” she said.
“I do not,”
he said immediately.
Her motions faltered, and then he did grip her hand in return, lightly, caging it rather than taking a firm hold.
“Why?”
Her heart hammered away once again, unable to tell the difference between her emotions and a steeply graded mountain switchback.
“Because then I wanted to kiss you and knew that I couldn’t. But now I have kissed you, and it is the sweetest nectar I have tasted and I want it again.”
His blue eyes bored into her, the intensity of his gaze stealing her breath.
“Oh,”
she managed, unable to take her eyes off his. “I think that would be fine.”
A smile crept into his expression. “Would it be fine?”
“Very fine, I expect.”
A full grin emerged, and Justine could feel herself being pushed closer, not that she moved of her own volition, but rather that she was drawn in by a force she couldn’t—perhaps wouldn’t—control.
His hand slipped around her waist, pressing the thick fabric of her dressing gown and her nightrail against her skin, and he gathered her up as if she were an armload of firewood.
“I want you here,”
he said, pulling her onto his lap, his breath whispering against her neck.
Perched on his legs, supported by his arms encircling her, she felt safe and warm in a way she’d never known. Just as her heart pounded in her own breast, she could feel the fast thump of his heart in his. There wasn’t an experience she’d ever had to guide her in this moment. She hadn’t a seducer’s language or the coyness to be seduced.
As always, the only thing she could do was what she wanted. So she leaned down and brushed her lips to his. It was like baiting a hook, for soon one of his hands cupped her face and pulled her down to him, deepening the kiss as if he were a drowning man and she were the only air.
Clinging tighter to him only enflamed them both. Her fingers explored the stiff stubble along his jaw, the tender, smooth skin under his ear. A low rumble came from his chest, and his kiss turned to shorter nibbles, gasping with need as she continued her movements.
His hair was surprisingly soft, and almost curly underneath. Not knowing why, she fisted a handful of it at the nape of his neck. He stood almost instantly, holding her up, pulling her legs around his waist, growling.
“You can’t,”
he rumbled. “That’s . . .”
“You liked it,”
she said, surprised and delighted by her discovery.
“Too much.”
He swallowed and worked to slow his breath. Sinking back down to the bench, he pulled her in close, almost as one would tuck a baby animal close to one’s body. “I am wanting too much.”
Justine felt almost drowsy with the attraction between them. It was a surprising drunkenness, except for the tight concentration of desire between her legs. He brought his hand to her face, dragging his thumb across her cheek.
“I want everything with you.”
Justine shook her head. “I’m not sure I know what that means.”
He grinned back at her. “I’m not sure I know either.”
“Does it mean I get to speak to you whenever I want?”
“Yes.”
“And make jokes and tease you?”
He blessed this question with a kiss on her lips. The searing touch of it had her straining to make him stay, even as he pulled away. “Yes.”
“And kiss you?”
She looked at him, knowing she was crossing into a territory more dangerous than the previous questions.
He kissed her again, more thoroughly this time, pushing his tongue into her mouth. She responded in kind, which seemed to surprise him by the way he startled but clearly enjoyed as he tangled with her all the same.
His left arm had cradled her legs, but now he slid his hand up so he was cupping her bum. He kneaded and palmed her arse, which was far more pleasant than Justine would have thought. Leaving her mouth to gasp for air, he slid his kisses down to her neck. This desire of his, how it focused on her heightened every sensation.
Her afternoons with Annabelle Rivers were nothing like this. They had giggled and kissed and petted, and it was very nice. This tidal wave of lust and need was dizzying and exciting and made her feel good in a way she’d never felt before.
And here was the moment her mother had warned her about. The exact decision that her mother knew she would make when she chastised Justine about her impulsivity. And Karl Vogel’s tongue drawing circles across her chest, pulling the nightrail lower and lower drowned out any whisper of caution.
The neckline of the nightrail caught, snagged as low as it could, and Karl could not get to her bare breasts. She knew that was where he was going, that’s where she wanted him to go. But he couldn’t use the hand he was holding her with, and he clearly did not want to sacrifice the one occupied with her bum. He growled in frustration.
Through the haze of desire, she pulled his face up to hers. “I want more, but this is a sign to stop.”
“A sign to get new sleeping clothes.”
She threw her head back and laughed, glad that he was as frustrated as she was. “This isn’t reasonable. I can’t let you ruin me in a dining room. I ate a pork chop just there.”
She pointed.
He nodded, making a considering sort of expression, looking where she indicated.
“Are you not going to say anything?”
she asked, feel awkward now that they weren’t devouring each other.
“Not yet. It’s—”
he stopped speaking, flexed his thighs, causing her to bounce in the air, which made him groan. “I’m trying—”
His whole body tensed this time. She couldn’t figure out what was going on. “Are you ill? Should I leave?”
His eyes squeezed shut and he relaxed. “Yes. Please stand. Not leave.”
“Of course.”
She scurried off his lap, collecting her dressing gown and woolen shawl around herself, as prim and proper as she could manage. “You don’t seem well.”
Suddenly, Karl stood and strode through the dining room, around the bar and to the back door. Justine followed him, curious now. He got to the door and picked up handfuls of the old, stale snow that lingered in the shadows of the building. Then he clapped one on the back of his neck, and the other he rubbed on his face.
“Are you . . .”
She trailed off as he turned around, his face red from the cold and his eyes bright blue.
“The inferno you inspire takes some effort to control, Justine.”
He stood close to her in the doorway, the midnight hour freeze creeping into the inn. Still, she could feel the heat of him. The inferno that raged inside her as well.
He pushed her against the doorframe and kissed her. She pulled him down to her, holding him with all her strength.
“Warum ist das Zimmer kalt?”
came a low voice.
Without speaking, Justine slipped outside as Karl shut the door. “Onkel, warum bist du noch wach?”
“Es ist kalt!”
Justine couldn’t hear them as the door shut completely. She stepped further away from the door and caught sight of the night sky. It was teeming with stars that she’d never seen in England. The moon was big and heavy like an expensive pearl. The specks of stars dusting the sky numbered far more than she ever expected. It was a cool night, but she no longer cared. Not when this experience, this sight, had been hidden from her view.
The night sky in the English countryside was beautiful, yes, and far more dense with stars than that in London, but it was nothing compared to this, framed by the white mountain peaks. The stars were in whorls of other colors, and the variety in size and shape astounded her. Why had no one told her this was here the whole time? She’d been here months, and no one had once suggested walking outside when it was dark. Women were ushered up to bed after dinner, never having the opportunity to step outside. The men did so in order to smoke, but a well-bred lady didn’t smoke.
Maybe she’d take up the nasty habit if it allowed her this view.
“Justine?”
came Karl’s whisper.
She startled at his voice and stumbled back towards the door. “The stars—”
“You must be freezing.”
He pulled her inside, cupping her hands in his and blowing on them as he shut the door behind her. She liked that too.
“I’m fine,”
she insisted.
“Come sit by the fire,”
he said, pulling her towards the hulking iron stove. He guided her to the warm spot on the floor and settled behind her.
She extended her legs so that her wet, slippered feet nearly touched the iron grate. That alone was enough to warm her lower extremities. And the gentle embrace of Karl behind her was enough for the rest of her.
“That was a close call with Herr Brunner.”
Justine couldn’t think as he combed his fingers through her unbound hair.
“Indeed. You should go to bed. We have much to do in the next month to prepare. Time is short.”
Their lives had revolved around this mountain for years now, taking her focus and attention and her time. Sometimes she regretted it, because there were so many things in the world besides one mountain. But she was glad Ophelia kept her focused. “I believe that we are ready. Prepared.”
He made a noise that didn’t sound like he agreed.
“No? What else must we do?”
Karl sighed, and the heave of his chest rocked her forward like a wave on a boat. “There is much to still learn about the terrain and which routes would be best. It has been grueling, but the Matterhorn is even more so. I think everyone is nearly ready. Nearly.”
Justine didn’t like the sound of that at all. “Who isn’t ready?”
“You are ready, Fr?ulein Bridewell is ready. I think Frau Moon will do well enough, as she seems to understand snow. But it is Frau Bridewell that concerns me. She has stamina, but she lacks confidence.”
“Walking does not require confidence.”
“It does.”
He cleared her hair to one side, leaving her neck bare to him on the other. The whisper of his words along her skin was distracting in a way she didn’t anticipate. It made her not want to argue, but agree, so that he would keep talking, letting air dance along that space between her neck and her shoulder.
“How so?”
she managed.
“A confident step sinks into the ground. An uncertain one slips. It is simple.”
“Ah,”
she breathed. If he wasn’t sitting right there, holding her, stoking the inferno inside of her, she might have argued. They sat in snug, drugged warm silence. There was no place in the world she’d rather be.
“Are you warm enough now?”
She hummed a response because she could not actually open her mouth to use her words.
“Then off to bed with you,”
he said, his voice rough with forced control. “Or I will lose myself all over again.”
His lips brushed against her earlobe as he spoke, and she nodded. “But I don’t want to go.”
He chuckled, and she thrilled at being able to feel the growl of his chest through her body. “Then we must someday find a way to do this, but perhaps not before the Matterhorn.”
She nodded, too drugged on heat and lust to argue. The climb was soon. Everything was coming together so fast, and after was not so far away. “After.”
He kissed her neck, as chaste as a kiss could be on one’s neck, and pushed her gently to get her to her feet.
“Go on, then,”
he said when they were both standing. “Liebchen.”
What had he said to her? Probably some form of goodnight , so she nodded and said, “Goodnight, Karl,”
and went back up to her room in a daze.
**
“What do you think you’re on about?”
Francis asked, cornering her in the stairwell after breakfast. They had thirty minutes or so until they needed to be back down to start today’s cross-valley trek. Karl had explained that he wanted to see the group’s endurance, and it was hard for him to see every person while in forested switchbacks. Ophelia had agreed, and they sketched out a cross-country trek. It sounded like an easy day to Justine, and she was more than happy to walk all day. She preferred it, actually.
But then, here was Francis, blocking her path, being a right nuisance. Who would not be joining their expedition, today or otherwise. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“With our guide, Mr. Vogel.”
Francis jumped up on the landing of the stairs, barring her way.
“ Our guide? You aren’t going anywhere.”
Justine walked around him, wishing she were wearing her accordion-pull skirts so she could hike them up and take the stairs three at a time. Well, two at a time. Her legs weren’t long enough for three.
Francis heaved a beleaguered sigh that sounded just like their mother. And it was one of those things that had always made her blood boil instantly. “The blond muscle-bound ox down there. Him. What is going on between you?”
Justine turned around, her anger mixing with that horrible need to be obnoxious. How often had her mother counselled her on controlling that? But Mama wasn’t here. Francis was. And he was a turd.
“What if I told you I was going to marry him on top of the Matterhorn as a publicity stunt for Ophelia?”
She crossed her arms.
His face contorted in that entitled, superior way of his when their parents or governess wasn’t around. The face that was hell-bent on controlling her for no other reason than he thought he could.
“Ophelia isn’t climbing the Matterhorn for publicity. It’s that guide that can’t stop looking at you, and you, well. The scandal sheets got that part right at least: a harlot looks at men the way you look at him.”
“A harlot?”
Anger flushed her body. “How dare you, Francis?”
For years those accusations had chased her, despite when she behaved or when she didn’t. Rejected suitors made up stories and called her names when she didn’t allow them a kiss or a fondle. And now here was her own brother, believing the rumors and the gossips that had dogged her. “How. Dare. You.” She spun on her heel and ran up the stairs, a hot star in her chest, anger and hurt blooming in a horrible flower.
Ophelia was already there, her blue eyes wide. “What has happened?”
But Justine couldn’t speak. Tears, wet and furious, streaked her face. Ophelia took her hands and guided her to her bed. As Justine sobbed in frustration, Ophelia unlaced Justine’s shoes and slid them off, tucking them under the bed. Justine curled her legs under herself. Ophelia poured a glass of water from their ewer and handed it to her. It was cold, given the room was chilled from the night air seeping in through the window.
Justine drank and handed over the empty glass. Ophelia put it on her nightstand and sat down next to her, taking her hand. “What is the matter?”
“Francis,”
Justine said.
And at that moment, a fist pounded on the door. “Justine, it’s Francis. You must come out.”
Justine had the urge to say a very unpleasant and shocking curse word she learned from Eleanor, given that she’d grown up around sailors, but Ophelia found her voice first.
“Francis, will you please give us a moment? Justine is indisposed.”
There was a begrudging grunt outside the door. “Fine. I’ll be in my room.”
They listened to the footsteps go down the hall and then the door open and shut.
“I hate him,”
Justine whispered.
Ophelia rubbed her leg. “Only because he reminds you of your mother.”
Justine laughed despite herself. “He’d be a terrible mama.”
“Yes, so thank goodness no one will let him,”
Ophelia agreed. “Now what did he say? I can ask Tristan to set him straight.”
Justine fell back onto the bed. She might as well tell Ophelia—she did see her sneak out last night, after all. “Francis knows something is going on with Karl and called me a harlot because he’s mad that I am an actual human person.”
Ophelia nodded. “Then he is more perceptive than I would have thought him to be.”
“How could you say that?”
Justine demanded, sitting back up.
“I only mean that I am surprised Francis is able to discern that something is decidedly happening with you and Karl.”
Justine flopped back down, grunting out her disgust. “I hate your logic. Just be on my side, no matter what.”
“I am absolutely always on your side. However, your brother, in this one very particular case, is correct in describing the action, not the person. But the attraction between you and Mr. Vogel is palpable.”
“Palpable?”
“Almost as if it had a smell,”
Ophelia said.
Justine took her pillow and whacked Ophelia in the face with it. Being the good sport she was, Ophelia laughed and let herself be pulled down onto her back as well. They both stared up at the ceiling.
“I tried not being attracted to him, not speaking to him. But that made us both miserable.”
Ophelia hummed her agreement.
“So last night we talked about it, and we decided we get to be friends and attracted to one another, and after the Matterhorn, we will be physical.”
Ophelia sat bolt upright. “As in . . .?”
Justine turned on her side, surprised at the sudden wave of contentment that flowed through her thinking about their time together last night. It was as if her emotions couldn’t figure themselves out this morning. “As in, I’m not sure?”
Ophelia’s face grew very serious. “Then there is time to prepare.”
“Prepare for what?”
“For all possible outcomes. You will want some kind of anti-pregnancy precaution. We can ask Eleanor what they have been using. She may be able to procure something, given that she’s a married woman.”
“Procure?”
“And then, of course, we will have to figure out privacy for you, so that we can keep it secret.”
“Wait, Fee, this isn’t—”
“Our departure dates aren’t set, given how our expedition is weather-dependent. But we had planned on leaving shortly after our accomplishment. Perhaps you could persuade Prudence or Eleanor to stay after. I can’t, of course, be a chaperone, and my mother would be appalled if this happened on her watch.”
“Ophelia.”
Justine touched her friend’s arm, often the only way to get her to stop her excessive catastrophizing. When she stopped speaking, Justine retrieved the empty water glass and filled it again from the ewer and gave it to Ophelia.
The gesture was not lost on her friend, who gave a wry smile and drank it down.
“Hearing you plan for intimacy between me and anyone takes the joy out of it. You are your own anti-pregnancy device.”
Ophelia snorted a very unladylike snort. They were silent for a moment. “What was the trouble with Francis again, if it was not the situation with Mr. Vogel?”
Right. That. She’d almost forgotten. “He called me a harlot.”
Ophelia was on her feet. “That will not stand.”
Before Ophelia could go charging out the door, Justine grabbed her. “He said that a harlot looks at men the way I look at Karl. For all I know, he’s correct. But it’s still a rather mean thing to say.”
“I will not have any of my team slandered in public places. There are too many other climbers in town,”
Ophelia said. “That is damaging to all of us, and I’ll have Francis watch his tongue.”
“He said it because he’s my brother.”
“He said it because he’s a twat,”
Ophelia shot back.
Justine chuckled at her friend’s uncharacteristic use of foul language. “You aren’t wrong about that.”
“I can’t sit by on this, Justine. This has bigger implications than just you having a row with your brother.”
And off she went. Justine knew she’d hear blow-back from Francis about Ophelia taking him to task, but it was worth it at this point. But it did make her wonder what she was supposed to say to Francis. How to explain to Francis this connection she had with Karl? That he seemed to understand her in a way that no one else did? That their common interest was mountains ? And specifically, walking up the sides of them? It sounded bizarre at best.
But she knew that he would caution her away from Karl. Honestly, Justine was not flattered by her own behavior either. But there was something heady and intoxicating about him. As if she couldn’t speak or think straight when he touched her. Staring at it the way Ophelia would, any relations with Karl were a terrible idea. And Karl himself had said he would lose his reputation as a gentleman’s mountain guide if it were found he was deflowering his virginal clients. What a mess.
And of course it was Justine wading into this ridiculous mire. Ophelia would never be so foolish as to conduct herself like this. And Prudence would never be a love-lorn puppy. And Eleanor? Well, Eleanor had been trapped with Tristan. Perhaps she’d thought they would be stuck there on Ben Nevis forever, so might as well experience something before they died. Why else would someone be naked with Tristan Bridewell?
Ugh. She’d still flirt with Karl, especially now that it bothered Francis. That was a given. But perhaps the post-Matterhorn assignation would not happen. It was ridiculous of her. A midnight thought, the kind where consequences didn't exist. But it was morning now.
Should she tell Karl that nothing would happen between them? Or should she keep it all to herself? One never really knew how men handled rejection, so she’d stay quiet and let him think that a night of passion was still happening. That was for the best, wasn’t it?
**