Chapter Thirteen #2
Rosalie stands up and sees Miss Pine’s breath hitch. There’s a blush climbing up her long, elegant neck. Her eyes are wide
and dark and Rosalie finds herself walking across the room until she’s right there, right in front of Miss Pine.
Miss Pine steps back, bumping into the bookcase, and Rosalie hesitates. What if she imagined every look and touch and question
and suggestion, and she’s about to make the most horrible mistake of her—
Miss Pine’s delicate fingers trace along her jaw. Rosalie blinks up at her. Miss Pine hesitates, her thumbs stroking at Rosalie’s
cheekbones, and Rosalie nods into her hands, her heart soaring. She pushes up on her toes, leaning into Miss Pine as she bends
that beautiful neck and their lips finally, wonderfully, crash together.
Soft, and needy, and delicate, it’s better than Rosalie could ever have imagined. She places her hands on Miss Pine’s waist,
feeling her narrow hips beneath the lace of her dress. Miss Pine sighs into her mouth, one of her hands gliding back so she
can cradle Rosalie’s skull, her other hand stroking at her jaw.
It makes Rosalie shiver and she curls her hands around Miss Pine, pressing them closer together. Miss Pine sucks on Rosalie’s
bottom lip and Rosalie groans. She wants more, she wants to stay just like this forever, she wants everything.
Suddenly Miss Pine spins them and Rosalie squeaks against her mouth.
Miss Pine giggles, still kissing her, and slides her hands all the way down Rosalie’s body, fingers leaving trails of heat and tingles as she goes.
Her hands bunch up Rosalie’s skirt and Rosalie releases her mouth, her head tipping back in shock and delight.
Miss Pine lifts Rosalie with surprising ease, pushing her back into the bookshelves. Rosalie gasps and wraps her legs around
Miss Pine’s waist reflexively. Suddenly they’re the same height, Miss Pine’s long, lovely hands holding the backs of Rosalie’s
thighs.
She’s never thought about being picked up by a woman. Never even crossed her mind. It’s fantastically arousing.
“Is this what you were thinking about at the modiste?” Miss Pine whispers before sipping another kiss from Rosalie’s lips.
Rosalie toys with the hair at the nape of Miss Pine’s neck, breaking from Miss Pine’s mouth to trail kisses along her jaw,
pressing their chests even tighter together in a delicious friction that’s not enough and also so much all at once.
“I’ve been thinking about this for weeks,” Rosalie admits.
“Me too,” Miss Pine says, her voice husky and rough.
She drives her hips into Rosalie’s and Rosalie can’t help but let out a long, low groan. She squirms, trying to gain friction
to grind back against Miss Pine. Their combined wriggling rattles the bookshelf. Delicate metal and glass objects tinkle around
them.
“Should we move this somewhere less precarious?” Miss Pine whispers.
Rosalie nods, preparing to slide down to touch the floor. But Miss Pine just steps back, bringing Rosalie with her. Rosalie clamps her legs tighter around Miss Pine’s hips and wraps her arms around her shoulders, laving kisses down her neck to show her appreciation.
Rosalie had never thought about being carried by a woman either. Who knew so much strong muscle lurked beneath Miss Pine’s
fetching gowns?
They plop roughly onto the settee, Rosalie cradled in Miss Pine’s lap, legs straddling her waist, skirt pushed up nearly to
her bum, chemise messy between her legs and Miss Pine’s lovely dress.
It’s heady and humbling and wonderful. Rosalie can’t help but rock against Miss Pine’s lap, both of them moaning into each
other’s mouths. Their kisses are growing sloppy, all lips and teeth and tongue and wonderful, overwhelming sensation. Rosalie
tries to wriggle her hand down the front of Miss Pine’s bodice.
She grunts in frustration to find her stays so perfectly fitted that she can’t quite get her fingers down to naked flesh.
But Miss Pine bucking up into her lap, her mouth going slack against Rosalie’s, is reward enough.
Someday, she wants to feel Miss Pine’s perfect breasts bare in her hands.
Miss Pine’s delicate fingers trace along the back of her thigh, where she can caress naked flesh, and Rosalie’s mind temporarily goes blank. Every nerve ending is alight. She’s full of want, and she
feels lightheaded in the most swoony way, and she wants—
But they’re still in the sitting room. Anyone could walk in and find Miss Pine with her fingers—
Every single ounce of self-restraint goes into stilling Miss Pine’s hands as those wonderful fingers slip up up up toward—
“We can’t,” Rosalie rasps.
Miss Pine blinks up at her. Rosalie’s momentarily distracted by how nice it is to be looking down at her for once.
“Right, of course,” Miss Pine says quickly, pulling her hands back. She holds them up as if Rosalie’s a robber and Rosalie
can’t help but laugh, falling into her.
Miss Pine giggles and wraps her arms more complacently around Rosalie’s back, so they’re simply resting there against each
other, Rosalie slumped on top of Miss Pine, cradled in her lap.
And this is rather nice too. They can risk this pose for a few minutes, can’t they?
“Was it as good as you imagined?” Miss Pine asks softly.
Rosalie snorts. “So much better. And that’s not even everything we could do,” Rosalie hears herself say.
Miss Pine’s breath hitches and Rosalie feels heat spread up her chest, her neck, her cheeks. She didn’t mean to be quite so
tawdry.
“I’d like that,” Miss Pine whispers, sending shivers down Rosalie’s spine.
She arches back to meet her eyes. “Yeah?”
“If you can come up with more ways to get us alone. I’d feel rather . . . queer about doing this somewhere in public.”
Rosalie laughs and reaches up to smooth the mess she’s made of her hair. “I’ll talk to Christopher.”
Miss Pine’s eyes widen. “Your brother knows?”
Rosalie nods. “Christopher was the one who came up with the idea to go to Blaise Castle. He wanted us to have time to talk.
He told me that I should pursue you, Miss Pine.”
She watches in amusement as Miss Pine works through every implication. Her eyes zip this way and that, hand squeezing Rosalie’s.
She could stare at her for hours.
“Catherine.”
“What?”
“My hands were— You ought to call me Catherine now, I should think,” she says, looking up at Rosalie with such sass that Rosalie
can’t help but dip down to give her a quick, fierce kiss.
“All right,” she says, pulling back when they’re both breathless. “Then you drop the Lady.”
“Gladly, just Rosalie.”
Something warm and tingly spreads through Rosalie’s chest. Oh, she’s so thoroughly done for.
“Your brother thinks you should pursue me?” Catherine asks.
Rosalie shrugs. “Apparently we’re not as subtle as we think we are, and he’s never been very happy with Mr. Dean.”
“But he thinks you should court me?” Catherine insists.
“He thinks we should get to know each other, and he’s happy to help facilitate. He can ‘court’ you, I can chaperone, and he’ll make himself scarce.”
Catherine’s eyes light up, but she wrinkles her nose. “Not for this, I hope.”
“No!” Rosalie squeals, letting go of her hand to reach down and tickle her.
Catherine shrieks in surprise and they both go still, eyes flying to the doors. But no one comes in.
“Christopher will facilitate talking, and genteel outings for us, is what I meant,” Rosalie says, her voice softer.
Catherine’s other hand comes to rest on Rosalie’s hip, toying with the fabric of her still rucked-up skirt. “I’d like that.”
“Good,” Rosalie says, smiling when Catherine laughs.
They sit for a minute, fingers roaming innocently, simply basking in the stillness of being so close to each other. She wants to kiss Catherine again, of course, but she wants to sit like this too. To be alone, and calm, and simply together.
“And if we should want more time . . . like this?” Catherine asks, her hand trailing down to rest on Rosalie’s thigh. Still
innocent, but tempting, taunting.
“We’ll go shopping again. Or walking. Or . . . anything that could need an afternoon respite afterward,” Rosalie decides.
Catherine smiles slowly. “I’ll convince my mother that I’m going to convince you into an unflattering dress, or that I’ve
gotten close enough to you to gather real, meaningful intelligence . . .”
“So your mother is trying to sabotage me,” Rosalie confirms.
Catherine bobs her head back and forth. “Your mother, really. But you’ve been the . . . main target, yes. For which I apologize.”
She hesitates before adding, “Though it has been just the slightest bit fun?”
Rosalie snorts, which makes Catherine grin. “I should probably be more insulted, but it has been rather fun.”
“I’ve been trying to get her to let it go, but she’s rather . . . determined. I still don’t fully understand it.”
The idea of her family’s secrets burrows against Rosalie’s stomach, threatening to pop through the bubble of the delightful
afternoon they’ve been having. She doesn’t even have enough information to explain if she wanted to—and she promised. So she’ll figure out a way to explain later. When she’s not in Catherine’s lap. When she can think clearly, instead of wasting
this precious moment—
She leans down to kiss Catherine again, letting her worries melt away, for now. Catherine is so soft against her mouth, beneath
her hands. So supple and lovely. What’s another five, or ten, minutes of kissing, really?
“I wish we could do away with the entire charade of it,” Catherine says when Rosalie finally pulls back . . . clearly far too many minutes later, given the beautiful way Catherine’s lips are lightly swollen.
“Which charade?” Rosalie asks hazily.
“Pursuing Mr. Dean, as if he’s some great prize,” Catherine says, a pout gracing those plump, pink lips.
She’s certainly more coherent than Rosalie feels at this moment.
“But my mother is absolutely hellbent on me . . . winning him. I wish I could get her to focus on anyone else. Not—not that
I want someone else,” she adds quickly.