Chapter Fifteen
Rosalie
Rosalie turns from the closed door, her heartbeat fast, palms a little sweaty. Excitement floods through her and she looks
to Catherine, only to find her pale, hands twisting together.
“Catherine?” she prompts. Catherine drags her eyes from the door and they’re wide and bright with unshed tears. “What’s the
matter?”
Rosalie reaches out to still her hands. Catherine gives a sharp intake of breath as their fingers touch, but doesn’t pull
away. She’s breathing fast too—too fast.
“Here, come sit,” Rosalie says, taking a step to draw her toward the bed. But Catherine doesn’t move, eyes growing even wider.
She doesn’t know what’s wrong, but the bed clearly isn’t the solution. Rosalie doesn’t think this—whatever this is—is something
she can simply kiss away.
So she turns them and guides Catherine to the little sitting area, settling them on the surprisingly soft burgundy settee.
Rosalie keeps one hand on Catherine’s still tightly clenched fists, and uses her other to brush the hair out of her eyes,
letting her fingers slip to rest on the back of her neck. She hopes it’s steadying.
“What’s the matter, darling?” she whispers.
“I don’t know,” Catherine whispers back, squeezing her eyes shut, her hands tense beneath Rosalie’s. “It’s just . . . rather a lot.”
“The house?” Rosalie asks tentatively, unsure if she wants to know the true answer.
She’s heard this speech before. It’s too much—what she wants is too much—she is too much.
“The house. The history. The dinner setting. I’m . . .” Catherine opens her eyes and meets Rosalie’s gaze. “I don’t belong
here.”
“Of course you do,” Rosalie says reflexively.
The excitement in her chest is rapidly turning to panic. She knows it can all disappear in an instant. She lived it once with
Jane. Found herself alone in her want and her confidence and her affection. She wasn’t enough for Jane—couldn’t be enough
for her, in every way.
She wanted this time to be so different.
Catherine shakes her head, the baby hairs on the back of her neck brushing Rosalie’s fingertips. “I don’t have the money,
or the breeding—I’m far outside my station.”
“What?” Rosalie asks with a startled laugh.
Catherine stiffens beneath her hand. “It’s not funny.”
Rosalie blows out a breath, cupping the back of Catherine’s neck more firmly. Relief courses through her that this isn’t about
her, but that doesn’t mean it’s not important. How could Catherine ever think— “I thought you were about to say something else.
And that’s ridiculous.”
“It’s not,” Catherine says, her hands unclenching beneath Rosalie’s palm.
“I don’t know how the courses come out, or how the laws work, and I’ve never traveled.
You and your brother, and Mr. Dean—you’ve all had so much experience.
I can’t keep up. I don’t know why my mother thought I could ever compete with you, or travel in your world,” she whispers.
Rosalie shakes her head, taking one of Catherine’s twitching hands in hers and squeezing. “You are far smarter than Mr. Dean.
Far more compassionate than Mr. Tarton. And if you could have gotten my brother’s education, you’d be dancing circles around
him in Latin. You lack nothing but opportunity.”
Catherine stares at her, her face softening just a hair, and Rosalie feels some of her confidence come swelling back. “You
are extraordinary, and I’d rather talk with you than any of them any day.”
Catherine’s lip twitches upward in a half smile. “Thank you.”
“And that’s the point, right? Why we’re here? To spend time together?” Rosalie encourages, trying to reclaim the looks they
shared at dinner, the press of Catherine’s shoulder in the carriage.
But it has the opposite effect. Catherine bites at her lip and flits her gaze away, looking toward the fireplace.
“Is . . . there something else?” Rosalie asks, fear creeping back into her chest.
“I just— No matter how much you like me, I’m not—I’m not like Mr. Dean. In . . . more ways than one.”
“Ways I like very much,” Rosalie says quickly.
Catherine huffs a little laugh. “But what comes next?” Catherine asks, meeting Rosalie’s eyes again. “What can I be to you?
Just a country girl. Just a girl, at that. How does this work?”
Rosalie hesitates. They’re questions she’s been asking herself. Questions she decided didn’t need to be answered this weekend.
A choice she made for them both, it seems.
She has to stop doing that.
“I don’t know,” Rosalie says softly.
“If you were a man—”
“We wouldn’t be alone together right now,” Rosalie says with a snort.
Catherine giggles, the sound a welcome relief.
“But if you were, it would all be very simple, wouldn’t it?” Catherine continues. “Get engaged, get married, have children.”
“All laid out and plain,” Rosalie agrees. “Is that something you want?”
“Something simple?”
“A man,” Rosalie says, more serious. If they’re having this conversation, then she wants to have it.
She’s never gotten to before. Jane didn’t give her the choice to even try.
That’s a wrong she wants to right with Catherine. So they both have a choice.
“It’s what Mother says I should want,” Catherine says slowly.
“But is it? Do you want a man, a husband?” Rosalie presses.
Catherine’s other hand closes over Rosalie’s, holding tight. “I’ve never wanted anyone like I’ve wanted you.”
Rosalie’s breath whooshes from her lips, heat flushing up her neck. “That’s lovely,” she says. To be the only person Catherine
has ever felt this way for—it’s incredibly heady.
“Have you?” Catherine asks.
“Felt like this for someone?”
“For a man.”
Rosalie hesitates. She’s never said it out loud, to anyone, not even Christopher. But Catherine’s let Rosalie see her weak
and wanting, and Rosalie doesn’t want her any less for it. In fact, she might . . . feel more for her.
Catherine’s trusting her to be as honest as she’s asking Catherine to be in return. Choosing, together, to trust each other.
“I’ve never wanted the future my mother wanted for me. Never felt the things she says I should feel. I keep—I kept waiting
to meet a man who made me feel the way my mother does for my father, or my aunt does for my uncle—all . . .” She trails off,
struggling to describe it.
“Butterflies and giggles and giddy anticipation?” Catherine suggests.
Rosalie meets Catherine’s eyes, wanting to trust her, wanting to share. “I’ve never met a man who makes me feel what I do
when you touch me.”
It comes out soft and secretive. Almost like shame. Almost, but not quite, because the way Catherine’s face breaks into a
smile, the way her eyes light up—it makes Rosalie feel all those butterflies, makes her want to giggle, makes her want to
pounce and push Catherine into the settee and kiss her silly.
And they’re alone, so she can.
It’s quieter than the butterflies want, leaning in, drawing Catherine to her by the nape of her neck, pressing her lips against
her achingly soft ones.
Rosalie sucks on Catherine’s bottom lip, relishing her breathy groan. She scoots just the slightest bit closer and Catherine’s
left hand leaves Rosalie’s to rise up and cup her cheek. Rosalie lets her tongue slick across Catherine’s bottom lip. Catherine
gasps.
Rosalie’s whole body is warm and tingling. She lets go of Catherine’s hand to press on her shoulder, tipping them sideways
so she can stretch out along her glorious body as they kiss, languid with sloppy open mouths.
Catherine cradles her jaw in her hands, sending trickles of warmth down Rosalie’s neck that make her shiver and smile and squirm. Catherine moves with her, the two of them squished there on the settee, everything pressed so deliciously together. But it’s still not enough.
Rosalie breaks from Catherine’s mouth, rearing back to stare down at her there on the settee—at the plump red of her lips,
her bright pink cheeks, her eyes blown wide.
It would take a lot of work to get her down to her chemise right now, which seems needless when Rosalie can simply shuffle
off her and slip to the floor. Catherine sits up, staring down at Rosalie as she begins running her fingers up Catherine’s
calves, rucking up her dress as she revels in the silky feel of her skin, in the soft hair on her legs, in the way Catherine’s
panting already.
Catherine blinks down at her as Rosalie rests her palms on Catherine’s thighs. “All right?”
“I haven’t done this before,” Catherine whispers.
“Do you want me to stop?” Rosalie asks, smiling up at her. “We can.”
“No, no, God, no,” Catherine breathes out.
Rosalie can’t help but laugh. “Okay.”
“But you— I’ll take your lead,” Catherine says, cheeks going even pinker. “If you’ll show me.”
Rosalie can feel the smile that stretches across her face. “I’ll teach you absolutely everything I know, and the rest we’ll
learn together, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Catherine says, her hesitation melting away.
“Just tell me if you want me to stop,” Rosalie says, waiting for Catherine’s eager nod before she glides her hands around
Catherine’s thighs until she can grip at their backs, fingers pressing into luscious flesh. She drags Catherine to the edge
of the couch.
Catherine squeaks, laughing, and Rosalie grins up at her before she slides one hand to push Catherine’s skirts out of the way. Which leaves her bare and beautiful and so incredibly tantalizing from the waist down. Catherine stares at Rosalie, her entire face flushed.
“You’re so beautiful,” Rosalie tells her, leaning forward to rest her chin on Catherine’s strong, lean thigh.
She watches Catherine’s face as she glides her hand up to the crease between hip and thigh. Catherine swallows hard, her chest
rising and falling rapidly, and Rosalie takes that as a good sign, letting her fingers move up up up until Catherine’s head
falls back on an overwhelmed sigh.
Rosalie grins and touches her gently, exploring, watching every little twitch and movement of her face, waiting until the
thigh beneath her cheek untenses, until Catherine is lax with pleasure. Rosalie dips her head forward, swiping her tongue