Chapter Sixteen #2
before she could properly relish the experience, her chin was being tilted up and her mouth firmly kissed.
Sudden warmth bloomed in her chest, the sharpness of the feeling both unexpected and shocking. Caroline gasped, her free hand
flying up to tangle in Georgiana’s curls, pulling Miss Darcy’s head down in a much harder kiss. A current of water brushed
her breasts and neck before seeping between her thighs, curling in a way that gave Caroline exactly what she’d needed for
agonising days. One stroke, then two, and a third, and then—
Caroline woke facedown with a gasp still on her lips. She rolled her hips once, twice, delicious shudders of pleasure rippling through her, before lying quite still, panting into her pillow.
Good heavens, she thought. If only every day started like that, I should be in bed every night by eight on the clock.
She couldn’t feel guilty about it, since it had only been a dream. One could never be held responsible for what one did in
one’s dreams. Caroline buried her face in the pillow and rolled her hips one last time, squeezing the last frisson of ecstasy
out. She certainly wasn’t picturing Georgiana’s body underneath her, nor behind her, equally sweaty and panting. Surely now
that this—whatever it was—was out of her system, she would be able to concentrate once more on the Great Endeavour.
No longer shall I waver, Caroline thought with determination, as she swung her legs out of bed. A Bingley never falters in pursuit of a goal.
Miss Darcy was in the dining-parlour already, reading a book and spooning porridge into her mouth with apparently very little
care for where she was aiming, judging by the splashes of porridge on her chin.
“Good morning, Caroline,” said she, wiping her mouth with a napkin and looking rather sheepish. “I did not expect you quite
so early. I must have been rather engrossed in my book if I did not hear you coming down the stairs.”
Before Caroline could think of a suitably arch reply, Mrs Reynolds entered, carrying a tray of smoked kippers, which she laid on the table with all the pride of someone bearing the crown jewels.
Caroline had to wait by her chair until the housekeeper bustled over to pull it out for her—good grief, would it kill Georgiana to have a single footman in the room?
Was she going to start laundering her own clothes, too?
—and finally seated herself. “Good morning, Mrs Reynolds,” she said.
“Good morning, ma’am.” At least the housekeeper did not look surprised by the greeting today; however, rather than asking
what Caroline wanted, Mrs Reynolds studied her for a moment, tapping one finger against her top lip. She was not an unattractive
woman, Caroline allowed, despite the grey at her temples. If the housekeeper had been born into a higher class, she might
have been considered elegant or even handsome, though in Caroline’s opinion she was rather too thin to be truly pretty. “Let
me guess. Toast, though I expect you want it twice as well-done as yesterday.”
Caroline blinked. “Why, yes. How did you know?”
“Oh, Caroline.” Georgiana groaned. “You just lost me another shilling.”
“Take heart, ma’am,” Mrs Reynolds said, with a surprisingly impish smile. “Your losing streak is most impressive.”
“I . . . What?” Caroline said, utterly at sea.
“We take occasional bets on which of us can guess our guest’s preferences,” Georgiana explained.
Caroline raised an eyebrow. “And you lose often?”
Mrs Reynolds snorted.
“Not that often!” Georgiana protested. “It’s simply that . . .” She glared at the housekeeper. “She’s very good at being correct.”
“That is why your brother employs me, ma’am.” The housekeeper sashayed out of the room, still grinning.
Caroline stared in astonishment. She had never heard Georgiana and Mrs Reynolds speak so freely with each other.
Being friends with Miss Merryhill was one thing, but being friends with one’s own staff was quite another.
Mrs Bingley would have had choice words upon the subject, and none of them good.
Reaching for the kippers, Caroline speared two and laid them on her plate. “What did you choose?”
“Pardon?”
“What did you choose?” she repeated. “Since Mrs Reynolds selected toast for her side of the bet, I am curious to know what
you thought I might order.”
“Porridge,” Georgiana said, staring ruefully down at her own bowl. “It’s not as sunny as it was yesterday and you often choose
porridge when the sky is grey. And you had toast yesterday, so I thought . . . Alas, Mrs Reynolds knows you better than I.”
Caroline stared at her. “I had no idea you paid so much attention to my breakfast habits.”
Georgiana shrugged. “When one is bored, one must make one’s own entertainment.”
Caroline had always enjoyed being looked at and admired. An appreciative glance or comment about her face or figure ordinarily
made her feel wonderful, even powerful. To be perceived, on the other hand, set a warm glow alight in her chest that was very,
very different. She doubted whether any of her family could have guessed her breakfast preferences, even if five thousand
pounds had been at stake. “Does your brother know that you gamble with the staff?”
“Of course he does,” Georgiana said, as Mrs Reynolds returned bearing a rack of well-fired toast. “He does it too, though
he’s even worse at it than I am.”
“Your losses paid for many a pretty present for my children, Miss Darcy,” Mrs Reynolds said, and her smile was now the soft, kindly one she reserved for the Darcys alone.
“That does not make me feel any better,” Georgiana muttered, though she grinned back at Mrs Reynolds with a look of equal
fondness.
Caroline watched the interplay with bafflement. She’d known the Darcys were fond of all their staff, and of Mrs Reynolds in
particular, but she’d had no idea that the relationship ran quite so deep. They must have gone to some lengths to keep this
camaraderie hidden from their guests. So why were they now displaying it openly in front of Caroline?
What has changed? she wondered, but a satisfactory conclusion eluded her.