Chapter Twenty-Three
Afterwards, they lay entwined, Charlotte pressing hot-mouthed kisses to every piece of flesh she could find, unreasonably afraid that Mary would melt away, a grief-made phantom her imagination had produced in the aftermath of Mr Collins’ death. How easy it had been to make love and be made love to in return. The urge to flee was sudden and strong, guilt winding colubrine through her belly. Perhaps she should never have known how glorious it would feel, for now that she did, the memories would plague her more when she returned to Meryton.
She bit her lip. “I hope I was not a disappointment.”
Mary looked at her sharply, then tilted her head. “Do you regret it?”
“No! Never,” Charlotte protested, “I just feel…odd. A little guilty, perhaps.”
“About what?”
“That I…that we…” She paused, thinking the question over. In fact, she had no idea what she felt guilty for. “I do not know. It is a new thing for me to want something and then get it. I don’t quite know what to do with myself.” She smiled hesitantly. “That seems rather silly when said out loud, does it not?”
“I understand completely. It is a normal thing to think when one’s entire world-view has been upended.”
Mary gathered Charlotte to her without a moment’s hesitation, and rained gentle kisses onto her cheeks and chin until Charlotte was as giggly as a schoolgirl. “Stop,” she protested, still giggling. “You are tickling me.”
Their eyes met. What Charlotte had thought was a dying fire was simply banked embers, roaring back into life. The next moment, their mouths met in a bruising kiss that tore a deep sound from her throat, one she hardly recognised or thought she’d been capable of making; something closer to a feral animal’s snarl than a delicate, feminine moan of appreciation. Mary’s hips bucked in response, and it was the most natural thing in the world for Charlotte to mimic the action, to let her own hips cant forward, bringing their bodies flush.
“Charlotte,” Mary breathed. “I would like to touch you again.”
She was ready for it. Had been ready since Mary’s first sweet kiss, reassuring her that no matter how violent her inner turmoil, someone was there, ready to stand as anchor and hold her fast. “Please,” she begged, and Mary obeyed.
The next few minutes—or were they hours? she could not tell—were lost to sweaty, rapturous entanglement. When they finally finished, Mary collapsing spent beside her, Charlotte was exhausted from the vigorous activity. The light outside had dimmed, the sunset shimmering a brilliant orange through the gaps in the curtains.
“Are you well?” The question was evidently meant sincerely, though Charlotte could not help laughing. “What?” Mary demanded. “What’s so funny?”
It took long seconds before Charlotte could compose herself enough to get coherent words out. “I cannot remember a time I felt more well,” she managed, before descending into laughter again.
She had expected, now the business was done, that Mary would leave, but Mary seemed content to stay where she was, embracing Charlotte and kissing every part of her she could reach. In turn, Charlotte couldn’t get enough of Mary’s kisses, trailing her fingers over the smooth, soft skin of stomach and hips, feeling muscles twitching under her ministrations. It was everything she’d dreamed and much, much more, and she felt quite love-drunk.
I shall allow myself the pleasure of being weak for a while. Just until I leave, she promised herself. Then it will be over. She will find some other woman and probably never think of me again. It will hurt her far less than it will hurt me, and that is for the best. She hated the thought, but it allowed her to sober up a little.
Mary rolled away and stretched languorously. “It is probably almost time for dinner. Could you eat?”
“Lord, yes,” Charlotte agreed. “I am famished. I had no idea that making love could make one so hungry.”
* * *
Dinner was white soup followed by a roast ham. Charlotte ate ravenously, as if it were her first meal after a long time shipwrecked, and helped herself to warm rolls with extra butter. By the time they’d finished and the footmen had cleared the plates away, Charlotte heaved a long sigh of contentment.
“A package arrived this afternoon from Ashbrook’s, ma’am,” Pitt announced, wearing his politely blank expression.
“Oh, it must be our dresses. Please have one of the boys take them to Charlotte’s room, Pitt, and we shall try them on later.” Mary paused, watching the butler leave the room. “I ought to apologize for snapping at him this morning. He did not deserve it.”
“Did you ask him this morning to send over something to Miss Highbridge?”
“What? Oh—no, I quite forgot. Thank you for reminding me.” Mary rolled her eyes. “I’m sorry I was in such a mood. I was entirely out of line.”
“No apology necessary,” Charlotte reminded her.
“Would you excuse me a moment?”
“Of course.” Charlotte waited until Mary had exited the room before wandering upstairs, wine glass in hand. Dessert could wait—she was far too curious to see what the dress looked like.
A large, white box lay on one of the armchairs. Charlotte hesitated, wondering whether Mary would mind terribly if she peeked at the contents, and decided that even if Mary did, she was now certain she could charm her out of a scolding. Charlotte slit the seal and opened the box, which was full of carefully folded tissue paper. Peeling back a layer, she gasped; her dress lay on top, and the dark blue material had been exquisitely embroidered with a hundred tiny stars. No, they were not stars at all—Charlotte bent closer, examining the dress—they were lilies, a ghostly silver shade that made them look like glittering stars. White lilies, she guessed, meaning being with you is heavenly . How on earth had Mary known?
She lifted the dress out of the box and held it up. It was the most beautiful dress she’d ever seen, and her breath caught at the idea that she might actually wear this someday, might look as pretty as any lady at any society ball.
Charlotte unbuttoned her own dress, discarding it over the back of the nearest armchair. Slipping the new dress over her head, she eased into it, finding the buttons at the side, hidden under a thin flap of fabric she hadn’t even noticed. She undid her hair and ran her fingers through it, letting it lie loose around her shoulders.
Footsteps on the stairs, light and quick, heralded her lover’s arrival. Charlotte turned, anxious, wondering if she ought to have done something to her hair to make the ensemble appear more impressive, but there hadn’t been time.
Mary stopped in the doorway, her mouth hanging open. “Good Lord,” said she, after a moment. “Charlotte, you look magnificent.”
She blushed. “You flatter me.”
“With good reason.” Mary’s gaze travelled up and down, noting the full sleeves, the silver-edged hem, the way it clung to curves Charlotte had barely known she’d had. “You’re a vision. Would you like to go somewhere wearing it?”
Charlotte blinked, surprised by the question. “I’m supposed to be in mourning, remember? Though I suppose that went out of the window the moment I started kissing you, it would not do to let down appearances in public. People would talk.”
“You will not see anyone you know in the place I’m talking about,” Mary promised. “Apart from Delia, that is. We could even dance together, and no one would blink an eye.”
Does such a place really exist? Charlotte smiled. “I thought you did not dance.”
“I did not say that I never danced. I said I was not a terribly good dancer, and unfortunately that is the truth.”
“Perhaps I could teach you a waltz.”
“You could certainly try, though I fear I am beyond all help.” Mary looked unusually hesitant. “What ought I do?”
“Here, stand opposite me.” Charlotte adjusted Mary until she was quite satisfied. “Now step back, and forth,” she demonstrated, “and back, and turn.”
“It is the turning I have a problem with,” Mary complained. “And which direction ought I to be facing now?”
“Not me,” Charlotte said, trying not to laugh. “In a group of four, you ought to now be looking at the partner who was on your right. Let us try it again.” They practiced for a while, until Mary had grown used to the repetitive moments. “There,” Charlotte said. “I’m rather proud of my pupil. You have improved greatly and are now fit to be seen at any dance you please.”
“I’m quite sure that is a result of the quality of the teacher.” Mary stepped closer, winding her arms around Charlotte’s waist. “I would much prefer a dance that required only two people. Then I might gaze into your eyes and forget the rest of the world entirely.”
Charlotte tilted her head to gain better access to Mary’s neck, finding the spot which made her lover shiver with pleasure. “That does sound capital.”
She could not keep her hands off Mary. She wanted always to be touching her, caressing her, kissing her, orbiting her as the moon did the Earth. However, her actions were not simply driven by lust. She had never felt such fire when Mr Collins had touched her, or kissed her. There had been eagerness on his end, and vigorous action on certain occasions, but the whole process had left her feeling empty. She knew she had been supposed to enjoy making her husband happy—and she had tried to—but Mr Collins had never really paid attention except to ask if he was hurting her, in the beginning. She’d never watched him across the room and wanted to pin him against a wall, nor felt his every glance fan a flame inside her. She had never felt as if she would drown if she did not get another mouthful of him.
And yet that was not all it was, with Mary. There was a blaze, certainly, but there was also tenderness, a delicate fragility that she had touched with wonder and had seen that same wonder reflected back in Mary’s eyes.
“The way you look at me undoes me entirely, do you know that?” Mary smiled, her arms snaking around Charlotte’s neck.
“I still find it hard to believe.” Charlotte kissed her, softly, sweetly, still marvelling that there existed a spectrum of kisses she had never known about before, like discovering an entirely new language.
“You look exceedingly pretty in that dress, Charlotte Lucas,” Mary murmured, “But I’d like to take it off now if I may.”
“Please do.” Her breath hitched. “I still cannot believe that you want me.”
“Darling,” Mary said, peppering a line of kisses down Charlotte’s jaw, “I want you more than anyone I’ve ever known.”
The words did something queer to her heart, making it feel as if a hand had grasped it and was squeezing tightly. Mary’s eyes were half-drunk cups of fierce joy, her lips two blunted blades ready to slit Charlotte open from stem to stern. Flesh, hot under her palms. Jutting hips, pressing hard enough to bruise. Fingers exploring, creating bursts of rapture inside her body she hadn’t known another person was capable of conjuring, far less maintaining.
They made love long into the night. Charlotte had never before known that she was capable of such passion, such desperate need. Every touch kindled a new flame, and the climaxes were so delicious that one had barely receded before she found herself desperate for another. If this was how women generally felt about men, then it was no wonder Lydia had run away with Mr Wickham. Do not even dream of doing the same , the little voice in her head warned, once Mary had slid into sleep, snuggled against Charlotte’s side as if she had been born to fit there. You have obligations to your family. They supported you even when it was thought you would never marry. You owe them a great debt, and you ought to repay it by not causing a scandal.
Charlotte stared into the darkness, her head aching with the weight of unshed tears. She had no idea where she would find the strength to leave Mary, but she had better unearth it soon, for both of their sakes.