Chapter 9
Cynthia
Monday
Sunlight burns my eyes as I blink over at the window. Though the beams are just soft, pale strands, they sear me until I clench my eyes shut and roll to the side. Cold sheets meet my fingertips. Not one hint of a trace that Charles was here with me.
My heart mourns the loss of him as I force myself up and rub at my eyes. Then again, it is to be expected. It’s not as if I can have him here when the servants awaken.
Stifling a groan, I stretch, my body twinging ever so slightly from our activities the night before. He inserted himself, but not fully. Not enough to make me devoid of my virginity. Yet, I can’t help the heat that fans my cheeks as I slide my fingers between my thighs and graze my flesh.
Nothing feels different. It should. Such a profound shift between us should leave me with some sort of mark. Something. Shaking my head, I pull my hand back and smooth the sheets, schooling my face to something more neutral when the maid comes in.
As I lie there, I cannot help my thoughts from darting to and fro. They pound in my skull, questions without answers. I do trust Charles, but my heart fears hoping too much.
Blast. Far too early for breakfast, but far too late to go back to sleep.
Slipping out of bed, I pace the floor, using the light of the dying fire to search for any evidence Charles was there.
Barely even a whiff of his scent swirls through the air, and what little is there, I’m sure I can excuse from the fireplace.
The more I pace, however, the more I notice something rather odd. Something thick drips down my inner thigh, almost like arousal, but a touch more viscous. Squatting down near the bed, I wrench up my shift, terrified of what I might find.
Did he tear through my maidenhead after all? I don’t recall any sensation other than a slight stretching and pure, unadulterated pleasure. That doesn’t mean my virginity wasn’t stolen from me.
As I bring my fingers up to look at them, it’s not blood at all, but a pearly white, nearly translucent fluid. It must be his essence. My pulse flutters as I lean against the bed, nearly heaving as panic slips from me to be replaced with an almost relentless nausea.
Such a dangerous game we’re playing. I can only hope neither of us gets burnt. Pulling out the chamber pot from under the bed, I dab a rag in the basin of cool water and wipe at myself, cleaning off as much as I can. Hopefully, it won’t be noticeable when I get dressed.
Just as I finish up, the door opens and one of the Barrington maids glides in, her face all smiles as she puts down a cup of warmed chocolate.
“I shall be back to help you prepare for your day, Miss,” she says as she bobs down into a curtsy.
My stomach growls as I walk over to the table. Somehow, the chocolate always tastes so much better when staying with the Barringtons as opposed to at home. But that could be as simple as their being able to procure a better quality of chocolate.
As usual, it slides down my throat and warms my belly. There’s no odd aftertaste. Just the addictive taste of chocolate. The maid comes back in with two others in tow as I nurse my drink.
I watch them over the rim of my cup, my heart pounding as they grab the sheets off the bed. Will they be able to tell? Will the evidence be so glaringly obvious that they’ll cry foul to the dowager duchess?
Thankfully, no one seems at all aghast at the linens; however, one of them stops by the edge of the bed where Charles filled me up last night. “Did we not have a blanket?” she asks the other maid.
“I thought we did. ‘Twas a cool night, but perhaps there was no need?”
All three look at me, and I gulp down a bit of chocolate. “I can assure you I was quite warm and well through the night with what was on the bed. Do not worry yourself over me.”
The trio nod and go back about their business as if that answered all of it.
I suppose I should be grateful they don’t scrutinize my words any further.
Somehow, it still doesn’t stop that gnawing in the pit of my stomach.
Unable to drink another sip, I put the cup down and wash at the basin while the maid brings my morning dress.
We stay silent as she gets me ready. All the while, I can’t stop worrying about what may happen or be said. Did we truly act so scandalously and not get burned?
Soft laughter and voices drift up the stairs as I make my way down for breakfast. There, at the table, the triplets tease each other back and forth while the dowager duchess looks on with smothered amusement. Off to the side, Charles sits, his face buried in a paper while sipping on some coffee.
Once they notice me, my friends squeal and jump up, dragging me over to the buffet table as they urge me to fill up my plate. Unfortunately, nothing looks appetizing. I wasn’t planning on Charles being there after what we did.
“Your plate is barely filled,” Sophia states, her tone soft and filled with concern. “Are you ill?”
“Come,” Penelope cries. “Look at her cheeks. Such a flush on them. I dare say if she is ill, she is lovesick.”
Lovesick. Now, what little chocolate I had threatens to rebel, rising in my throat as I do my best to keep the flush off my face. Between the three of them, they miss nothing.
Georgiana squints at me, studying my expression before shaking her head. “I do not see how she can be lovesick when she doesn’t even know the man. I dare say it’s more likely a case of nerves.”
“Oh, you,” Penelope seethes. “Never one for any fun. ‘Twas a lark and nothing more. Of course she’s not lovesick. ‘Twas said only in jest to get a reaction out of her.”
As the sisters argue amongst themselves, I take my plate and sit across from Charles. He pulls his paper down long enough to glance at what little is on there and raise his eyebrow.
“Something amiss this morning, Miss Campbell? I’ve seen you load your plate with far more in the past.”
“Charles, really,” the dowager duchess chuckles. “You ought not question a woman about her choice and amount of food. ‘Tis unseemly.”
“Right,” Penelope says, dragging herself away from the heated conversation with Georgiana. “Most unseemly.”
“So is quarreling with your sister at the breakfast table,” their mother counters, raising an eyebrow of her own. Easy to see where Charles gets it from. “Miss Campbell,” she says, her smile warming the chill. “I trust you slept well?”
I nearly choke on the small sip of chocolate as I catch the twitch of Charles’s lips as he looks at me from over the paper. “As well as can be expected in a strange bed.”
“Is there anything we can do to make your stay with us even better?”
Her gaze travels down to the bread she’s buttering, not at all noticing the odd glances Charles gives me. But Georgiana notices. She sits forward and scrunches her face as she looks between him and me.
“Charles, why are you making such an odd expression? Is the coffee not to your liking?” Now, of course, everyone looks at him, and all I want to do is slide down to the floor and hide under the table.
He clears his throat and rattles the paper before bringing it back up to conceal his face. “Simple matters of Parliament. You, of course, would not understand.”
She scrunches her face again as she goes back to her breakfast. “Just because I am a woman doesn’t mean I don’t understand things.”
“On the contrary,” he murmurs. “I find you to understand far more than you should. Now that I’ve concluded my breakfast, I shall attend to matters of less frivolity. Mother. Sisters.” He pauses a moment before bowing low. “Miss Campbell.”
Miss Campbell. Not Cynthia. Not vexation. Just plain Miss Campbell. But then, I knew this was happening. I expected this. Glancing down at my plate, I find that what small bit of appetite I had to be completely vanished.
“Come,” Penelope laughs, her face just beaming with happiness. “Let us finish as well so that we may change and go calling!”
“Who would we call on?” I ask, confusion muddling my brain a moment. All I wanted was a quiet few weeks to lick my wounds while awaiting my fate. I should have known better with the triplets at the helm.
“You are to be married,” she insists. “Who better to call upon than those already in such a state?”
The dowager duchess merely shakes her head as she gives an indulgent chuckle. The contrasts between her and my mother are so startling. Emotions well in my very soul as I watch the four of them interact.
Though I know they do not mean to exclude me, I cannot help but feel as if I’m simply a bother. It would be so much easier if I were their sister.
It’s as if a knife plunges into my heart as Penelope turns to me, face alight with the largest smile. She holds out her hand to me, beckoning me to come follow.
It would be so easy. It would be so simple. All I’d have to do is compromise Charles. Honestly, the sketches I hide would be more than enough to show proof that we’ve engaged in scandalous behavior. If only it wouldn’t cause such devastation.
What would Penelope think if she knew her brother came into my room in the dead of night? That he forced his seed into my body until it dripped from me, even into the morning? My clit throbs in heated remembrance as I walk behind.
As much as I want to retire to my room and chase that feeling from last night, duty calls. It wouldn’t look well on me to stay behind while my hostesses take to the streets. My head aches as an odd warmth seeps through my veins, no doubt brought on by the strain I’m currently under.
Groaning, I roll my head on my shoulders and do my best to act as happy as my three friends. “Who are we to visit first?” I ask as we reach the base of the stairs.
Penelope turns back to me, her face beaming. “I thought we could call upon the Duchess of Birchleigh for a moment, then the Duchess of Foxford. I do long to see Teresa’s child now that they are receiving guests.”
A baby. That would be a pleasant change. With no siblings of my own, I am at the maternal mercy of others. It would be quite pleasant to hold the infant.
As I step into my room, the maid is there, waiting for me. The bed is fully made up and pristine, as if I never had any interaction with the maddening Charles Barrington.
But I did. Every inch of me feels imprinted with his heat, his scent, the feel of his breath upon my skin. My limbs tremble as I undress, slowly easing out of my clothes so the maid can help me into my calling dress. It’s so odd having a stranger help me like this.
In many ways, it just makes me feel even more alone, despite the fact that I can hear one of the triplets, probably Penelope, laughing from another room.
I just wish there was someone I could talk to about this, someone I could gather counsel from…
Someone who wouldn’t judge or cry foul if I told them what’s happening between Charles and me.
In these moments, I do so detest the fact that we women are held to such a standard. How are we to learn? To know what is right and what isn’t? Or, more to the point, how to suffer continual heartbreak when it feels like the world is falling in on us?
As the maid finishes, I stare at my reflection in the mirror. My eyes seem dull and sunken in. My face is pale, nearly translucent. I honestly look a fright.
Charles has to find a way. He just has to. Because, as I see it, we are doomed to live out our very own tragic version of Romeo and Juliet. I can only hope our affair doesn’t end us.