CHAPTER SEVEN #6
The visions of Constance that she had pushed to the back of her mind while speaking with Elizabeth returned at once in a flood.
Constance's hands on her back, Constance's fingers at the nape of her neck, the heat of her palms burning through her kirtle, the weight of her leaning forward against Isabel as she stretched herself upwards to kiss her.
The heat of her mouth, her tongue slipping between Isabel's lips, the soft noises she'd made as Isabel had clutched at her.
The ends of her hair tickling against Isabel's cheek, the way she had smelled faintly of rosemary
Isabel groaned, pressing her hands to her temples.
Her whole body was strung tight with tension and flush with heat, the kind she had never experienced before – hadn't even known she was capable of.
She felt almost feverish. Her skin itched in every place where Constance had touched her, and in several places she hadn't.
And the apex of her legs, that spot that she had never let anyone touch willingly, throbbed and pulsed until she could feel the rhythm of it in her teeth, behind her eyes, down to the soles of her feet.
It was as if the whole room was shaking around her, rattling her down to her bones.
She could barely stand straight; she couldn't even think.
She took one hand away from her head and slipped it down between her legs, pressing the heel of her palm down hard against the place that was desperate for sensation.
Just that was enough to make her thump her head back against the wall with another groan, this one satisfied rather than desperate.
She squeezed her eyes closed, visions of Constance playing against the backs of her eyelids – the freckles that dotted her collarbone, the swell of her breasts pressed tight against her kirtle, the flash of her calves as she picked her skirts up to step over something.
If they hadn't been interrupted, she could have run a hand up those calves, traced the bend of her knee, felt warm skin and light hairs tickling her palm.
She could have kissed her way across Constance's shoulders, her neck, her breasts.
She could have – she had been brave enough, in the moment – but now it was passed, and she never would again –
Her hips were jolting, pressing up against her hand without her meaning to.
She let it happen. She couldn't have stopped it even if she'd tried.
It wasn't what she wanted, what she was still dreaming of, but even a pale shadow of the real thing was too strong a temptation to resist. She bit down hard on her free hand to silence her whimpers, hips moving faster and faster, the fabric of her skirts growing damp under her hand.
She could hear herself panting like an animal and hated herself for it, but she couldn't stop.
Release was so close, and she needed it, she needed to purge herself of this, needed to be able to think clearly again without her mind returning over and over to Constance and her hands and her mouth and her breasts and –
Release, when it came, was brief: less a climax and more a brief spasm, followed by an ebbing of sensation until her surroundings came back to her.
She was aware, finally, of the hard wood of the wall digging into her shoulder blades and the chill of the room, and the faint sounds of Walter sniffling on the other side of the screen.
She felt limp and useless, fit only to slither to the ground and lay there in a heap.
She didn't permit herself that, of course; having lapsed once, she had no excuse for doing it again.
She rubbed her hands against her face instead, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes until she saw stars. The pain had a sobering effect.
She'd wanted a clear head; well, now she had one.
She had risked so much, and for what? For a dream of something that wouldn't – couldn't – live up to her imaginings.
Didn't she know better than to go chasing dreams?
She'd done it once before, convinced she could change her circumstances, and just look where that had gotten her – a decade of unhappiness, with only more of the same to look forward to.
Besides, it wasn't her life to ruin any longer.
It had been one thing to make a catastrophic mistake as a girl, with her only responsibility – seeing Matthew safely settled – discharged, and no one's fate but her own to worry about.
Now she had Walter, and any foot she set wrong would rebound on him.
She couldn't afford to fling herself into a romance that could see her turned out of house and home, separated from her son.
And Constance would be better off without her as well- without a woman who'd been a disappointment to her husband, and no doubt would go on disappointing anyone who thought to take her to bed.
That morning's events had been a temporary lapse in judgement – a bad one, to be sure, but one she could fix.
She had to. She didn't have any other choice.
"Mama, Mama," Walter called from the other side of the screen, his voice wobbling.
Isabel scrubbed her hands over her face, taking a deep breath, and set her shoulders.
The task at hand was to look after her son – nothing else mattered until he was well.
Once that was done, then she could set about repairing the damage her recklessness had done.
She could only hope Constance would forgive her for it.