CHAPTER EIGHT #6
Isabel was too overwhelmed to respond to that, but the small part of her that remained clear-eyed thought that Constance was probably right.
It would certainly be different – and perhaps difference was enough.
"Then," she said, and swallowed hard. "Then – if we started as we did last time – and not any further –"
"Of course." Constance shifted forward in her seat, bringing up her hand to cup Isabel's cheek. "Like this?"
Isabel's mouth was very dry. She nodded.
As before, Constance went slowly, giving Isabel ample time to pull back or object.
She did neither. Despite Constance's assurance that their arrangement would be conducted on her terms, she still felt a sense of duty – she had just agreed to it, after all, and she had to at least try to keep her word.
And, more than that, she wanted. She wanted to feel again what she had felt in Constance's arms the previous week, the sensation she had chased and failed to catch by herself afterwards.
She wanted another chance; she was greedy for it.
When Constance's mouth closed over hers', she didn't pull away.
Constance's kisses were slow, thorough. She made no immediate attempt to slip her tongue into Isabel's mouth, but pressed several dry, lingering kisses to her lips, shifting to kiss her cheek and the corner of her mouth as well.
She even pulled back just enough to kiss Isabel's nose, then laughed at the look on her face.
Isabel laughed a little, too – she thought an outside observer might have called it a giggle, though she was loath to use the word herself.
When Constance returned to her mouth, she licked lightly across the seam of her lips, but still didn't push in.
Isabel wanted her to – she wanted that heat, that closeness, that giddy abandon.
But she could feel another cough bubbling in the back of her throat, and so she drew back. "Best not," she said, though the ghost sensation of Constance's mouth on hers still lingered. "I may yet be ill."
"You may, at that." Constance's gaze dropped, looking at her with intent just as she had in the bedroom the previous week. Her voice, when she spoke, had grown husky. "Shall I tell you what I would do if you weren't?"
The room, which had been mild up until that point, seemed suddenly hot and close. Isabel swallowed hard, her mouth having gone suddenly dry. Constance was still looking at her, and the promise in her gaze – "Yes," she said. "Yes, I – please."
Constance reached out, her fingertips just barely brushing Isabel's mouth.
"I would kiss you – here –" Isabel's lips opened, almost of their own accord, her tongue chasing Constance's fingers as they withdrew.
"And down here –" She traced down the column of Isabel's neck.
Her touch was feather-light, but that only made it more intense.
"Kissing all the way, kissing and sucking so you'd be left with marks to remember it by. "
"You can't." Isabel could barely get the words out; the air in her lungs had evaporated. "You mustn't."
"I know." Constance's fingers came briefly to rest on Isabel's collarbone before tracing further down.
"Not where anyone might see. I'd have to do it, here, wouldn't I?
" She was cupping one of Isabel's breasts in her palm, now, teasing at a nipple with her thumb.
"So only you and I would know. So you could look at it later and think of me, the way I think of you.
" She was swaying slightly in her seat; forward, nearly close enough for their mouths to touch, and then back again as she remembered herself.
Isabel understood. Isabel was near to doing the same, her self-control held by only the thinnest thread.
She wanted what Constance was promising, wanted it more than her next breath.
"What do you think about me?" Her voice came out in a hoarse whisper that had nothing to do with her cough. "Do you – when you think of me, are you –" She couldn't say it without embarrassment clogging her throat.
Constance brushed the backs of her knuckles against Isabel's cheek. "Always," she said, in a voice that was not quite a whisper. "For weeks, now. How could I think of anything else?"
Isabel had no idea what to say in response to that, and doubted she would have been able to gather her wits enough to speak even if she had.
She sat there in stupefied silence, blinking at the mental image – it wouldn't be like it had been with her, Constance wasn't like that, she would have been enjoying herself, she would have been happy – to think of her –
Her thoughts were interrupted by a series of muffled but distinct thumps from directly overhead.
They were followed by the sound of small, running feet, then a familiar shriek.
That in itself wasn't cause for concern – she knew the sounds Walter made when he was hurt or upset, and that wasn't one of them – but all the same, she looked up and then back at Constance.
"Walter was with Peter, you said . . . ? "
"Last I checked." Constance got up from her chair. "And they were both well enough when I looked in on them, but perhaps we'd better – make sure."
Going up the stairs took more effort than she'd anticipated, but she didn't pause to catch her breath at the top.
She crossed the landing in two strides, fumbled the latch of the bedroom door, then stopped in amazement at the sight unfolding before her once she had it open.
Constance came up short behind her, taking on an expression of bewilderment that Isabel was sure was reflected on her own face.
Peter was sitting in a corner of the room, his back leaning against the wall and both his legs extended out in front of him.
In one hand, he held a crutch, which he was using to nudge a wooden ball across the floor.
Walter was chasing it; whenever he came within arm's length of the toy, Peter would reach out with the crutch again and send it rolling in the opposite direction.
Each time he did, Walter would scream with laughter, his face flushed with cheer and exertion.
He was so absorbed in the game, he didn't even notice his mother's presence.
It was Peter who took note of them first. "Ah," he said, pulling the crutch back in to sit beside him. "I thought you were resting, still. Am I to assume you're feeling better?"
Isabel couldn't take her eyes off her son.
She'd seen him smile before, of course, but she couldn't recall ever having seen this unbridled exuberance in him.
If he made too much noise at home, the girls would fuss, or Hilda would scold; she tried to keep him as out of the way as possible, the better to avoid any interference from her husband's family.
She didn't even realize Peter had spoken to her until he cleared his throat, and she finally turned to look at him. "I, ah – yes. Somewhat."
"That's good to hear," he said, in a polite tone so far removed from the last time she'd been in this room, she almost laughed.
Walter, meanwhile, had caught up with the ball: he grabbed it in both hands, then frowned, looking around to see why the game had stopped.
When he saw Isabel, his eyes lit up, and he ran to her, still clutching the ball. "Mama! Play!"
She knelt down beside him, smoothing the curls that had fallen into disarray in all of his pelting around.
"Like this?" She took the ball from his hands and set it gently rolling to the other side of the room.
He clapped and shrieked, taking to his heels again to run and fetch it.
Before he managed to, however, Peter reached out with the crutch and nudged it again, and the game was on.
Isabel stepped into the room, until she was able to sit on the floor beside Peter.
Constance followed and sat on her other side, tucking her legs up underneath her.
"Thank you," Isabel said, pitching her voice to be heard over Walter's shrieks of glee.
"For entertaining him. He – he hasn't as much opportunity to play as he ought. "
"Ah, well." Peter lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. "He's a good-natured little one, and easy enough to please. It's no trouble."
"Still." She glanced back at Walter, who showed no signs of tiring. "You were not obliged to, and still you did. The thanks is well deserved."
Peter said nothing to that. On her other side, Constance was pressed against her shoulder to arm, a welcome warmth.
The dash up the stairs had left her tired, and she longed to let her head droop onto Constance's shoulder.
She watched Peter out of the corner of her eye, weighing her options, He may not realize what it meant, if she did – but if he did, or if he suspected –