Molly slid her hands up a bit, her thumbs whispering against the bottom curve of breast, all the while keeping her eyes fixed on Alice’s in the mirror. Alice met her gaze, held it, and gave a little nod.
That nod did Molly in. She hadn’t been expecting anything so overt, had thought maybe they’d spend the next few days at the knife’s edge between flirtation and something more. A stray touch here, a suggestive comment there, but nothing that couldn’t be dismissed, forgotten, easily taken back.
She never thought they’d actually touch one another. That was the stuff of daydreams.
She could still step away. That would be safe. Molly had learned the hard way not to go to bed with employers. But Alice wasn’t an employer, and more than that, Molly had the sense that they could trust one another. That they were in this together. That they were both safe.
That was a daydream too, though. If they did this, then they would do it again, and they were already too fond of one another. Going to bed with someone you were fond of was a terrible idea. You either got your heart broken or you didn’t, and at the moment Molly didn’t know which would be worse. She thought she could handle heartbreak, but the other thing—trying to be with a person who grew to be ashamed of herself and of Molly—seemed unbearable.
But Molly was terrible at doing the safe thing.
She skimmed her hands up to cup the slight swell of Alice’s breasts, feeling her nipples pebble beneath the layers of fabric. “Just like I told you,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper. “Sweet.”
Alice’s hands clapped over her own, not stopping Molly but holding her in place. Molly let her gaze drop from Alice’s face to where their hands were joined. She leaned in, brushing a kiss against the place where Alice’s neck met her shoulder, relishing the shiver that went through her body.
“I need to dress your hair,” Molly said, because she didn’t know what else to say, and also because as a matter of professional pride, she couldn’t let Alice leave this room with her hair so plain. They only had a quarter of an hour before Alice needed to be downstairs for dinner. But Alice shifted her stance a bit, so her back was pressed against Molly’s chest, and that was all the invitation Molly needed to run her fingers along the freshly tacked neckline of Alice’s gown. She dipped a single finger beneath the thin linen of the chemise, but the neckline was still too damned high to get anywhere interesting.
She could feel the tiny, even stitches beneath her fingers, stitches Alice had taken because she trusted Molly to save her from the fate that awaited her downstairs.
“Sit down,” she said, pressing Alice into the chair. That hair, Christ. It was usually pinned in a workaday knot, no tendrils, no curls. Molly took it down and let it slip through her fingers like water, like moonshine.
And then she got to work.
“There’s nothing that can’t be cured with lip rouge and strong drink,” Molly said as she brushed Alice’s hair for what seemed like the ninetieth time.
Alice didn’t have any experience with either substance. “I’ll have to take your word for it,” she said. And she would. She had put herself entirely in Molly’s hands—literally and figuratively, she recalled, willing herself not to blush when Molly’s eyes were on her.
She blushed anyway, and Molly’s crooked smile only made her cheeks heat more furiously.
“Here’s what you’ll do,” Molly said, the hairpin she had clenched between her teeth causing her words to take on a rakish air. “You walk into the drawing room like you’re an heiress, like you’re doing everybody a great favor by being there. You aren’t here to wind yarn or fetch liniments for old ladies. You’re here because you’re young and beautiful—no, stop that, just look at yourself—and mysterious.”
Alice laughed. “I’m anything but mysterious. I’m a penniless spinster with no connections. There are hundreds of women like me in every county in England.”
“Not with your reputation, there aren’t,” Molly said, expertly twisting a lock of Alice’s hair.
“My reputation,” Alice repeated, taking in the meaning of what Molly said. “The only people here who I’ve ever met are Mrs. Wraxhall and Mr. Tenpenny. And I can only imagine what Mr. Tenpenny would say about me.”
“Exactly,” Molly said, as if satisfied that her pupil had caught on so quickly. “Use that.”
“Use it?” Alice echoed.
“Right. So, you’ve spent the day helping ladies embroider cushions. Nobody would think that you were turned out of your home for a scandal. More likely, you inherited a fortune and went to live with Mrs. Wraxhall to make connections suitable to your new station, and Mr. Tenpenny hopes to marry you.”
There was something about the rote precision with which she uttered those last words that made Alice narrow her eyes. “Have you been telling people that faradiddle?”
“Maybe,” Molly said, her expression pure wickedness. “Servants do gossip.” She twisted and pinned a few more strands of hair that somehow did not promptly tumble down, which was a feat Alice had never managed on her own. “Now for the lip rouge.”
“No rouge,” Alice said immediately. She could tolerate having the upper quarter of her meager bosom exposed, but lip rouge was out of the question. “And it’s no use telling me that Mrs. Wraxhall wears it, because I know she does and that doesn’t change anything.” Mrs. Wraxhall was wealthy, married, and—more importantly than any of that—she didn’t mind being the center of attention. She rather seemed to thrive on it, in fact. Alice preferred to blend into the background and manage not to embarrass herself overmuch.
“Only a little,” Molly protested. “Right here.” She traced her thumb slowly along Alice’s lower lip. Suddenly the touch had nothing to do with lip rouge.
“No lip rouge.” When Alice spoke, the pad of Molly’s thumb brushed the soft, wet inside of her lip. Sparks of warmth shot through Alice’s body, settling somewhere in the vicinity of her breasts, and sending a thrill of awareness somewhat lower.
“We can do it the other way, then,” Molly murmured, and leaned close, brushing her own mouth against Alice’s. And if Molly’s thumb had produced sparks, her mouth created an inferno, burning away whatever doubts Alice had. This touch, this woman, this thing that existed between them, it was good and true and so very warm. She brought one hand up to reach for Molly’s face, instinctively trying to double their points of contact. Molly’s own hands were braced on the back of Alice’s chair.
The brush of lips against lips turned into something more insistent, a nibbling, then a sucking. Molly’s mouth was asking Alice a question, and all Alice knew was that the answer was yes.
“Yes,” she said out loud.
