‘It isn’t your fault, you know. What your husband did to Lily.’ Helena turned so she could rest her chin on top of Cynthia’s head.
‘How many girls did he abuse, Helena? How many innocent women were hurt in my house while I fussed over my gowns and fripperies?’
‘No one would expect you to know, Cyn.’
Cynthia’s hair rubbed against her neck as she shook her head. ‘I expect me to know. I’ve always thought myself rather clever, but I’m not. I’m the world’s biggest fool.’
Helena didn’t say anything. Because there were no words to help. Instead, she let her body warm Cynthia’s. She let the quiet soothe her. She funnelled her power and poured it over Cynthia in waves of comfort. And kept her thoughts well away from what any of this meant.
There were certain facts Cynthia would need to accept about her husband. Herself. Her powers. But Helena was in no place to tell her such things when she wasn’t facing her own set of uncomfortable truths. What a pair they made.
19
Helena insisted on finding her own way home after Cynthia’s carriage dropped them in front of the Mayfair mansion that would soon belong to another Marquess of Kentmore. They agreed Cynthia would come to Blair House at eight that evening, which left Cynthia with several hours on her own. It was a gift of time she greatly needed to process all she had learned and try to prepare for a dinner where she was likely to learn a great deal more.
‘Magic and murder have a way of draining one’s energy,’ she mumbled to herself, as she pushed open the door to her parlour and nearly screamed in shock.
‘You didn’t respond to my note.’ The Duchess of Devon sat on Cynthia’s rose settee, her silver hair piled high in a glamorous style that must have taken her lady’s maid hours to create. Her summer day dress was cut so low in the front, Cynthia was quite sure she caught a glimpse of rouged nipple. The bright floral embroidery covering the gossamer fabric reminded her of a hot house bouquet. Diamonds and sapphires dripped from the duchess’s ears and glittered around her neck, drawing even more attention to her ample décolletage.
‘Your Grace! I only just received your letter this morning and haven’t had a chance to read it. Is everything all right?’
The duchess stood, her corset cinched tight to contrast a round bottom made even more voluptuous by what had to be an impressive bustle beneath her skirts.
‘My darling girl, things are more than just all right. I thought it best I come check on you, as I was convinced you would be drowning in a sea of grief, but imagine my delight when your rather delicious footman informed me you were out. Hardly the behaviour of a widow in mourning.’
Despite her best efforts to flout the expectations of the beau monde, Cynthia couldn’t stop the wave of shame covering her. She certainly wasn’t acting appropriately for a newly widowed marchioness. ‘It was only, I had some pressing errands?—’
‘I certainly hope those errands included something delightfully wicked to put such a blush on your cheeks.’ The duchess winked. She was a notorious flirt and made no efforts to hide her many affairs. The duke had all but given up on taming her and spent most of his time in the country shooting animals and drinking port. Whatever the duchess thought Cynthia was up to, it was clear she hoped it was scintillating and outrageous.
If only she knew. Imagine if I told her I was investigating Hubert’s murder while finding myself increasingly more attracted to an untitled, magical woman who thinks I might also be a witch. Scandalous indeed!
The duchess thankfully didn’t wait for Cynthia’s response. ‘I’m only here to ensure that you accept my invitation.’
Cynthia’s brows drew down in confusion. ‘What invitation?’
‘To my summer soirée, silly! It’s all in the note I sent.’
Shaking her head, Cynthia stepped back. ‘I couldn’t possibly?—’
‘Bah! Don’t be silly. Of course you shall come. It will be the event of the season. You can’t possibly miss it. And don’t worry about a gown. I have just the thing already ordered for you.’ The duchess batted her charcoal-stained eyelashes.
‘You misunderstand. It isn’t my lack of dress, but rather the lack of decorum should I be seen at such an event so soon after my husband’s… err… passing.’ Surely Governess Smithers would approve of such a gentle euphemism for murder.
‘Decorum is for dunderheads. And you are a marchioness whose closest friend is a duchess.’ She swished over to Cynthia, taking her chin in her hand and moving her head one way, then the other. ‘You’ve changed, dear. I can see it. It’s time for you to start acting with the same defiance I see flashing in your eyes.’ She let her hand fall, the characteristic smile slipping from her painted lips. ‘You’ve been unhappy for so long, Cynthia. I still remember when we first met at your wedding breakfast. You were barely a child and so full of hope.’ She shook her head, stepping back. ‘Marriage destroyed that in a few short weeks, as I recall.’ Tapping a finger on her powdered chin, mischief sparkled as bright as diamonds in her eyes. ‘But something, orsomeonehas brought joy back to your face.’
‘Your Grace, I couldn’t possibly?—’
‘You absolutely can.’ Her stained lips parted on an inhalation, an idea lighting her face. ‘Bring your paramour with you to my party. I dare you. Dosomethinginappropriate, for once. You might find you quite like rebellion. I discovered it years ago and haven’t had a single moment of regret since.’ She winked at Cynthia, pausing at the door. ‘When you’ve reached my age, you realise, life is too short to waste time on silly things like social rules or other people’s opinions. Except mine, of course. The ball is in a fortnight. I shall see you there. Don’t eventhinkabout refusing. You have spent far too long hiding from pleasure, Cynthia. It’s time to indulge in a little fun.’ The duchess swept out of the door in a peony-scented cloud leaving Cynthia desperately trying to collect her thoughts.
It had been an overwhelming day, and she still had dinner to prepare for with a coven of witches.
‘A bath. And brandy.’ She nodded her head. A most certain requirement. She called for Mrs Higgins.
Fifteen minutes later, Cynthia sank lower in the bathtub full of vanilla-scented water. As she let the droplets trickle down her arm, she couldn’t stop the duchess’s words from replaying in her mind. Had she been hiding from pleasure? Hiding from her true self?
Her thoughts wandered to Helena as she imagined the witch’s fingers trailing over her skin as soft as the water.
She ran her own fingers over her breasts. What would they feel like to Helena? They were fuller than Helena’s and soft, her nipples hardened peaks that sang with pleasure as she brushed her fingers over the sensitive tips. Her hand delved lower, tangling in her curls. She had never engaged in self-play. As a child, she was taught that touching between her legs was forbidden. Only the filthiest and foulest girls performed such wicked deeds. They were sent away and never heard from again. When she grew into an adult and learned those lessons were just as false as Father Christmas and the promise that obedience brought happiness, she had no desire to touch herself because nothing inspired the tingling sensations that now erupted every time she saw Helena. Every time Helena touched her, even if it was just the innocent press of her fingers against Cynthia’s back.
