She imagined Helena’s fingers pressing against her now. Delving into the soft folds of her sex. Finding the hard nub where pleasure cascaded into something fierce and feral. Electric and elemental.
She had heard of a cataclysmic event women experienced in the throes of passion. Indeed, her dear friend, the Duchess of Devon, waxed poetical about paroxysms of pleasure to be found in the bed of young, virile men. Cynthia thought it was one more exaggeration from a woman who created drama at every turn. But now, she was beginning to think the duchess was onto something.
She toyed with her slit, chasing the sweet sensations. Every time she brushed over the nub at the apex of her opening, electric jolts cascaded through her. She adjusted her rhythm experimentally. Slow. Soft. Harder. Faster. Tighter circles as she squeezed and flicked her nipples and thought of Helena. Would her grey eyes turn silver with desire? Would her magic seep into Cynthia’s soul like hot water as their bodies joined? She thought of kissing her in the rain, Helena’s hands trailing higher up her thighs, the husky melody of her voice as she cried out Cynthia’s name.
The orgasm ripped through her with shocking speed. Every muscle in her body tightened. Water spilled over the side of her copper tub. Heat washed through as her breath came in ragged gasps.
Blood pounded at her wrists, behind her knees, and between her thighs, where her clitoris still pulsed with echoes of delicious friction.
‘Oh my.’
For several moments strung together, Cynthia had forgotten everything in the mad rush to chase the culmination of brilliance.
No wonder people made such a fuss.
Her experiences with Hubert had been nothing like that. Just a thrusting invasion that ended with him wiping himself clean and wishing her a pleasant evening. If he had ever reached such a peak, he did so alone.
Thoughts of Hubert destroyed the echoes of pleasure still singing in her blood. She couldn’t hold Helena in her mind while that man still lingered there. She shivered in water now cold.
‘You monstrous bastard.’
Her skin pebbled with gooseflesh. The heavy weight of her husband’s sins reasserted itself in the centre of her chest.
He had abused Lily, but Cynthia was a simpleton if she believed Lily was the only girl Hubert defiled.
Something needed to be done. She couldn’t banish him from her memories until she first made some kind of amends for his horrific crimes.
She rose from her bath, towelled herself dry, and as she hadn’t replaced her lady’s maid, she dressed herself.
When she was presentable, Cynthia rang for Mrs Higgins. She couldn’t escape the shame of her own blindness. But she wasn’t ignorant any longer. She wouldn’t hide from her husband’s sins.
She couldn’t erase the harm he’d done. No magic was that powerful. But she was a wealthy widow. Money didn’t solve all the world’s problems, but it certainly made life more comfortable. And these women deserved to experience some luxury at the expense of Hubert Burrows.
Glancing at her reflection, she nodded, feeling the rightness of her decision.
Mrs Higgins knocked on her door and came in, her hair swept into a neat little bun. The white mobcap she wore sat atop her hair, pristine and snow-white.
‘Yes, my lady?’
‘I need you to find all the addresses of the maids Hubert terminated.’
Mrs Higgins’ eyes widened.
‘I saw Lily. I know what he did. I am going to make reparations. For Lily, and the rest. And I need your meticulous record-keeping skills to help me find them.’
Covering her quivering lips with her hand, Mrs Higgins blinked furiously. ‘Oh, Lady Burrows.’
‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Higgins. I should have known. There is no excuse for my naïve blindness. But my eyes are open now. Will you help me do something for these women?’
Her housekeeper cleared her throat and firmed her lips, always ready to tackle any mess, no matter how disastrous. ‘Of course. It would be my pleasure.’
It would never be enough. But it would be something.
With that decided, and Mrs Higgins off to find her employment records, Cynthia took a deep breath and felt air filling her lungs for the first time in forever.
‘No woman deserves to be held hostage to a man like Hubert Burrows. Including me.’ She turned her mind to her evening plans and Helena. The woman who was beginning to teach Cynthia how to dream of something better. ‘How does one adequately prepare for dinner with a coven of witches?’ Turning from one side to the other to see her reflection, she pinched her cheeks and swiped beeswax on her lips. ‘With false confidence and a dash of audacity, I suspect.’
Helena’s nerves ran riot as Aunt Rowan pushed a cup of lavender and chamomile tea into her hands.
