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The noises Margot’s body made beneath her skirts as she rode Ara’s hand were obscene, and all she could do was hold on for dear life as those fingers stretched her to capacity. If anyone in that theater knew that the Marchioness of Waverly was being ruthlessly fingered in an alcove by a woman ten years her junior, the gossip would be untenable. And yet, she stayed right where she was, rocking her hips and desperate for the release that only Ara could deliver.
Perversely, Ara’s movements slowed, fingers pulling out to their very tips, and her tongue swirled around the shell of Margot’s ear. “Do you like this? Do you like me taking you in secret? Do you want to come?”
“Y…yes.”
Those wicked fingers resumed their slow slide, making her whimper with relief and then frustration as that measured, leisurely pace continued. She bucked her hips to no avail. “Who do you need, Margot?” Ara whispered.
Thighs trembling, she swallowed and threw her head back into the wall. “I need you! Is that what you want to hear?”
With a growl of gratification, Ara relented and gave her what she wanted, working her body into a fever pitch with thrusts of those long fingers, punctuated by maddening swipes of her thumb. When the cataclysm broke, Margot bit her lip so hard to stop from screaming that she tasted blood. Her body slumped as Ara’s fingers withdrew from her pulsating center.
Panting, she stared when Ara brought her glistening hand up between them.
“Suck,” she commanded, and helplessly, Margot obeyed, taking the wet digits into her mouth and tasting her spent essence on them.
Margot refused to feel an ounce of shame for what Ara was making her do. Perhaps she deserved it. She could barely see Ara’s eyes in the gloom, but her ferocity hadn’t lessened. In fact, she was still vibrating with it, all biting passion and wrathful lust, a vengeful goddess exacting retribution. Wanting to calm that wild look in Ara’s eyes, Margot lapped slowly, imagining her mouth somewhere else…performing a hushed penance there in that small alcove.
With a soft hiss, Ara tugged her hand away and stepped back as if to leave. Margot floundered to explain. “Ara, wait, please. I…you know that I…that Percy…”
They stared at each other in silence. “I know, Lady Waverly. Enjoy your evening.”
Chapter Seven
Ara had known exactly what she was getting into. The Marchioness of Waverly had not lied. If the fault lay with anyone, it was with Ara for assuming that her lover and the woman she’d opened her home and heart to would not treat her as though she were nothing more than a stranger in the street. The hurt she’d felt at the opera when Margot had been so excessively cold had brewed and bubbled in her veins until Ara hadn’t been able to bear it any longer.
She had known that Margot would follow…but what had happened next in that alcove had been out of both their control.
In hindsight, she shouldn’t have done it.
The act of taking Margot so boldly and in a public place had been meant to punish and subdue. She’d made her beg and then clean her own release off Ara’s fingers just because she could. Though Margot hadn’t complained or protested, Ara felt regret all the same. Intimacy should never be used as a weapon, at least, not without explicit consent. She understood that more than anyone, given her own feelings on the matter. She’d just been so gutted by the callous rejection that she’d reacted badly.
It was no excuse, but Ara was sorry.
So much so that only three days later, she’d fully intended to take a hackney to Mayfair, but out of an abundance of caution given Margot’s cagey response at the opera house, had decided to pay one of the street lads to deliver a letter with a written apology instead. Thankfully, she’d had the address from Lady Rawdon for Waverly House before leaving for Paris.
A day had passed, and then two and three, and Ara had despaired of ever getting a response. Until today.
With a ragged exhale, Ara stared down at the reply that had just been delivered. She opened the envelope and her index finger traced the no-nonsense handwriting, a far cry from her own flowery calligraphy. Margot’s script was as spare as the meaning in the note.
There’s nothing to apologize for. Nothing happened that I did not want.
But I think we both knew that this could not work.
~ Cordially, M of W.
What had she expected? Sweet nothings? Heartfelt confessions? Words of devotion?
The Marchioness of Waverly was capable of none of those things.
And that was who had signed this letter. Cordially so.
A tear splashed onto the parchment, followed by another. In a fit of anger, Ara crumpled the correspondence into a ball and threw it in the hearth, watching as it disintegrated to nothing in the flames, just like the pitiful organ behind her ribs. She swiped bitterly at her leaking eyes—that was the downside of being such an intuitive artist—she felt everything much too deeply.
Well, so be it. Ara had made her choices, placed her bets, and this was the end result. She could not change someone who did not want to be changed or love someone who had made themselves impervious to emotions.
But as the days turned into weeks, no matter how much it hurt, Ara could not bring herself to regret her time with Margot, even if it was fleeting. She would leave some of the happiest weeks of her life behind with a bruised heart and a brain full of memories. But eventually, the pain would fade and the good hours would eclipse the bad.
Thank God Lady Rawdon had taken all the paintings off Ara’s hands a month ago. She could not have borne seeing them. And Lord knew she hadn’t been able to go into her studio for weeks without thinking of Margot propped on the chaise with those cool, storm-blue eyes and the miserly, tight-lipped smile that never ceased to make Ara’s belly tighten.
