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“Montmartre is quite unruly in the evenings. I could take you there in the afternoon next week.” At least Cora had the decency to look away when she said it.
The disappointment she was feeling was her own fault. She’d convinced herself that those kind gestures from Cora meant more than they did. That maybe their constant proximity would lead to something more. Then Cora would make a comment about the land and she’d be reminded this was nothing but business for the duchess.
Why couldn’t she be happy with what she could have? Why couldn’t it be enough to see Paris with Cora? Why did she have to want the woman, too? She turned to look at the duchess, elegant and regal in her burgundy suit. Her eyes downcast, so careful not to touch Manuela, not even a graze of the hands.
Manuela was woman enough to admit she’d made some tactical errors in her negotiations. She should’ve been more specific about the places she wanted to go. But how was she to know when she’d made the request to be taken into Cora’s world that it would be so incredibly dull?
She knew she was being unfair. Some of it—a lot of it—had been gratifying and wonderful, but it was all so tame. Manuela wanted to misbehave...with Cora, preferably in a bed. She was going absolutely mad with want, and she suspected that all these deathly boring excursions to lectures and recitals were the duchess’s way of keeping them both from lapsing.
Every time Manuela asked her about an evening in Montmartre or Pigalle or requested to be taken back to Le Bureau, Cora dissembled into some tangent about edifying events and essential sapphic experiences. As far as Manuela was concerned, nothing could be moreessentialthan experiencing extremely sapphic intercourse. She had no intention of wasting the weeks she had remaining taking in more harp concerts in drawings rooms full of bores. She intended to be knee-deep in immorality of the lesbian sort that very evening, and if Cora Kempf Bristol refused to take part in it, she’d take matters into her own hands.
“Thank you for another illuminating evening, Your Grace,” she said, a little tersely, gathering her skirts to descend from the carriage—what a waste. The small, dark space, with its plush padded walls and the enticing scent of leather, was the ideal place for a tryst. Cora was, as usual, seated as far away from Manuela as possible. The frustrating woman wedged herself into the corner of the conveyance so tightly she wondered if the footman had to pry her out.
Manuela had lost count of the times in the last weeks she’d fantasized of Cora reaching for her and pulling her onto her lap then kissing her hungrily. Of mouths and bodies fused together while they traveled the crowded Parisian roads.
Unfortunately, the ravishing she so desperately yearned for continued to occur exclusively in her mind. Why would a person live in Paris if they were so attached to discipline?
What would happen if she leaned over and kissed her?
Nothing. Absolutely nothing. The moment Manuela made an attempt, the duchess would remind her what they’d agreed on and send her on her way, then punish her by subjecting her to some other dreadfully bland evening.
Cora Kempf Bristol’s self-control was proving to be a mighty foe. For Manuela to win this battle, she would have to engage a different set of skills than those she’d utilized thus far. The time for a more forceful tactic had arrived. She might as well begin now.
“Oh dear.” Her hand went to her chest.
“What’s the matter?” Cora asked, with a promising amount of concern in her voice. This was the most frustrating aspect of their situation: the attentiveness, the protective manner Cora had when it came to Manuela. She was so excruciatingly considerate, yet so maddeningly chaste. Manuela intended to test the walls of that fortress tonight untilsomethingbroke.
“I just recalled I may have plans this evening that will keep me out of bed until a very late hour.” She didn’t have any such thing, but she knew exactly where to find the kind of diversion she wanted. If the duchess would not take her, she would take herself.
“Plans?” the duchess asked stiffly. That fluttering in her jaw made an appearance as well. Things were progressing nicely already.
“That’s correct,” Manuela confirmed as she descended the steps of the carriage on the street in front of her house. She looked over her shoulder and was delighted to find a very deep frown and unhappy violet eyes staring at her.
“You’re going out with someone else?”
Manuela nodded, demurely, making sure she widened her eyes for the full innocent-damsel effect. “This won’t affect our arrangement. But I am afraid that an early horseback ride may be too straining,” Manuela advised the duchess, and for a second, Cora seemed almost confused. Like she’d forgotten what it was that they were doing. Like she’d forgotten about the land. And then, as always, the mask fell with its full force. Her mouth flattened, and she leaned back into the carriage, her eyes trained straight ahead.
“I hope you have a pleasant rest of your evening, Manuela.”
For a long moment Manuela watched with fascination as Cora’s usual impassiveness shifted into something that looked a lot like despondency, even as she fought to appear indifferent. It was there in the strain around her eyes, the pinched set to her mouth. This was a woman holding onto her control by sheer force. But she was too damned stubborn to ask Manuela not to go off on her own.
Yes, she was besotted with the woman, absolutely infatuated with her. And the time had come to force the duchess’s hand. So help her, Manuela had gone to her last mind-numbing recital.
“Have a lovely evening, Your Grace.” Manuela fluttered her gloved hand in goodbye. Cora turned then and for a second their gazes met. She let the Duchess of Sundridge see what she could have if she would just come and take it. The duchess looked away first.
Satisfied, she stepped onto the sidewalk, and for good measure as the carriage pulled away Manuela happily called out, “Thank you for another invigorating afternoon of art and conversation”—tepid, lifeless, desperately sluggish conversation—before running into the house.
“Aurora,” she yelled the moment she walked inside. Luz Alana and her earl had parted to Scotland two days earlier with the plan to elope to his country estate. Their friend had taken her younger sister and Amaranta with her, and Manuela and Aurora were supposed to join her there in ten days’ time. Until then they were free in Paris without a chaperone, and Manuela did not intend to spend any more of it bored to tears.
“Why in the world are you shouting, Manuela?” Aurora appeared at the top of the stairs in her usually exasperated state.
“I don’t have time for your moods, Aurora,” she shot back as she mounted the stairs. “We must ready ourselves for an evening of perdition and immorality in Montmartre.”
“Absolutely not. I’m planning to visit a maternity ward this evening.” Her friend crossed her arms tightly across her chest, narrowed eyes skewering Manuela. “Weren’t you just out with the duchess? Why do I need to be involved in your moral descent?”
“I don’t want to talk about the duchess,” Manuela said with a stomp of her foot. Aurora’s eyes narrowed further. “It is incredibly frustrating to have, for the first time in our lives, two weeks unchaperoned and you choosing to squander it by spending all your time in hospitals, Aurora.”
“First of all,” Aurora began, fully projecting her medical-lecture voice, “spending time in hospitals is what I am here to do, Manuela.” Aurora’s hand shot up with two fingers in the air. “Second, the only reason we even need a chaperone is because your mother can’t trust you.”
