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Ara couldn’t stop herself if she tried. She flung her arms around Margot’s unyielding body until she felt her soften in her embrace. “You are the strongest, bravest, kindest, most astonishing soul I know.”
“You would be the first to think so.” Margot gave a brittle laugh. “There were people aplenty who hated me, too. But I was always careful to only cut those who deserved it. A boat can only rise upon a rising tide if it is not fraught with holes from within. Women are too divided as it is without the caprices of men tearing us apart.”
Ara just held her in silence. There were no words that could erase Margot’s past, and despite all her secrets, Ara wanted her just as she was. The problem was that Margot had to accept herself first. She might have respected the woman she’d become in the name of surviving a cruel husband, but respect wasn’t love.
Eventually, it was no surprise when Margot’s body stiffened and she cleared her throat. “It’s late,” she said faintly. “I should go.”
Ara closed her eyes, feeling the woman in her arms shut herself away with every passing heartbeat. Her self-preservation instincts were simply too strong, too ingrained. “Stay.”
“I can’t.” She turned to kiss Ara’s cheek. “But I’ll see you soon.”
That particular battle had already been lost, long before Ara had even come into the picture. The meticulous and ever controlled Marchioness of Waverly bent for no one.
“Oh good Lord, Margot, you must help me!” Honoria shrieked, the high-pitched exclamation nearly making Margot clap her hands to her ears. “Honestly, are you just going to sit there and say nothing?”
Why yes, she was.
She’d tuned out her best friend’s whining and grumbling for the better part of the last hour. Apparently, from the gist of it, one of Honoria’s talented art protégés had up and absconded to Venice, leaving her high and dry for an upcoming show. Margot couldn’t understand the dilemma. Artists were a dime a dozen in Honoria’s circles. “So hire another. It’s not that difficult. Everyone clamors to be shown at your gallery.”
Honoria threw a dramatic hand to her chest. “I cannot hire someone with such short notice. No one has any pieces worth of showing the prince, for God’s sake.” If her voice rose anymore, she’d crack windows. Margot blinked. The prince? “Yes, in answer to your obvious question, Bertie will be putting in an appearance. So clearly, I cannot just have any artist off the street. Do be helpful, Margot.”
“Do you have any old pieces you can reuse from previous exhibitions? Perhaps borrow from the Royal Academy of Arts?”
Honoria gasped in horror and expelled a loud, disdainful groan. “You know how they are. Conventional, boring, and tight-arsed. My gallery focuses on including new artists, especially women, and applauding concept, color, and composition. Those myopic rotters would laud it over me for years to come. No, thank you. What a pity that Miss Vaughn had to go to Paris. Is she back yet, do you know?”
Margot sucked in a breath at the name and instantly quelled the visceral effect it had on her. “How should I know? I am not her keeper.”
Shooting her a cynical look, Honoria flung herself into a chair with all the dramatics of a professional thespian. “I don’t know how you can be so bloody unmoved. My life as a progressive, groundbreaking gallery owner is positively over.”
Margot stifled her scoff of amusement as Honoria proceeded to go into a diatribe of the dearth of acceptable substitutes, the single-minded bias of the Royal Academy, and the fact that her poor independent gallery’s reputation would be forever tarnished. As much as Margot adored her best friend, she was truly histrionic sometimes and when Honoria got into moods like these, it was best to simply let her fickle temper run its course. A solution would eventually turn up and she would once more be all smiles.
While nodding at the appropriate intervals, Margot allowed her thoughts to run to more pleasurable things. Namely, one nubile artist in particular. She felt her stomach dip at the way Ara had pressed her up against the wall and taken her so thoroughly that her body had been deliciously sore for days afterward. She covertly touched the pad of a finger to her own lips, recalling those passionate kisses and how easily she’d fallen to pieces under Ara’s sensual ministrations.
Now there was a lover who could use her tongue.
Flushing, Margot bit her lip and wondered if she’d have time to rush down to Covent Garden before the infernal opera she’d committed to attending that very evening. It would be convenient, considering Ara’s proximity to the opera house. A rush filled her veins at the thought of seeing her after nearly a week apart.
Six days ago, a message had arrived at Waverly House, the penmanship so whimsical and quirky that Margot had stared at it for a full minute before reading the correspondence. Ara had taken a short trip to Calais with Sandrine to visit her friend’s ailing mother and had been due to return yesterday. While the thought of her with her former lover was not pleasant, Margot could not begrudge her for helping a friend in need. Ara was kind to a fault, and that was one of the things Margot admired about her.
Perhaps Margot could surprise her. Her brain was running wild with a slew of heart-palpitating fantasies, each one hotter than the last, and she was in quite a state when she realized that Honoria was practically bellowing her name.
“I beg your pardon?” Margot said, mortified at being caught daydreaming about seducing her lover of all things. Clearly, Ara was a distraction…a scintillating distraction who consumed all her thoughts to the point where she couldn’t focus. That would not do.
“For God’s sake, Margot!” Honoria chided. “What do you think? It’s a good idea, no?” An overzealous, worried green stare narrowed on her. “Why are your cheeks so red? Are you ill?”
“No, I’m just a bit hot,” she replied quickly and tried to pick through the bits and pieces she’d gleaned in passing. Something about restructuring and possibly including some familiar pieces from earlier shows. “Yes, of course. Inspirational idea as always. You always have the best ones.”
“You’re certain?” Honoria said, a tiny frown marring the unblemished skin of her brow. “You’re not just saying that because you’re my best friend and you don’t want me to look like a complete ass in front of the prince and the Royal Academy?”
Margot sniffed and lifted her brow in a supercilious expression that tended to put an end to all discussions. “I think it’s a marvelous idea, and of course, I support you in any way that I can. What are best friends for?”
Honoria brightened and clapped her hands. “Well, then that’s that then. Crisis averted.” All smiles again, she flounced over and pressed two kisses on each cheek before glancing at the clock and letting out a shriek. “Goodness, I’m late for my dress fitting. I am ever so sorry to rush off like this. Will I see you tonight at the opera?”
“Yes,” Margot said, waving her away with a laugh.
“I adore you, you know!”
Margot rolled her eyes. “I adore you, too.”
