If Fletch were kissing her now, he would kiss right up the pale part of her leg, and then higher, by her knee. She shivered a little bit, thinking about it and wrapped her arms around her chest. Which made her breasts start tingling. And then he’d kiss higher, one had to think, and then…
Of course he would kiss her breasts. She touched where he would kiss her. And then…
And by the end of another hour, the night was turning itself inside out, into a velvet shell in which her body was lying as she thought of Fletch doing this, and Fletch doing that. And finally she kept thinking about one night, when her hair hadn’t been so terrible, and Fletch had been kissing her—there.
At the time she hadn’t thought of it as kissing, but in a coarser more embarrassed sort of way. But now she remembered it as kissing, and she couldn’t help remembering, again and again, what it felt like, and how she’d almost moaned once.
And then she couldn’t help making little noises; after all, she was all alone and snug under the covers, in the great blackness of the inn and it felt as if she wasn’t herself, not Poppy. She was some other woman, one of those women Fletch used to watch in Paris.
She had lived in Paris, after all. She knew exactly how a woman looked who wasn’t a lady. The kind of purr in her voice, and the invitation in her eyes.
Poppy just never realized that she wasn’t a lady either.
It made a great deal of sense to her that at the most bewilderingly lovely moment of the night, she found herself thinking in French.
Chapter 44
Country seat of the Duke of Beaumont December 21
Charlotte was very disconcerted to find that she had arrived before her hostess. But she knew how it happened: the duchess had undoubtedly taken her time on the road, whereas Charlotte and May had found the least expensive way for her to get to the party, which involved taking the stagecoach and then hiring someone to drive her and her maid from the coaching inn to Beaumont Manor.
The butler didn’t say anything, of course. He merely bowed, and mentioned that perhaps she wouldn’t mind a quiet evening, as the other guests had not yet arrived. Charlotte put her chin up and swept past him, trying to pretend that it was the duchess’s fault for not arriving, not hers for being early.
The seat of the Duke of Beaumont was surrounded by miles and miles of formal park, from what Charlotte had seen on the way in, and the house itself was just as grand. It was so large it resembled a cathedral from the outside, at least to Charlotte’s mind. And inside the ceilings were so high one could hardly see them in the gloom and there were innumerable doors and corridors leading off here and there.
The butler was just as bad; he wore livery that was absolutely covered with red braid, and his hair rose in a stiff powdered peak above his forehead. He looked,Charlotte thought, rather like a bishop, but wearing his hair instead of a miter.
“I suppose the duchess has not assigned me a room?” Charlotte said meekly, half running to keep up with him. “I am sorry to put the house hold out.”
The butler, Mr. Blount, unbent a little and said, “Her Grace sent all her instructions ahead of time. She is most organized.”
They were walking along on the second-floor corridor when suddenly there was the most awful bellowing. Charlotte squeaked and dropped her knotting bag. It sounded like an animal was in pain, except that it was definitely a man.
The butler stopped as well. “I am most sorry for the disturbance, miss,” he said majestically. “One of the guests is less than well.”
“The Duke of Villiers?”Charlotte said, feeling her face break into a smile. “Is he here already?”