She’d been so foolish. What she’d shared with Bram had been . . . indescribable, and she couldn’t bring herself to regret it. But to engage in it on the village green, where they had every chance of discovery? While complete pandemonium broke out nearby, putting a woman’s life at risk?
And Miss Highwood wasn’t the only one in danger. Women like Kate and Minerva . . . If Spindle Cove ceased to be a reputable place, what chance would they have to pursue their talents and enjoy the freedom of independent thought?
“Miss Finch?” Kate asked quietly, coming to sit beside her and take her hand. “Is there anything you wish to tell us? Anything at all?”
Susanna squeezed her friend’s hand and looked around the room. She was not a resentful person as a matter of course. But in that brief moment, she rather hated the world. She hated that all these bright, unconventional women were here because they’d been made to think there was something wrong with them. That they had to escape from society, just to be themselves. She hated that the slightest hint of her behavior tonight could put their safe haven at risk—assuming that tavern debacle hadn’t ruined everything anyway.
And most of all, she hated that she could not sit here with her only friends and confess to them that she’d just given her virginity to the strongest, most sensual, wonderfully tender man. That beneath her rumpled clothing, she was still flushed and damp and . . . pleasantly sticky from his attentions. That she was changed inside, still reeling from the pleasure and profundity of it all. Little echoes of bliss cinched tight in her belly, and her heart brimmed with emotion. And did they know the wicked things a man could do with his tongue?
It was so wrong, that the world forced her to keep quiet. But Susanna had long ago resigned herself to the fact that she could not single-handedly change the world. At best, she could protect her small corner of it.
Tonight, she’d failed at even that.
“On my way into the village, I had a tumble,” she said, “and my gown took the brunt of it. That’s all.” She rose from her chair, preparing to leave. “I’m going home to rest. I suggest you all do the same. I know it’s been an unusual evening, but I hope to see you all in the morning. It’s Thursday, and we do have our schedule.”
Eighteen
Mondays are country walks. Tuesdays, sea bathing. Wednesdays, you’d find us in the garden.
“And on Thursdays . . .” Bram said aloud, “they shoot.”
Of course they did.
He stood with Colin on the edge of a green, level meadow near Summerfield. The two of them watched as the assembled fragile-flower ladies of Spindle Cove donned doeskin gloves and arranged themselves in a rail-straight line, facing down a distant row of targets. Behind the women sat a long wooden table, atop which lay bows, arrows, pistols, flintlock rifles. Quite the buffet of weaponry.
At the head of the line, Susanna announced the first course. “Bows up, ladies.” She herself fitted an arrow to her bowstring and drew it back. “On three. One . . . Two . . .”
Thwack.
In unison, the ladies released arrows that flew true to their targets.
Bram craned his neck to see how Susanna’s had landed. Dead center, of course. He wasn’t surprised. At this point, very little would surprise him, where Susanna Finch was concerned. She could tell him she ran an elite espionage ring out of her morning room, and he would believe it.
The ladies walked briskly across the meadow to retrieve their arrows. Bram’s eyes were fixed on Susanna as she crossed the ground in smooth, confident strides. She moved through the tallish grass like an African gazelle, all long legs and graceful strength.
“Pistols, please,” she said, once they’d all returned. She traded her bow and arrow for a single-barreled weapon.
Each lady in line lifted a similar firearm and held it in braced, outstretched arms, staring down her respective bull’s-eye. When Susanna cocked her pistol, the others followed suit. The chorus of clicks raced down Bram’s spine.
“I find this scene wildly arousing,” Colin murmured, echoing Bram’s own thoughts. “Is that wrong?”
“If it is, I can promise you company in hell.”
His cousin made an amused sound. “And you thought we have nothing in common.”
Susanna leveled her pistol and took aim. “One . . . Two . . .”
Crack.
Neat, smoking holes appeared on each of the targets. In unison, the girls lowered their pistols and set them aside. Bram whistled low, admiring the accuracy of the ladies’ marksmanship.
“Rifles next,” Susanna called out, shouldering her own firearm. “One . . . Two . . .”
Bang.
Once again, true shots, all. One of the targets exploded with a little burst of paper, rather than the usual batting and straw. A breeze carried a scrap of it to land at Bram’s boots.
“What’s this?” Colin asked. He bent to retrieve it. “A page from some book. By a Mrs. Worthington?”
The name was oddly familiar to Bram, but he couldn’t think why.