Olivia nodded once. “Excellent. We both require your very best in that area.” She waved a hand at Pippa. “Pippa most of all.”
That set her back. “What does that mean?”
“Only that Castleton seems the type to require guideposts along the way.” Olivia looked to the seamstress, and added, “I don’t suppose guideposts are an option?”
The Frenchwoman laughed. “I make certain they find their way.”
Guideposts. Pippa recalled her hand on Castleton’s the prior evening. The way he’d smiled down at her, and she’d felt not a twinge of temptation. Not a hint of the knowledge that she sought.
Perhaps Pippa required guideposts.
How was one to know?
“I’m not worried,” Olivia said, her eyes flashing with a knowledge beyond her years, rubied hand tracing the edge of her gown. “Tottenham has no difficulty finding his way.” Pippa felt her jaw go lax. The words called to mind thoughts of much more than kissing. Olivia looked at her and laughed. “You needn’t look so shocked.”
“You’ve—?” She lowered her voice to a bare whisper. “More than the kissing? With the tongues?”
Olivia smiled and nodded. “Last night. There was still kissing, though. And a lovely amount of tongue. In intriguing locations.” Pippa thought perhaps her eyes would roll from her head. “You did not have a similar experience, I gather?”
No!
“How? Where?”
“Well, there’s the answer to my question,” Olivia said dryly, inspecting one long lace sleeve. “I should think the ordinary way. As for when and where, you’d be surprised by how resourceful an intelligent, eager gentleman can be.”
Little Olivia, the youngest Marbury. Deflowered.
Which made Pippa the only Marbury to remain . . . flowered.
Olivia lowered her voice, and added, “I hope for your sake that Castleton discovers his resourcefulness. It’s a very rewarding experience.”
Pippa shook her head. “You—” She didn’t know what to say.
Olivia gave her a look of surprise. “Really, Pippa. It’s perfectly normal for betrothed couples to . . . experiment. Everyone does it.”
She pushed her glasses higher on her nose. “Everyone?”
“All right, apparently not everyone.”
Olivia turned back to the seamstress to discuss the line of her dress, or the cut of the fabric, or something equally inane, unaware of the thoughts rioting in Pippa’s head.
Experiment.
The word echoed through her, a reminder of her encounter with Mr. Cross. She had planned to gain a semblance of understanding prior to marriage, knowing that her interactions with her husband would be rudimentary at best.
But she’d never once imagined that Olivia would . . . that Lord Tottenham and Olivia would . . . had . . . had knowledge of each other. In the biblical sense.
Castleton had never even tried to kiss her. Not in two years of dancing around the edge of courtship. Not in a month of official courtship. Not even last night, at their betrothal ball, after she’d touched him. He’d had plenty of opportunity to ferret her away as they’d stood to one side of the room in stilted silence.
But he hadn’t.
And she hadn’t thought it at all uncommon.
Until now.
Now, when she required experimentation more than ever.
And she’d wagered away her opportunity for it. Utterly.
I will refrain from asking any other men to assist in my research.
The wager rang in her ears as though she’d spoken the words aloud, there and then. She’d wagered and lost. She’d given her word. But now, as her heart and mind raced, she found herself desperate for a solution. It was one thing, after all, for her not to have the experience she wished on her wedding night; it was another entirely for her not to have the experience she was expected to have.
She was to be married altogether too quickly. She caught her own gaze in the mirror. She was wearing her wedding gown, for heaven’s sake.
There was so little time. Research was imperative. With, or without him.
Perhaps she ought to ask Olivia.
Her gaze slid to her sister’s perfect pink smile—filled with knowledge that Pippa hadn’t before seen but could absolutely now identify.
She needed to act. Immediately.
And like that, the solution was clear.
She had to get to the Angel.
With that keen awareness rocketing through her, Pippa stared at her younger sister, beautiful in her own wedding gown, and announced, the words, not entirely false. “I am unwell.”
Olivia snapped her attention back to Pippa. “What do you mean you are unwell?”
Pippa shook her head and put a hand to her stomach. “I am feeling quite . . . unwell.” She considered the girls at her feet, working furiously, ants charging a discarded sweet at a picnic.
“But what of your gown?” Olivia shook her head.
“It’s lovely. And fine. But I must remove it.” The girls looked up in unison. “Now.”
She had research to conduct. Pressing research.
She looked to Madame Hebert. “I cannot stay. I shall have to come back. What with how unwell I feel.”