Mm. This feels nice.
For a reason she couldn’t fathom, Lord Grayson’s face suddenly flashed in her mind, but she didn’t cease her gyrating motion upon the mattress. In fact, she moved faster and faster, as the delicious throbbing in her privates deepened.
She flushed and stared at the closed door, fearing someone—particularly Miss Wickersham—would walk in on her at any moment. She wanted to lift up her skirts and touch her kitty, but she hesitated.
No. Be a good girl. Be a good girl so you can still marry Lord Kensington.
She took a deep breath and pulled out Cammie’s letter again. Perhaps if she read it over and over, it might start to make more sense. But no matter how many times she reread the missive, she didn’t quite understand. Nor did she understand the dampness that was now rubbing between her thighs as she resumed squirming around on the bed, pressing her thighs together even tighter. She also didn’t comprehend why the aching increased whenever she thought of the handsome yet frustrating Lord Grayson. She folded the confusing letter up again and returned it to her pocket, but didn’t cease her unladylike movements upon the bed.
The mattress gave a loud squeak, and it was at that moment the door was flung open.
Cynny froze. Miss Wickersham stood in the doorway, eyeing her with suspicion.
“What are you doing in here all by yourself? You are supposed to be helping Cook.”
“I finished helping Cook early,” she said, trying her best to look innocent, as if she hadn’t just been wiggling around on her mattress in an effort to make her kitty feel oh so good.
“I heard noises. You weren’t jumping on your bed, were you?” Miss Wickersham crossed her arms, appearing quite stern.
Cynny’s tummy clenched, along with her bottom cheeks. Her last punishment at the headmistress’s hands remained fresh in her mind. “I just sat down very quickly and the mattress gave a squeak. I swear I wasn’t jumping.” She folded her hands in her lap, attempting to look prim and proper, ever aware that the stolen watch was in the pocket of her dress, along with Cammie’s odd letter. Talk about contraband. If Miss Wickersham decided to question her longer, or search her—which happened occasionally when things went missing around Talcott House—Cynny was doomed beyond all measure.
“Miss Wickersham! Miss Wickersham!” Garland rushed up to the headmistress. “You must come quick! Daisy said a naughty word, and when I tried to escort her to your study, she ran off into the gardens and now I can’t find her.”
“What word did she say?”
Garland whispered something in Miss Wickersham’s ear that had the older woman’s eyes bugging out of her head. Cynny wasn’t surprised, as the few naughty words she knew, she had learned from Daisy. But she was smart enough not to repeat them in the presence of Garland or any of the other caretakers in Talcott House.
Both women rushed off, leaving Cynny alone.
Poor Daisy. Cynny hoped Miss Wickersham wasn’t too strict with her, though she supposed hiding from a caretaker in the gardens was a bit more mischievous than simply uttering a naughty word. A sympathetic quiver raced across Cynny’s bottom as she imagined the kind of trouble her friend had landed herself in, but she couldn’t help but feel a bit smug that she wasn’t the one headed to Miss Wickersham’s study for a change. She also felt grateful to her friend for unknowingly saving her from further questioning by Miss Wickersham.
Cynny stuck her hand in her pocket, caressing the letter and the pocket watch.
No more squirming and no more thinking about touching her kitty, she resolved. She would endeavor to be pure in thought and deed until her wedding tomorrow. And then she would finally have a papa and she would henceforth be known as Lady Kensington.
It seemed almost too good to be true.
Chapter 6
Bloody hell, Grayson. You look like something a stable boy scrapes off his boots.”
Unlike earlier in the evening, Grayson was not pleased to see Lord Caldwell. After the fiasco at the ball, he had retreated to the sanctuary of his club where he had taken full advantage of his membership status to imbibe in copious amounts of alcohol. Perkins, the club steward, had made the ill-fated suggestion that perhaps Lord Grayson would like to retire to one of the guest rooms above stairs in order to rest.
And now, not only had the help taken notice of his smashed state, but his friend Lord Caldwell had arrived to witness his misery. Grayson’s appreciation for Caldwell’s convivial nature evaporated and he scowled up at him. “Leave me alone, Caldwell.”
“Not bloody likely.” Caldwell pulled a seat up nearer to Grayson and peered at his face. “You need a bath and some rest, mate. What has gotten into you? You caused quite a stir at the ball.”
Grayson’s head pounded and he scrubbed his hands over his face. “I have made a mess of things, it would appear.”
“You have given the ladies something to chatter about, certainly, but I believe your reputation is quite safe...as long as you are not seen in public in your current state. Honestly, Grayson. What were you thinking? Is it true you asked Miss Venture about a street gang?”
Grayson leapt from his seat as fast as a man with a banger of a headache could and paced across the plush carpet and back again, arms pumping at his sides in agitation.
“I do not know what has happened to me,” he said, tamping down the panic—or was that his dinner—rising inside him. “What the blazes was I thinking? I had never spoken to the young woman before and the first thing out of my mouth was to ask her about a street gang? Not the weather or a compliment to her gown? Have I lost my bloody mind?”
“You would not be the first gentleman to lose his concentration in the presence of a comely young lady, Grayson,” his friend generously pointed out. “Though I must admit, it seems quite uncharacteristic for you.”
“Exactly!” Grayson said and continued his pacing. Perkins arrived bearing a pot of tea on a tray which he sat upon a table and commenced preparing a cup for the agitated lord. Without even asking, he simply put the cup in Grayson’s hand the next time he held still long enough for the act to be completed. Once the hot liquid hit his throat, Grayson was grateful and felt a mite bad over his poor treatment of the steward a few minutes prior.
“A street gang? Named The Weasels? Are you daft, man? Did you make the entire thing up?” Caldwell shook his head. “No, never mind. Whether it is fact or fiction, the question is, why did you say it at all?”
Grayson finished his tea and held the cup out for a refill. He was grateful for the late hour, even by the standards of White’s, which meant only Caldwell, Perkins and a couple of servants were privy to the spectacle his complete discomposure created. He was this far in, he might as well share all.
“I-I met a girl, a young lady, recently. A most unusual young lady with hair like spun gold and the disposition of an angel. Yet, she told me the most outrageous tale of being part of a street gang called The Weasels.”