The Suffragette Scandal

Her tone was light and…and…

And no, oh no, Amanda was not going to even think of what else it was. Unbidden, though, the word whispered in her mind.

Flirtatious.

It was almost flirtatious, and Amanda had been trying her best to see everything Genevieve did in the light of friendship, not flirtation. It wasn’t working so well any longer.

“That would be very nice.” That sounded rather too stiff.

Genevieve reached out and set her hand on Amanda’s knee. It was a light, gentle touch. A friendly touch. That’s all it could be. “Good. Then that’s settled. I should like to see more of you.”

Amanda’s mouth had gone dry. And Genevieve’s hand didn’t move. It rested there, poised on her leg. “Yes,” Amanda said awkwardly. “I’d like to see…more of you, too.” That pause made her sentence sound like a double entendre. Which it was. Mostly unintentionally done, on her part. She felt her face flush violently.

And then Genevieve moved her hand up a few inches—a distance so meaningless to her, so burningly painful for Amanda. That inch transformed the place her hand rested from the knee to the thigh.

If Genevieve had been at Girton College with Amanda, among women who regularly whispered of such things, Amanda would have known precisely how to take that hand. She’d have taken it in her own and kissed it.

But Genevieve had gone to an elite, proper finishing school. She’d spent all her time in polite society with ladies who were…well, ladies. The possibility that Amanda might have been burning with unrequited lust quite likely did not occur to her.

“Do you think,” Genevieve said, “that you might ever want to stay with me while you’re in town?”

Amanda jumped up, pulling away from the heaven of Genevieve’s touch.

“No!” Her voice was a high-pitched squawk. “No, I do not think that is a good idea. You’re very sweet. And a good friend—a wonderful friend. But you’re so…ah…”

Genevieve sat in place, a faint blush on her cheeks.

“So innocent,” Amanda finished.

Genevieve snorted. “I’ve spent the last ten years as social secretary to Mrs. Marshall, who runs a hospital and a charity on medical ethics. What about that position makes you think that I’m innocent?”

Amanda swallowed. “I don’t mean innocent innocent. I just mean… That…” She swallowed. “Not all women are alike. Some of us don’t wish to marry because we want other things from life.”

Genevieve stood and came toward her. “I haven’t married,” she said. “I want other things from life.”

“Different other things,” Amanda muttered.

“I try to dress demurely and speak politely.” Genevieve was coming close—too close. “I don’t do those things, Amanda, because I’m too innocent.”

She stood so close that Amanda could see that her skin wasn’t really perfect. She had faint freckles on her nose—three adorable, kissable freckles.

“I do them,” Genevieve said, “because you have to pretend to be proper on the outside when you aren’t. When you want different other things.”

Oh, God.

It was too much. She’d been trying not to see Genevieve in this light for months now—trying and failing. She’d never failed so badly as she did now. She’d never hoped as painfully as this, either. Her heart was racing.

“You see,” Genevieve said, “I’ve always admired you. But these last months—listening to you talk of Parliament, watching you slowly gain confidence as you returned to society. I’ve found myself admiring you more. And more. And hoping that maybe…you might admire me, too.”

There was no mistaking her meaning now. Not when Genevieve took Amanda’s hand in her own and pressed it to her heart.

Amanda swallowed. “How did you know what you wanted? I didn’t truly understand it myself—not until Girton, until someone else explained.”

Genevieve simply looked at her. “I understood,” she said, “because I met you.”

Amanda felt all aflutter—foolish and happy, giggly and alight.

“I met you,” Genevieve said, “and suddenly everything my sister had ever said to me about her husband—it all made sense.”

Amanda couldn’t help herself. She reached out and cupped Genevieve’s cheek, running her thumb along those freckles on her nose.

“So let me repeat my question,” Genevieve said. “I know that I do my best to be proper. But do you think there’s a chance that you might want to be improper with me?”

Amanda’s thumb found Genevieve’s lips—pale pink, so perfectly sweet. She swept her fingers over them. Genevieve’s lips parted.

Amanda leaned down. “I’m mad for you.”

Genevieve smiled, looking up. Amanda could feel her breath against her lips, warm and sweet.

“Good,” Genevieve breathed.

Their lips met. Genevieve dropped her hand, but only so she could bring her arms around her. And all Amanda’s last fears came to a thundering, crashing, delicious halt.

“Good,” Genevieve murmured against her lips once again. “I’m mad for you, too.”

THE CARRIAGE ROBERT HAD HIRED from the station pulled up to a stop in front of Free’s parents’ house.

“Well then,” Robert said. “Shall I wait here?”

It was ridiculous. Free was a grown woman. She ran her own business, managed fourteen full-time employees and many more writers. And right now, she wanted nothing more than to go home and curl up in her mother’s arms.

But now was not the time for that. She turned to Robert. “Come in,” she said simply. “And thank you for last night and this morning. I feel…”

Not better, not by a long ways. But she felt more at peace.

Robert and Minnie had given her a long explanation of how they spent their time. Minnie had stayed awake with her until one in the morning. Minnie had her own set of difficulties: She felt anxious in crowds and being a duchess hadn’t cured that. So they’d adapted. They had made it work.

Free didn’t want to be a viscountess, but it was rather too late for that now, though. The only questions were what sort of viscountess she wanted to be…and how she would get on with her viscount.

Robert was watching her, wondering how she would end her sentence.

“I feel more important,” she said.

He turned his head away and smiled—a shy smile, as if he were actually embarrassed by her gratitude. “You’re welcome, Your Fierceness.”