One of open curiosity on both their parts—an innocent inquisitiveness on her account, a more nuanced and experienced one on his.
He didn’t prolong the exchange; the trick to successful seduction was to hold back and let anticipation build.
Let desire bloom.
He raised his head and, when her lids lifted, saw the first faint glimmer of wanting in her lovely eyes.
Too wise to linger, to allow her time to reassemble her wits, he stepped back and raised a hand in salute.
“This time,” he said, holding her gaze, “not because I had no choice.”
She blinked, then her eyes widened even more.
He turned and strode toward the stable yard, smugly pleased to have been the cause of the starstruck look in her eyes.
The following morning, Ellen stood beside her aunt in the small haberdashery-cum-milliner’s shop in Benenden village and pretended to pay attention to the discussion raging between Emma and the little milliner, Mrs. Rollins.
Emma had dragged Ellen to the shop in search of new lace with which to refurbish Ellen’s favorite evening gown, a creation in turquoise silk that had managed to remain sequin-free. Not, however, lace-free.
The upcoming summer party at Benenden Grange gave Emma all the excuse she needed to insist on new lace. “You won’t want to appear shabby,” she’d insisted.
Ellen really didn’t care; her mother’s and aunt’s constant embellishing of her wardrobe had long ago deadened her sartorial senses. Yet she could never forget just how much love Emma had lavished on her and Robbie throughout their lives; if her aunt now wished to drape Ellen in new lace, she was entirely willing.
That said, today, Ellen’s interest in fashionable adornment was even more spurious than usual. She stood by Emma’s side, her gaze on the lace Mrs. Rollins was displaying, but her mind was far away.
The kisses of the previous night—not just the first but even more the second—were blazoned on her memory. Even now, thinking of those moments, she could feel, if not the actual physical contact, then certainly her responses to it.
Even becoming aware of the blush that rose in her cheeks wasn’t enough to stop her thinking…trying to extract every last iota of experience and understanding from the utterly unexpected and unprecedented exchanges.
Once she’d watched Christopher ride away, she’d gone up to her room and had fully expected to lie awake for the rest of the night, dwelling on those illicit moments. Instead, she’d drifted off to sleep, albeit with the phantom sensation of his lips moving on hers…
It was inexplicable, the effect those two simple kisses had had on her—and how distracting those moments continued to be. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been kissed before, multiple times.
But never like that.
Never with that degree of…connection.
She was back again, standing under the archway to the rose garden, captured and held purely by the touch of his lips on hers…
“Ellen? Stop woolgathering, dear. What do you think of this pattern?”
She blinked and, with considerable effort, shook off the continuing distraction and refocused to see Emma holding up a swatch of delicate lace.
“It’s peonies, see?” Emma went on. “It will be just the thing to brighten up your turquoise silk.”
Ellen had to admit the lace looked both unusual and very fine. She reached out and ran her fingertips down the edge of the length; the smoothness confirmed the lace was of extremely high quality.
Surprisingly high quality, given they were standing in a small village shop.
“It is very beautiful.” She caught Mrs. Rollins’s eye and smiled. “The quality is impressive—I admit I wouldn’t have expected to find such lace in the Weald of Kent.”
Mrs. Rollins took the compliment as it was intended and preened. “My husband fetches it from London,” she confided. “He travels there every few weeks to fetch goods from the warehouses, and over the past months, he’s occasionally been able to lay his hands on this lovely lace.”
Eyeing Ellen, then Emma, shrewdly, Mrs. Rollins leaned forward and said, “I’ve been warning my ladies that I can’t say how long the supply will last—not of this quality at this price.”
“What is the price?” Emma inquired.
When Mrs. Rollins named her figure, Ellen blinked. “That really is…an excellent price.”
In truth, it was ridiculously cheap. Ellen didn’t need to tell Emma so; they were both accustomed to London prices, and this was barely half of what they would have expected to pay for lace of such exceptional quality.
While Emma discussed lengths and completed their purchase, Ellen looked at the other laces displayed. Only a few were of similar quality, but judging by the prices inked in tiny figures on the reverse of the boards on which each type of lace was wound, those lengths were also being sold at bargain prices.
How odd.
In London, lace of such quality would command a premium price. Ellen found it curious that Mr. Rollins had managed to buy such lace from a London warehouse so cheaply.
Emma tucked the package of lace into the basket on her arm, and with smiles all around and a hope expressed by Mrs. Rollins that she would see Ellen and Emma again soon, Ellen followed Emma out into the village street.
As they walked toward the Bull Inn, where they’d left the gig, Emma leaned close and whispered, “That would have cost so much more in London.”
“Indeed.” Ellen could only conclude that the London lace sellers were making a very much greater profit than Mrs. Rollins was.
That said, Ellen was woefully aware she had very little head for business. It was assuredly not her strong suit. Even after months of dealing with the estate accounts, she still struggled every week to make her numbers add up and, even then, was usually successful only after the intervention of Hopper or Mr. Vickers.
As they neared the inn, she shrugged aside the mystery of the Rollinses’ cheap lace and, refusing to indulge in further contemplation of anyone’s kisses, determinedly turned her mind to the more pressing issue it was doubtless her duty to help resolve—that of the criminal and potentially treasonous goings-on at Goffard Hall.
At the end of the service on Sunday morning, Christopher walked with the rest of the congregation up the long nave of the village church.
He’d been baptized at St. George’s, and despite his years in London, whenever he was in residence at the manor, he made a point of attending Sunday service.
Today he’d had an additional motive in sitting through the sermon; he’d remembered Ellen’s comment that Kirkpatrick and his daughter frequently joined the congregation.
Christopher finally gained the porch.
Reverend Thornley—tall, thin, with tufts of white hair circling his bald pate—was, as always, pleased to see him. He shook Christopher’s hand with obvious pleasure. “Good to see you, my boy. Have you heard from your parents yet?”
Christopher smiled. “Not yet. I imagine they’re rather busy.”
“And they know the manor is in good hands, I’m sure!” The good reverend asked about Gregory and, after Christopher confirmed his brother hadn’t yet returned to Kent, consented to let Christopher go.
A quick scan of those gathered on the lawn revealed Ellen, her aunt, and her brother chatting to a local couple, the Cummingses; Christopher stepped off the porch and headed in their direction.