Fiona threw back the covers, and stood up and stretched. A visit from Harriet Mellon required preparation, as the woman was an incessant—though entertaining—chatterbox who might dally for an hour or more. First things first: Fiona dashed into the watercloset next to the alcove, straddled the bowl and pissed, rising after several seconds with a pleasant feeling of relief. She wetted a washcloth and dashed it between her legs. Well and good. It was not as if anyone was going to sniff there.
Then she came back into the bedroom, still quite naked and lifted a corner of the napkin covering the silver basket on the tea tray to see what was beneath. Scones. Excellent. And was there jam? There was. Perhaps she could cram in a few mouthfuls before Harriet reached the bedroom and began to talk.
She broke a scone into pieces, slathered one with jam and butter, and nibbled it, pouring a hasty cup of tea and downing that next. The sound of slow footsteps reached her ears. No doubt Harriet, who was plump, was carrying Beastie, her pop–eyed spaniel, to save the spoiled dog the trouble of climbing the stairs.
Fiona reached for her silk robe upon the chair where she had left it last night, slipping it on and tying the sash firmly about her waist. She ran a brush through her sleep-tangled hair, putting it up with a few hairpins, glad she’d had a thorough bath the night before. A glance in the mirror told her that she looked presentable.
The bedroom betrayed no trace of a man’s presence, she noted with a look about into the corners. Of course, Harriet undoubtedly assumed that Fiona had a lover.
Because I always do, Fiona thought smugly. Not that one had ever mattered much more to her than another. Charming as Thomas was, it was variety that she liked more than anything else. And if all of London wanted to whisper about her, as Harriet had often hinted, let them.
Of course, dear Harriet was inquisitive to a fault. She might very well try to winkle information on the subject out of Fiona. But there was no need to name names. The simplest thing to do was get Harriet talking about her own sexual adventures, as these were often disastrous—or comical.
Her cousin’s husband served as captain on merchant ships to China, bringing back tea and fine porcelain and all manner of odd knickknacks to please his amorous wife. The Chinese were unsurpassed when it came to erotic carving, and Harriet had a remarkable collection of ivory penises, larger than life, some with testicles, some without.
One, Harriet’s favorite, a foot–long specimen with enormous bollocks, had been ingeniously fitted with a tube through the tip and a small rubber reservoir at its base that required only a slight jab from a finger to simulate the male climax.
Ned had told his wife that the thing was used to teach the fine art of fellatio to novice prostitutes—and also used to excite men who liked to watch women suck a dildo while they had a real cock jammed inside them too. And, according to him, other whores sometimes joined the fun—for an additional fee, of course—reaching from behind to tickle the happy customer’s balls as he banged away. A hard poke or two and the dildo spurted thick white sugar–water, a treat to lick up at the high point of excitement. Cries of joy all around, a few swipes with a towel, a hasty refill of the dildo, and the next man would enter the chamber of decadent pleasures for another go.
Perhaps her cousin had some new toy to show, Fiona thought with a smile. She heard Harriet arrive upon the landing and traverse the carpet that led to the door of her bedchamber. The spaniel made a gasping noise, but from the lack of a thump, Fiona assumed that it was still clutched to its mistress’s bosom. No doubt it wanted to get down, if only to preserve a few shreds of doggy dignity.
“There, there, my poor Beastie,” Harriet trilled. “I have you safe and sound. But you ought not to wheeze. You are not the one who has been climbing these damned stairs.” She stopped outside the door and knocked. “Fiona? Are you decent?”
“Yes, Harriet.” Fiona flung open the door with a welcoming smile. “How delightful to see you and Beastie!”
The spaniel let its tongue loll out and gave Fiona a pop-eyed stare while it wriggled in its mistress’s arms. Harriet held onto it, as well as a bulging reticule that was emitting a mysterious soft chime.
“What is that noise, Harriet?”
“Oh, that is my latest present—or presents, I should say, from Ned. Really quite amusing. I brought a set to give you, but all in good time. Good morning, Fiona!” She bustled in.
“Will you join me for breakfast? There are scones.”
“Oh, Beastie hates scones. Have you any bacon?”
“No.”
Harriet kissed the spaniel on its moist black nose. “Alas. No bacon, my love. But you will survive.” She set Beastie down, and he waddled over to an ottoman and squeezed himself underneath it, panting rapidly.
“I daresay he will,” Fiona said, putting her arm through her cousin’s and drawing her into the room and toward a capacious armchair. “Would you like tea, Harriet?”
“Oh, yes. I find I am extremely thirsty. Your house has far too many stairs. And too many rooms. How you must rattle about here now that you are a widow. Don’t you get lonely, Fiona?”
A leading question if ever Fiona had heard one. She smiled politely. “Not at all.”
“Then perhaps you have recovered from the shock of dear Bertie’s untimely death.”
“Bertrand drank himself into an early grave,” Fiona said matter-of-factly. “The doctor said his liver was as hard as rock. He had turned a most unattractive shade of yellow towards the end and the lowest whore would not touch him. You know as well as I do that he got his hand up every skirt that he could. I do not miss him.”
Harriet nodded. “He was not a saint, certainly.” She settled herself into the armchair with a sigh and investigated the tea tray, lifting up the napkin and poking at the still warm scones. She broke off a piece just as Fiona had done, put twice as much butter and jam on it, and ate it daintily. Then she poured out tea for both of them.
Fiona helped herself to another scone, sitting on the edge of her bed and devouring it with greedy pleasure. Never mind the crumbs. Eating in bed was yet another good thing about not having a man around the house to quibble over such things. Harriet handed Fiona a cup of tea and drank her own, her bright blue eyes sparkling as she looked over the thin rim, sipping through pouted lips.
The word for Harriet, Fiona thought absently, was…succulent. Her round body was not the height of fashion but there seemed to be no shortage of lust-crazed gentlemen ready to bury themselves in her sweet flesh when her husband was at sea.
Fiona finished her tea and glanced discreetly at the clock. Five minutes had passed between the setting down of Beastie and the taking of nourishment. Refreshed and strengthened, Harriet was sure to launch into a tale of her latest conquest within seconds. And Fiona was curious as to what was in the bag that her cousin had set upon the floor.
The clock ticked softly in the quiet room. The spaniel wheezed and then snored. Harriet set down her empty cup and swept the crumbs from her lap, looking at Fiona’s attire. “What a magnificent robe. The material is Chinese, is it not? The embroidery is very fine—wherever did you get it?”
“I believe it is an Oriental design. The robe itself is my dressmaker’s handiwork.”
“Dear Fiona, I assumed as much. One cannot simply buy such things in shops. It is splendid. You look like…an empress.”
“I am not sure that is a compliment.”
“Oh, but it is. The color suits you, my dear cousin. Or do you have a new love? Who’s put that lovely pink in your cheeks, eh?” Harriet laughed heartily.
Fiona swung a leg back and forth rather impatiently and made no answer to that question.
“I quite approve,” Harriet continued. “You must not mourn forever. You are young and may marry again.”