The Secret Duchess by Jane Walsh

Author:Jane Walsh [Walsh, Jane]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bold Strokes Books
Published: 2024-01-02T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seventeen

Have you never heard of such a thing as a woman desiring another woman?” Maeve asked, struggling to keep her voice even. She lost all pleasure in the picnic. The foie gras could have been ash in her mouth, and she tipped the remainder of her luncheon to the grass for Maurice.

She had experienced this sort of reaction before. It never got easier to expose herself after facing rejection or revulsion. But she had hoped to trust Joan. In her loneliness, she had leapt too fast, hoping too much for intimacy.

For Maeve wished nothing more than to unravel all of her mysteries and reveal plain Joan before her. She wished to learn her secrets and her worries and to kiss the furrows from her brow. She wished to hear all the details of her life in London.

Most importantly, she wished to show her that widowhood could have its distractions.

If only she would allow them.

Joan was intriguing and pensive and hesitant, and yet there was genuine interest in her eyes for those around her. She listened, and she was kind.

She was marvelous.

Joan finally met her eyes again, her cheeks still pink. “The concept is not unfamiliar to me.”

Maeve felt a glimmer of hope in her heart.

“But I confess I have not given it a second thought since my youth.”

The hope died. “Pray do not give it one now if such a notion disturbs you.”

A clamor erupted behind them, and for an instant Maeve thought the bowels of hell had broken loose at her confession. But it was merely the clatter of horseshoes striking the old Roman road, and a gentleman who grinned at them and shouted out a halloo as he sped past.

Joan grabbed her arm. “Was that man staring at us?”

“Why would it matter if he was? Do you think two ladies cannot have an innocent time together without someone thinking ill of it?” Maeve shrugged her arm from under Joan’s hand.

“It’s not that. It’s—well. I worry that people may be talking about me.”

“Whyever would they?”

She hesitated. “I know word must travel in a small town and I have not been terribly friendly to anyone.”

“People think you are reclusive, but they are merely curious about you.” Maeve gentled her tone, for Joan looked afraid.

She seemed to be struggling to say something. “What else do people say about me?” she asked, her voice hardly above a whisper.

“Many have asked me about you, knowing that I live in your house. Do not worry, I have not said much. I am no teller of tales! Not of the scandalous sort, at least. I may have mentioned a fact or two, but no gossip. The general consensus is that you must be very proud as you have not received a single caller, not even from the reverend. They respect that you have mourned so deeply for your captain, who they believe died a hero.” She gazed at Joan. “Are you not more curious what I may say about you?”

The worry eased from Joan’s face.

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