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“Princes and princesses?” They sounded droll. “Husbands and wives? I didn’t know. But I knew myself. I knew that certain girls made me feel certain things. So I gave it a try.”

“With whom?”

“Jane.”

“Which? Never mind.” She ducked her head, nestling her face against their throat. “Did you have your wicked way with her?”

“No.” They laughed. “It was only kissing. We were twelve.”

“But since then?”

“Nothing with Jane.”

There had been others, then, in London. She wondered if it was jealousy, this ache in her chest, or simply longing.

“Have you ever been in love?” She whispered it into their skin.

Their throat moved.

“I’m sorry.” She rolled away, onto her back. “It seems I’m trying to pry out all your secrets today.”

They gathered her to them, settling her head on their shoulder, hooking her leg beneath the knee and drawing it across their thighs.

“If I were to fall in love with someone, I’d rather not keep it secret.” Their hand was stroking again through her hair.

The gentle, rhythmic touch made her hazy and limp. She curved her arm around them, curled fingers tucked below their ear, knuckles grazing the lobe.

I can’t marry you.

She could hear Georgie saying it, by the fishing pond, and remembered how, even then, she’d gone dizzy and hot when they came near to her, when they slanted her that look from beneath their lashes.

She buried her face in their shoulder’s hollow. “Neither could you announce it with a banns.”

“True enough.” They were sardonic. “But if you’re wealthy, and landed, and no one has a prick, you and your love can do most anything else.”

She suspected her face was red. She was very aware, suddenly, of what she had between her own thighs, the sensitive flesh spread to accommodate the press of their hip.

“I see,” she said faintly.

“You can retire to the same bed, every night. There’s not a thief-taker who can drag you out, like at the molly house. However wicked your ways.” There was a smile in their voice as they said this last.

“The Ladies.” She was squeaking again and had to clear her throat. “The Ladies in Llangollen. The ones Miss Poskitt mentioned. You want to live like them.”

“When I’m that old, perhaps.” They gave a shrug. “I’m in no rush to rusticate. I envision a life of variety, occasion and adventure, big crowds, long voyages.”

Her face was cooling. The coarse fabric bunched beneath her cheek had begun to itch. “And your love is along with you?”

“Or I’m along with her.”

She tried not to imagine Georgie rowing a boat on a loch in the Orkneys, chattering gaily as they ferried her between cairns. They had something else in mind, of course.

Rain tapped on the roof tiles.

It was late. She was sore, beyond exhausted, incapable of teasing out her emotions. Her muscles hurt, but the feel of Georgie under her, and against her, was like a coating of honey on the nerves, dulling discomfort, tempting her with sweet urges.

“We should sleep,” she mumbled, alarmed into wakefulness by the alternate suggestion that had nearly escaped her lips. A plea for something wickeder.

“Mm.” Their chest rose and fell on a deep breath. A hand settled heavily on her leg.