Unraveled (Turner #3)(40)
The runner conducted her across the water, past the cathedral and up a slope. Halfway up the hill, he turned onto a street overshadowed by trees. The bare limbs moved slightly in a breeze that brought with it only the smell of fallen leaves—no sewage, no starch. A row of houses, several stories high, rose on one side of the street. On the other was a park and a large stone building.
She had no time to explore her environs before she was ushered into the house.
She’d imagined Turner would obtain something for her along the lines of his own residence—a few rooms, perhaps smaller. But this was a lavish affair. The entry opened on a wide staircase, spiraling up two stories. A housekeeper—she introduced herself as Mrs. Tiggard—greeted Miranda, and she presented a cook and a pair of maids. She’d scarcely had a chance to get an impression of richly-papered walls and dark polished wood in the entry, before she was whisked on a tour of the house: parlor, pantry, dining room, all on the ground floor; then, up a flight of stairs, a sitting room, a morning-room, and a library. On the floor above that there was a dressing room and several bedchambers. The largest had been furnished for her.
The bed had four solid posts, and was covered in ivory linen sheets and a heavy gold coverlet. It seemed far too large for one person—or, for that matter, for two. Tonight, he’d come to her. There. Her skin tingled. Oh, God. She was really going to do this.
Before she had a chance to think matters through, however, a dressmaker was announced, along with three assistants. They’d brought with them a handful of mostly-finished gowns. Satins and silks and fine merino wools in browns and greens and blues—terribly impractical attire if one were to go walking down Temple Street. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror as they tried them on her, pinning and basting in place. It was as if she were dressing up again as a lady. This time, the charade would last not for an afternoon, but for a month. This time, she was being paid to have the gowns, instead of paying for their use.
The dressmaker clucked at the light stays she was wearing, frowned at her chemise, and sent one of her assistants out with a list of items to be purchased.
She was pinned and measured and prodded; the assistants made adjustments, and no sooner was one dress fitted than it was whisked away and another put on in its place.
A brief respite was allowed for tea in the afternoon. Miranda took the opportunity to corner one of the maids and to ask her to obtain a few items for her bedchamber. She was about to manufacture an explanation for why she needed them—a perfectly reasonable explanation, of course—when the woman simply curtsied and left.
Apparently, she didn’t need to explain herself any longer. She just needed to ask.
And her time away from the dressmaker didn’t last long. No sooner had she drained her cup than one of the assistants returned, laden with packages. Her personal maid stripped her down to her skin, and everything was tried on to test the fit—fine linen shifts and drawers and petticoats, followed by knee-high silk stockings held in place with garter-ribbons. She caught another glimpse of herself in the mirror as they fastened the corset for her. The seamstress grumbled about the fit, but it seemed finer than any of the ill-fitting secondhand garments Miranda had ever tried.
She was surrounded by feminine bustle, but she could not help but dwell on the masculine. He was going to see her like this tonight. He’d see her in far less. Tonight, he’d be the one undoing those laces. She found herself flushing.
She wasn’t finished, not even when the dressmaker departed for the evening. Miranda’s maids drew her a bath. They scrubbed her hair with something soft and floral-smelling, and dumped warm water over her when she stood. Afterward, they wrapped her in thick, warm towels and dried her hair by the fire. She had almost drifted off to sleep before they intruded again, this time to dress her in a cream-and-green striped silk gown. The smooth fabric spilled over petticoats that swished when she walked. Her clothing seemed to belong to another woman.
No, she corrected herself. Another man. Who was going to take it off—every last inch of it.
The thought should have horrified her. Instead, it sent tendrils of heat sifting through her. When she sent her maids away, she pulled out the parcel she’d had them obtain. A bit of sea sponge, a bottle of vinegar, and some silk thread. The simplest of the prophylactics she knew. Somehow, readying herself in that final way brought home the fact that she stood on the verge of something irrevocable. His body would fit where her fingers dipped. That sponge, soaked in vinegar, was lodged inside her because he was going to have her.
She could scarcely wait.
A scratch sounded at her door. She jumped to her feet, patting her skirts back into place, and rushed to open it. The maid blinked in surprise when Miranda threw it open herself; apparently, that had been the wrong thing to do, too.
But all the maid said was, “Supper is ready.”
Supper, when she’d had tea just three hours past? She could scarcely touch the soup or the meat pie or the roasted beetroot. The repast was whisked away, and Miranda was left alone in the library, with tea and a tray of small, delectable lemon cakes. They were too good not to eat, even though she was full beyond belief.
“I could grow used to this,” she remarked aloud. The books had nothing to say in response.
Easy to grow used to something when she hadn’t yet paid the price for any of it. Tonight, she’d have to surrender herself to him. If she’d had any proper sensibilities, she should have been trembling in fear. But it was distinctly not fear that had her thumbs pricking. She wandered from shelf to shelf, glancing at titles of books that she couldn’t bring herself to read, and reliving the feel of his hands on her skin, his mouth on her. She couldn’t feel the sponge inside her, but she was aware of its secret promise. Tonight. It was going to happen tonight.