Kit stared, openmouthed, but Amy was well launched on her subject.
“Soon, my nubbins go all hard and crinkly, which is a rather odd feeling. And then comes the hot flushes.”
“Hot flushes?”
“Mmm. They start in your breasts and move down.”
“Down? Down where?”
“To between your legs. And then—and this is the important bit.” Amy wagged a finger. “If you feel all hot and wet down there, then he’s the man for you. But you’ll know that anyway because all you’ll be thinking about by then is how nice it would feel if only he’d come into you.”
Aghast, Kit stared. “It sounds positively dreadful.”
“Oh, Kit.” Amy threw her a commiserating glance. “It’s not awful at all.”
“I’ll take your word for it. Thank you for warning me.”
Kit lay silent, staring at the ceiling. Her one brush with love hadn’t been anything like that. From Amy’s description, it was clear that she, Kit, had never been touched by love. Feeling as if she’d succeeded in understanding some particularly difficult point that had eluded her for years, Kit shook her head. “I can’t see myself getting hot and wet for any man. But then, I’m obviously not destined for love at all.”
“You can’t say that.”
Kit lifted a haughty brow, but Amy was not to be gainsaid.
“You can’t just decide you’re not susceptible. With the right man, you won’t be able to help yourself. It’s just because you’re…innocent of love that you say so.”
Kit’s eyes widened. “Innocent? Did I tell you I lost my innocence one fine summer evening on my Uncle Frederick’s terrace?”
Amy gaped.
Kit shook her head. “Not physically. But I found out what most men think of love that night. I grant your George may be different—there are exceptions to every rule. But I’ve learned that it’s women who fall in love and men who take advantage of our weakness. I’ve no intention of succumbing.”
“What happened on your uncle’s terrace?”
Kit grimaced. “I was eighteen. Can you remember what eighteen felt like? I suppose I’d started to get over leaving Cranmer. My uncles and aunts had already been urging me to marry. Then, miraculously, I found myself in love. Or so I thought.” Kit paused, eyes fixed on the ceiling, then she drew a deep breath. “He was beautiful—a captain of guards, tall and handsome. Lord George Belville, the second son of a duke. He said he loved me. I was so happy, Amy. I don’t think I can explain what it felt like, to have someone who really cared about me again. I was…oh—as you are now. Over the moon with joy. My aunts gave a ball, and Belville said he’d use the opportunity to ask my uncle for my hand. They disappeared into the library midway through the evening. I was so excited, I couldn’t bear not knowing what was being said. So I slipped out on the small terrace and listened outside the library windows. What I heard—” Her voice broke. She drew another breath and forged on. “All I heard was them laughing at me.”
Amy’s hand found hers amid the bedcovers; Kit barely noticed. “It was all deliberate. They’d presented me with four suitors up till then, all much older men, none particularly attractive. My aunts had decided I was too much of a romantic—tainted with the wildness of my father’s and mother’s blood was the way they put it—to accept such eminently suitable alliances. So they’d searched out Belville. He was as ambitious as they were. He was destined for some position in military affairs, something high, organized through his connections. Through our marriage, he’d get the backing of my uncles in furthering his career. They’d get his support in furthering theirs. I was the token to cement their alliance. It was all made perfectly clear while I listened. Belville spoke of how easy it had been to ensnare me.”
Kit stretched her arms out, forcing her long fingers to straighten from the claws they’d curled into. She uttered a hollow laugh. “They were so sure of themselves. When I refused Belville the next day, they couldn’t believe it.”
Abruptly, she sat up, swinging about to face Amy. “After that, I always listened to my so-called suitors’ meetings with my guardians. Most instructive. So, you see, Amy dear, while I may envy you your experience, I know how rare it is. I don’t expect love as you know it to find me. It’s had six years to do so and failed. I’ll soon be well and truly on the shelf.”
Kit saw sympathy in Amy’s brown eyes and, smiling ruefully, shook her head. “There’s no earthly point feeling sorry for me, for I don’t feel the least sorry for myself. What man do you know would allow me the freedom I presently enjoy—to go about as I please, to be myself?”
“But you don’t do anything scandalous.”
“I see no point in inviting the attentions of the gabblemongers, and I would never bring scandal to my grandfather’s name. But I recognize no restrictions beyond those. A husband would expect his wife to behave in accord with certain strictures, to be at home when he was, not riding the sands. He’d expect me to follow his dictates, have my world revolve about him, when I’d be wanting to do something quite different.”
Amy frowned. “I can understand your disillusionment, but we vowed we’d marry for love, remember?”
Kit smiled. “We’d marry for love—or not at all.”
Amy flushed, but, before she could speak, Kit went on, her tone one of acceptance: “You’re marrying for love; I’m not marrying at all.”
“Kit!”
Kit laughed. “Don’t fuss so, my dearest goose. I’m enjoying myself hugely. I promise you—I don’t need love.”
Amy held her tongue but, to her mind, love was the very thing Kit did need to make her whole.