heaved a sigh of relief as the door closed. 'It doesn't look as though she was missed.' She leaned on Walter's arm as they walked on towards home. 'Let's hope it's that easy for me.'
'I wouldn't worry on that score, miss. Bertha trusts me to bring you home safely, and she thinks that Gostellow is a gentleman.'
She was quick to hear the note of disapproval in his voice. 'That's not fair, Walter. Harry is a gentleman. He just had a little drop too much champagne and he was cross with . . .' She broke off in mid-sentence. She had almost mentioned the fascinating man who called himself 'Pirate', but that would never do. Neither Walter nor her papa would understand, or approve. She bit her lip, hoping that he had not noticed, or at least would not question her. 'You go on, Walter,' she said, as they reached the door to her house. 'I'm quite safe now.'
'I'll just see you inside, miss.'
She hesitated with the latchkey in her hand. 'I really do appreciate what you've done for me tonight, Walter. And I'm so sorry that Harry was rude to you.'
His back was to the street light and the glass of his spectacles was acting like a mirror – all she could see in them was her own anxious face.
'It's quite all right, miss. No harm done.'
'You are a good friend to me, Walter.'
'I hope so, miss.'
She turned the key in the lock and the door groaned on its hinges. She stifled a giggle as she stepped inside. 'I hope Bebe didn't hear that.'
Walter stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the light. 'I'll see you in the morning.'
'It is the morning.'
'Then I'll see you later, miss.'
As he turned to go, Rosina was awash with guilt. Dear, solid, dependable Walter. She called his name and he stopped, turned to look at her. 'Miss?'
She flung her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. 'Thank you, dear Walter.'
She closed her eyes. For a wonderful, intoxicating moment, she could smell spices, lemons and above all, Indian ink. She dropped her hands to her sides and took a step backwards. Of course she could smell Indian ink – it clung to Walter like a London particular. He spent half his life writing in dreary old ledgers and account books. If he cut himself, he probably bled black ink. The smell had fooled her tired brain into linking it with the man she had only met a few hours ago, and with whom she had fallen desperately in love.
'Goodnight, Walter.' She closed the door and locked it.
She went into the kitchen, and taking a spill from the jar on the mantelshelf she stuck it in the glowing embers of the fire, watching the tip turn red and then burst into flame. She lit a candle and tossed the spill into the fire. What a night it had been – her head spun with the sights, sounds and the memory of a man's arms holding her as they danced. She crept upstairs to her room and slipped off her dress, letting it fall to the ground in a heap of crumpled muslin. She stepped out of it and unlaced her stays, tossing them onto the chintz-covered chair on which her doll, Dorcas, sat with her frilled skirts spread out around her and her dark, painted eyes staring blindly into space. Taking off her undergarments, Rosina stood in the flickering candlelight, staring at her reflection in the cheval mirror that had once belonged to her mother. She ran her hands lightly over her breasts and down the smooth curve of her belly to her thighs. Suddenly her body, which had never been of much interest to her in the past, became a mysterious entity filled with strange sensations and longings for which she had no name. She closed her eyes and her head was filled with the image of a handsome man wearing a mask; she could recall every second of their brief time together. She parted her lips and she could taste his kiss. She opened her eyes and realised that she was blushing. Her whole body was tinged with pink at the wild thoughts running through her head.
Rosina snatched up her cotton lawn nightgown and
'I wouldn't worry on that score, miss. Bertha trusts me to bring you home safely, and she thinks that Gostellow is a gentleman.'
She was quick to hear the note of disapproval in his voice. 'That's not fair, Walter. Harry is a gentleman. He just had a little drop too much champagne and he was cross with . . .' She broke off in mid-sentence. She had almost mentioned the fascinating man who called himself 'Pirate', but that would never do. Neither Walter nor her papa would understand, or approve. She bit her lip, hoping that he had not noticed, or at least would not question her. 'You go on, Walter,' she said, as they reached the door to her house. 'I'm quite safe now.'
'I'll just see you inside, miss.'
She hesitated with the latchkey in her hand. 'I really do appreciate what you've done for me tonight, Walter. And I'm so sorry that Harry was rude to you.'
His back was to the street light and the glass of his spectacles was acting like a mirror – all she could see in them was her own anxious face.
'It's quite all right, miss. No harm done.'
'You are a good friend to me, Walter.'
'I hope so, miss.'
She turned the key in the lock and the door groaned on its hinges. She stifled a giggle as she stepped inside. 'I hope Bebe didn't hear that.'
Walter stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the light. 'I'll see you in the morning.'
'It is the morning.'
'Then I'll see you later, miss.'
As he turned to go, Rosina was awash with guilt. Dear, solid, dependable Walter. She called his name and he stopped, turned to look at her. 'Miss?'
She flung her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. 'Thank you, dear Walter.'
She closed her eyes. For a wonderful, intoxicating moment, she could smell spices, lemons and above all, Indian ink. She dropped her hands to her sides and took a step backwards. Of course she could smell Indian ink – it clung to Walter like a London particular. He spent half his life writing in dreary old ledgers and account books. If he cut himself, he probably bled black ink. The smell had fooled her tired brain into linking it with the man she had only met a few hours ago, and with whom she had fallen desperately in love.
'Goodnight, Walter.' She closed the door and locked it.
She went into the kitchen, and taking a spill from the jar on the mantelshelf she stuck it in the glowing embers of the fire, watching the tip turn red and then burst into flame. She lit a candle and tossed the spill into the fire. What a night it had been – her head spun with the sights, sounds and the memory of a man's arms holding her as they danced. She crept upstairs to her room and slipped off her dress, letting it fall to the ground in a heap of crumpled muslin. She stepped out of it and unlaced her stays, tossing them onto the chintz-covered chair on which her doll, Dorcas, sat with her frilled skirts spread out around her and her dark, painted eyes staring blindly into space. Taking off her undergarments, Rosina stood in the flickering candlelight, staring at her reflection in the cheval mirror that had once belonged to her mother. She ran her hands lightly over her breasts and down the smooth curve of her belly to her thighs. Suddenly her body, which had never been of much interest to her in the past, became a mysterious entity filled with strange sensations and longings for which she had no name. She closed her eyes and her head was filled with the image of a handsome man wearing a mask; she could recall every second of their brief time together. She parted her lips and she could taste his kiss. She opened her eyes and realised that she was blushing. Her whole body was tinged with pink at the wild thoughts running through her head.
Rosina snatched up her cotton lawn nightgown and
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