Pat turned. Fen’s fingers slipped nimbly down her back, dealing with buttons, easing her dress over her shoulders. “You don’t corset.”

“Never started. No mother to insist.” She turned back, stepping out of the dress.

“I had governesses. And I’ve a great deal more that needs lacing in.” Fen ran her hands down Pat’s sides, eyes crinkling at the edges with concentration. “Have you done this before?”

“It depends what you mean by ‘this’.” Kissing and stroking, absolutely. She had a feeling that wasn’t what Fen meant. “I think you should probably assume I’m a novice. You?”

“Finishing school,” Fen said elliptically. “Can I be the instructor now?”

“Please be the instructor.”

Fen’s eyes brimmed with mischief. “Good. First things first: you’re allowed to squeal. In fact, I positively encourage it.”

“I’m locking the door, in that case.”

She suited the action to the word, and turned to find Fen presenting her back. The white laces that secured her corset were the most delectable things Pat had ever seen. She tugged at the fastening bows, feeling the binding give.

“Oh, that’s better,” Fen said, easing the corset off. “I can breathe.” She did so, a demonstrative filling of the lungs that did remarkable things to her chest. Squealing began to seem a very likely outcome. “Now, that petticoat...”

Pat had never felt both so grateful for and so annoyed by her many layers of clothing. They stripped each other amid kisses and stroking and a certain amount of giggling, and when they were down to combinations—Pat’s sensible muslin, Fen’s silk—Fen took her hand and tugged her to the bed, pulling her down so they lay face to face, in kissing distance. Pat ran her hand over Fen’s flank, glorying that she was permitted this, and thrilling at the delicate trace of Fen’s fingers on her own skin.

“Oh Lord,” she murmured against Fen’s lips. “You are lovely.”

Fen leaned in to kiss her, and Pat felt the hand on her bottom give a decided squeeze. She yelped, the sound muffled by Fen’s mouth, and wriggled into the touch as though it were quite natural to do so. Bodies pressing together, legs tangling, and an urge for more building between them as Fen’s thigh pressed between hers. Fen’s hand was on her breast, palm rolling over the nipple, and the movement of cloth against flesh was glorious torture.

Pat whimpered. Fen stilled. “All right?”

“Yes. Oh, yes.”

“Could I touch you?”

“Please.” Pat wasn’t even sure what that meant—surely they were touching now—but the answer was yes anyway, to anything Fen wanted. Fen nudged her so she rolled onto her back, and leaned over her, and Pat gave herself up to the sensation of kisses and strokes, and her own hand on the generous curve of Fen’s plump bottom and—

—a hand sliding up her thigh.