Darker Than Love Read Free

discomfort but the maid pressed more firmly and began rubbing at her intimate parts.
    ‘I’ll do that, thank you, Pascale,’ she said thickly, trying to ignore the heat swelling in her groin.
    Pascale made no move to obey. She tightened her grip on Clarissa’s ankle and kneaded the sponge against her soft folds.
    ‘Do not be shy, mademoiselle,’ she purred. ‘I can show you many things. From me you can learn something ofwhat your husband will do. It is not good for a bride to be too naı¨f . The husband, he will grow bored.’
    The sponge bobbed to the foamy surface. Pascale’s diving fingers sought out Clarissa’s sex, swiftly parting her lips. Clarissa yelped and wriggled, sending water sloshing over the edge of the tub.
    ‘No,’ she urged breathlessly. ‘Stop it at once.’
    With a power that belied her petite frame, Pascale held on to Clarissa’s writhing ankle. With a calm smile she turned aside, blinking rapidly, as the water splashed her face and clothes. Her persistent fingers glided along Clarissa’s slippery cleft.
    ‘The lady should learn,’ she said, above Clarissa’s protests, ‘that a husband does not always hear the word “no”. This is a good lesson, mademoiselle. Very good.’ Her questing fingers probed at the narrow entrance of Clarissa’s vagina.
    Clarissa squealed and, with a violent jerk, wrenched her leg free. Pascale recoiled, a hand cupped to her cheek where she’d received a glancing blow.
    ‘Tish, mademoiselle,’ she said, without a trace of anger. ‘Such a fuss.’
    ‘Pass me that towel at once,’ ordered Clarissa. ‘And in future keep your hands to yourself.’
    Pascale shrugged. ‘I meant no harm, mademoiselle. I thought my touch was giving you much pleasure. Forgive me. Please.’
    Ignoring her, Clarissa took a jug of clear water and stood to rinse the soap from her body. Her sex pulsed with light sensation and she could not deny that a part of her had wanted to surrender to Pascale’s invasive caress.
    ‘I’ll dry myself,’ she snapped, stepping out of the tub and wresting the towel from the maid’s extended arms.
    Pascale raised her brows in an ironic arch. ‘And will mademoiselle also dress herself and arrange her own hair?’ she enquired pleasantly.
    Clarissa, cursing under her breath, briskly rubbedherself dry. She could hardly do without Pascale’s help, especially tonight. But the girl wasn’t getting away with such insubordination. Perhaps Alicia should deal with it later. She was the one who had appointed the bossy little wretch.
    Dropping the towel to the floor, Clarissa snatched up her chemise from the bed. It was a delicate garment, of white China silk threaded with pale-blue ribbons. She jerked it over her head and punched at the armholes.
    ‘Please, mademoiselle,’ whined Pascale. ‘You will tear your beautiful new clothes. And do not frown so. You will make an ugly line there. Think only that I made a silly mistake. In France, a maid helps her lady with many things. Perhaps here it is different. Come, say it is forgotten and let me lace you.’
    Clarissa, somewhat reluctantly, acquiesced. She feared Pascale’s touch and the tiny spark of need it had aroused. But the maid, insisting on doing everything, set about her task without a hint of suggestion in voice, eyes or hands. With a firm action, she unrolled silken stockings along Clarissa’s outstretched legs then secured silver-grey garters at her thighs. She was reassuringly strong in lacing up the stays, and nimble-fingered in pinning the heavy petticoats so they trailed just so. Perhaps, conceded Clarissa, Alicia had been right to appoint the Frenchwoman.
    Almost two hours later, Clarissa, dressed in her finest and groomed to perfection, was quite certain her stepmother had been right. Her gleaming black hair was pinned into a high chignon and woven through with ribbons of ice blue. Wispy tendrils curled about her face. Her indigo gown, fashionably smooth in front, sheathed the dips