Widow - Anne Stuart [40]
Well, no, she hadn’t. There had been a few boys before she met Pompasse, but those had been messy, awkward, fumbling occasions, their idea, not hers. Pompasse had never kissed her on the mouth—not even at their wedding. He thought kissing unsanitary and overrated.
And Henry was a cuddler, not a kisser. When they kissed it was closed-mouthed, brief, affectionate. Nothing like Maguire’s animal pawing.
It hadn’t been animal pawing, she corrected herself, making an effort at fairness. It had just been a kiss, nothing more. Nothing to make such a fuss over. Just part of his strange need to unsettle her, though she couldn’t begin to guess why. Third-grade dynamics, he’d said. The only thing she knew about third grade and boys dipping girls’ braids in ink pots was that it was an early, fumbling attempt at flirtation.
If that was Maguire’s way of flirting then he was doing a piss-poor job of it.
But he wasn’t flirting with her. He couldn’t be. She’d worked very hard at keeping her defenses about her, and with her hard-won serenity, her height and her cool politeness, she usually managed to keep unwanted men at a safe distance.
And, in fact, they were all unwanted.
It was just a shame she didn’t want women, either. She’d grown to adulthood in Pompasse’s bohemian household and she had no provincial concerns about sexual preference. It would have made life so much simpler if she preferred women. People would accept her choice and leave her alone.
They usually did, anyway. But not Maguire. He was like a nasty rash—raw and irritating—under her skin. And she still couldn’t figure out why.
“What are you doing here?”
She looked up. Madame Antonella loomed over her, huge in the bright sunlight. She was very tall, and massively built, and despite her age she was surprisingly strong and agile. It was only her mind that was prematurely weak.
“Good morning, madame,” Charlie said, starting to rise from her seat politely. Madame Antonella had always expected to be shown the courtesy her age and position deserved, and Charlie had never hesitated. Pompasse had made it clear that Antonella, as his first model, held a place of honor, and Charlie had been dutiful.
She didn’t get far this time. Antonella put a strong, gnarled hand in the middle of her chest and shoved her backward into the chair, with such force that the iron legs skittered across the flag-stoned terrace.
“Whore,” the old lady spat at her. She spoke in the guttural French of her youth, and Charlie could barely understand her. “You think you can get away with it, spreading your legs for everyone, when you didn’t even deserve the blessing of…”
“Antonella?” Charlie stammered, trying to move out of her way. “Madame…I don’t know how I’ve offended you….”
The iron chair was pushed up against the low stone wall. Behind it, the path fell away steeply, and for the first time Charlie realized what a precarious position she was in. With the demented old lady leaning over her, one more push and she could topple down onto the rocks below, with only the iron chair to cushion her fall.
“Bitch,” Antonella spat. “Slut.” She put her big hands on Charlie’s shoulders, squeezing hard.
“Madame!” The sound of Lauretta’s voice was a blessed relief. Antonella’s face fell, and she looked like a naughty child caught with matches. She released Charlie, then turned to look at Lauretta.
“She has to be punished,” she said plaintively, her aging voice sounding eerily like a child’s.
“There’s no need to punish Charlie, Madame Antonella,” Lauretta said sternly. “She’s done nothing wrong.”
“Charlie?” the old woman echoed in a puzzled voice. She swung around to look at her. “Is that Charlie?”
For a moment Charlie had been too shocked to move, but she scrambled out of the chair, moving out of Antonella’s reach, absently rubbing her shoulders. The old lady’s grip had been fearsome.
“Yes, Antonella. It’s Charlie. You remember me, don’t you?”
The old