He drew back. “Well?”
Was that a hint of nervousness?
Rue considered. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings. Some parts of her body liked it, for she felt warm and languid, as if after a hot bath, but intellectually she wasn’t convinced.
“The French really are centred on taste, aren’t they?”
Quesnel laughed.
Rue was game. “May I try, or is it a thing that gentlemen do to ladies?”
Quesnel grinned. “I should have said at the start. Anything I do to you, you are more than welcome to do to me.”
“Anything at all?”
“Yes. Anything.”
Rue’s mind raced. “Right, then, let’s see.”
She leaned forward and took over the kiss again. He opened his mouth willingly at the first hesitant touch of her tongue. She swept it in. She didn’t want to be sloppy, but that appeared challenging when tongues were involved.
Halfway through, she decided she liked it, despite the sloppiness. So, she thought, did he. He shifted against her, the whole length of his body in contact with hers. His seemed to be changing shape in a rather indelicate area.
Rue drew back. “What’s… ?”
Quesnel blushed scarlet. If he was going to blush, surely he’d have done so before now?
Rue wasn’t completely ignorant. Hoping to relieve his distress, she said, “Isn’t that supposed to happen?”
Which made him laugh. “Perhaps not quite so quickly and at the breakfast table, but yes.”
Rue grinned, rather proud. She herself was not unaffected. There was a curious tingling, and a sort of anxious sensation that, as far as she could tell, would require more kissing to allay.
She moved in for more. Clearly the French were on to something. This time both their tongues were involved. Utterly delightful. Rue found herself squirming against him, enjoying the muscles she could feel through the fabric of her red dress, her own hands full of trouser-covered flesh and then…
He stopped.
Rue worried that she had done something wrong. She gathered her wits. He was breathing as roughly as she was.
“I must say, chérie, you’re an awfully quick study.”
“I’ve always been an enthusiastic student of new experiences.”
Quesnel pulled himself together. “That’s the problem with these kinds of lessons – you can use them against me.”
“I see that now.” Rue was delighted by this revelation. Quesnel had handed her a weapon. She did love to have leverage in any given situation.
“Just as I said, trouble.”
The door to the stateroom banged open and they sprang apart. Rue self-consciously smoothed the wrinkles out of the bodice of her dress. Quesnel smoothed the wrinkles out of the back of his trousers.
Oh, thought Rue, did I do that? Oops.
Lady Maccon marched into the room. She gave them a suspicious glance but did not say anything, merely piling a plate high with giblet pie, eggs, potted shrimp, stewed tomatoes, and kippered salmon. Lady Maccon had been accused of many things but being a feeble eater wasn’t one of them.
Quesnel said, “Good evening, Lady Maccon.”
“Mr Lefoux.”
“Mother.”
“Infant.”
The salutations thus established, Quesnel retrieved his hat from a nearby stand and popped it on his head. “I’m off, Captain, unless you need me for anything further?”
Rue stifled a smile, realising that now nearly anything he said would sound euphemistic. Perhaps it always had and she simply hadn’t known to realise.
“Nothing else, Mr Lefoux. Thank you. Perhaps we will discuss the matter in greater depth later tonight?”
Quesnel choked only slightly, recovered with aplomb, and flashed a dimpled smile at her before leaving the room.
Rue hoped that her mother wouldn’t notice the rumpled state of his trousers. No doubt she would guess what they were up to if she did – or was that down to?
Lady Maccon made no trouser-based comment, only ate her breakfast.
Rue, conscious of the formalities, poured her mother tea and watched her shovel in the comestibles in awkward silence.
Breakfast eaten and a fourth cup of tea swilled, Lady Maccon cleared her throat, disturbing the now oppressive quiet.
“Precautionary arts,” she began, slightly too loudly.
Then she commenced to lecture Rue in a voice curdled by acute embarrassment.
Afterwards, Rue could recall something about rinsing out the cavity with vinegar, French letters, and little hats made of sponge fitted inside one’s delicate parts. It was mostly incomprehensible and quite possibly the most humiliating experience of Rue’s entire life.
Floating the grey was largely uneventful. Once The Spotted Custard hooked into the right current, there wasn’t much for anyone to do. Primrose bustled around, ensuring everyone’s comfort. Spoo, Virgil, and the decklings played tiddlywinks. Percy mooched about abovedecks, avoiding the temptation of reading and not happy about it. Rue couldn’t get over how amusing it was that he was refusing to read during float because he had read a pamphlet that warned of its dangers. It was so very circular. Lady Maccon marched about sticking her generous nose into anything in which it might be stuck. She wanted to know how the decklings operated, and navigation, and the Gatling gun, and the rigging, and the tea hamper. They humoured her, even the tea hamper. A replacement, mind you, the original one having died gloriously in battle.
Below them in her room, Tasherit slumbered. Below her in their lair, Quesnel, Aggie, and the engineering team tended the boilers, maintaining a steady heat.