The Housemistress (14 page)

“Like Adel Edwards?”

“She wants to feel special—they all do. Desired even. My affection for them validates their sense of self-worth, but what they feel for me isn’t real love. They would balk at the thought of consummating their ridiculous flirtations with me in any physical way, and I’ve never, ever”—she emphasizes the word—“behaved with them as I have with you.”

Rylie wonders where Adel’s late night masturbation fits in with that, but says nothing.

“Is this why you asked about being my favorite?” Carriveau wonders. “You’re worried that I might fancy all the girls in my house the way I fancy you?”

“I dunno. Maybe. Not really.” Rylie pauses to rip a piece of tomato in half with her teeth, wishing it was Adel’s jugular vein, annoyed that she’d let the bitch get to her.

“
Tu es la seule pour moi
,” Carriveau assures her, dropping a soft kiss on her neck. “
Je promets
.”

You’re the only one for me. I promise.

Still confused as to where Adel’s busy fingers come into play, but disinclined to bring the matter up for fear of ruining what’s promising to be a very intimate evening, Rylie concentrates on her food, clearing her plate in a few minutes flat. She wishes she could put Adel out of her mind altogether, but a dull ache in her ribs is a persistent reminder of their earlier altercation.

Misreading her silence as doubt, Carriveau makes another attempt to allay her concerns.

“I don’t make a habit of this, if that’s what you’re thinking.” She polishes off the last bite of her dinner. “What we’re doing … that is, what we both
want
to do is wrong. And not by Missus Bursnell’s standards—let’s be clear on that. I don’t care one iota what our Headmistress considers unhealthy or improper. I speak only of British law, which I find myself evermore on the brink of violating.”

Unsettled by her own declaration, Carriveau takes up both empty plates and loads them into the dishwasher. When she’s done, she stays put, her back to the table, a rising uncertainty evident in her rigid posture.

“I’m sorry for this morning.” Rylie slides out of her chair, intent on restoring Carriveau’s mood. “I mean, I’m not sorry for kissing you,” she continues, standing behind Carriveau, running both hands down her back. “But I am sorry for pushing myself on you.” She sweeps her hands around Carriveau’s waist, nestling her face close to her Housemistress’s neck. “I just wanted to show you how serious I am about you, that’s all.” She nibbles on an unpierced earlobe. “I wasn’t trying to be a dick.”

Carriveau pivots in Rylie’s arms, slightly separating herself. “Do you have any idea what tremendous trouble I could be in for this?”

“Yeah, I do.” Rylie keeps a firm hold of her, squeezing and caressing her hips. “And if you thought my actions this morning made light of the risks you’re taking with me, then I’m sorry for that as well.” She acknowledges Carriveau’s vulnerability, hoping to allay her concerns. “I shouldn’t take a single second alone with you for granted.”

Her conviction renewed by Rylie’s sincerity, Carriveau takes her young student by the hand and leads her into the common room. “
Viens avec moi
.”

Come with me.

After casting the room in the soft glow of a single lamp, she sinks into one of the large sofas and removes her shoes, tucking her feet up.

Not daring to presume anything, Rylie sits on the other end of the sofa, leaving a chaste distance between them, but when Carriveau unclips her hair and shakes her dark tresses loose, shifting sideways to face her, she shoves caution aside and makes a bid for closeness.

Shuffling nearer, she brushes her palm across Carriveau’s cheek, fingering a lock of her silky mane, poring over her beauty, and Carriveau welcomes the advance. She wraps her arm around Rylie’s shoulders, steeling herself to make an advancement of her own.

“Do you still want my lips?” she purrs, the question rhetorical.

She leans in for a kiss, teasing her would-be lover’s lips apart with her own, pinching the teen’s upper lip between her teeth, sucking it gently into her mouth. When that kiss breaks, she quickly reengages, flicking her tongue against Rylie’s lips before closing her mouth over the whimpering seventeen-year-old’s lower lip, tugging on it a little before releasing her and launching a third assault.

This time, she keeps her mouth open a moment longer, moaning her approval when Rylie’s tongue darts out to meet hers before their crushing lips force a retreat. On the fourth lock, Carriveau slips her hand to the back of Rylie’s neck, pulling her closer, their tongues meeting again, battling for entry into each other’s mouths.

They kiss until breathless, parting reluctantly.

“A kiss is so much better when it’s given freely, don’t you think?” Carriveau guides Rylie’s hand around her waist. “Much more erotic,
oui
?”

For several seconds, all Rylie can manage is a groan of contentment. She drops her head to Carriveau’s neck and begins laying kisses there, starting below her ear and moving slowly lower, over her collar bone and lower still.

“How far can we go?” she mumbles between pecks, burying her face in Carriveau’s cleavage, her hand traveling upward, from Carriveau’s waist to her ribs, wavering at the underside of her breast. “If you tell me to stop, I will. I swear.”

Carriveau is painfully aware that her nipples are tingling beneath her clothing, arousal seeping between her legs, her yearning undeniable. “
Mon amour
,” she coos. “
Tu m’excites beaucoup
.” She stays Rylie’s hand. “Do you know what that means?”

Rylie nods, lifting her head.

“You turn me on so much,” Carriveau translates herself anyway, reaching gingerly for the top button of her blouse. “Is this really what you want?”

More nodding.

“Then give me your hand.” Carriveau releases another button, steering Rylie inside her blouse, placing the teen’s hand directly upon her breast.

Both women moan. Through the lace of the bra, Rylie can feel Carriveau’s stiff nipple straining against the gossamer fabric, desperate for release.

“Shit,
Mademoiselle C
—”

“
Non, ne m’appelles plus Mademoiselle
,” Carriveau whispers against Rylie’s ear, asking her to drop the formality. “When we’re alone, call me
Vivienne,
s’il te plaît
.”

She’s about to coax Rylie’s other hand inside her blouse when laughter and heavy footsteps outside signal that the first of the Upper and Lower Sixth girls of
la maison de Carriveau
are making their way down the garden path after dinner.

“Bollocks,” Carriveau grumbles, wiping traces of her lipstick off Rylie’s lips before retreating to the furthermost cushion and fixing her blouse. “Don’t tell the others I made you dinner. The most they get from me is chicken soup when they’re unwell.”

At the last second, she slips her shoes on and heads for the kitchen to retrieve her jacket, appearing remarkably unruffled by the intrusion, even when she crosses paths with a steely-eyed Adel in the common room doorway.

“Wearing your hair different this evening, Miss?” the jealous teen asks out of turn.

Unperturbed by the question, as if such impudence is nothing out of the ordinary, Carriveau lies without missing a beat. “My clip broke.”

From the sofa, shielded by it to some extent, Rylie watches the curt exchange with some interest and more than a little confusion, the role reversal painfully evident: Adel disapproving, Carriveau defiant.

Secreting the forgotten hairclip in her cardigan pocket to preserve the lie, Rylie pushes herself off the sofa and braves Adel’s vicious glare as she shoves past her into the hallway, snatching up her backpack before ascending the stairs to the dorm.

That night, after lights out, she lies awake in bed, keeping herself vigilant, waiting for the commencement of Adel’s carnal antics.

Waiting.

And waiting.

Growing bored, but waiting.

At the first telltale gasp, she flings back the covers and rises to her knees, peering over the wall of her cubicle toward the dormitory door, straining to see any movement beyond.

There is none.

She keeps her vigil until the last contented sigh, then dives back into her sheets, satisfied that whatever obscene hold Adel once had over Carriveau is now thoroughly broken.

CHAPTER TEN

Within the first five minutes of breakfast, one of the toasters catches fire, someone’s porridge explodes in a microwave, and there’s an uproar when it’s discovered that there’s no soy milk left in the refrigerator. In order words: typical morning chaos in Carriveau house.

Fifteen minutes later, however, one particular face still has yet to materialize.

“Where’s Harcourt?” Carriveau snags Gabby’s attention. “She’s usually ready by now.”

Gabby shrugs, chomping into a Pop-Tart. “Rylie said she wasn’t feeling well.” She talks with her mouth full of pastry, spitting crumbs. “I think she’s gone back to bed.”

“Want me to check on her?” Miss Ansell offers, privy to their conversation only on account of her proximity. “I can—”

“
Non
.” Carriveau is quick to quash the suggestion, but refrains from dashing upstairs. “This is my house,
n’est-ce pas
?” She heads calmly for the door, suppressing anything that could be interpreted as an undue amount of concern. “I’ll go.”

With forced nonchalance, she climbs the staircase and enters the Lower Sixth dormitory, finding Rylie groomed, but not dressed, lying face down on her bed, naked beneath her cotton pajamas, the cheeks of her bum outlined clearly behind the thin, pale fabric.

“
Qu’est-ce que tu as
?” Carriveau unbuttons her jacket, shrugs it off her shoulders, and drapes it over the cubicle wall. “What’s the matter with you? Are you feeling unwell?”

Rylie groans, but doesn’t move. “I’m sorry. I’ll be up in a minute.”

Hesitating at the thin yellow line, Carriveau takes one look out into the hall, makes certain that she can’t hear any footsteps, then breaches the cubicle boundary.

“Will you tell me what’s wrong?” She perches on the edge of Rylie’s bed.

Covering for the fact that her ribcage has her in such a state of agony that she can’t draw breath without causing herself excruciating pain, Rylie concocts a fib.

She rolls onto her back, wincing. “Girl stuff, that’s all.”

“Cramps?
Es-tu sûre
?” Carriveau leans over her. “May I fetch you something? Anything?”

Rylie shakes her head. “I took painkillers. Just waiting for them to kick in.”

“Is there nothing I can do for you?” Carriveau presses the back of her hand to Rylie’s forehead, then her cheeks, checking her temperature. “A hot water bottle, perhaps?” She transfers her hand to Rylie’s abdomen, applying only a slight pressure.

Rylie squeals, tensing and jerking, flinching from Carriveau’s touch. She tries to turn away, but Carriveau grips her shoulder and holds her to the bed, yanking up her pajama top, revealing the angry purple bruise on her lower ribs.

“
Mon Dieu
!” the Housemistress cries in horror. “What happened?!”

“It’s nothing.” Rylie grimaces, trying to get comfortable.

“Were you fighting?” Carriveau grazes Rylie’s injured torso with her fingertips. “Please tell me you haven’t been getting yourself involved in any nonsense?”

Rylie shakes her head. “There’s been no nonsense, I promise.”

“Is this the reason you’re lying here in bed?” Carriveau caresses the teen’s bare skin. “I have to make a note of this in the house accident and injury book.” Her mind whirs through protocol. “And I should inform your parents.”

“I wouldn’t,” Rylie cautions her. “They’d go ape-shit, and I don’t want them to cause any unnecessary trouble.”

“Have you seen the nurse at least?” Carriveau keeps mothering. “Visits with her are confidential. I can write you a note for your first class so that you can go straight to the medical center.”

“I don’t want to make a fuss.”

“You’re not making a fuss.
I’m
making a fuss, and you’re going to do as you’re told. Is that understood,
ma chérie
?”