Okay, for those unfamiliar with Victorian ladies' undergarments, quick explanation before going into this chapter? Ladies' underwear was crotchless. Seriously, long billowy things like you're picturing, but with a slit in the center for practicality.

Chapter Six

A Fine Day for Hysterics

Hermione winced, standing in the doorway of the Mad Witch's room beside Augustin. He had yet to relinquish his hold on her hand, his fingers tangled with hers throughout a reluctant explanation to Tom. She'd been at a loss for precisely what to say as she'd stared back at the master of the house, given Augustin's advisement of not mentioning anything about Bellatrix to Tom. Augustin, on the other hand, seemed to take her sudden panic into account, his tone almost dismissive of Tom's anger as he recounted someone seeing the figure of a dark-haired person through the window.

Only . . . he claimed he was the one to have glimpsed the specter.

Tom only seemed more aggravated, not less, by Augustin's reasoning. His broad shoulders slumping, he'd stepped past them and stalked down the corridor of the old wing. Hermione exchanged a quick glance with the younger man, though she could not quite make sense of the look in his eyes, as they hurried after him.

As she watched Tom cross the floor, his gaze roving over the painting as an expression of disgust twisted his handsome features, she couldn't help but remember being so very close with Augustin only moments earlier not at all far from where they stood, now. Watching Tom turn to pace to the window where Augustin had claimed to have seen the figure standing, the remembered sensation of Augustin's body against hers and his lips brushing her throat stole her breath.

Worse, she could feel Augustin's attention on her from the corner of his eye. Though she wouldn't turn her head to look at him just now, she felt sure there was the tiniest smirk tugging at his mouth.

When Tom spun back to face them, Hermione jumped a little at the abruptness of the movement. Only then did she realize the other man's fingers were still locked with hers. And, from the brief downward flicker of Tom's gaze, she knew he'd registered that continued hold, as well.

Swallowing hard, the Lord dropped his eyes from the pair. He shook his head, appearing to collect himself before speaking. "I recall when we were children, Augustin. When you weren't having an episode, you were quite the little prankster." His features pinched in exasperation. "I had hoped you'd outgrown that rather immature trait. Regardless, I never thought you'd try such a thing on Hermione."

Augustin's eyes shot wide at the accusation. "What? Tom, no! I didn't—"

"Of all the things you could do," Tom went on through clenched teeth, fussing to straighten his collar and the cuffs of his jacket—minutia to focus on as he gathered his temper—as though Augustin hadn't said a word, "I never imagined you'd—"

"It wasn't Augustin who saw it," Hermione blurted out, as much to calm Tom's anger as to spare Augustin being blamed for something that wasn't true. "It was me."

The shift in Tom's demeanor was instant. The tense set of his shoulders eased and his fussing fingertips stilled. Those piercing blue eyes of his locked on her face as he let his arms drop to his sides. She could swear the flicker through them then was pain.

The idea that the unwilling deception had hurt him tugged painfully at her heart.

Shrugging, she elaborated before he could ask why she'd allowed Augustin to lie for her. "He was only trying to keep me from appearing foolish in front of you. I hadn't . . . hadn't known what to say, because he told me how much you dislike discussing anything about, well, her."

"And you thought I would not believe you?"

Forcing a gulp down her throat, she dropped her gaze from his. "Given our conversation in your study earlier, I should think it evident that I'm not sure I believe myself. But I did think I saw someone up here, I truly did."

When silence rang through the room, she forced herself to return her attention to his face. He appeared deep in thought over something. After another moment of silence as they stared at one another, he nodded, his expression grave.

"Time to help you sort what's real and what is your imagination, I should think."

Crossing the room, he reached out, sliding his hand around the wrist of Hermione's free hand. He stepped around Augustin and started tugging her along behind him as he made his way back down the corridor.

Strangely, she felt more aware of Augustin's hand on hers only its absence. At the sensation of his fingers disentangling from hers, she looked back at him over her shoulder. Augustin offered her an apologetic look, staying right where she'd left him. Whatever Tom had in mind just now, she knew the other man had somehow sensed it did not involve him.

Swallowing hard, she turned her attention forward. Tom continued guiding her along the corridor, out of the old wing entirely, past the mouth of the staircase. Without so much as a word or a backward glance at her, he opened the door to his study and ushered her inside.

She was distinctly cognizant of him releasing his hold on her wrist. Distinctly cognizant of the sound of the door closing behind them.

Feeling silently prompted, she stepped further into the room. Once she stood at the center, she halted and turned to face him. Somehow, seeing that he'd removed his jacket and was placing it gently aside on his desk caused her breath to catch in her throat.

"Find someplace comfortable, please." He wasn't looking at her as he unclasped his cuff links and set them aside, as well. His expression was entirely blank, nearly cold as he started rolling his sleeves up to his elbows.

Her eyes shot wide as she realized what he meant to do. Even as she moved to follow his command, looking about the room to find a suitable spot before going to the chaise against the far wall, she said, "Just earlier you said you'd let me think about this."

"Yes, well, that was before what you saw in that room."

She swallowed hard once more, trying to get her breathing under control as she seated herself and turned to lay back. Blinking rapidly, she stared up at the ceiling, trying not to think on the idea of his hand slipping under her skirts, or what it was going to feel like to have his fingers stroking against her. Honestly, she only tried to think how fortuitous it was that she wasn't wearing a crinoline dress, or this matter would be a touch more complicated than simply laying back.

"Are you comfortable?" he asked, his voice sounding both unflustered and strained at all once—as though he was trying for that clinical detachment he'd mentioned earlier and struggling to maintain it.

Closing her eyes, she nodded. "I again mention that you said you'd leave this to be my choice."

"I had every intention of doing so," he said as he pulled a chair over and sat beside the chaise. "But this . . . sighting of yours troubles me."

"So you do think my imagination has been running away with me?" She tried for a neutral tone, but still she could hear the hurt in her own voice.

He arched a brow, his gaze snapping up to lock on her face. "I did not say that. But, as I said, this sighting troubles me."

She sank her teeth into her lower lip as she tried to focus her attention on the ceiling above her. Tried and failed, her eyes dropping to meet his while he carefully pushed her skirts out of his way.

Oh, this was nerve wracking!

"I'm troubled, because I was raised to respect superstition. I know that probably seems out of character with how you've come to think of me." The whisper of fabric was audible as he parted her legs, the opening in her undergarment falling wider with the movement. "I have never experienced a sighting, myself, but I will not be wholly dismissive of the possibility, either."

She jumped a little at the first brush of his hand between her thighs. Already she could feel her face flushing, the skin of her cheeks tingling with warmth as his fingertips slid against her.

He went on, that almost-detachment in his voice as he stroked her gently. "As such, we must do this so that your head is clear. But I want you to be alert at all times after this. If you have another sighting, we will know it's not something easily dismissed as some manifestation of hysterics."

Hermione could tell he was working her up slowly. She didn't know if she was grateful that he was not simply hurrying through the treatment, or horrified that he was not being cold and clinical and simply rushing her to climax.

She pressed her lips into a line as she nodded, trembling as he quickened his pace just a bit.

"Tell me, then" he said, as though they were carrying on a conversation over tea. "This was not the first time you experienced something here?"

The young woman shook her head. She found herself fighting not to move against his fingertips. He was trying to remain detached, she should do him the courtesy of not responding to his treatment wantonly.

"Tell me about what you've seen?"

Her breath caught, and she lost the battle with herself. Her head fell back a little as she shivered, her hips rocking of their own volition. "The night . . . . The night I stumbled upon the doctor's office, I believe I was lured there, somehow."

"Oh?" Again, he quickened his pace a bit, his fingertips pressing harder as they rubbed over the slick skin. "Describe what happened?"

"I was . . . ." Her voice trailed off and she struggled a moment to focus on her breathing. "I was walking up the stairs after having returned home from the museum with Augustin. And when I . . . when I looked up, there appeared a figure. It was looking down at me from beyond the railing, but it was all in shadow. The way it leaned down, I should've been able to see who it was clearly, but it was all black."

"Were you not terrified?"

There was another sound of rustling fabric and she looked down. Tom had placed the arm of his free hand out before her. She couldn't seem to care anymore if he thought poorly of her or admonished her later for her movements, pushing herself more tightly against the working of his fingers as she reached out, clamping her hands around his forearm.

Dear Lord, she was so acutely aware of his gaze still on her face.

"I was, but I chose to be logical about it." She forced her mouth shut to keep in a keening moan as she felt her limbs starting to tense. Drawing in a gulp of air, she continued in a breathless whisper. "I followed the shadow to prove to myself that it was nothing at all."

"And yet, it led you to the old wing?"

He moved faster, pressed a bit harder, still, and she gasped her body going taut as he pushed her over the edge. Somehow, she managed a nod even as the orgasm tore through her.

She could sense his continued attention on her face. She thought she could hear some hushed, breathy groan from him as he watched her. Thought she felt the muscles in his forearm strain beneath her hands, as though he was trying to keep himself from reacting too strongly to her aroused state.

She didn't even care that such an observation might be presumptuous of her.

As that sweet tension ebbed, he slowed his fingers. Timing his motions, he met the shivering jerking of her own body as blissful aftershocks of her orgasm rocked through her.

Swallowing hard, she shook her head as she realized how she'd responded to the treatment. Hermione caught her breath as her limbs drooped and her hands slipped from his arm.

After she stilled, he withdrew his fingers, his movements gentle as he closed her legs and pulled her skirts back into place over her. Lifting the hand that was not currently slick from working her, he wiped at her cheeks and forehead. Delicate, still, he pushed a wayward lock of her wild hair behind her ear as he waited for her to open her eyes.

When she did, she was greeted by the sight of that dazzling smile of his. Even as she caught her breath, still, even as she felt a blush flare in her cheeks, she could not seem to stop herself from smiling back at him.

"Based on what you've just told me," he said, his voice low and warm, "I don't believe your imagination is running anywhere, Hermione. Whatever you saw led you to a history of this house you could not have had any idea about."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I believe you truly saw something." He shrugged, sighing. "I believe you truly glimpsed something in that evil woman's room. And I believe it would do this house a world of good to be rid of such a dark influence."

"You're going to look for the Mad Witch's grave?"

He nodded, his gaze holding hers. "If my father did kill her, if her body is somewhere on these grounds, I shall find it."

There was a sudden churning in Hermione's stomach as she stared back at him. Something unnameable whispered to her that nothing good could come from chasing the ghost of Bellatrix Lestrange.

As she stepped out of the study, pulling the door shut behind her, she smoothed a hand over her dress. And then promptly jumped to find Augustin lingering in the corridor.

Her cheeks flamed as she wondered how much he might've heard.

His gaze flicked over her from head to foot before returning to her face. Breathing out a short, quiet chuckle, he smirked.

"What?" she asked, her brows pinching together.

That smirk widening a little, he shrugged. Turning on his heel, he started down the corridor. "Don't need medical training to administer that particular treatment." He glanced back at her over his shoulder. "I'd have gladly done it, if you'd only asked."

Her eyes widening, she only watched as he disappeared around a bend in the wall. Of all the things she'd expected today, Tom believing her about the sightings hadn't been one of them. Neither had Augustin making bold declarations that had her remembering glimpses from those wicked dreams, that caused her body to heat and tingle all over again.

And he hadn't even touched her this time.