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Kira has never seen hair as beautiful as Lydia Martin’s.
For starters, there’s the color. Kira has certainly seen a number of people with red hair walking the streets of New York (particularly over the last few years, as the number of Irish immigrants has grown), but Lydia’s hair seems almost supernaturally red, nearly glowing under whatever light source she walks under.
(Lydia denies that the color is anything special. She also asserts that it’s strawberry blonde, not red, but no matter how hard she tries, Kira can’t get the descriptor to stay in her head. Ergo, red it is.)
The length is also impressive. When it hangs loose, as it’s doing now, Lydia’s thick hair falls nearly to her waist. It looks almost like a wave cascading over her shoulders, a wave that Kira knows is softer and cleaner than any water on the planet.
Truthfully, just being able to admire Lydia’s hair from afar would be satisfying. The fact that she gets to touch it makes her head spin slightly.
“How would you like it done today?” she asks, sweeping some of Lydia’s hair back so it falls over her shoulder, bare but for the strap of her corset. Kira has already helped Lydia with that aspect of her clothing, although as always, the task was completed quickly; no matter how hard Ms. Martin tries to convince Lydia that her corset should be done up tighter, Lydia always asks Kira to stop long before the garment reaches the point of constricting breathing.
(Lydia always returns the favor when she helps Kira get ready and for that, Kira is thankful. Kira has heard far too many horror stories about women simply fainting on the dance floor due to the tightness of their corsets and frankly, she finds dances horrible enough without the added struggle of breathing to worry about.)
“The usual,” Lydia says, sweeping the rest of her hair back. “There’s nobody that I need to impress tonight.”
“I’m sure your mother would say otherwise,” Kira murmurs, gathering some of Lydia’s ringlets between her fingers so that she can begin to pull them into the simple up-do that Lydia prefers.
“Doesn’t she always?” Lydia replies with a quiet laugh, leaning her head into Kira’s hands. “I’ve already looked at the guest list for the ball and most of the men cannot dance. I don’t plan on staying past the first toast.”
“It sounds like you have a plan,” Kira says absently, certain that is indeed the case. After all, even Lydia’s worst enemies (of which there are a surprising number) cannot deny that she is intelligent and cunning.
“I do,” Lydia replies, handing Kira a hair pin without being asked. “You’re involved as well, of course.”
“Am I?” Kira greets this with relief, rather than surprise. Going to the ball had been the last thing she’d wanted to do, but her mother insisted it was the best way to find a husband.
She’d simply nodded and gone along with the plan, because telling her mother that she had no desire to ever find a husband simply wasn’t possible. Not if she wanted to remain in the family home, at least.
“Yes, of course,” Lydia says, passing Kira another pin. “The carriage will be picking us up at seven, so we'll be arriving half an hour late. Then, once the first toast has passed, I’ll swoon, say I’m feeling dizzy, and excuse myself to recover. You’ll be accompanying me to ensure I make it home safely.”
“Seems flawless.” Kira twists Lydia’s hair up towards the crowd of her head and secures half of it with the pins. “What will we do when we come back here?”
“Well, I’m going to excuse the servants for the night,” Lydia continues. She twists on the chair so that she’s facing Kira, part of her hair still dangling down her back. Her lips are parted and pink and it takes everything Kira has to not lean down and claim them with her own.
Thankfully, if Lydia is going where she believes she is, there will be plenty of time for that later.
“What about your mother?” Kira asks, dropping her fingers to the curve of Lydia’s neck.
“She won’t be home until late,” Lydia replies, dropping her hand on top of Kira’s. “Besides, she suspects nothing.”
Kira isn’t sure how much longer Ms. Martin's obliviousness will last for, but for now, she forces that thought away. Lydia smiles up at her before sliding her other hand around Kira’s hip and pulling her down so that their lips can meet. It’s soft, barely more than a brushing of skin against skin, but it makes a shiver course through Kira’s body. When she pulls away, Lydia brushes a strand of Kira’s dark hair away from her face before gently pecking her lips once more.
“Let’s finish this up,” she says, twisting back around. “I’d like to try something with your hair.”
“Of course. Anything,” Kira replies, brushing her fingers along Lydia’s smooth, pale neck one more time before returning to her task.