by Lizzy Grey
“Freya.” He exhaled an embarrassed laugh.
“My scar is all part of the Freya package, Marcus, there’s no ignoring it.”
“I know. And, as you say, it will fade. My proposal still stands. Marry me?”
“I’ll think about it,” she said and walked back to the house.
“Oh. Oh, well, all right, then.”
They went back into the drawing room and her parents got up, expectancy written all over their faces.
“Another drink, Marcus?” her father offered.
“No thanks, Daniel. I’ll be off. I’ll speak to you soon, Freya.”
“Yes.”
Her mother saw him out then raced back to the drawing room. “Well?”
She sighed. “He asked me to marry him and I said that I’d think about it. Now, I’m going to bed.”
She climbed the stairs, went into her bedroom, and locked the door. She sat down on the edge of her bed, bursting into tears.
After about two hours sleep, she woke and couldn’t drop off again, so she got up and took a cab to Amanda and Liz’s apartment. She had to wait an age for them to buzz her inside and Amanda smiled sleepily at her.
“Anthony told me you got him out of bed last Sunday, too.”
“Sorry.” She followed Amanda along the hall and into the tiny kitchen where Liz was at the coffee machine. “But I really need to talk to you both.”
“Oh?” Liz switched the machine on. “Let’s hear it, then.”
“Marcus asked me to marry him last night.”
Both Liz and Amanda’s chins almost hit the black and white tiled floor.
“No?” Amanda breathed. “And what did you say?”
“I said I’d think about it.”
“You didn’t say no?” Liz added and she shook her head. “But you don’t like him?”
Freya shook her head again before bursting into fresh tears. The two women ran to her and held her in their arms.
“Has he done something to you?” Amanda demanded.
“No.”
“Well, something has happened. Come and sit down, the coffee will be ready soon.”
They led Freya out of the kitchen and into the living room and sat her on a cream leather sofa before sitting on either side of her.
“What’s happened?” Liz asked gently.
“You know when I disappeared at my birthday party?” she began, wiping tears away with the back of her hand. “Well, I wasn’t getting a breath of air. I was with Simon.”
“Simon?” Liz frowned for a moment before her eyebrows shot up. “That Simon?”
Freya nodded. “I met him outside the toilets and, to cut a long story short, we spent two hours in a room on the third floor having sex.”
She heard the two women expelling a long breath and cringed.
“Have you seen him since?” Amanda asked.
“Yes. Yesterday evening. We had dinner and we went back to his apartment and we had more sex.”
“You don’t sound very happy about it?” Liz commented. “Did he hurt you?”
“Not physically, no.”
“Then—” Liz shrugged, “I don’t understand?”
“When he was little, his parents tried to see Daddy at a surgery about something and he refused to see them.”
“And that’s it?” Amanda exclaimed. “Your father can’t possibly see every person who asks to see him.”
“I know, but his parents had been evicted from their home and they were addicted to heroin and he was taken into care and they died of an overdose a fortnight later.”
“Wait.” Liz clamped a hand on her arm. “He knows your father is an MP. So he knows your real name?”
“Yes. He saw my photo in one of the newspapers.”
“Oh, shit,” Amanda whispered and threw a frown at Liz before turning back to her. “Did you pay him for the sex, Freya?”
“No,” she retorted. “No, I bloody didn’t.”
“But, for fuck sake, Freya, he probably knows where you live now. It’s not that hard to find out on the internet.”
“How did he hurt you not physically, Freya?” Liz asked calmly.
“The things he said about Daddy not wanting to see his parents…”
“That can’t be all,” Liz prompted.
“We were having sex,” she mumbled. “He knows what I like and got me to say it out loud to him.”
The two women stared at her in astonishment.
“Is he likely to blackmail you, Freya?” Liz continued. “Or sell his story to the newspapers?”
“I don’t know,” she replied simply and Liz sighed.
“Okay.”
“Was the sex good?” Amanda asked and Liz glared at her.
Freya closed her eyes for a moment, remembering his lips on her clit and exhaled a shaky breath. “Yes. And I honestly thought he liked me – was attracted to me. God, that sounds pathetic. It’s not as if I have another man to compare him with.”
“Fuck, I knew hiring an escort was a rubbish idea.” Liz groaned.
“Well, you never said anything,” Amanda retorted. “Apart from gurgling over how gorgeous he is. Look, Freya, you can’t marry Marcus. Apart from being the most boring man on the planet, you’d end up living in that huge, freezing cold house in Scotland and we’d never see you again.”
“But, Freya, you’d be a marchioness,” Liz added.
“I know.” She sighed. “And he did say that we’d split our time between the estate up there and the house here in London.”
“You’re not considering it, surely?” Amanda demanded.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Could I have some coffee, please?”
“Of course you can.” Amanda got up and went to the kitchen.
“If you married Marcus you’d never want for anything ever again,” Liz told her. “Give him a son, and you could install him on the Scottish estate, and you could live down here in London. You’d only need to see him on official occasions.”
Freya rubbed the heels of her hands into her eyes. She needed coffee. “But I don’t love him,” she murmured. “I’m not even attracted to him.”
“And you think he loves you? You are the granddaughter and niece of earls. Your father is a high-ranking politician. The fact that you are beautiful, as well, is a bonus for him. You would make a wonderful wife for Marcus.”
“What’s that you were saying?” Amanda asked, setting a tray with three mugs down on the coffee table.
“I was telling Freya how she would be a wonderful wife for Marcus,” Liz told her.
“In his eyes, yes,” Amanda muttered.
“I was telling Freya if she gives Marcus a son in the first year or two that would satisfy him and she could then install herself down here in the London house and, maybe, find a suitable lover. One who isn’t a male escort who bears grudges.”
Amanda shrugged. “Liz is right, as always. Marcus is a Marquess. You’re never going to get a proposal from anyone with his rank, or money, ever again. Give him a son or two and you’d have the money and freedom to do what you like. The Marquess of Bath has ‘wifelets’, why couldn’t you have… I don’t know… husbandlets sounds daft. Help me here, Liz?”
“Spouselets?” Liz suggested.
Freya couldn’t help but laugh. “Spoucelets?”
“Spoucelets, sounds great.” Amanda grinned. “You could have your pick of all the suitably gorgeous men in London. Marcus’ London townhouse is huge, seven bedrooms at least. Just think, a gorgeous man in each bedroom?”
“One man for each day of the week.” Liz gave her a broad wink. “Marry him, Freya. Amanda and I will be there for you, whatever happens.”
“Provided you make us your bridesmaids,” Amanda added and Freya smiled.
“I’ll ring him later and ask to see him.”
Both women squealed and Freya reached for one of the mugs of coffee.
She met Marcus at his London townhouse and he opened the door to her himself.
“F
reya. Good to see you, come in.” She followed him into the hallway and he took her jacket and hung it up. “I was in the drawing room, come through.”
“Thank you.”
He brought her into a huge drawing room with a grand piano in a corner, even though she knew he couldn’t play, before turning to her expectantly. “Have you thought about my proposal?”
Of course, I have, you bloody fool. “Yes, I have. Have you thought about my scar?”
He looked a bit taken aback but nodded. “You are beautiful, scar or no scar. Will you marry me, Freya?”
“Yes, I will,” she replied quietly and his face broke into a grin.
“That’s fantastic,” he said, taking her hands and kissing them. “I’ll make you happy, Freya, I promise. Let me show you the house. This is the drawing room, obviously.” He led her out of the room and across the hall. “Library,” he said, opening a door to a large room with floor to ceiling bookcases full of leather-bound volumes. “Down here,” he continued, leading her down the hall and into another room dominated by a vast dining table. “Is the dining room. And over there is the morning room.” She caught a glimpse of an uncomfortable-looking brown leather sofa and a writing desk. “Down there,” he nodded to a door in a corner, “are the kitchens. Come upstairs.”
He brought her into three bedrooms and a bathroom on the first floor and into a further four bedrooms on the second floor before leading her up a narrow stairs to the attic.
“The nursery,” he said simply.
“Yes.”
“You like children?” he asked.
“Yes, I do.”
He smiled his approval. “So, what do you think of the house?”
“Impressive.” She gave him a little smile.
“I hope you’ll grow to love it in time. We can always re-decorate and modernise a little. Maybe ensuite bathrooms off our bedrooms.”
Our bedrooms. She wouldn’t be sharing a bedroom with him. He would come to her when he wanted to exercise his conjugal rights. She must try and get pregnant as soon as possible. Then, hopefully, it wouldn’t be too often. She found herself strangely relieved.
“That would be nice.”
“Good,” he replied and led her downstairs.
Her mother burst into tears of delight when Freya told her parents the news. Even her usually stoical father seemed quite emotional.
“I must call Lady Wakefield right this minute.”
Freya watched her mother rush out into the hall then felt her father squeeze her arm.
“Marcus won’t be the most exciting of husbands but he’s a solid enough chap.”
“Yes.”
“A marchioness.” He smiled. “I thought I was doing well when I married your mother.”
“Well, Marcus and I aren’t related, so that’s something. At least our children won’t have two heads and possible heart conditions.”
“Freya, you know that what happened to you had nothing to do with your mother and I being cousins.”
“Of course,” she replied automatically.
An announcement appeared in The Times and The Scotsman newspapers the following Monday.
The Marquess of Craigmore – Miss F.S. Thompson. The engagement is announced between Marcus, Marquess of Craigmore, Aberdeenshire, and Freya, daughter of the Rt. Hon. Daniel Thompson MP and Lady Sarah Thompson of London SW1.
That evening, Freya’s iPhone chimed a message as she lay reading on her bed. Reaching for the phone, she opened the message without noting who it was from and frowned at a picture of her black lacy panties in a frame hanging on a wall in Jamie’s bedroom.
A second message from Jamie chimed and she jumped.
Congrats on the engagement. Hope Marcus has enough stamina and a cock as big as mine to satisfy you. Like the wall art?
She lay back on the bed and groaned but didn’t reply.
When a third message chimed, she opened it warily. Her eyes widened as she looked at a close-up photograph of Jamie’s huge hard cock.
She pressed reply and typed;
Except you didn’t satisfy me. You wouldn’t let me come. You told me to get out
She pressed send and swore. She shouldn’t have replied. Less than a minute later there was a reply.
I was satisfied. I sent you away into the night pantie-less and with a dripping wet cunt
She turned the iPhone off and threw it on the floor in disgust.
The next morning, she bought a new sim card and placed the old one in the bottom of her underwear drawer.
Two weeks later, Freya was having her first wedding dress fitting. The dress she had chosen was modest with a high square neckline, short sleeves, a princess-cut skirt and a short train. Deciding against a veil, she opted for ribbons to be woven into her hair.
Stepping out of the dressing room, both Amanda and Liz clapped a hand to their mouths.
“Oh, Freya,” Liz breathed. “Oh, Freya, it’s beautiful. Every man there will adore you.”
“St Margaret’s Westminster in a month’s time.” Amanda rubbed her hands together with glee. “Was the Abbey not available?” she asked Freya cheekily.
“Marcus may be a Marquess, but he’s not royalty. St Margaret’s is the next best thing and very apt seeing as it’s the parish church of the House of Commons. I think it’s a lovely church.”
“I’ve chosen a venue for your hen party,” Amanda told her when they went for a coffee. “I hope you’re going to buy something suitably slutty?”
“Slutty?”
“You’ll have to wear sensible clothes once you’re a marchioness. Tweed, or something equally dull. Drink up, and we’ll see what we can find right now.”
In a boutique, she tried on a white, extremely short, figure-hugging dress, which looked wet even though it wasn’t. Staring at herself in the dressing room mirror, she shook her head. It was far too slutty but she couldn’t help but wonder what Jamie would think of it.
“No,” she called to Liz and Amanda, waiting outside. “Pass me the other one.”
“Not until you come out here and show us.”
Grimacing, she pulled the curtain back and stepped out of the dressing room.
“Fuck.” Amanda began to laugh with embarrassment.
“No, you’re right.” Liz nodded. “It’s a no. Try this one on.”
Freya took the dress from her and returned to the dressing room. It was a short, high necked leather dress, quite suggestive but not too slutty. Pulling the curtain back, she stepped out and twirled.
“Wow,” Liz gasped, while Amanda just stared at her open-mouthed. “That’s the one.”
Her hen party was to take place in a nightclub in the basement of a central London hotel a week before the wedding. Freya went to Liz and Amanda’s apartment with an overnight bag. There was no way she going home to her parents after the party.
“Okay,” Liz began, as she and Amanda set to work on her hair and makeup. “Hair loose, I think. A little shaggy, but not too much.”
Two hours later, Freya smiled at herself in the mirror. She’d never looked so… slutty, was the first word with sprang to mind, but she didn’t look slutty. Just slightly the other side of glamorous.
“Can you stand in those platform shoes?” Amanda asked as she stood up and wobbled on the four-inch heel. “Just about, I see. Right, I think we’re ready to go.”
The nightclub was packed and they squeezed through the crowd to a corner table. An hour and a half later, she got up to go to the ladies toilets and wobbled. Great, she was tipsy already. She shouldn’t have mixed all that champagne with those cocktails.
“You okay to go to the loo on your own?” Liz slurred.
“Yes, fine.” She tottered her way through the crowd, feeling increasingly drunk. The alcohol was going straight to her head. In the toilets, she longed to splash water on her face but that would just ruin her makeup. Instead, she ran cold water on her wrists and hoped for the best.
“Well, well, well.”
Leaving the
toilets, she heard a familiar voice and turned around, having to reach out to the wall for support. It was Jamie, dressed in a black pair of jeans and a white shirt.
“What are you doing here?” she slurred. “This is my hen party.”
“I know. It’s amazing what you can pick up with your ear to the ground.” He smiled. “Only a week to the wedding of the year and here you are dressed how I imagine you when I wank.”
“When you wank?”
“You, in leather, it’s like you read my mind. Does Marcus like leather?” She didn’t reply and he gave her a grin. “Did you get my messages?”
“Some of them. Then I changed my sim card.”
“Did you see the one of my cock? What’s Marcus’ cock like?”
She hadn’t a clue. Long, thin, and a bit droopy like him, probably. “Go away.” She began to make her way back along the corridor to the dance floor. Halfway along, she stumbled and she felt hands around her waist, hauling her back onto her feet. “I’m okay,” she protested.
“You’re pissed,” he said, and she heard the humour in his voice.
“I’m a bit tipsy.”
“No, you’re drunk. And horny, too, I’d say. Want some cock?”
She turned and leant back against the wall. “So, I’m drunk, so what? Are things so bad you can only target drunk women now?”
He roared with laughter. “No, I just want to fuck you.”
“You said that the last time and then you wouldn’t let me come. Then you threw me out without my panties. I’m the daughter of the Tory MP you hate, remember?”
“I’ll make you come this time. You want it, Freya. I can see it in your face. You want my cock in your cunt.”
She did but… “I can’t,” she slurred. “It’s my party, I’ll be missed.”
“They’re all so drunk, they won’t miss you at all. You want my cock inside your cunt,” he repeated again softly. “Don’t you?”
“Yes,” she murmured.
“Yes, what?”
“I want your cock inside my cunt.”
“Good. Come on.” He put an arm around her waist and they staggered towards the lift. “I have a key card that I knocked onto the floor in reception accidentally on purpose.” They rode up in the lift to the top floor and lurched along the corridor until he opened a door at the far end. “Not a bad room,” he commented as he kicked the door closed.