by Tia Siren
''Room sixteen, first floor, second door on the left.''
The two men climbed the stairs as fast as they could. ''Here it is,'' Charles whispered. ''Now remember what we practiced?'' James nodded. ''Then go in and say your piece. I will wait here and at the right moment, I will come in'' Charles added.
James knocked on the door and opened it. Charles, standing next to the door so that he couldn't be seen, heard a man shout, ''What the hell......get out.......you........'' Then he heard James interrupt him.
''You are, I believe, the Ear of Rochester, the Minister for Family Affairs, are you not?''
''I am, and if you don't leave now, I will have you shot.''
James looked at the naked young lady lying next to him and threw her a dressing gown. ''Put this on and go downstairs,'' he told her. When she had gone, he looked at the Earl, who was still as naked as the day he arrived into the world.
''Sir, I am James Arbuthnot. I am a journalist at the Times Newspaper. It is my job to hold politicians to account. As you are more aware than I, there is an election looming, and you are standing for re-election as the Member of Parliament for Bramham. Your message to the electorate seems to be one based on moral principles. I would like to ask you, Sir, if visiting a house of ill repute and, excuse me for using this word, fucking prostitutes, constitutes the moral high ground on which you are seeking election?''
''What do you want?'' The Earl asked. The Earl was in his late fifties and had a full head of graying hair. He was typically aristocratic looking, tall and slender.
''Very perceptive of you Earl. Let me lay my cards on the table. I am a friend of your son, Charles. It is my belief that you have wronged him. You have disinherited him and condemned him to a life of misery while you, Sir, are the real wrong doer. So let me come to the point. Unless you reinstate your son as your heir, I will print a story in the Times, telling its readers, what I have witnessed here this evening. I doubt very much if, after that, you will be able to grace the House of Commons with your presence ever again. In fact, I wager you will be ruined.''
*****
''Charles,” Emily shrieked as he passed the butler and walked into the drawing room at Priory Manor.
''Calm yourself Emily and listen to what I have to say.'' Emily's was so excited to see him that she was unable to control her breathing. ''I have wronged you.....''
''Oh Charles please, not all that again,'' Emily interrupted. ''You have told me a thousand times, how you have wronged me and how your position won't allow you to court me. I know that, so please come to the point.''
''I love you.”
Emily sank back onto the sofa, her mouth open in disbelief. ''What?''
''I love you, and I have won the auction, and I want to be with you for the rest of my life. That is if you'll have me, after all, I have put you through.''
As the tears rolled down Emily's face, she stood up and kissed him for the first time. It was a passionate lingering kiss that promised much for their future together. When their lips finally parted, Emily said,'' I have a thousand questions.''
''Then ask them,'' he said as he placed soft kisses on her neck.
''How on earth did you come into enough money to win the auction?''
''Blackmail, next question?''
''How did you know how much to bid to be certain of winning?''
''Beatrice told me it should be more than twenty thousand pounds. Next question?''
''The next question is indelicate.''
''Speak it, my dear.''
''Will you take me to bed?''
''And where are your parents?''
''In London, they will be back in three days.''
Emily and Charles stood in her bedroom and looked at one another for the slightest of moments before they flew at each other. It was their first sexual encounter, and they were in no mood to hold back. As their lips met, Charles reached behind Emily's back and began to undo the buttons on her dress. She put her arms around his neck and pulled him to her, desperately wanting to feel his lips press into hers. She was searching for a release from the tension of the previous weeks, and his lips were her starting point.
She opened her mouth wider as his tongue invited her to. Emily felt a fire burning inside her as she took in his masculine scent. Her dress was open now, and Charles pushed it down to the floor, eagerly. When he stood before her without his shirt, Emily was able to see the magnificent physique she would have the pleasure of touching in all the years to come.
She ran her hands over his chest and let her thumbs drift lightly over his nipples. She leaned into him and placed seductive kisses onto his chest. They kissed more as Charles felt inside her undergarments eager to feel the weight of her breasts in his hands. As he fondled her, Emily sighed, feeling his strong hands holding her in a way she had never thought possible just minutes ago.
Charles was eager to see her naked, and she gasped as he ripped her petticoat from her. Buttons and clips flew over the floor as Emily's breasts were revealed to his sight for the first time. He bent down and took a nipple into his mouth, feeling it harden as he did so. She put her hand on the back of his head and encouraged him to suck her harder. He swooped to her other breast and did the same and Emily began to feel real heat rising from her sex.
She wanted him inside her, to feel him fill her with his desire and take her to a dangerous place. Emily's petticoat was hanging from her hips. She bent down, pulled it off her and pulled down her knickers. Naked, she pulled Charles to her. He felt her nipples, erect and hard, push into his chest as their tongues played with one another. He reached down and felt her buttocks, cool to his touch. He cheekily pulled them apart, and they laughed. His head was beginning to spin at the scent to her, and he wanted to lie with her. He maneuvered her to the bed and pushed her down onto it. He looked at her gorgeous curves and the soft curls at the place he wanted most.
Emily wasn't' going to lie passively as he undressed himself, she wanted to discover him. She knelt up in front of him and smiled as she slowly rubbed her hands over his imprisoned shaft. She felt it twitch. She loved this man, and she wanted him to know that she was desperate for him. His belt gave way, and her delicate fingers opened the buttons at his front. He moaned as she put her hand inside and found his manhood. Her hand stroked him fast, and he was worried that he would ejaculate. There was only one place he wanted to ejaculate and that was inside his beautiful lover. He moved her hand away and rid himself of his trousers and pants. He was dismayed when Emily took him in her hand and started to stroke again.
He had to stop her insatiable onslaught, or he would come in her hand. He placed his hands on her shoulders and shoved her back onto the bed. As he did so, her pelvis bounced back up at him. He took hold of her under her bottom, forced her legs open with his shoulder and placed his mouth on her most secret place. Emily came instantly. He saw her fists clench the sheets as she pushed her sex against his mouth. When he let go of her, she was shaking and on a plateau, she never wished to return from.
He wanted her now. He was done with playing. Now he was going to take his future wife, and he was going to show her how much he wanted her.
Emily was still shaking when he put his penis at her opening and eased himself into her. The feeling was indescribable, and she felt more intense waves rising within her. When he began to move inside her, she came again. He cried out as her nails raked down his back, finally sinking themselves into his taught buttocks.
When Emily whispered, ''faster my love,'' Charles felt himself losing control. He wanted to make it last, and he knew if he answered her wishes, he would soon come. He decided there would be many more times and gave her what she desired. He thrust into her faster pushing her up the bed, against the headboard. Emily felt him hit her clitoris with every down stroke, and when she felt his body begin to tighten, she looked him in the eyes and said, ''Now, give yourself to me.''
They came together in one wet wave.
Then Emily whispered, “And that was the bet
of the season.”
*****
THE END
A Lady’s Reward – A Regency Romance
The Village of Ashworthy was large by English standards. Most of it was owned by Mr. Daniel Pickford, the owner of the mill where a high percentage of the population worked. Mr. Pickford demanded much of his employees. He was one of the new rich, part of the an elite group of industrialists whose wealth had multiplied incalculably during the industrial revolution. For those unfortunate enough to work for him, it was a living hell. Fifteen-hour shifts for little pay, six days a week.
Victoria was just eighteen, but she had already been working in the mill for three years. She was by far the most beautiful woman at the mill, and Mr. Pickford had earmarked her for a job as one of his assistants. Mr. Pickford's assistants didn't work in the traditional sense of the word. They waited. It was not their job to turn up at the mill and do a shift with the others; it was their job to go to Mr. Pickord's special cottage and make sure they looked pretty, in case he came to see them. As Mr. Pickford liked to have plenty of choice, he had four assistants. He always chose young unmarried women; he didn't care for husbands. They caused him to look over his shoulder too much. Victoria was next on the list as soon as one of the current incumbents decided to marry.
''You ain't like us,'' Mary had told Victoria when she'd first come to the mill from the village school. ''You're posh.'' Mary was the forewoman and not to be quarreled with. Victoria had been terrified on her fist day, indeed the first week, and the greeting Mary had given her, had done nothing to improve her state of mind. She'd taken comfort in the fact that almost the whole of her school class had come to work there with her. They all thought she was posh too, but they were used to her ways.
''You're far too intelligent to go to the mill,'' Mr. Jameson, her teacher, had told her. ''You should school yourself some more, and be a teacher, or at the very least a governess.''
''But sir, we have very little money, and I'm afraid if I don't work, we may want for food,'' she'd replied. ''My father is not well, and as you know, my mother passed away three years ago.''
Victoria lived with her father in a small cottage for which they paid rent to Mr. Pickford. Her father also worked at the mill and had done so since before Victoria was born. He was well spoken and gentle. The village had been rife with speculation when he'd arrived to live there with his well-to-do wife, for it was obvious that they didn't belong in a small cottage or at the mill. The rumor that held most credit among the villagers was that he'd been disinherited for marrying an Irish woman.
Her parents didn't tell her much about their lives before Ashworthy. All she knew was that her father was English, and her mother Irish. Her mother had mentioned Cork a few times but nothing more. What Victoria did know, was that her mother had an Irish temper. Red haired and fiery, the villagers preferred to keep out of her way.
''You'll be coming to church tomorrow, won't you?'' Lizzie asked as she and Victoria were leaving the mill on Saturday evening after fifteen hours. It was April and almost dark.
''Of course. Since my father became ill, I've never missed a Sunday service. I just hope the good Lord hears my prayers. It's not nice for him lying in bed every day waiting for me to come home.''
The two girls walked together down the hill and into the village. They parted company where they always did at the village green.
''Victoria, can I walk with you?'' It was Jack, the son of the mill foreman. Just eighteen and already six feet tall he looked like a walking coat hanger. He was one of those boys that first shot up in height, and some years later filled out. The filling out hadn't yet taken place.
''I've only got a couple of yards to go,'' she replied, thankful that he'd only caught up with her so close to home.
''Perhaps on another occasion,'' he hung his head and walked across the green, scattering a group of grazing sheep.
Their cottage was on the west side of the green, opposite Lizzie's house. All the cottages were the same on the outside. A front door in the middle, with a window on the left and right. Upstairs two bedroom windows. All had a thatched roof and a small garden at the front.
Victoria looked at her reflection in the window as she walked up the path to the door. She was a tall woman with strawberry blonde hair, a mix of her father's blonde and her mother's ginger. Her feet were aching, and she badly wanted to sit down with a cup of tea. She opened the door and, as usual, took off her bonnet before shouting to her father. Only on this day, there was no reply. He had died in bed twenty minutes before Lizzie got home.
*****
The Duke of Haslemere had more land than any other member of the aristocracy except the King himself. His Dukedom was made up of three estates, two had been in the family since Magna Carta, and the third was a more recent acquisition. His residence was Easingborough Hall. A twenty-five bedroom mansion set in three hundred acres of parkland. His Spanish wife had only been able to bear him one child, Edward, now twenty. Edward was a handsome man. Tall and slender, he had his mother's hair color, black, and his father's green eyes.
In all, the Dukedom had around five hundred tenants. Not many of them had much respect for the Duke. Extortionate rent increases and regular evictions were commonplace, ample explanation why there were so few mourners at his funeral.
Edward held onto his mother's arm as they followed the coffin into the church. He had just inherited a massive fortune and a lot of responsibility. More sensitive than his father, the tenants were hoping for an upturn in their fortunes. Edward counted thirty-two people in the church, including the vicar, the organist, his mother and himself. Just twenty-eight out of five hundred, he hoped more would turn up when it was his turn.
Edward didn't have an easy first few weeks. The old Duke, his father, had surrounded himself with men as unscrupulous as himself. The official title for each of these gentlemen was 'Estate Manager.' Edward likened them to crooks when he discussed the estate with his mother.
''Anyone over the age of sixty may live in our houses free of rent until death,'' he'd announced at their first meeting, to wails of anguish and cries of no.
''I believe it is my property now, is it not?'' he'd added. He waited for each of them had to nod before continuing. ''In that case, I will do as I see fit, not as you see fit. Things are going to change around here, starting today.'' His eyes narrowed, and he pointed at each of them in turn. ''Thank you for serving my father so faithfully over the years but the time has come for us to part.'' The estate managers looked at each other in disbelief.
''You mean you don't want us to work for you anymore?'' one of the wanted to know.
''That is correct,'' he smiled. ''I have arranged an alternative job for each of you at Manor Farm under Mr. Jespon.'' Mr. Jepson was six feet five and a former bare knuckle fighter. He was a good farmer, and he'd taught Edward a lot about the workings of the land. He'd often told Edward that once he was Duke, he should do things differently and get rid of his father's team of crooks.
''If you want, send them to me, and I'll make sure they find out what real work is,'' Jepson had told him. When Jepson was informed that Edward was indeed going to carry out his suggestion, he'd danced around a milk churn until he became dizzy. That day Edward made three enemies and gained five hundred admirers.
When he returned to Easingborough Hall after that meeting, he'd found his mother was making preparations to move into the dowager house.
''Mother you look tired. You should let the servants do more,'' he told her. The English climate had made her skin paler over the years. When she'd arrive from Spain, she was very dark. Now much paler, Edward could see dark rings under her eyes. ''You don't have to move into the dowager house. What on earth will I do here in this enormous house alone?''
''One day you will find yourself a wife, and fill some of those bedrooms with children. You won't want your mother around when that happens,'' she replied.
He had feared his father, but he loved his mother. She had been kind to him a
nd regularly defended him against her husband when he'd reached for the cane. The Spanish were more pleasant to children than the English; they didn't beat them or send them away to boarding schools.
''Would you help me sort some of your father's things? There are boxes and boxes of papers and documents. I have no idea where to begin,'' she asked. ''They're in his bedroom.''
Later Edward went into his father's room and began to do what his mother had asked him. There were six boxes placed in a row at the end of the bed. The room was large and had a fantastic view over the garden. Edward hadn't realized that his parents didn't share the same bed until he was thirteen. His mother had removed herself when he was five, no longer able to bear the whiskey fumes and incessant snoring.
It took Edward three evenings to reach the last box. At first, he'd wondered why the boxes weren't in his father's study but soon came to realize that he'd kept these letters under the bed for a reason. He'd had mistresses. Lots of them, and it appeared he had tried wherever possible to keep in touch with them, even when they were no longer sharing his bed. Edward read a lot of letters at first but soon tired of the same amorous language. As far as he could see, they were just love letters and of no real importance and certainly not to be seen by his mother. He'd get Roberts to burn them.
On the third evening, he pulled the last box to him and opened it. More scented letters and fancy ribbons. He was grateful that the tedious task was almost over. He was just about to give up, fearing all the letters in the box were love letters when he spotted an unopened envelope.
The letter was in a white envelope. It was a letter his father had written to someone but never sent. Edward read the address: Captain Landsborough, Landsborough Hall, Landsborough Estate. Why had his father not sent the letter? His father was dead and couldn't object, so Edward opened it.
Dear Captain Landsborough,