by P. F. Kozak
Peter added, “We will keep our separate rooms until we are married. For the sake of discretion, we will not reveal our engagement until we have set a date. Until then, our love will remain private and inside this house.”
“When do you expect that date to be?” May again wiped her nose with the tea towel.
“I hope soon. Pamela’s inheritance is in question. We must make sure her bequest from Sir George is protected before we can legally marry.”
“Is that true, missy? Your inheritance is why you are waiting?”
“Yes, May, it is true. It is too complicated to explain right now, but if I hope to keep what Papa left to me, I have to wait to marry.”
“I didn’t know.”
Peter redirected the conversation. “May, if I remember correctly, you don’t like Constance.”
“She is a prig.”
“I’ve heard that before.” Peter squeezed Pamela’s shoulder. “Then, I hope we can count on you to stay in our employ?”
“For now. Just don’t take too long to have a church wedding.”
“We will make arrangements as soon as we can. Pamela will be beautiful in a wedding dress, don’t you think?”
May smiled. “I’ve always said she would be a beautiful bride. I just want to live to see it!”
Just then Lucy came into the kitchen from the back stairs. When she saw Peter and Pamela with May, she stopped short, and then turned to leave.
“Lucy, wait.” Peter came around the table. “Do you know where Jack is?”
“Yes, sir. He is in the parlour cleaning the gas lamps.”
Turning to Pamela, he asked, “It is such a beautiful summer’s day. Would you like to go out and about? Perhaps we could walk though Covent Garden?”
“Oh, Peter, you know I adore Covent Garden. I haven’t been there since Christmas last.”
“Then get yourself ready. I will tell Jack to bring round the carriage.”
Peter leaned over and kissed May on the cheek. “Are we four square, Miss May?”
“Oh, fiddlesticks. You know I ain’t leaving. Someone has to have some common sense in this house.”
Pamela jumped up and ran round the table. Wrapping her arms around May’s neck, her relief poured out. “Oh, I just knew you wouldn’t leave! You could never work for that namby-pamby Constance. She would drive you bats!”
May patted her hand. “You best be minding yourself, missy, until you and the mister here are married.”
Lucy giggled and tried to cover it with a cough. Pamela kissed the top of May’s head. “I’ll mind myself. Perhaps you should say the same to the mister.”
“There’s no point in doing that! He does what he pleases; has ever since I’ve known him.” May gave Peter a pointed look.
“You are quite correct, May. I do what pleases me.” With that, he turned Pamela around and kissed her full on the mouth, in front of both May and Lucy. Not saying another word, he left the kitchen to find Jack. They heard him whistling as he made his way to the parlour.
Pamela stared at the door. “Well, isn’t that something! He can whistle!”
Lucy grinned. “I told you, miss. Surprised the bejesus out of me.”
“Lucy! Mind your manners.” May’s scolding did not temper Lucy’s amusement. “Master Rennard is happy. Men whistle when they are happy.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Both Pamela and Lucy had to swallow hard to keep from giggling.
Pamela managed to say, “Lucy, would you please come to my room and help me with my hair? I did it myself today. I fear it may come down when I put my bonnet on.”
“Of course, miss.”
“May, I expect we will be back for dinner. I will check with Master Rennard and let Lucy know before we leave.”
Pamela led the way up the back stairs, with Lucy close behind. When they entered the upstairs hall, they could no longer hold in the giggles. Running down the hall like schoolgirls, they burst into Pamela’s room and closed the door.
When Pamela had enough breath to speak, she couldn’t help but blurt out, “Master Rennard should be whistling a happy tune for quite some time to come!” That set off another wave of laughter, which took several minutes to fully subside.
“Lucy, I really do have to prepare to leave. Peter will be here at any moment asking what is taking so long.”
Lucy wiped the tears from her face, now quite flushed from laughing. “Quite so, miss. Sit and I will pin it more securely.”
Pamela sat at her vanity while Lucy skillfully rearranged her hair. “Lucy, you haven’t said anything about what has happened.”
“I told you, miss, I am happy about your engagement. It is meant to be.”
“I know you are happy about our being married. That isn’t what I meant.”
“It is not my place to say more, miss.”
“Lucy, I confided in you about my feelings for Peter and what I wanted to happen.”
Pamela saw Lucy smile in the looking glass. “Yes, miss, you did.”
“You know it happened last evening.”
“I know, miss. I saw the stains on the mister’s bed.”
“Lucy, it is wonderful, more wonderful than I ever imagined.”
“The way he is whistling, I suppose the mister thinks the same!” Their eyes met in the looking glass and they both burst out laughing.
Peter knocked on the door. “Pamela, what the devil is going on in there?” Without waiting for an invitation, he walked in.
Pamela spoke to his reflection in the looking glass. She saw him scrutinizing both Lucy and herself. “Do you always walk into a lady’s boudoir during her toilette?”
“Not usually. However, it seems I have a licence to do so now, especially when I hear such carrying-on.”
Pamela smiled. “I wouldn’t let May hear you say that. She could well box your ears for such presumptuousness.”
“She won’t know I said it, unless, of course, one of you tell her I did.”
“I’m not going to tell her. Are you going to tell her, Lucy?”
“No, Miss Pamela, certainly not.”
“It seems you both are the mice that took the cheese, from the ribald laughter I heard. Might you share with me what the bloody hell is so amusing?”
“Peter Rennard, there are some female secrets not meant for male ears. Lucy, could you hand me my bonnet and parasol?”
“Yes, miss.”
“Peter, will we be back for dinner?”
“Yes, I plan to be. Lucy, will you inform May we will have dinner at six o’clock this evening?”
“Yes, sir. The dining room or the library?”
“The dining room, I do believe. Then May will know all hands are on the table.” Peter checked his pocket watch, as was his habit. “Are you ready, Pams? Jack should have brought round the carriage by now.”
“I am ready.” Pamela slipped her arm through Peter’s, adding, “And very willing.”
Peter patted her hand. “I am aware.”
They rode quietly down Piccadilly, enjoying the day and each other. By half past twelve, they had arrived at the Covent Garden Piazza. They walked past the vendors with their carts, the wagons with flowers brilliant in the summer sun. The sights and smells of the market brought back fond memories for Pamela, of the days when her father would take her there to shop and to see the street performers.
Walking arm in arm with Peter, she remembered the acrobats, the jugglers, the mimes and her very favorite, the puppets. Their antics always tickled her. She chuckled remembering her curiosity about what they did together in the box under the stage.
Peter interrupted her reverie. “Did you see something amusing?”
“No. I simply remembered being here with Papa and watching the street performers.” She smiled and squeezed Peter’s arm. “I always imagined the puppets having a secret life under the stage, where they would, shall we say, commit a few indiscretions.”
“Pamela, your precociousness only increases with age.” He laughed, adding, “Perha
ps our circumstance will give us a glimpse of their life under the stage.”
Pamela nodded in agreement. “You may be quite correct about that!”
A gentleman walking past Pamela touched her arm. “Pamela, is that really you?”
Lowering her parasol to see the man’s face, Pamela recognised him immediately. “Charles? What on earth are you doing here?”
“I expect the same thing you are, enjoying the day.”
Forcing herself to remain composed, she turned to Peter. “Peter, might I introduce Charles Capell, the brother of a classmate? Charles, this is Peter Rennard.”
“Hello, Peter. How very fine to see you again.”
“Hello, Charles.”
Pamela, now quite bewildered, asked, “You know one another?”
“Quite so. We met at a party my cousin Constance hosted. Peter was her escort.”
Pamela could see the tight line of Peter’s jaw at the mention of Constance. She quickly deflected the conversation. “Oh, how charming, and such a coincidence! Peter, Charles graciously escorted me to a party in April. His sister Sarah attended Newnham with me. That is how we met.”
“Indeed. That is a coincidence, now isn’t it?” Pamela could see Peter’s jawline ripple as he ground his teeth.
Conversely, Charles smiled warmly. “Are you back in London now?”
“Yes, I am. It is so good to be home.”
Directing his next question to Peter, Pamela’s heart sank to her toes. “I say, old man, would you mind terribly if I call on Pamela? I would so enjoy seeing her again.”
With rigid self-control, Peter replied, “I daresay that is up to Pamela.”
Fully understanding the familial connection to Constance and the need to maintain decorum, Pamela smiled and said, “Of course, Charles. Please drop by for tea tomorrow afternoon and we will talk. That would be one sixty-nine Piccadilly, at the corner of Bolton and Piccadilly.” She felt nauseous and thought surely she would vomit.
“Marvelous. I shall do that.” He took hold of Pamela’s hand and kissed it. “It is delightful seeing you again.” Almost as an afterthought, he nodded to Peter. “Good seeing you again, Peter.”
Peter nodded in return. Pamela felt his fingertips sink deeper into her arm.
Once Charles disappeared in the crowd, Pamela felt the need to sit down. “Peter, could we find a bench? Or perhaps a café? I am feeling a bit faint.”
“We passed a tea shop a few minutes ago. You do look as though you could use a cup of tea.”
Pamela nodded, not feeling well enough to speak. Peter led her back through the crowd to the small tea shop, where they sat. He ordered them each some tea and crumpets.
Pamela sipped her tea and ate. As her stomach calmed, she felt more in control of the situation. “Peter, do you have an opinion about how best to handle this?”
“No,” he answered flatly.
“You have nothing to say? I find that difficult to fathom!”
“What is there to say, Pamela? Charles will soon inherit his father’s title and his seat in the House of Lords. If you marry him, you will be a countess and the wife of the Earl of Essex. Isn’t that what Sir George wanted, and asked me to oversee in his absence?”
“Peter Rennard, you are the single most infuriating man God ever placed on the face of this earth!”
“And I am sure you could hire out as the town crier! Pamela, we are in a shop!”
“I wouldn’t give a fig if we were in Westminster Abbey! I agreed to see him only because of our situation, for no other reason.”
“Indeed!”
“And I intend to tell him the truth, that I am betrothed.”
Peter’s teacup froze halfway to his mouth. “You can’t do that!”
Pamela stood, nearly knocking over her chair. “You just watch me!” She turned and left the shop.
Peter ran after her, nearly losing her in the crowd. Grabbing her arm from behind, he pulled her to the side. Keeping his voice low, he growled at her, “Pamela, what has gotten into you?”
“You did, in case you have already forgotten!”
“What the devil is that supposed to mean?”
“That means we are already married in spirit, at least that’s what you told me. One chance meeting with a titled suitor and you are back to singing the same old song.”
Peter glanced around, concerned they would be overheard. “Pamela, this is not something we should be discussing here.”
“Just answer this for me, Peter. Do you want me to treat Charles as a suitor? Should I let him touch me as a lover?”
With fire in his eyes, he answered her. “If he lays a hand on you, I’ll kill the son of a bitch.”
“All right then, can you be home tomorrow for tea?”
“Probably. Why?”
“Don’t you think I should have a proper chaperon when I take tea in the parlour with Charles?”
“Are you going to tell him about us?”
“I said I would tell him I am betrothed. I didn’t say I would identify my intended.”
“Do you realise you are courting a scandal?”
“Peter, realistically, whenever we announce our engagement, there will no doubt be gossip. Most of them will thoroughly enjoy being scandalised.” Pamela kissed him on the cheek and whispered, “I would give a month’s income on my properties to see the expression on Constance’s face when she hears the news.”
Peter smiled. “I would match that with a month’s income on mine.” He glanced at his pocket watch. “We still have an hour before meeting Jack at the carriage. Let me buy you some flowers.”
Pamela napped during the carriage ride home. Peter woke her only when Jack stopped the carriage in front of the gate.
“Pams, we’re home. Wake up.”
“We’re home?” Pamela lifted her head from Peter’s shoulder and squinted when she glanced out the window.
“Yes, we are home. You might want to adjust your bonnet. Tipped sideways as it is, the neighbours will think you’ve had a bit too much gin.”
Peter reached across her to open the door and Pamela swatted his arm. “Smart aleck!”
Jack came around and helped her out of the carriage. He winked at her as she stepped down. Pamela blushed and then returned his smile, knowing Lucy had shared her news.
Once inside, Peter leaned over and whispered in her ear, “We have some time before dinner. I want you to go into the library and wait for me. I will be in directly.”
“Why?”
“You’ll see.” He swatted her bottom. “Tit for tat.” Then, he ran up the stairs.
Pamela went into the library and took off her bonnet. She still held the bouquet of violets Peter had bought for her. She poured some water from the pitcher into a glass, then carefully arranged the flowers and put them on Peter’s desk.
When he came in, Peter closed the door. He came around to the inside of his desk, opened a drawer, and took out a measuring ruler. Then he moved the glass with the flowers to the windowsill.
“What the devil are you doing?”
“Preparing to discipline you.”
“What?”
“It seems you need to be shown what will happen when you have unseemly outbursts in public places. Bend over and put your hands on my desk.”
Pamela didn’t move. Peter stood with the ruler, lightly tapping it against the palm of his hand. “Pamela, I’m waiting.”
“You aren’t serious!”
“Oh, yes, I am! I told Lucy we are not to be disturbed, and that we will be out for dinner shortly. May is to hold serving until we are seated.” He continued to tap the ruler against his palm. “Unless, of course, your preference will be to stand and take your meal. Now, are you going to bend over?”
Pamela could see he meant to do as he said. “We don’t have much time. I don’t want May to be cross that our meal is ruined.”
“Then I suggest we get down to it. Bend over, Pamela.”
With her heart pounding, Pamela put her hand
s on the edge of Peter’s desk. Almost immediately, she felt him behind her, raising her skirt and petticoat. He tucked the hem of her garments under the sash of her dress to hold them up. After hooking his fingers into the waistband of her knickers, he pulled them down to her ankles. He raised each foot to pull them off.
The cool air against her bare skin made her shiver. Peter rolled her stockings down to her knees. “Why are you doing that? Aren’t I bare enough for you?”
He answered her with a sharp swat of the ruler against her arse. The sting went directly to her clitoris. “Pamela, you are being disciplined. I am not required to explain my actions. However, you are required to comply with obedience.” He tapped the inside of her thighs with the ruler. “I’m going to warm you. Spread your legs wider.”
When she did, Peter slid the flat side of the ruler between her legs and rubbed her. She involuntarily pressed herself against the flat surface, trying to increase the pressure. He allowed her to masturbate against the ruler for several seconds. In a hoarse whisper, she muttered, “My God, Peter, this is lewd.”
“Deliciously so, Pamela, as it should be. It whets the appetite before the main course.”
Without warning, he smacked her. She lurched forward and moaned. “Pamela! Stay still.”
She straightened her back just as the ruler connected again. The wood bit into her flesh, the stroke burning, and then tingling. What had been pain became pleasure, as her already swollen clitoris throbbed with need. Again, Peter smacked her. This time she heard a sound from him that sounded as though he growled.
With each successive stroke, the pleasure and the need increased. “Peter…” She moaned his name, a plea for release.
“Tell me, Pamela, tell me what you want.” This time the stroke lashed her thighs.
“I want you.”
Her bum flamed with heat as he smacked her again. “No, Pamela. Tell me what you really want. You know the words. You have been reading them long enough.”
Her breath now coming in short gasps, it took a moment to take in enough air to speak. “I want your prick in my cunt. I want you to fuck me until I scream.”
He put the ruler down on the desk beside her. She realised he must be undoing his trousers. Gathering her wits, she asked, “Peter, what about the sheath?”