Constance pondered these words of Mrs Templeton's as she unpacked her few belongings in the familiar room under the eaves of the house. Mrs Temp wasn't one to exaggerate - things must have improved. Her outburst to his Lordship, however unplanned and intemperate, on the stairs after she'd discovered Lady Amelia's handkerchief, had borne fruit. He had listened to her, and he had acted on her words – surely that meant that he must think far more of her than as simply an object of wild physical desire?
Constance's thoughts were interrupted by a rap on the door from Rosemary. Mrs Templeton had kindly asked if Constance would serve tea to their ladyships in the drawing room. Constance swallowed – what if Mrs Templeton’s report of improvements was exaggerated? Well, she had to find out eventually – now was as good a time as any.
When Constance entered the drawing room with the modestly laden tray – there were none of the cakes and dainties which had usually weighed it down – she was immediately struck by the appearance of the three sisters. All three were in less fussy dresses; plainer, simpler, and more elegant. Lady Clara had a book in her lap, which she looked up from as Constance entered, while Lady Harriet and Lady Amelia were immersed in – of all things! - a game of chess. As she put the tray down on the table by the window, she noticed the three exchange a rather shamefaced look, a look the like of which she had never seen on their usually disdainful faces before.
“Thank you, Constance, thank you very much.”
“You're most welcome, my Lady.”
Constance had already turned to leave the room when Lady Harriet stood up and, clutching her hands awkwardly, went on:
“The three of us have something to say, don't we?” Lady Clara and Lady Amelia nodded, smiling encouragingly at Lady Harriet. “We'd like to say how sorry we are, really truly sorry, for the way that we treated you, the way we spoke to you so disrespectfully, we...”
“Worse than disrespectfully. I was horrid, really vile, to you Constance – at the garden party. I realise it now.” Lady Amelia had jumped up, disturbing the pieces on the chessboard, to deliver this piece of unexpected self-condemnation. “I'm truly sorry Constance, I can only hope that you can forgive me.”
“You're forgiven already Lady Amelia.”
“Oh! thank you Constance! It's such a relief. Now I can enjoy my tea!”
Lady Amelia bent over the tray and began pouring. Then it was Lady Clara's turn to speak.
“No one is quite sure what you said to our father Constance, and he, of course, won’t go into details, but whatever it was, a spell has been broken. Our father has broken through the cloud of grief – the grief for our mother – which hindered him, and spoken to us in the way he should have done a long time ago.”
Constance looked at her, rather shocked.
Lady Clara went on, after a moment’s pause, as if she was choosing her words very carefully.
“Father has – with your help – made us see how atrociously we have behaved in the past, and we're resolved to mend ourselves and our ways. It may be blindingly obvious to you Constance, but to us it's a revelation – I mean, how much nicer it is when things are done for you because you asked rather than bluntly demanded. A little kindness really does go a long way, doesn't it?”
“It does indeed Lady Clara.”
Constance stood, hardly believing her ears, or her eyes, for the three seemed physically transformed by their new attitude.
“We'd also like to ask you a favour, wouldn't we, Harriet, Amelia?” The other two nodded, Lady Amelia's cheeks stuffed happily with Mrs Templeton's lemon cake. Lady Clara went on. “We're still a little nervous however, as we're still very much on Papa's probation... we so want to go to London for the Season – you know that I'm due to have my coming out this year – and we want to make sure that we get through this sensitive period without anything going wrong, so... would you help us Constance, sort of like a governess? Someone who can guide us, can explain what we should be doing? Help us not to fall back into our old ways? It would mean so much to us.”
Lady Amelia's jaws paused in their work.
“I really don't think that you need any advice from me - you are all well on the road to being good, decent, and charming young ladies... But, yes, I'll be happy to help in any way that I can. As it happens, I once worked as a governess – to some young ladies not so different in age from you. I am sure that, together, we can make quite sure that you don’t miss your Season!”
Lady Amelia lifted another piece of cake from the plate and fitted it into her mouth around a broad smile. Lady Harriet sagged with evident relief. But it was lady Clara who spoke.
“You cannot know just how glad I am to hear you say that, Constance!”
Chapter Thirteen
That night Constance went up to her room tired, but happy.
She could still hardly credit the complete about-face of the girls' attitude. Of course, there was a degree of self-interest involved in their zeal for reform - they wanted their privileges restored, they wanted to go to London for the Season, and, Lady Clara of course, wanted her coming out. But still, it was an amazing and gratifying change. It also made Constance feel rather better about the incident on the stairs, when she had slapped the Earl's face and told him, in no uncertain terms, that he must deal with his daughters (even if she had then kissed him…).
If the incident hadn't occurred, their father wouldn't have spoken to the girls as he had. But then... if Lady Amelia hadn't dropped her handkerchief when snooping in Constance’s room, she, Constance, wouldn't have stormed out and slapped the Earl's face... Perhaps, Constance mused as she slipped out of her clothes with relief, and began washing herself, Amelia's dropping of the 'kerchief was a kind of unconscious appeal to Constance for help?
The girl had a fearsome intensity of emotional energy, and was the possessor of a passionate nature - she hated passionately and, Constance was sure, could love as passionately too, but she needed guidance, patience, a loving hand. Of the three, she needed a loving hand – the sort that was normally provided by a mother - the most. The Earl would need to marry again, and marry a good, sensitive woman...
But it was dangerous to think of the Earl so directly. Constance looked in the mirror, and noted with pleasure what she saw, the high, firm bosom, the stately neck, the loose red hair brushing her smooth pale shoulders... and then the Earl standing behind her, the warmth of his hands on her, caressing... her imagination drew him there, as clearly as if he really stood behind her.
'Please Constance, spare me, don't. Let's get to bed and sleep,' she chastised herself.
She was reluctantly obeying herself when Anne tapped on the door.
“Constance! Mrs Temp sends her apologies but asks if you would kindly deliver a decanter of port to his Lordship, he's in his rooms.”
Constance was on the point of asking why she was being asked to take port to the Earl's rooms so late, that was a job for one of the footmen, surely? But the query froze on her lips, and she found herself hurrying back into her dress, and giving her assent to Anne. The prospect of seeing him alone, even if only for a minute, was too tempting to refuse.
She quickly tidied her hair, and went down to the ground floor to collect the tray.
Her heart was thumping alarmingly as she went up the stairs and walked along the gallery, where the paintings of the Earl's ancestors looked down upon her, their expressions surely disapproving. She must just deposit the tray and leave, as politely as possible, but, oh! it seemed like an eon since she had seen him! Even though, as she rightly knew, it was but one full day.
She rapped at the oak-panelled door, heard his muted 'come in’, and balancing the tray on her arm, opened the door.
He was sitting on the divan, under the window facing the door, and looking through some papers. He was wearing a beautifully patterned silk banyan, the folds of which had fallen open and exposed his broad chest and muscled torso.
“Your port, my Lord, where shall I put it?”
He looked up, asto
nished.
“Constance! They sent you? Where's Bob?”
“Bob is working late in the cellar with Mr Collins, my Lord.”
“I see, oh, well... put the tray down here, please.”
He indicated the mahogany table with its glowing candelabra to his right. The door swung closed behind her as she moved into the room. She had deposited the tray and was turning to leave when he stood up suddenly, coming to her and taking her into his arms. She went to pull away, half struggled, although part of her delighted in his strength, and the scent of him so near. She twisted her head away from his lips bent to kiss her, but struggle was useless – he was stronger, and in her heart of hearts, she did not really wish to resist – quite the opposite.
“Please, my Lord!”
“Perry, my sweet Constance, Perry!”
She protested again but his passionate kiss fused her weak complaint to her lips, her last thin shreds of resistance falling away as his mouth moved against hers, drawing all objection out of her body, it seemed, even as it flooded her with the heat of desire.
Then his hands were under her skirts, and slipping into the neckline of her gown – everywhere, seeking to touch her everywhere - her thighs, her stomach, her waist, her aching breasts. She felt his fingers withdraw and meet her own fingers where they scrabbled to undo the lacing at the back of her dress.
Without a pause in the kiss, he slipped the dress down from her shoulders, and seeing her breasts, bare, fell on them like a starving wolf. He licked, nipped, and suckled her nipples, until she thought that she might faint from the pleasure. She arched her neck back, grasping the back of his neck as he devoured her hungrily, and gasped aloud, her knees buckling.
Suddenly he drew back, still holding her by the arms, to stare at her.
His banyan had fallen open the whole length of his body – he wore nothing beneath it – and his manhood, hard and erect, stood, moving like a living thing against his stomach. Her knees did buckle then, completely, and she fell to kneel before him. His manhood was directly before her face, and, as if in a dream, she leant forward, and brought her lips to its tip, her tongue flicking out to taste him. She had never done such a thing before, had barely even thought such an action possible, yet it seemed so natural, in the moment. It appeared to please him, for he gasped, then groaned.
“Constance… yes…”
His hands tangled themselves in her hair, pins falling unregarded to the floor, and he held her head, directing and encouraging the motions of her mouth. Arousal ran through Constance, and she willingly explored the velvet soft surface over the heated hardness with her tongue and lips, finding the movements that he seemed to like best.
All compunction, all doubt, was burned away as Constance applied herself, with a growing hunger, to the details of his beautifully-proportioned body. It was natural, all was natural, all was right. Nothing mattered but this mutual fulfilment of their need for each other. She felt his excitement mount with inevitable force, and kept on, kissing his manhood, taking it into her mouth, moving and exploring as she had never imagined doing, her own excitement building in pitch with his.
Then, as he stiffened, his hands tightening in her hair, to pull her away, she understood, and in wordless accord, let him pull her to her feet. He stepped backward to the divan and sat down, pulling her towards his lap with the same movement. Tumbling against him, she placed her knees on the divan either side of his thighs, and as he held her tightly by the hips, she angled herself into position to receive him, squirming in his grip in desperate anticipation. The shock of his thrusting intrusion drove the breath from her body once more and she shuddered, gripping alternately at his arms and shoulders as he filled her, whilst applying, at the same time, his lips and tongue to her breasts with devouring relish.
They were perfectly attuned - her flesh acutely, quiveringly, responsive to his every, ever-deepening, stroke.
She could feel him quivering too, as he held back his release, long hovering on the edge of explosion. It was wildly exhilarating, to know that she had the ability to bring this man to the edge of his control, in such a way. Constance rode him as if she were some wild horseman, and he some great stallion, their every movement aligned, and each moment driving both of them closer to an inevitable shattering into pleasure. She closed her eyes, the better to concentrate herself upon drawing him higher and deeper within her, until she felt him filling, stretching every part of her, filling her, so rhythmically until... together they broke through to that high plateau of mutual, unifying bliss. For some time, they stayed as they were, with Constance collapsed against him, content in his arms. She listened as his heart beat slowed, as his laboured breathing eased, in synchrony with hers.
Finally, once they had both recovered somewhat, he lifted her gently from him. Then he stood, and, without warning, scooped her up into his arms, and carried her to his bed, depositing her upon it with such gentleness that one might have thought her to be as fragile as a priceless Ming vase. Then, belying that impression completely, he fell on her again, kissing, stroking, caressing, marvelling at the smoothness, the shapely fullness of her body, until she was aroused again and breathless for his re-entry.
As the great house of Blackwood Chase lay in peace and quietness, the Earl gripped the ornate oak bedposts and applied himself with slow minute consideration to the object of his worship, studying every detail of her beautiful face: the long lashes against the green eyes, the dimple of the chin, the way the wide red lips drew apart, the mouth forming a silent breathless expression of astonishment at a particularly long and lingering thrust from him.
After an indeterminate period of time, exhaustion took them, and they slipped into sleep, still tangled together. In the darkness, much later, Constance woke to the feel of his lips upon her again, his fingers adding their caresses between her legs and bringing her to awareness in a haze of pleasure.
It seemed that his hunger was limitless! She rolled onto her stomach at his gentle urging and felt the bed sink beneath his weight as he knelt above her. As his fingers continued to arouse her, she lay in delicious, expectant acquiescence as he readied her, and himself, for another exquisite experience.
She slid her legs apart and, responding to his hand, which had slithered beneath her stomach, allowed herself to be lifted up by it, her beautiful posterior rounding into more geometrical perfection as she thrust it up to meet his re-engorged manhood. He slid into her, and all thought left her – the world contracted to the feel of him within her, to his hands on her hips, and the rising pleasure that shattered her repeatedly before they were done.
Eventually, she slept again and, finally, when dawn had broken, he fell into a deep, deep sleep beside her. She woke to the soft pre-dawn light, and turned to watch him sleep - his face, completely relaxed, was even more beguilingly handsome.
She kissed his forehead lightly as a butterfly alighting on a flower, then slipped out of the bed to find her dress. It was time to return to being just a housemaid – and an almost governess for the girls.
~~~~~
Constance had barely two hours of exhausted sleep before she was woken by the other housemaids scurrying downstairs for breakfast, before beginning their daily duties.
With a shock she remembered the details of the night before – it all came rushing back into her mind, as she struggled out of bed. Every delicious, and totally inappropriate, minute of it. Her skin flushed, and her whole body heated – just the memory raised desire within her with an intensity that was almost frightening.
Why hadn't she struggled, resisted in some way? Why had she let him have his way with her again! She lifted the sheet and looked down at her nakedness. Here and there, on her breasts, and the tops of her thighs were small bruises, bruises from his use of her. Marks of pleasure, marks she did not, for one moment, regret receiving, even if to have allowed it to happen was madness.
She got out of bed to examine each one in the mirror, touching them tenderly, as tenderly as if she were touchi
ng him again. There was also a red mark on her neck, which she would have to cover up with a kerchief; but before she did so, she traced its outline with closed eyes, as if she were tracing his lips...
It was pointless lying to herself any longer. She wanted him! Oh, how she wanted him! No man on earth had ever made her feel this way, had ever driven every thought out of her head merely by looking at her! And no man had ever made love to her with such incredible zeal and passion – with such honesty! Last night it was as if no-one and nothing existed but the two of them. It was as if the world had ended, or had never been at all!... Such selfishness!... And yet, they had been selfish together, collectively.
She had exerted every sinew to pleasure him and he had done the same for her. In giving herself so completely to him, she gave to herself. Was this really selfishness? Was not giving a great Christian virtue?
But was being someone's mistress Christian behaviour? No. And that is all that she could ever be to him, surely, another – albeit favourite – mistress. For he surely couldn't love her, could he? She had to admit that they were good together – they could talk well with each other – there was, to her at least, something beyond the physical. Their minds could meet, had met, that night in his library, talking of philosophy. How eagerly he'd devoured her every expression, as, or almost as ardently as, he'd devoured her body. But doubtless he had other 'talking mistresses' too. She couldn't be the only one. The mistresses of the aristocracy often had to be more educated than their clients, she'd heard.
No, he could surely only regard her as a convenient mistress, a welcome addition to his seraglio.
And yet... the things that he had said to her, the things he had whispered in the throes of their passion! She didn't believe that, with most women, a man would say anything in the heat of passion, important men almost never forgot themselves, even in the bedroom. But he, this Earl, had abandoned himself to her. He had stripped off his importance, his social stature, his high position, with his garments, hadn't he? This must surely mean something...
The Scottish Governess: Regency Romance Page 9