Mr Carring pulled away, his manhood slipped from between her legs, spilling his spent seed down her thigh as her skirts fell in a tumble. Her mind whirled, as she looked up and watched him pull up his breeches, and straighten his coat.
He held her gaze, but she could not read the thoughts that passed through.
A late carriage clattered past the alleyway, making her startle. ‘I really must go,’ she said softly and turned; an icy rivulet of rain trickled between her breasts. She felt hot and cold, thrilled but afraid.
Carring caught her hand. ‘Tell me your name?’ he asked.
She looked up into those beautiful eyes, relieved and perhaps vaguely saddened by the lack of recognition.
But he must never recognise me. She knew.
She had played a dangerous game this night, and one she must remember always, but never repeat.
‘I cannot,’ she said, ‘goodnight.’ Ellen pulled her hand free of his, and offered a polite curtsey.
‘Please,’ he called as she hurried out of the alley.
‘Forgive me,’ she said, as much to herself as to him, and then fled into night, just as the last lamps were extinguished.
Chapter 5
Ellen took a few false turns, to ensure Carring did not follow her back to Miss Brampton’s, before finally returning to the school. She slipped in through the servants’ quarters, for which she had a key, and rushed to her room, utterly terrified of discovery.
When she reached her small lodgings, she latched the door securely behind her. Her heart beat so fast and hard she thought it may burst.
The fire was nearly out; with trembling hands she placed some coal on the last of the embers.
She watched the flames grow and lick the black coal.
The evening had taken a dreamlike quality and she could scarce believe what she had done, yet her inner thighs were sticky and cold with Mr Carring’s spendings, and her virginal blood evidence of what she’d done. Ellen bit her lip, and with a still shaking hand, she unbuttoned the gown and began to undress. As she struggled to lift the weighty dress over her head, her mind flashed with images of Mr Carring, licking her, sucking her, there. She’d never known a man would do such a thing, let alone contemplate it ever being done to her.
Oh! But it was wondrous. She wanted to laugh, perhaps even cry.
What was the correct response to these series of events? The novels she read never said.
Ellen lifted the gown off and lay it on the bed. She turned it and inspected it for damage or filth, and thankfully found nothing other than dampness from the rain. Her heart fluttered again with memories and she wondered if it would ever quiet. She half expected Mr or Mrs Sneddon to bang upon her door and inquire to her earlier whereabouts, but the schoolhouse was utterly silent except for the slow languorous chiming of the grandfather clock in the corridor.
Still not allowing a moment to reflect on the evening, Ellen lifted the dress and draped it over a chair. She brought out her dress brush, and brushed it down. Her strokes were methodical and purposeful. Just as Carring’s sensual strokes had been.
Heat flushed up through her body and she dropped the brush to the floor and instead began to ready herself for slumber. Her hands were steadier as she unbuttoned her quilted stays, and lay them in her drawer. As she moved, she noticed increasingly tender sensations between her legs, every movement causing a slight twinge of discomfort and reminding her constantly of what she had done and the alarming size of the manhood with which she had done it.
Good grief!
Gingerly Ellen pulled up the skirts of her chemise, and moved towards her washbasin. Her inner thighs were streaked with his evidence of their passion.
She had a momentary pang of guilt and fear. If she ever were to marry, her husband would know what she had done. There would be no virginal blood on her wedding night as evidence of her chastity.
For I am no longer chaste.
She felt her belly twist.
But also, I am never to marry. She reminded herself, I have been chosen as Miss Brampton’s successor, and no married woman may be a schoolteacher.
She nodded firmly to herself. No one would ever know of her indiscretion.
Her conscience mollified, she smiled slightly to herself and began to sponge away any evidence to the contrary.
What an adventure I’ve had!
***
Robert returned home in the early hours of the morning. The long chilly walk had done nothing to calm his mind, or sooth his arousal at the night he’d experienced.
It was extraordinary.
His ears echoed with the gentle sound of her moans, her cries of pleasure at her first experience of passion.
For all the thrills and excitement, he could not fathom why she had given her maidenhood away. Why had she not saved it for a husband? More curiously, why had she not asked for coin or anything else from him in return?
He had so many questions.
Who the devil was this wild, articulate woman? Where had she come from? Where had she gone?
Naturally, he’d tried to follow her as she wove around the streets, but she had proved elusive. He had lost her when a music hall had closed its doors and the last of its patrons had scattered along the street.
Robert sighed, and threw his coat down on the library chair. He stood before the roaring fire and spread his fingers wide to warm them. The heat of the fire reminded him of her hot thighs beneath his hands.
He groaned and ran his hands through his hair in frustration. He wanted to find the mystery woman more than he wanted anything else in his life.
There was a soft click of the door opening, and he turned as Potts entered. The butler looked dishevelled, as if roused from sleep. He carried a tray. The poor man appeared exhausted.
‘A nightcap, sir?’ he croaked, proffering a brandy and a slice of pound cake.
Robert smiled fondly. The man was worth his weight in gold. ‘Thank you, dear Potts. Now I insist you retire, good evening,’
He glanced at the mantel clock, which read past midnight.
‘You had a good walk, I take it?’ Potts asked as he turned.
‘Extraordinary,’ Robert replied.
‘Very good, sir,’ Potts nodded and closed the door behind him.
Robert stepped forth and gulped the brandy, but it merely reminded him of the ale-laced breath of the woman at the public house, then he remembered her hot tight channel taking him to the hilt, the sweet tang of her taste and the sound of her moans.
Lord! He should never have let her go.
He tried to take his mind elsewhere, far from her curves, her heat, her passion; he stared into the coals. Not deterred, his mind swiftly returned to her.
Who was she? He asked again.
She was educated, certainly, and well-dressed obviously, but why would a woman of such calibre be out behaving in such a sensually scandalous manner? He could not fathom it. He had never met another woman who actually had desires, let alone the conviction to act on them, and that was frankly the most erotic thing he had ever encountered in his life.
Devil take him!
Why hadn’t he chased her harder? Why hadn’t he insisted she tell him who she was?
He had to find out.
His mind chased itself in circles over the same questions, as one glass of brandy turned into two, then two into three. Until, in the early hours of the morning, exhausted, Robert collapsed in his bed and finally found rest.
The next morning, Robert rose late, his stomach grumbling and his head pounding.
Just how many brandies had he consumed?
He glanced to his left; where weak winter sunlight cast a pale glow behind the curtains, his eyes ached.
His hand groped for the bellpull. He tugged and sank back into his pillows, rubbing his temples hard.
After a moment or two, Potts arrived with a tray of coffee and some morning cake. Robert peeled an eye open. Steam from the coffee coiled lazily in the frigid air, as Potts carefully set it down
.
‘Good morning, sir,’ he said, and eyed the crumpled clothes strewn about the room. ‘Sleep well?’
Robert groaned and he sat up, as Potts propped some pillows behind him.
‘Devilish, I’m afraid. Devilish.’
Potts remained silent, and opened the curtains. Robert squinted in the light.
‘Is Penny risen?’ he asked groggily.
‘Yes, sir, she’s reading in the sunroom.’ He could hear the disapproval in Potts voice.
Robert groaned guilty. ‘Dress me and I’ll join her.’
It took some time to coax his soaked bones from his bed, wash, and allow Potts to dress him. At length he went downstairs to breakfast with his daughter.
Guilt was heavy in his belly when he found, after he descended the stairs, Penny had already eaten and was taking tea.
His daughter looked a vision sitting by the window, her dark curls kissed by the weak London sunlight, and the vivid blue day gown complementing her rosy complexion. He was reminded savagely of his wife, Mildred. The guilt grew thicker.
He’d fornicated like the basest beast last night. Mildred would have been appalled.
And yet ... It had been a wondrous experience. Very wondrous indeed.
‘Good morning, Daddy,’ Penny rose and kissed his cheek lightly. ‘Did you sleep well?’
He smiled and nodded, not prepared to contradict her.
The truth was shamefully lewd. He vaguely recalled lying awake in bed, soaked in brandy with an indefatigable erection. One would have thought after being sated for the first time since his wife’s passing, he should have slept like dead. Alas, it was not until he’d relived each delicious moment of the evening, oiled his hand, given his cock a few hard strokes, and spilled seed across his belly that he’d finally found rest.
Colour threatened to bloom on his cheeks at the memory.
He coughed, and accepted a cup of tea proffered by Mrs Mathers. ‘Penelope, I was thinking, to celebrate Christmas and your return home, we ought to decorate the house for the season,’ he said. ‘I know of several fine stalls down Hackney Road that offer holly, ivy and mistletoe for the festivities.’
He knew that there were stalls much closer to home that offered the same produce, but if he could perhaps take a walk about Hackney again, he may catch a glimpse of his elusive lady.
Penelope’s eyes brightened, ‘I could make pomanders!’ she exclaimed, ‘We must buy cloves and oranges. Oh, can we, Father?’
He beamed at her, ‘Of course.’
So it was agreed. After a short delay during which he ate and supped on tea, they collected coats, bonnets and scarves to protect from the icy wind, and departed in their carriage to Hackney Road.
***
There was no luxurious lay-in or breakfast awaiting Ellen that morning, and she rose early. Her body was tender and her head more than a little achy. Her heart flip-flopped as she recalled the night’s events.
Her body veritably cried out for his touch again.
Oh, Mr Carring!
Silly girl! she chided.
There was nothing for it, she had not the time nor temperament to linger on what was past, no matter how wickedly thrilling it was, or however much she wished to sit and reflect upon each forbidden detail.
There was, as always, work to be done.
She had to organise Mr Sneddon to return Miss Pickering’s gown, sort the classrooms and prepare for the next school term, as per Miss Brampton’s precise instructions.
She washed briskly in the washbasin. It was impossible not to relish the twinge of discomfort between her legs as a lingering, final reminder of Mr Carring’s attention.
Last night, she had truly been free. She knew she was lucky to have experienced what she had. Most spinster schoolteachers had nothing more exciting in their lives than a student mispronouncing their Latin conjugated verbs. What she had experienced was a like a golden treasure. The passionate love of handsome man. Something she’d only dare dream of. Was it greedy to fantasise that Mr Carring could be hers, for not just one night but all the days and nights?
Oh, Mr Carring! Her heart fluttered as her disobliging mind returned to him. He was such a kind man, and good father. Not only that, but he had also been so concerned for her as a maiden—it was touching. She remembered how his head buried betwixt her thighs brought her such pleasure. Who even knew such a thing was done! Her body clenched. Though she told herself over and over it was just the one night and she should be thankful for that, she wished ardently there could be more.
Ridiculous, impossible!
Ellen pulled her brush through her hair, tearing at the knots.
She could never be anything more than Robert Carring’s daughter’s educator. No matter how much she wished it could be so.
If he ever did discover her true identity and indiscretion, her livelihood and reputation would be utterly destroyed.
Steeling her spine, Ellen slammed the brush down and pinned her mob-cap over her hair.
She was still chiding herself as she reached the lobby of the schoolhouse, where Mrs Sneddon busied herself polishing the skirtings.
‘This mornin’s porridge is cold, I’m afraid, Miss Smith, you’re up late,’ she added a little sourly, and looked up from her work. She paused and Ellen felt Mrs Sneddon’s assessing gaze slide across her face. The deep creases in Mrs Sneddon’s brow folded into deeper ones. ‘You’re looking very well this morning,’ she said a little gruffly, her hand selfconsciously patting her own mob-cap.
Ellen’s heart stuttered, ‘Am I? Thank you,’ she replied, feeling a blush creep up her neck.
Mrs Sneddon hmphed and returned to her polishing.
‘Is Mr Sneddon about? He needs to return this gown to the Pickerings,’ she asked, her fingers stroking the fine fabric of the gown, remembering just how smooth it had felt as it had slipped over her skin, and how crudely it had been hitched to waist as Mr Carring ...
Stop it! She warned herself.
‘Mr Sneddon’s out back, overseeing the coal delivery.’ Mrs Sneddon said, her voice still gruff.
Ellen swallowed the thickness in her throat. ‘Thank you.’
‘And you’d best get that porridge into you, afore you start your day,’ she added gruffly. ‘Don’t want ye gettin’ sick while Miss Brampton’s away, would we?’
‘No, of course not,’ Ellen agreed. She glanced towards the girls’ classrooms, ‘After my porridge, I shall go and buy more chalk for the classrooms. Some of the girls are down to very small stubs,’ she said, then hesitated, knowing she must ask the next question. ‘Is there anything at all you require from the shops or stalls, Mrs Sneddon?’
Mrs Sneddon stood, and brushed down her apron and smiled gratefully. ‘As a matter of fact, Miss Smith, there is ...’
***
Robert Carring meandered around the bustling stalls of Hackney Road, listening half-heartedly to the excited chatter of his daughter and absently handing over coin after coin as she purchased ivy, mistletoe, prickly, shiny holly and fruit to decorate their home. All the while, he searched for the golden-haired woman with her hair unbound. Though the streets were filled to capacity with vendors, beggars and businessmen, they were utterly devoid of the one for whom he searched.
And why would she be here? he reasoned, unable to stem his irritation. Simply because she was here last evening does not mean she would be here now. She could be anywhere in London.
‘Come, Penny, I feel we have enough to decorate a palace, let alone our home,’ he said, looking at the footman who carried the many bundles of greenery.
‘Isn’t it exciting?’ Penelope exclaimed. Then laughed, ‘Oh and look! There’s Mr Sneddon, and what is he doing with Miss Pickering’s dress? Oh, doesn’t he look cross! I should never have expected to see such thing, he’s usually so serious.’
Robert turned and saw the elderly butler from Miss Brampton’s school, carefully lifting a stunning gown of brown and gold into a hack. He recognised the dress immediately. The g
listening gold thread and the rich deep brown, the cut and style, it was unmistakable.
His shoulders grew taut. ‘Whose dress, did you say?’ he asked.
Penny glanced up at him, surprised by his poorly concealed interest. ‘Why certainly that is Miss Pickering’s gown, she wore it on our excursion to the orchestra.’
‘Miss Pickering?’ he asked slowly, as a low, uncomfortable sinking sensation grew in his belly.
‘Why yes, Miss Pickering goes to Miss Brampton’s as well, her family live over in Covent Garden. She can be devilishly naughty. Miss Smith chides her so when she laughs during hymn practice!’ Penelope laughed at some memory. ‘There was this time ...’
Robert had stopped listening. A feeling of intense sickness swooped in his belly, and tightened his throat. Oh please no.
Robert remembered the feel of the fabric against his skin and cringed, her sudden cry on his entry. Had he ruined a girl, his daughter’s peer last night? He prayed not.
Penelope continued, oblivious to his sudden quiet. ‘She must have left it at the schoolhouse yesterday, I do recall her saying that her mother told her never to fold it in her luggage. She must have left it hanging and forgotten all about it. Poor Mr Sneddon, he does look more miserable than usual.’
Relief slipped down Robert’s spine and he sighed gratefully. ‘She returned home yesterday then?’ he asked, trying to sound nonchalant.
‘The day before, actually, her father came early as they have just welcomed a new baby into the family.’
‘Thank goodness,’ he breathed, he could simply have not lived with himself if he’d taken advantage of a young girl who knew no better.
Penelope looked quizzical, ‘Yes, it is always a good thing when a baby arrives safely in the family, is it not? I should very much love a little brother or sister,’ she said.
Robert looked at her seriously for a moment. Was his reticence to remarry depriving her?
He knew, in his heart, it was well past the time that he ought to have given his daughter a new mother and a sister, or brother, or two.
Robert looked down at her and nodded sagely, quite unable to respond.
They watched the elderly man organise himself in the hack. After a moment, he asked, ‘Have all the staff and servants departed Miss Brampton’s school?’ he asked, his eyes travelling up the soot-blackened bricks, searching each heavily curtained window.
A Christmas Bride Page 4