The Earl's Captive Bride

by Francine Howarth

  “Oh hell, Erica, I wish you’d never asked, but the fact of the matter being the duke, whomever, mounted his Hobby Horse by inserting his cock in the hobby horse’s arse, and more besides.”

  “Oh lordy, lordy, and the besides amounts to.”

  “Much the same as some wives, mistresses, and whores do for men.”

  “And that is?”

  “They perform fellatio.”

  “And what is fellatio?

  “It is the kissing, the licking, and sucking of a man’s cock.”

  “As did a whore in the arbour, who fell to her knees before my father. If it is as pleasure giving as when you kissed my, my—”

  “Quim, your delectable quim.”

  “Well, I want to do it for you, I want to learn all that is necessary to make our life together a contented one of loving and bestowing pleasure, one to the other.”

  “All in good time, Erica,” said he, drawing her into his arms, a groan emitted as she lay her hand to his crotch and stroked his burgeoning mass despite restraint of tight breeches. “Mutual love making will come naturally to you when you are ready to explore the delights of a marital bed.”

  “But I want to explore now,” said she, sliding fingers through the fold of his breeches, her hand alighting on his hardened self.

  “Then explore all you wish, and be gentle, and when I tell you stop, you are to stop immediately, else you’ll not be able to have my cock inside of you until we reach Bath.”

  “I’ll be gentle, I promise.”

  Seven

  ~

  At precisely eight of morn a sharp knock at the door preceded a woman’s voice: “Warm water outside the door,” and thence the footsteps retreated.

  “Time to get up my love,” said Derby, thrusting back the bed covers. “The pot is under the washstand.”

  For all their intimacy, morning ablutions and cat-lick bathing hadn’t crossed her mind.

  He chuckled, and whilst donning his breeches in haste, he said: “I’ll go below and order breakfast, time enough for you to freshen up.” With that said he unlocked the door and fetched in a pitcher of steaming water and bucket with lid. The pitcher he placed on the washstand beside a second pitcher containing cold water and standing within a matching ceramic bowl. The bucket he left beside the washstand. “By the by, the bucket is for defecating, and for soiled wash water. I’ll wash when I get back.”

  She slid from the bed determined not to blush for he was decidedly handsome, and she had to learn to accept that he wouldn’t always vacate a room to allow her sense of privacy. But hardly before she had poured water to the bowl at the required temperature, he’d donned his shirt, boots, and with coat to hand kissed her head in passing. “Next time, I’ll do it for you, all of it, barring pissing in the pot for you.”

  Thus she blushed as he left the room, for he was quite wicked in his own way, in a nice way. If only she could tell Marigold how happy she was, but she could never tell her sister of indulgence in a manner every bit as bad as witnessed within the arbour at Frampton. It was the kind of intimacy Marigold would learn for herself, and even whilst bathing, the touching of her most intimate parts tingled as they never had before. Derby had set her alight, flames of desire doused momentarily in sated mutual bliss, but a yearning lingered, a yearning never known before. Love yes, because she had recognised that for what it was whilst at breakfast in Brook House, the yearning though was purely physical. Nonetheless, she would not care to share Derby with another woman, nor give herself to another man, not as her father and Farnley had in passing from one woman to another.

  Quite refreshed and whilst searching through the pillow shams for fresh attire, the sound of several horses and carriages wheels caused her to wonder if one was the landau brought by Durston, albeit an hour early. Quick in peeping through the gap in the drapes she could see a coach had arrived with a fine team of four-in-hand and it was rolling from the highway to the inn’s forecourt. A post-chaise was out front too, along with a black barouche with smart equines. But the four dark bays attached to the gleaming private carriage as it drew to a halt were glossy with plaited manes and plaited tails, and the coachman’s livery was pristine indeed. Aside from idling time watching the groom tending to the team, and an ostler standing by with buckets of water, there was no determining if there was a person within the conveyance. No one stepped down to partake of breakfast fare at the inn, and so she returned to dressing with fresh stockings, and yet another yellow gown: an afternoon gown by her standards of dress.

  But how had she come by so many gowns and day dresses in differing shades of yellow? She really must become more adventurous to match her newly acquired daring spirit, but blue ribbon trim to a gown of golden hue was pretty as was the chiffon outer to the soft silk inner. It was far more elegant for keeping company with an earl as his betrothed, than a mere lemon muslin day dress. Though at present, she was but a mistress, mistress to Derby Rossiter, Earl of Epsom. How wicked that sounded, but he had promised to obtain a special licence and they would be wed by week’s end. Thence they would travel to Suffolk, and there deliver Marigold safe into mother’s care. Quite sure her mother would be delighted by her news of marriage to an earl, she had a notion Pembrey would ask for her sister’s hand sooner rather than later, for he was an honourable gentleman of the first order, and it was plain to see he was smitten with Marigold.

  Indeed life had taken a strange twist and saved her from a fate she had no desire to embrace, and instead she had landed a fate lady’s of her ilk merely dreamed could be theirs knowing it was highly unlikely. As unlikely as her father had stated, ‘Ms Austen’s novels are a bad influence on impressionable young lady’s, for men are men, and the sooner you wise up to life as it truly is, the sooner you will understand men have mistresses for good reason. You would do better in reading Defoe’s Moll Flanders’ and so they had, and yet, here she was, Erica Townsend, betrothed to an earl who was twice as wealthy as Mr Darcy.

  Following the sound of heavy footfalls in the corridor the door flew open and Derby hastened forth. “Breakfast will be on the table in five minutes, and I said we would eat below stairs as all those who patronised the inn last night are already taking leave.”

  “Yes, I noticed the conveyances gathered outside,” said she, as many voices from below drifted in through the open window.

  “By the by, you look beautiful enough to eat.” Quick in de-coating and casting his shirt aside he made toward the washstand. “You can go below if you’d like to, and I’ll join with you as soon as I’ve done here. The breakfast parlour is the door to the left at the foot of the stairs.”

  He had indeed allowed her privacy, and it seemed polite to do likewise, and in squeezing past him she paused and kissed his bare back. “Then again,” said he, turning with a broad grin to face and a wicked glint to eye. “But no, else we’ll miss out on breakfast.”

  “I have repacked the shams, so they are ready for when Durston arrives.”

  “Righty ho. I’ll bring them down along with my valise.”

  And so she left him and went below. At the foot of the stairs she encountered a lady, and a man in smart livery wearing a peruke wig and standing with his back to her. She presumed they were with the grand conveyance, both seeming a little lost. But the man turned, the instant the woman said: “Is that her?”

  He recognised her as Townsend’s daughter, just as she recognised him as the man in the arbour; Farnley’s aide and fellow debaucher, and dressed as a footman. Even as she turned to flee she called for Derby but doubted he would hear her cry, for the vile creature slapped his hand over her mouth, his arm rapid in vice-like grip around her waist and utilising manly strength the beast hauled her off her feet and dragged her toward the outer door. The woman hastened ahead and on reaching the waiting coach, ascended, and inside waiting, was Farnley.

  Thus duly bundled inside in rough manner, Farnley gripped her arm tight to prevent escape, and with the door closed, Farnley’s companion clambered up wi
th the coachman and the conveyance moved onward.

  “I see you thought I had fallen for the ruse that young fellow was alone in the bedchamber,” said Farnley, followed by a thunderous laugh. “Well you thought wrong, my sweeting, and to dampen any notions that young buck is going to have his way with you, and I have it on good authority young Pembrey is an honourable young fellow, I am going to have you now and seal the damn bargain between your father and I once and for all.”

  “You can’t, you can’t,” said she, aware that he thought Derby was Pembrey.

  Undeterred by her outburst he hauled her to her knees and lodged her between his parted thighs, his full attention given to her heaving décolletage, her breathlessness after struggling with his aide clearly having excited Farnley, for he was sporting a sizable swelling in his groin. Fear gripped her, fear the like she had never thought to encounter, for where he may have been kinder when he had tricked her into going to his bedchamber, today his handling of her was brutal.

  “Now my pretty, I feel sure you will be pleased to know we are away to London on the morrow, and then onward to my estate up north. A day hence you will be my wife proper by special licence, and today you shall be my wife by right of my cock to your cunny.”

  “But I already belong to another. He had his way with me last night.”

  He roared with laughter. “Here that, Hester, she thinks I’ll cast her aside in belief little Erica wouldn’t lie to me.”

  “Of course she’s lying to you,” said the woman, and with a patronising pat to her shoulder, the damnable woman thence addressed her directly: “Get it over with, m’dear, and he’ll drape you with jewellery, and you’ll never be in wont for attention. He has an insatiable appetite, as you’ll discover.”

  “Take a good firm grip on her,” said he, his directive to the woman.

  “Not here, Tarquin. You can’t mean to do it whilst we’re bowling along the highway?”

  “Do as I say,” demanded he, “else I’ll send you packing on the morrow and no more will I require your services.”

  Thus hands flew beneath her armpits and arms held her fast, the woman’s knees pressing into her back. Whilst in attempt to unbutton the tiny bead buttons of her bodice frustration and rage befell Farnley, so angered was he that he cursed and instead thrust his hands under her buttocks and raised her up until she was standing albeit forced to lean backwards by his hateful companion’s iron grip.

  “This is all wrong, so wrong,” protested she, as anguish and horror mingled in a frenzy of despair.

  “She’s right, Tarquin,” protested the woman. “Give up on her. You have other debtors with daughters.”

  “No damn it. I’ll have her now and be done.”

  “You wanted me a virgin, and I am not, not any more, for I lay with another man last eventide.”

  “If you’re unchaste, sweeting,” said he, hauling up her skirts, “you are of no use to me as a wife.”

  Tears befell her, for knowing full well his intention she could do nothing to prevent his assault. His hand mauling her private place was despicable, his fingers exploring no less cruel than had he whipped her.”

  “We shall soon know if you are lying,” said he, withdrawing his hand from between her legs, “a little spittle is needed methinks, and it’ll be the worse for you if you’re not a virgin.”

  He promptly sucked his middle finger, and in one fell swoop slid it agonisingly slowly within her and as deep as his hand would permit. Worse he probed, his venture purposeful as though searching for something, and when found, as it surely was, he withdrew from her and lunged back into his seat.

  “Set her loose,” barked he, whilst running fingers through his hair, extreme sense of frustration about him. “The Bitch, the bloody bitch is uncorked.”

  “She did tell you to leave well alone,” said the woman, setting her free instantly. “What now, for I see you’re in dire need of release, and I cannot accommodate you for at least a day or two.”

  His predicament apparent, his manly appendage standing proud outside of his breeches as she had witnessed in the arbour; in daylight its dome had a purple hue. He was indeed, a well-endowed man, and Derby had not a dwarf penis by any means of manly proportion, thus she prayed to heaven Farnley was too upset at having discovered she was no longer virgin to do more than bewail his loss.

  “Take a seat Erica, beside me,” barked he once again, tone markedly angered. “I’ll not take a sullied bride to the marital bed, and I’ll lay a wager the man you lay with won’t marry you neither, be assured of that. Young men will promise the world until they’ve fucked a chit, and thence they look elsewhere for a chaste bride, so I’ll strike a bargain with you.”

  “You are fooling yourself if you are of mind to persuade her to jump astride you.”

  “Is that so, we’ll see about that,” said he, persistent in fondling his erection. And as the coach trundled on for a good two miles or more, he remained with eyes on the cowering young woman he’d abducted, and finally said. “Virgin or not, I want you, and I’ll bloody well have you.” With that he grabbed at a walking cane, no doubt a sword stick, and banged the roof of the coach.

  The woman was right; she would never submit of her own volition, not ever, and mutinously, if a tad cowardly, she lunged herself farther into the far corner of the coach as it began to slow down.

  Eight

  ~

  Having sat in silence since the coach had drawn to a halt Farnley quite undeterred by company continued fondling his manly muscle, running his thumb over its dome. Why had they stopped, and what was he thinking?

  His countenance less grim; his handsome Satanic features undeniable but not to her tastes, he said: “You do realise the consequences of your not abiding to your father’s edict, do you not, Erica?”

  Voice shaky, and very conscious of the fact she was in close confinement and easily within his reach, she replied: “I presume he will lose your favour as a friend and you will thus deprive him of the mistress you so graciously gave him.”

  “Alas, you judge me well, barring that I am not your father’s friend, I am his master? You see sweeting, you misunderstand the arrangement between your father and I. He owes my bank a great deal of money, and you were the down-payment against a portion of the overall debt.”

  “If that is the way of it, then why did you extend favour and grant your half sister to my father?”

  “Ah, I see where you are coming from,” said he, persistent in leisurely caress of his burgeoned mass. “Alas, now that you are soiled, he will pay a costly price.”

  “How so?” asked she, aware a carriage or such was passing by in the opposite direction.

  “Frampton is mortgaged thrice over, and the house in Suffolk, where your mother has taken refuge, is also mortgaged. All will now be lost to your father when I request full payment of the mortgages, thus he, you, your siblings and mother, will have nothing. Not a penny to your names.”

  Her heart dived. “Must you demand full re-payment? Could not portions of the estate be sold, and terms of repayment on the remainder ensure at least a roof over mother’s head and my sisters? Better still, perhaps the whole of Frampton could be sold, and the Suffolk house exempt from charges against it. It is quite modest, and did belong to my mother’s father.”

  “Therein doth the problem lay, for when your mother married your father, her property became his. There is margin for manoeuvre however, for I could be persuaded to make one or two exceptions, but that would fall to you to accommodate me in certain matters of a personal nature.”

  Fairly certain what accommodating him would entail, she had to ask, because the more she thought of her sisters’ and mother forced onto the streets, the more she sensed only she could save them from that awful fate, one way or another. Something else deep inside instilled fear Derby was not as she had imagined, and instead as Farnley had prior said: that Derby had enjoyed her body and would again at his leisure until he set her on her way to Suffolk, and thence she would hea
r nothing of him and never see him again. And yet, she loved him, had fallen in love with him, hopelessly in love.

  “What would you have me do?”

  “Ah, that sounds promising,” said he, whilst the woman snorted in derision, her eyes to the scenery beyond the coach windows to the nearside, for the offside drapes were drawn to shield them from passing conveyances.

  “Shall we barter?”

  “Barter away.”

  “What say you to becoming my mistress, a long-term mistress with a house of your own?” said he, his hand quite indecent and constant in pleasuring his manly proportion. “If I were to give you Frampton say, for it would suit me very well to visit you there at my convenience. Would that not be fair recompense for your availability at my leisure?”