by Cheryl Holt
"You will not disrespect me!" Regina bristled. "Not when I've worked so hard to garner this invitation to arrange your future." Kate knocked more quietly, an indication that she'd heard their quarrel, and Regina
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was even more furious. "Get out!" she hissed. "I'm sick of you."
Sniffling tears, and clutching her reddened cheek, she rushed out. Kate murmured about new dresses being delivered from the seamstress, but the information didn't slow her.
Looking distressed, Kate watched her race down the hall, but she wouldn't comment. Early on, she'd learned that what transpired between Regina and her children was none of Kate's affair.
She entered and shut the door, comprehending that she was in for a dressing-down, and Regina couldn't wait to dispense it. Kate had never come to grips with the fact that circumstances had laid her low. She carried on as though she were the Queen, as though her father still ruled at Doncaster, as though her veins didn't flow with the tainted blood of her crazed parents.
Lest she forget her insignificant status, Regina had to constantly remind her of it.
"Well," Regina began, "what have you to say for yourself?"
"I have no explanation for Lord Stamford's behavior."
At least she wouldn't pretend she was unaware of why they'd convened for the appointment. "I consistently warn .you about making a spectacle of yourself. Are you eager to be deemed a whore like your mother?"
"You know I'm not."
Kate's lips thinned into a tight line. Though she'd never said as much, she abhorred Regina's disparaging of her parents, so Regina did it as often as possible. Kate resembled her mother, and Regina was positive that with the smallest push, she'd act like her,
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too. She had to be goaded into sticking to the straight and narrow.
"If you continue to flaunt yourself here in London, how long will it be before you're recognized? Before people realize who you are?"
"They won't."
"If the tiniest rumor circulates as to your ancestry, I will abandon you to your fate." It was an effective threat, and Regina had used it to pressure Kate on all manner of occasions. Her fear of being cast out of Doncaster was genuine, and a weapon Regina wielded repeatedly. "If I banish you, you have no skills, no funds, no contacts. Where will you go? How will you survive? Will you beg your bastard sister to take you in and support you?"
"Christopher would never let you expel me," she insisted, evincing a bit of backbone.
"How would he stop me? And if you could persuade him to countermand my edict, can you envision what your life would be like? I promise you, I would make it a living hell."
"I'm sure you would."
"I can't fathom why I permitted you to journey to London with us, but from this moment on, you will remain out of sight."
"Certainly."
"You will have no subsequent opportunity to embarrass Melanie or disgrace the family."
"All right."
"You will accompany Melanie on her outings, but you will not be present at any function where Lord Stamford might see you."
"As you wish."
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"If you're unclear as to which events you may attend, and which you should avoid, ask me." She waved toward the hall. "Now, be off. I'm weary of you."
Without argument, Kate departed, and Regina went to the bellpull to muster a servant. Their discussion had left her famished. She hoped there were more petit fours in the kitchen.
******************
Pamela dawdled at her dressing table and gazed in the mirror. Though she was thirty, she was still beautiful. She'd never been pregnant, so her body was curvaceous and lithe, her breasts firm and ample.
She was sexy, gorgeous, a woman in full bloom, who knew what she wanted and how to go about getting it. She leaned forward, checking her cleavage, and determining that the negligee she'd selected was perfect. The creamy swell of her bosom was visible, the outline of her nipples distinct and conspicuous through the sheer fabric.
Through the crack in the door, she had glimpses of Christopher Lewis lounging on the sofa in her boudoir. It had been simple to lure him to her. Though he was only eighteen, he was a man. Upon receiving her naughty invitation, he hadn't hesitated, and she was intrigued as to whether he grasped her intent.
Was he impatient and knowledgeable? Or was he an innocent?
Either scenario was enticing. If he'd been initiated in sexual intercourse, he would be a randy, enthusiastic lover—the younger fellows usually were—but if he was a virgin, she would be happy to indoctrinate him.
She paused to dab on a final whiff of perfume; then she sauntered out.
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"Hello, Christopher." She sidled nearer, relishing how he admired her scanty attire. "May I call you Chris?"
"Yes."
"And you must call me Pamela. Lady Pamela is so dreary and formal."
With his big blue eyes, wavy blond hair, and lanky frame, he was too adorable for words. He was rich, too, a factor she'd always found alluring, and which became ever more interesting as Marcus frittered away the last of their money.
Christopher would eventually choose a countess, which she'd been for many years, but why should it be some simpering debutante? In light of his youth and naïveté, wouldn't he do well with an older wife? Who better than herself?
Her pulse pounded with excitement. "Would you like a brandy?"
"My mother doesn't care for me drinking. Especially not in the middle of the day."
"Well, Regina isn't here, is she?"
He chuckled. "No, she isn't."
"Will you join me?"
"What the hell?" he murmured; then, ever the little gentleman, he apologized. "Pardon me."
"There's no need to be sorry for what happens when we're alone." She walked behind the sofa and trailed a playful finger along his collar. "Feel free to be yourself."
She proceeded to the liquor cabinet, and she could sense him inspecting her. Her negligee was slinky, captivating, and she poured their beverages slowly so he could look his fill.
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As she turned, a wave of understanding passed between them. He was no boy. He was aware of why she'd summoned him, and he was keen to dally.
She walked to the couch, as he observed her every move, and she snuggled next to him, offering him his glass. From the minimal contact a spark shot up her arm. She was so attracted to him, and had been from the first, though she couldn't figure out why.
They had nothing in common. Not background, or experience, or upbringing, or age, but she was enamored, so she wouldn't try to unravel the mystery. Physical appeal was often mystifying.
She sipped her libation, simmering under his blatant regard. "Tell me, Chris, have you a sweetheart at home?"
"There aren't many candidates around Doncaster who would be suitable for me."
"I don't suppose there would be. Will you hunt for a bride, while you're in London?"
"I'm not ready to wed. My mother says there's no rush."
"A wise woman." It would likely be the sole instance she'd ever agree with the unpleasant, provincial Regina. "So if you're not in the marriage market, you'll have to find other activities to keep you busy."
"I was thinking the very same."
He'd barely sampled his liquor, so she took his glass and set it on the table. She nestled closer, her breast crushed to his arm. Her nipple hardened, poking into him, and he grinned.
Perhaps he was more sophisticated than she suspected.
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"Have you ever been kissed?" she asked.
"Many times."
She pouted. "But you said you didn't have a special girl."
"Can you keep a secret?"
"I can."
"I sneak out at night, to carouse at the village tavern."
In mock affront, she gasped. "Your mother would be scandalized."
"I'm sure she would be."
"I've heard it mentioned that tavern maids are strumpets."
<
br /> He laughed. "Some of them definitely are."
"Why don't you show me what they've taught you? I'm dying to learn."
"I'll just bet you are."
For a fleeting moment, she had the impression that his tone was contemptuous, that he judged her to be a strumpet, too, but his expression was potent, his smile fixed. She must have imagined his disdain.
She stared at him, wondering if he'd initiate the encounter, but he was motionless, and the expectation was excruciating. She couldn't bear the suspense, so she progressed, her lips resting on his, and it was as if the gesture gave him permission. He assumed control of the embrace, enfolding her in his arms, and pulling her across his torso.
His fingers were in her hair, his tongue in her mouth, and she was ecstatic to discover that the harlots with whom he'd philandered had been excellent tutors. She was wild for him, and her craving wasn't generated by his fortune or his title.
He molded her breast until she was writhing in
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agony, and desperate for him to clasp her nipple, but he never did, so she guided his hand to where she needed it to be.
Still, she wasn't receiving sufficient stimulation, and she dropped the strap of her negligee to expose her bosom.
'Touch me here." Breathless, aroused, she desired so much more than he was conveying. She directed him in how to squeeze and pinch, how to twist and tease.
He was an avid pupil, and he quickly grasped what was required.
"Like this?" he queried.
"Oh yes. Don't stop."
She was riveted, exhilarated, overwhelmed. Both during and after her marriage, she'd had many paramours, and the episodes had been so unsatisfactory. Always, she'd been left with the sense that she was missing out, that true passion would be forever denied her, and a glint of anticipation ignited.
Maybe Christopher would furnish her with what no other man ever had.
Inciting him, inflaming him, she massaged his crotch. His cockstand was rigid against the placard of his trousers, and she flicked at the buttons, loosening them and slipping her hand under the fabric.
"What are you doing?" he inquired.
"I mean to caress your private parts. It will feel marvelous."
His state of titillation matched her own. "Yes, yes."
His phallus surged up to greet her, and she wrapped her fist around it, and stroked him in a steady rhythm. He was so randy, so tenacious, flexing with a youthful exuberance that charmed her.
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She was positive she was the only female who'd ever held him so intimately, so he wouldn't be able to endure for long. She wanted his initial voyage to be memorable, dramatic.
"I'm going to put my mouth on you," she clarified. "Has any woman attempted such a thing with you before?"
"No. Never."
"Do you know what I plan? Has it been explained to you?"
"I've listened to men talking."
Being renowned for her prowess at the lewd endeavor, she smirked. "My darling, allow me to demonstrate."
He reclined, and she slackened his pants, so that she had more space to maneuver. She scooted down and licked at the crown, lapping up his sexual juice. With scant foreplay, he was at the edge, and she took him inside, certain it would be a short race to the finish.
He thrust once, twice, thrice, and his seed gushed to the tip. With a moan of delight, he spilled himself, coming with great relish, pushing into her over and over, as if he couldn't reach the end.
Ultimately, the tempest subsided, his penetrations slowing, his erection waning. She enjoyed a last nibble across the sensitive head, savoring his taste, his smell; then she shifted away. Smug and pleased with her seduction, she cuddled herself to him, impatient for a compliment, or at least an upbeat comment, but he was silent.
"That was very spectacular," she ventured.
"Yes, it was," he concurred.
"I'm so glad you let me indulge."
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She was a tad flustered by his reticence, but then, he was a virgin. Very likely, he couldn't decide on an appropriate remark.
"Shall we retire to my bed?" Anxious to continue, she cooed and stretched. "We can spend hours making love."
He glanced at the clock. "Actually, I have to meet with my mother in a few minutes."
"Your mother?" She loathed Regina and couldn't keep the derision out of her voice. "I thought you just spoke with her."
"I have to speak with her again."
"You're a grown man. And an earl. She can wait."
He shrugged. "When she's happy, it's easier for all concerned."
A spurt of temper flooded her. How dare he be so ungrateful! How dare he saunter out without so much as a fare-thee-well!
She almost disparaged him, but then, she remembered how new he was at carnal games. He didn't realize that it was uncouth to have his fun, then dash off. There was an etiquette attached to prurient enterprises, but he'd never been apprised. How could he be expected to follow the rules?
It was another aspect about which she would have to educate him during the leisurely, lazy trysts they would share.
"When will your appointment be concluded?"
"I can't say, but I'll be busy afterward. I have engagements scheduled from now till late."
"But I was so hoping you could sneak back upstairs."
"It won't be possible."
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She bit down on a bitter retort. The foolish boy! Didn't he comprehend what he was passing up? Men begged for a chance to philander with her! She could have her pick, and she'd picked him, yet he was behaving as if the assignation hadn't meant anything, as if she hadn't meant anything.
She had her pride, though, and she wouldn't let him ascertain how furious she was. "Perhaps tonight, then. After everyone's abed."
"Perhaps," he equivocated, leaving her to conjecture whether he was interested or not, and she was stunned.
Lovers never spurned her, especially after they'd sampled her luscious fruits. His lack of enthusiasm was so shocking and so unusual that she was perplexed. For once, she was smitten and eager for a second rendezvous, while he could care less.
"I guess I'll see you at supper." She was determined to act as nonchalant as he.
"If not before."
Like a silly schoolgirl, she soared at the prospect that they might convene earlier.
"Have a grand afternoon."
"I will."
He stood and straightened his clothes, ran his fingers through his hair, and in the blink of an eye he was tidy and composed. He leaned down, bracing himself on either side of her.
"That was fabulous." He brushed a kiss across her lips. "Thank you."
Then, he turned and left.
She stared at the door, listening to his retreat. This couldn't be his sole visit! It had been too exceptional, too out of the ordinary, though in view of his inexperience,
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he probably didn't fathom how unique it had been. She would need to enlighten him.
The tang of his seed was strong, and the flavor had ceased to be pleasant. She reached for his glass and downed his brandy, washing away the remnants of their debauchery.
She didn't know why, but she was depressed, and she felt unclean. She poured herself some wine, drank it, too, then rang for a bath.
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"Well," Melanie snapped, "if you hadn't spilled the first bottle of love potion, we wouldn't need to purchase a second. Is it my fault you're so clumsy?"
It was a sunny summer afternoon, but their carriage was dark, and Kate was glad for the shadows. They shielded her facial expressions so Melanie couldn't detect how she was gnashing her teeth.
That blasted potion! Hadn't it wreaked enough havoc?
Melanie had demanded to see the vial, and Kate couldn't explain its absence, so she'd fibbed about what had happened, when she should have avoided any fabrication. She was a horrid liar.
"I didn't drop it intentionally. It slipped out of my hand."
"
I declare, Kate. With each passing day, you're less dependable. Mother says if you grow any more unreliable, she'll terminate you. What will become of you then?"
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Kate was tempted to utter a few scathing retorts, but she resisted the urge. Regina frequently taunted her with termination, and when she'd been younger, the prospect had terrified. But anymore, she was so fed up that banishment would be a relief. She'd be compelled to make her own way, which she should have done years earlier, but habit and routine had kept her from forging a different path.
However, if she was to be fired, she was determined it be over a dramatic infraction. She wasn't about to lose everything due to an idiotic tincture, although she was nervous about condemning it as a fake.
Though she yearned to deny it, the elixir had mysterious qualities. Against her will, it had lured her into Stamford's bedchamber, and now she could concentrate on naught but him. Her mind had been so radically afflicted that she worried the concoction was dangerous, that it had altered her personality.
How long would the treacherous effect last? What if it never disappeared? Was she destined to be consumed forevermore by obsessive thoughts of Stamford?
A woman could go mad, languishing in such wicked reveries. Kate wished she could open up her head and bustle through with a stiff broom to sweep away all images and dreams of him.
"Can we forget about the potion?"
"No, we can't," Melanie griped. "Have I asked for the moon? I ordered you to put it into his wine, and you couldn't accomplish that simple feat."
"It's not as easy as you contend. What if I give it to him at the wrong moment? He might stumble upon a chambermaid. What would we do then?"
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"Honestly, Kate," Melanie scoffed. "As if Stamford could be smitten by a servant. Even a magic tonic can't cause such an abnormal result."
"Will you listen to me? Please?"
"No. I'm quite resolved." The carriage rattled to a halt, and Melanie peeked out. "We've arrived. The apothecary's shop is down the block, tucked in the alley. I'll wait here."
Kate sighed, wondering how she could convince Melanie to heed her warnings. Stamford could drink a thousand gallons of the drug, without it producing any change in his behavior. He was despicable, would trifle with his own stepmother, with Kate, herself, so in what other debauchery might he engage? What female would willingly tie herself to such a dissolute villain?