Saving Lady Ilsa

by Crystal Kauffman

  “I see.”

  He faced her, wearing a frown. “Tell me, why did you stay with that awful man?”

  This young boy who preferred men, he truly did not understand the plight of women. “There are few options for a thirty-year-old seamstress so far barren of child.”

  “You yourself said, just because something is old does not mean it is worthless.” He smiled. “Besides, you are hardly old, and quite pretty enough to turn heads.”

  “My choices would have been to die or become a whore. Had I gone to whoring, it would make every night like that one.” She swallowed.

  He stepped close, making her heart leap into her throat.

  “Ilsa, what those men did was cruelty of the most unholy kind. You never have to fear cruelty from us.”

  He’d said “us”. She knew now, to stay would not make her Bradford’s wife and lover. It would make her both of theirs. A thrill of fear raced up her spine.

  “I appreciate such a promise.” She glanced at the rough wooden floor. Now it was she who could not look him in the eye. “More than you shall ever know.”

  “I’ll leave you to your task then.” He started to leave, but turned back. “I hope you decide to stay. I admit, you brighten up the place.” Another subtle glance over her breasts.

  “Would you like to see them?”

  His attention perked. “What?”

  She brought her fingers to the collar and began unbuttoning the long row of tiny buttons on her demure dress. He watched, gaping but silent. She went slowly down the long row, giving him time to stop her, refuse or turn away.

  But he did none of those. His deep brown eyes were wide, his dewy face even younger under the obvious wonder he now wore. He had full, pretty lips, almost like a girl’s, and they pursed together when the cleft of her bosom was revealed.

  She shrugged her dress off her shoulders and released the tie on her corset laces. She worked the edge of her shift lower. With slow, deliberate movements, she pulled the fabric away from one breast, then the other.

  Now he stared unabashedly, his eyes moving back and forth over them. “They are beautiful.” He stepped closer and reached out a hand. He caught himself and met her eyes.

  Ilsa took his hand and brought it to the side of her breast. He drew in a hiss of breath, merely touching the skin. She removed her hand, giving him rein to do as he wished. Frederick slid his palm across the curve, using his thumb to circle and cup the mound. His fingertips dragged over her skin until they came together in a light pinch of her nipple.

  She closed her eyes and sighed.

  “Does it feel nice?” His question was so softly spoken she barely heard.

  “It does,” she retuned in the same breathy whisper.

  He then moved in with his other hand, cupping and fondling both breasts, exploring her like it was the first time ever. It probably was. He traced the heavy curves, even once lifting them as if to gauge their weight. He squeezed lightly and pinched her nipples again. When she gave another sigh, he tugged gently.

  “May I…” And then his mouth was upon her, pressing a light kiss to the inner curve of her right breast. He shifted closer and his arms circled her back. She touched his shoulders, giving a gentle squeeze of encouragement. His exploration was soft and hesitant, pure innocence, and it enchanted her like magic.

  His tongue touched her skin, licking a path to her nipple, and his lips closed over it.

  “Oh.” She arched her back and raked her fingers over the soft fabric of his fine shirt.

  His lips puckered, giving a tug. It popped from his mouth with exquisite suction. “Your skin is so sweet.” Then he returned his mouth, suckling more firmly. Ilsa caressed his silky hair as divine heat washed from head to toe.

  “I’ve never been inside a woman.” Warm breath puffed over the wet spot left by his mouth. Ilsa’s own breath was thin and burning hot in her throat.

  “Then I’ll be your first.”

  Ilsa didn’t know why she’d said that. This man was too young to interest her, yet she felt compelled to be his first lover. It was either extreme generosity on her part, or selfishness. Perhaps equal parts of both.

  He tightened his arms around her back and his mouth clamped on to her nipple. He sucked on the tight bud until she felt abraded, but it drove her wild with need.

  He clutched at her skirts, balling them in his arms until his hands were roaming beneath. A spike of pure lust lanced her pussy. He was clumsy, a bit rough, practically desperate—but she needed him to be.

  Fingers came into contact with her pussy through the open slit of her bloomers and Frederick froze. Even his mouth on her breast went still.

  “Touch me,” she beckoned.

  He stroked gently before swirling a fingertip through the weeping moisture revealing her desire. “I want to see you.”

  He eased away, letting her skirts fall into place. His deploring glance begged for permission.

  Ilsa stepped back, feeling utterly wanton with her breasts still hanging free. She leaned on the edge of the hutch, placing her feet wide.

  Frederick held her gaze as he took the two steps to bring them back together, staring at her the whole time as if expecting her to change her mind.

  He knelt in front of her and flipped her skirts up onto her lap. First Ilsa felt the rustle of her bloomers being pulled open, then a puff of breath. Cautious, hesitant fingertips gave a barely-there touch, and then she felt him gently pull at her outer lips. By now she was soaked with the juices of raw lust.

  Frederick used one fingertip to trace through the hidden pearly flesh, then pressed at her opening. She leaned back, all but ready to scream for him to push inside. Instead, he swiped with his tongue, lapping the length of her, nibbling at her swollen bud.

  The sensation was shocking and magnificent. Ilsa cried out. Her body trembled with climbing need. Outside, thunder rumbled.

  More courageous, Frederick’s finger returned and poked at her entrance.

  “Frederick, please.”

  “Shall I stop?”

  “No!”

  He pushed into her. At the first knuckle he hesitated, then continued until his finger was buried inside. “You’re so tight. It seems impossible you can fit anything more.”

  The finger withdrew. She wanted—needed—so much more. Ilsa sat up.

  “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  She laced one arm around his neck and pulled him close. His body was hard, wonderfully muscled. “You won’t. I know you won’t.” She pressed her face against his neck. She fumbled at the laces of his breeches, tripping over his own hand. Together they worked him free.

  Frederick shoved his breeches over his hips and Ilsa grasped his cock.

  “God,” he said on a breath when her hand closed around him. He was throbbing hard, stretched free of his foreskin.

  Ilsa gathered up her infernal skirts again and stepped close, arranging herself over him. He held his shaft in his hand, and when she felt the crown seek her, she shifted her hips to help him into place. She grasped his waist, swiveled herself to urge the tip into the divot of her entrance.

  “Like this?”

  “Oh God, yes.”

  The swollen bulb met the resistance of her barrier for only an instant, then he pushed inside.

  A moan dragged out of him. Frederick slid his hands under her skirts and grabbed her ass. He was tall, strong and confident. With his knees bent slightly, he angled beneath her and drove upward, nearly carrying her off her feet. She was slippery and ready, and he sank deep. Divinely, deliciously deep.

  “So soft. So tight.” He bit her collarbone. “So slick.”

  He seemed to test her, not sure how to move, how deep he should go, how fast he should thrust. She hadn’t expected him to be so large, she’d been betrayed by his youth. Though of average girth, he was magnificently long. The cap of his cock met the end of her channel and gave a selfish nudge for more.

  “Oh,” she said over a smile. “Oh my.”

 
Sweat beaded his brow. He matched her smile. “I’ve heard it called a glove, but I had no idea.”

  “Fuck me, Frederick.”

  He did. Though cautiously at first, her squeezing hands urged him faster. He bucked his hips, increasing the motion until he was sliding in and out of her cream like the most seasoned lover.

  “When it is done right,” she told him over her breathy gasps, “it is so, so right.”

  “Such a wonderful gift to bestow,” he ground out through clenched teeth.

  Faster and faster, they rocked together in a glorious dance of sexual satisfaction. Her pleasure built gradually, like slow steps higher and higher on some ethereal staircase. Frederick bent his head to her chest and gasped. Ilsa felt his movements become labored, then there was the heat and moisture of his cum spilling inside her. He growled out some unintelligible grunt, finally holding himself fast inside her.

  They stood perfectly still for a long moment, and Ilsa suspected regret in him.

  “Did you…enjoy it?” he asked cautiously, still pressing his face to her neck.

  “Very much.”

  He withdrew from her slowly and Ilsa felt a trickle of moisture on her thigh. Her skirts fell back into place and Frederick repaired his breeches. She turned away and did her best to fix her shift and corset. A bit rumpled but closed up well enough, she faced him again.

  “Did you…truly? Because it wouldn’t hurt my pride to know my first attempt was less than expert.”

  Ilsa smiled. “You were wonderful, Frederick.”

  His shoulders relaxed. “I thought it was wonderful, too. Thank you, Ilsa. I enjoyed it… Bloody hell it was fantastic.”

  She laughed.

  “I understand Bradford’s interest in you now. Truth be told, I share it.”

  Before she could stop herself, her smile dimmed.

  “I cannot conceive of any man who would choose to make it any less than perfect like that. But it is a well-known fact there are many stupid men.”

  She merely nodded and glanced at the floor, suddenly conflicted.

  “You can believe my promise, Ilsa. You’re safe here.” He turned and headed for the door. Before descending the stairs, he glanced back. “And I meant it when I said I truly hope you’ll stay.”

  * * * * *

  One nice thing about Stratton House, to be certain, was the large claw-foot tub in her bath. She could bathe every day if she wished, and she did. Mary did a fine job keeping the water warm, and for the first time since she was a child, Ilsa actually soaked.

  She knotted up her still-damp hair and Mary pulled her corset strings tight with a grunt.

  “Mary, dear.” Ilsa dragged in a breath. “I’m going to dinner. Allow me some room to fit a bite of food.”

  “Sorry miss. Lady Constance, who’s I worked for before, she liked her laces as tight as I could get ‘em. My fingers learned to be strong.”

  “Perhaps you haven’t noticed about me, but I’m not nearly so formal. I like to breathe as well.”

  Mary giggled. “So be it, miss.”

  The girl had warmed to her right away. And Ilsa had warmed to the staff as well. They all seemed to have relaxed with relief since Frederick’s return, no doubt assuming she’d learned the secret held between the two men and accepted it.

  Already in the long dining hall, both Bradford and Frederick stood when she entered. Bradford was stunning in a dark suit that made his blue eyes brighten like the sky on a clear summer day, and Frederick was dapper in a brown dinner coat that complemented his unique coloring.

  They both greeted her.

  “Good evening,” she returned.

  Bradford helped her into the seat at his left, across from Frederick.

  Immediately they were served a course of carrot soup.

  “Made from my summer stock,” Bradford said with a hint of pride. “Maurice tells me you haven’t yet listed your favorite foods.”

  “My tastes are not finicky.”

  He’d asked her to visit with Maurice, for not only did the cook need to know what she liked but as lady of the house, overseeing the kitchens would be her responsibility. She still had not done so.

  Her dalliance with Frederick this afternoon had been more than wonderful, but he’d still been only one man. And though she already had a deep attraction to Bradford on more levels than simply sexual, and she had become aware of Frederick’s appeal as well, Ilsa still could not overcome her fear of sex with two men.

  Should she stay, she knew they would expect it. A tiny flicker of unease lingered in the back of her mind as she remembered the pain those three heathens had caused her, and she worried she would not even be able to tolerate Bradford and Frederick’s traded-off use of her.

  “Ilsa, are you quite well?” Frederick stopped his story about a horserace in Dover upon which he’d won a great wager, while his younger brothers had reputedly fallen even deeper into a debt their father refused to cover for them. “You’re looking flushed.”

  “I’m fine, Mr. Brudenel.” She glanced at the server, hoping he hadn’t noticed her blush. Bradford eyed her suspiciously.

  Frederick picked up his wineglass and swirled the golden liquid. “Lady Ilsa knows how I came to be,” he started once the server was out of earshot. “And I know how she came to be, but does the lady know how Bradford came to be?”

  Bradford sliced into a very rare strip of flank steak. “That is a dull story better saved for another time.”

  “On the contrary, it’s rather exciting. Lady Ilsa, our Bradford is something of a hero.”

  Her cheeks burned anew. He’d called Bradford “our”.

  “Frederick. You aim to embarrass me.”

  “Should you learn to accept a compliment, that would no longer happen.”

  “I’d much rather hear about the gowns delivered today for Ilsa.” Bradford pointedly turned his attention to her. “Did you find them acceptable?”

  She nearly choked on a bite of potato. Dresses had been delivered today? She hadn’t noticed and Mary hadn’t mentioned it.

  “Oh for heaven’s sake, Bradford. Would you prefer to tell the story yourself?”

  Bradford sighed. “Go ahead, Frederick, if you’re so intent.”

  Frederick seemed delighted. “Bradford was a hero in the Crimean war.”

  Now he rolled his eyes. “Oh no, not that too.”

  Frederick laughed. “But Bradford first became a hero when he was a mere lad just turned fourteen years old and one night saved his father’s life.”

  “Oh my,” Ilsa fawned, hoping her rudeness for not noticing the gowns, which surely cost a fortune if the first one was any indication, had been forgotten.

  “His elder brother—then nineteen, was it Bradford?—was in a hurry to inherit his birthright. It seems Bradford’s brother, Nolan, disagreed with the earl over many political and personal matters concerning the estate. Not to mention itching to get his hands on the family fortune as if he had the pox.”

  “Frederick, you make my brother sound almost honorable.”

  Ilsa wasn’t sure if that was a joke until Frederick chuckled.

  “I do apologize, but each of your families sounds absolutely wretched. Does nobody treat their loved ones well anymore?”

  Bradford leaned his elbows on the table with his wineglass stem pinched delicately between two fingers. “It is a travesty, Ilsa. That is why it is so important we take it upon ourselves to make right the wrongs we’ve suffered.”

  “And put those who wrong us in their place,” Frederick added with a sharper tone.

  Bradford leaned back. “Not all our family members are horrid. Frederick has a younger sister who is quite enchanting, and my father is a great man whom I admire immensely. He knew about me before I knew myself.” He glanced at Ilsa with a raised brow. “As a lad I’d not learned to disguise my stares of longing at the bare-chested men laboring in my father’s stables. One strapping man in particular.”

  “Ah yes, Alfonso. Whatever happened to him, Bradf
ord?”

  “I do believe he’s warming the bed of one very unhappily married duchess. Anyhow, on with the story.”

  “Oh, do tell me more about your father,” Ilsa said before Frederick could. She refrained from voicing her desire to meet the man. As his for-appearances wife only, she might not be granted such a privilege.

  “Perhaps he accepted me so easily because my brother was such a cad. All our lives Nolan strove to outdo me, needing to beat me in some imagined challenge or another only he knew about. I suppose it enraged him that I cared so little. My mother lived until I was nine, and I suspect I was her favorite as well.”

  “I was four when my mother died. I hardly remember her,” Ilsa confessed. “My father was a good man, too, but he drank away much more than his woes.” She smiled. “I thank him for my ability to sew. He told me the best thing I could do is learn a skill because no one could ever take it away from me. He’d grown so ill in later years it was I who then took care of him, and thus had no opportunity to marry. That is why I turned to my sister when he died.”

  “And what an unlucky happenstance she was married to the worthless mongrel she was.” He raised his glass. “Though I will say, it was a lucky happenstance for us.”

  “You are too kind.” His statement made her stomach twitter with nervousness.

  “Perhaps these unpleasant roads we’ve traveled were part of our destinies. Had Frederick’s brothers not tried to murder him, he and I might never have met. My brother is selfish, spoiled and unpleasant, but perhaps it was these shortcomings that taught my father to enjoy my company so much more.”

  Frederick dismissed him with a toss of his hand. “Ilsa, Bradford is too modest as well. Allow me to finish telling the story and you’ll agree it is his own merits which make him his father’s favorite, not his brother’s lack thereof.”

  Bradford smirked. “Go on, if you must.”

  Ilsa chuckled. Bradford and Frederick’s comfort with each other was a thing to be envied.