Portia smiled angelically, and clamped the inner walls of her cunt around his cock as further punishment. “I enjoy cuddling Jessica and David, and tickling their little toes. I also enjoy handing them straight back afterward.”
“I understand,” he gasped, both relieved and on the verge of losing his wits to pleasure.
Unable to bear the luscious teasing a moment more, he began thrusting harder, deeper, intent on her orgasm before he found his own release. Portia arched, her fingers working her clitoris, and seconds later she cried out his name as her whole body quivered. He immediately yanked his cock from the sweet haven of her cunt and came hard on her mound, each spurt of seed tearing a low roar of ecstasy from the very depths of him.
For a while they just held each other, sticky and sated.
“Merry Christmas to me,” said Portia. “You are a marvel, my captain. I am the most fortunate of women.”
“I love you,” he said simply. “So much.”
“Then we are ready to face the most testing of challenges. Even hosting a masked ball.”
Indeed they were. For together, all things were possible.
Her fingers might swell to the size of turnips after shaking hundreds of hands in the receiving line, but the sheer excitement in the air dulled any discomfort. After a long and sometimes exceedingly difficult year, everyone was in the mood for a party.
When the last masked guest trotted happily into the ballroom crush of merchants, town clerks, soldiers, seamstresses, healers, craftsmen, nobility, and local gentry, Portia gathered her fellow Society members around her. The ladies all looked stunning in their gowns; Beatrice in ruby red, Amelia in pale blue, Madeline in silver, and Susanna in rose pink, each with a white demi mask perched atop their head. The men were equally resplendent in their jackets and trousers; Randall in all black and indeed looking every inch a pirate, Dare in dark brown and gray, Fenton in deep blue and cream, Clayton in hunter green and gray, and Faffy in his usual black jacket and gray breeches, with powdered wig.
Portia took a deep breath. “I just want to say…thank you. Beatrice and Amelia for the beautiful wreathes. Fenton for tailoring such elegant masks. Clayton for painting those urns silver, and for agreeing to act as Lord of Misrule. Dare for the display of ancient erotic poetry. Madeline and Susanna for bringing those sweet little babies to brighten our days. And Randall, for ensuring I did not lose my mind, certainly the hardest task.”
“Good show, Denham,” said Dare, clapping him on the shoulder.
“And me?” said Faffy, lifting an imperious brow.
Portia nodded solemnly. “Thank you for warning me of the kitchen mutiny. I did indeed take no prisoners.”
Her father-in-law thumped his cane. “Wouldn’t expect anything less, gel.”
She nearly fell over. Surely that hadn’t been a compliment from the almighty Duke of Fairfield?
“Anyway,” Portia continued, scrambling for words, “I hope you’ll forgive me for the current state of your hand; but I felt it important for all of us to welcome guests. You are…my dearest friends. My family. Each and every one of you is so very important to me. I never thought for a moment when I began the Surrey Sexual Freedom Society, that it would bring me such joy. And new members! I’m so proud you followed your hearts and found true love. That is what I wished for you all.”
Clayton winked at her. “So busy wishing for us, it took you forever to see what was right under your nose.”
Randall grunted. “Good campaigns take time, Irving. Told you that.”
Her cheeks warmed. It had indeed taken time, and they’d had many obstacles in their path thanks to her vile half-brother, but all the risks had been worth it. The risks they’d all taken had been worth it. Beatrice the lady’s maid loving Amelia the countess. Madeline the Wicked Widow choosing Dare, the virgin scholar. Clayton the erotic artist defying his family and living with Fenton and Susanna, the wealthy merchant baron and baroness. Back in the day, even Fairfield had followed his heart with his precious Joanna. All had shown the courage to love and be loved in return. To open their hearts to happiness no matter what society or the church or their families declared to be proper.
Botheration.
If she kept up with such thoughts, she would give herself puffy eyes and blotchy cheeks. Swiftly, Portia turned and waylaid a passing footman carrying a tray of wine. When each Society member had a glass, she raised hers in a toast.
“To the Surrey Sexual Freedom Society, the finest men and women England has to offer. Together we have achieved great things; may we always care, may we always be there for each other, and may we have love until the end of our days.”
“Hear, hear!” said Madeline.
“To the Surrey Sexual Freedom Society,” said Randall, raising his glass. “And chairwoman Lady Portia Denham. Pistol Portia to her foes, champion of the people, and empress of Guildford, long may she reign.”
“To Lady Portia!” chorused the members.
Embarrassed at the lavish praise, she waved a hand. “Now, now, we mustn’t dally out here a moment longer. I’m expecting you to mingle, to complete your duty dances…ladies, do watch the jolly gentleman in the unicorn mask, his horn is hazardous. But above all, have a wonderful evening. We have several of Denham’s finely trained men scattered throughout the ballroom, ready to escort any troublemakers away. This includes you, Faffy. And Mittens.”
Amelia giggled. “With all due respect to Denham’s men, this is His Grace and Mittens we are talking about.”
Faffy nodded, preening a little. “Quite right, gel. But you heard the lady, time for the ball. And brandy. Lord knows I need a brandy, that’s if I can still hold a glass after shaking ten thousand hands. Probably more. My poor glove is near-soaked through.”
Portia stifled a grin as they moved toward the ballroom. “Plenty of brandy. And tonight, I’ll even refrain from switching it for a tonic.”
Her father-in-law sniffed. “Then I might even save you a waltz. Tis a sad, sad state of affairs that my son has feet of stone on the dance floor.”
“Fortunately he has a few other redeeming qualities,” she replied, glancing at her husband and winking.
Randall coughed and offered her his arm. “Shall we?”
“We shall. Masks on, everyone.”
When they entered the ballroom, Portia couldn’t help but take a moment to admire her handiwork. It really did look festively splendid with Beatrice and Amelia’s wreathes, heavy white satin ribbon looping from window to window, and Clayton’s silver urns overflowing with hothouse flowers. In one corner a string quartet played music for the dancing, in another sat trestle tables covered in white cloths on which supper would be served, and an ice sculpture of an angel complete with harp. Mummers and jugglers were performing on a raised dais, and she’d also set up two antechambers for card games, and the poetry display. Naturally, for the evening, footmen would circle with trays of wine, lemonade, and rum punch for thirsty guests.
“I’m so impressed with the masks,” said Susanna. “I think this might be the most colorful collection in English history. My Lord of Misrule is going to have a terrible time trying to decide the winner!”
Portia nodded, her lips twitching. “Rather him than me. Which to choose? Our own elegant demi masks? Snarling wolf or rampant lion? The castle? The lady who has a miniature Guildford town clock protruding from her forehead?”
“Exactly. Or do you select one with a Christmas theme? There are those large sprigs of holly and mistletoe, the plum pudding complete with sixpence on top, not to mention the family sporting gold, frankincense, and myrrh.”
“Personally,” said Beatrice, “I love Mr. Johnston’s. Only a haberdasher would wear a peacock mask so beautifully trimmed. Those sequins, paste jewels, and feathers…Amelia nearly swooned.”
“As did a certain modiste,” murmured Randall. “Look, they are dancing together. Another good campaign that took time. Now, Portia, would you like another wine, or perhaps even to risk swaying to the
music with me?”
Portia beamed as she patted his arm. “One more wine shall provoke me to display as much courage as Mr. Johnston, and accept your gallant offer to sway, Captain.”
“Huzzah!” he replied. “Prepare to be swept off your feet, my lady.”
In truth, she had a very good feeling that it would be a most memorable evening. Her true love at her side, her friends around her, all ready to add some wicked fun to proceedings.
Exactly how a Surrey Sexual Freedom Society Christmas should be.
Epilogue
Fairfield
Portia’s masked ball was an absolute crush, and would no doubt be talked about for months. All around him men and women were laughing and clapping as they took part in an exuberant country dance, and others were gasping at the skill of the scantily clad jugglers. A few had found a place directly in front of the supper table and were enjoying the array of delicious desserts, while sending their friends out to stalk the footmen with trays of drinks.
He was pleased for his daughter-in-law, even if he remained content to sit to one side with just his brandy for company. Occasions like this reminded him far too much of Joanna, and the night that changed his entire life. What a minx she’d been, accepting a wager to sneak into the lord lieutenant’s manor then strutting about, bold as brass, like she owned the property. He’d been intrigued. But when Joanna had lured him onto a balcony for a passionate kiss…well, he’d known then that she would hold his heart forever. Such a bittersweet moment, meeting the love of his life as a married man. Six months. Just six bloody months earlier…
Augustus scowled and took a sip of brandy. Even now, over four decades later, the injustice of the timing of their first meeting and the tragic deaths of Joanna and the baby daughter he’d named Hannah, still hurt like a knife to his chest. She had been the light of his life. Had gifted him a fine son. But they hadn’t been able to defeat the Fates, or English law.
Truly humbling for the almighty Duke of Fairfield.
“That’s a rather ferocious scowl, Your Grace. I certainly hope such ire isn’t directed at me.”
He glanced up in surprise as a slender, silver-haired dowager in a purple gown sat down next to him without invitation, her face half-covered in an amethyst-studded black satin mask. “Depends entirely on who you are, madam,” he said irritably.
She grinned and lifted her mask, offering him a glimpse of a rather interesting face, powdered in the proper way of old, with a small beauty patch on her cheek. Bright blue eyes regarded him frankly. “Lady Kearns. Libby to my friends.”
Recollection flickered. The feisty widow of a mild-mannered politician from Kent, Lady Kearns had gone into seclusion after he passed and only recently emerged. Several children and grandchildren. Fine stables. “Ah, yes. And how are you enjoying the ball?”
“Well enough, I suppose. Apart from two things.”
Augustus lifted his mask so she might feel the full blast of a raised eyebrow. “Indeed?”
Her smile widened further. “I dislike grumbling peers. My late husband was a man of the people and we often held parties with guest lists like Lady Portia’s. Albeit without the lady lovers or London’s most notorious ménage…then again perhaps we did and I just didn’t know.”
“I’d say that is more likely. Just because they aren’t kissing in the street, doesn’t mean interesting matches aren’t happening up and down the realm. Miss Tilton and Miss Irving…Lord and Lady Fenton and Mr. Irving, well they are practically family. I take a dim view of any slurs against them. A dim view indeed. Those puffed up lordlings may take a cold bath in the Wey. They think they have consequence…ha.”
“Hardly comparable to the great Duke of Fairfield.”
Augustus peered suspiciously at Lady Kearns, but there was no trace of mockery on her face. Mollified, he nodded. “Quite. And your second complaint?”
She pouted. “Not nearly enough nudity.”
Choking on a second sip of brandy, he wheezed, “Beg pardon?”
“I’m certain your ears work perfectly well, Your Grace. I will admit a little disappointment, I thought a ball hosted by the chairwoman of the Surrey Sexual Freedom Society might have been far more risqué. Yes, there are card games, alcoves for stolen kisses, and that fascinating display of ribald poetry. But where are the brawny men in loin cloths? The naked women to eat dessert off? I haven’t seen a single rouged nipple or well-oiled backside. Good heavens I miss the glory days of George’s court.”
Torn between shock and laughter, Augustus could only stare. Then he sighed. “Young ones think they invented lust in all forms, not knowing it was established long before they were even a twinkle in their mother’s eye. A few explicit letters or a lock of nether hair, and they crow about how wicked they are. Ha. I could tell them about wicked…”
“You were a Friar, were you not?”
He blinked. Libby Kearns was very well informed. He had indeed been a Friar of Medmenham with Sir Francis Dashwood and the Earl of Sandwich, and fondly remembered many years of lust, wine, and merry debauchery at dear Dash’s country estate. Most of those tales, he would take to the grave. “It has been so rumored.”
“Perhaps you’ll tell me a story or two over tea one day. Or recommend me to your daughter-in-law; I should so love to join her Society. I heard about it through Mrs. Berkley, we’ve corresponded for years. It is profoundly irritating that people think because I have silver hair and wrinkles that my interest in lusty matters has vanished.”
“Lady Kearns,” he said slowly, “you grow more fascinating by the moment.”
“Why thank you,” she replied, flipping open her fan. “Oh my word—”
“What?”
“Over there. Surely that can’t be…the infamous flogger-mauling Mittens?”
Augustus nearly groaned. Of course the cat had escaped confinement in Beatrice and Amelia’s chamber, they had been fools to think a mere door could contain her. Mittens currently sat perched on a window ledge, one flailing paw perilously close to the fastening of white satin ribbon.
“Tis indeed the ginger-striped menace, who takes unholy joy in knocking items to the ground. If she wrecks one of Portia’s decorations, though, I’m not sure there’ll be any place for her to hide.”
“Don’t be daft, Fairfield. Mittens isn’t trying to wreck decorations. She’s trying to catch snowflakes through the glass.”
Augustus froze. Snow?
Desperate to see and uncaring of how he looked, he clumsily got to his feet and hurried to the window.
Good God. It was indeed snowing. Outside, in the torch-lit expanse of night, snowflakes were dusting the carriages lined up in the driveway and turning mud and trampled grass into a fresh, flawless landscape.
“Well,” he said hoarsely, swallowing hard. “Perhaps it is Christmas, then.”
Mittens yowled, and bunted her head against his hand. When he neglected to pet her immediately she nipped his fingers, and even as Augustus cursed, he found himself scratching the she-devil behind the ears. How the bloody hell had that happened?
Warmth surrounded him, along with the faintest of husky laughs.
Merry Christmas, Gus. Now stop faffing about, and go ask your new friend to dance.
Tears burning his eyes, he returned to where Lady Kearns sat.
“I don’t suppose you would care to waltz…Libby?”
She sniffed. “About time. I’ve only been tapping my foot and glancing longingly at the floor for a quarter hour, Your Grace. To protect the delicate sensibilities of the other guests, I shall refrain from discarding any clothing.”
“A great shame, madam,” he said, unable to halt a wide grin. “And in the spirit of friendship, you may call me Augustus.”
“Then, my dear Augustus,” she replied, her eyes glinting as she tapped his arm with her fan, “Let us go and show the young ones how dancing is done.”
Augustus inclined his head, permitting himself one last glance out the window.
Merry Christmas,
my angel.
And in that moment he knew, all would be well.
THE END
Also by Nicola Davidson
Regency full length
Wickedly Wed series
Duke in Darkness (#1)
The London Lords series
To Love a Hellion (#1)
Rake to Riches (#2)
Tempting the Marquess (#3)
Regency novellas
Fallen trilogy
Surrender to Sin (#1)
The Devil's Submission (#2)
The Seduction of Viscount Vice (#3)
Surrey SFS quintet
My Lady's Lover (#1)
To Tame a Wicked Widow (#2)
My Lord, Lady, and Gentleman (#3)
At His Lady's Command (#4)
A Very Surrey SFS Christmas (#5)
Standalones
Once Upon a Promise
Joy to the Earl
Mistletoe Mistress
Tudor novellas
His Forbidden Lady
One Forbidden Knight
Contemporary
Ladies First (erotic short stories)
About the Author
NICOLA DAVIDSON worked for many years in communications and marketing, as well as television and print journalism, but hasn’t looked back since she decided writing wicked historical romance was infinitely more fun. When not chained to a computer she can be found ambling along one of New Zealand’s beautiful beaches, cheering on the All Blacks rugby team, history geeking on the internet, or daydreaming. If this includes chocolate—even better!
Keep up with Nicola’s news on Twitter (@NicolaMDavidson) Facebook (Nicola Davidson—Author) Instagram (@NicolaDauthor) or her website www.nicola-davidson.com
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