Table of Contents
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Biography
A Rose Between The Thornes
Raven McAllan
Breathless Press
Calgary, Alberta
www.breathlesspress.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Rose Between the Thornes
Copyright © 2013 Raven McAllan
ISBN: 978-1-77101-961-3
Cover Artist: Victoria Miller
Editor: Deadra Krieger
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
Breathless Press
www.breathlesspress.com
Dedication
To Doris, ‘Reditor’ in chief, best mate, and she who pushes me further than I ever thought possible. Without her I’d never have managed this.
To Shyla and Deadra, two of the best editors a writer could have, and Victoria who created the fabulous cover.
To Paul for the champagne, amongst other things...
To my readers. Without you I’d not be here today.
Thank you all.
Chapter One
It was hard not to feel envious when you knew your niece had not one, but two lusty lovers. Sometimes it seemed, together.
Rose Sophia, Lady Symons, held back a sigh. She wasn’t sure if she should be outraged or envious—she thought it should be the former but rather suspected it was the latter. Her lips moved as she cursed under her breath. Blue, her miniature greyhound, had decided to get out of her bedchamber and scamper along the myriad of hallways in the town house Sophia shared with her niece.
Blue knew who kept a supply of treats for her, and where. She had nosed open Hermione’s withdrawing room door before Sophia could stop her. About to follow and make her apologies, Sophia was halted in her tracks by a very recognizable drawling voice.
“As well ‘tis only the dog for what your aunt would say to see us both bollock naked and fucking to oblivion, I dare not think.”
There was a sigh, and a groan, and she could swear, the sound of balls on flesh. Sophia’s juices gathered at the apex of her thighs and damped her quim, and her skin prickled. Voyeur she was not, but the pictures those words conjured up were climax-inducing.
“Perchance she would wish she was receiving the same attentions from others? Or is she, and we know not?” Another equally recognizable voice, followed by the lighter tones of her niece, somewhat breathless, but nevertheless, recognizable.
“That is not polite, gentlemen. Without Sophia to play chaperone, we would not be able to enjoy ourselves three deep, as we so often and freely do. I feel we are blessed, not only in each other, but also with Sophia. She is a darling.”
The sound of breathing seemed too loud. Sophia fancied her heart was beating noisily, and if those otherwise occupied had not been so engrossed it would be heard through the partially open door. In silence, she moved backward. Blue would have to find her own way back.
As she carefully walked away she heard her niece’s breathless whisper.
“Now, fuck me now! Spill in me both of you, come now as I am....”
Both? And her niece? All together? Sophia felt the heat of arousal pool between her legs once more and cursed. It had been too long since she received any ministrations other than her own hands, and she felt somewhat deprived. Why, when one reached the age of three and forty was it supposed you no longer had needs? Is it generally supposed ladies of the ton have no needs at any age? Sophia moved quietly away from the door. Her soft shoes made no noise on the parquet, and the gentle swish of her skirts were so slight as to go unnoticed.
She sighed in frustration. It seemed her lucky niece not only had needs, but was able to admit to them, and have them ministered to. By the sounds of it, most satisfactorily. Not for anything could she let it be known what she had heard. However, as she had an overactive imagination—which was now running riot—and she could hazard a guess what scenes would have met her eyes. Her body tingled and she did the only thing possible. She left the dog to make her own way through the house, and returned to her room. Once there she used her imagination to aid her hands.
Sadly it was not nearly satisfying enough; nevertheless it would have to do.
Sophia was amazed at how bereft and empty she was. Her stomach churned and she swallowed several times to dispel the sickly feeling. Why had she been left so? Was there nobody? No nice, fit, able, unattached man of her age, of any age, who wished to service a willing and able female? Without, she wrinkled her nose, going to extremes?
Be honest. What do I think of as extreme? What age is acceptable?
In fact, she mused as she got into bed, a man of almost any age would do, as long as he was discrete. And extreme? Now she didn’t know what to think, and it seemed that sadly she had no chance of finding out.
The following evening, Sophia sat in the lounge and waited for Hermione to appear before they took the carriage to Lady Mardenelly’s ball. Her heart was pounding and she had a nasty headache behind her eyes. She hadn’t seen her niece all day, and worried if anything would be said about Blue’s impromptu visit the previous evening. Sophia had risen late after a night of restless tossing and turning, to find Hermione had eaten and left the house for a long-planned jaunt with some friends. She was due to return just in time to prepare for the evening’s outing.
Neither lady enjoyed going to a ball per se. Sophia knew Hermione went only to pay lip service to appearances, and she herself to enjoy a hand or two of cards for chicken stakes and to play chaperone.
A short while later her niece swept into the room. Her silks in shades of lilac swirled around her body. Sophia felt old, dowdy, and lonely. Hermione bent to kiss her cheek, with apologies for her tardiness, and Sophia looked anywhere but into her eyes. Jealousy is not a pretty thing to have, and to my shame I have it toward Hermione in spades.
“The carriage is here.” Sophia stood and shook out her silks, which until a few moments before had seemed a perfect foil for her blonde hair and pale coloring. Now she deemed them insipid against her niece’s elegance. She picked up her gauzy shawl, its hues of green and blue darker than those in her dress, and turned to leave the room.
“Aunt, one moment?”
Sophia turned and smiled. She could not harbor unpleasant thoughts about her beloved niece, for without Hermione’s generosity her own circumstances would be nowhere near as pleasant. When Hermione first approached Sophia to live with her, and play the role of chaperone—for propriety’s sake—Sophia had been all but penniless. She was glad to agree. The two women got on well, and neither bothered overmuch with what the other was up to. A few years later, when Sophia became an heiress in her own right, thanks to a generous bequest from her godmother, neither was inclined to change the arrangement.
Unless they had serious concerns, they still did not question or comment on the other’s appearances—or non-appearances. The arrangement worked well... although, my life seems to hold little of the excitement I believe is part of Hermione’s.
Hermione looked at her with what she thought was a shade of anxiety. “You saw.” It was a statement, not a question. Hermione touched Sophia’s arm and her usually warm ha
nd felt chilly. Ah, she is worried? That must not be so, this is my problem not hers.
Sophia shook her head.
“Then you heard.”
“I heard,” she confirmed.
“Ah, and?”
How could she answer that? Honesty was perhaps the only way to go. Come on Sophia. Show Hermione I was not upset—well not in the way she thinks I may have been.
“I was envious,” she said frankly. “And wished I could...experience even one tenth of what I imagined you were.” She watched as her niece’s eyes opened wide.
“Envious of me, or of Berry and Ran?”
Sophia shook her head. It was hard to explain just what she felt.
“Not of any of you exactly, but of what I heard. ‘Tis hard to be single, unattached, and my age. I would relish one man hard inside me; to have two would be as if all my Christmas’ had come at once. Oh, to experience two together.” She stopped and put her hands to her flushed cheeks. This was frank indeed, and she was not sure if she should continue.
“To experience two together?” Hermione prompted. It seemed Hermione had no such compunction. “I can not comprehend,” Sophia finished.
Her niece looked at her, with love and what seemed like compassion in her eyes. “But you would like to?” Hermione asked her.
“I would like to break my drought in any which way. It seems no one approaches me in any manner these days. Not for even a little dalliance. I do not understand why. All of a sudden, it seems as if I have a large sign around my neck saying, do not approach... One moment.” She looked at her niece, who suddenly seemed not to be able to look at her. “Why do you look guilty Hermione? Who has said or done something to bring about this state of affairs?”
Hermione looked decidedly penitent. “I feel it could be our fault. Mine, Berry, and Ran’s. So worried were we, that you might be adversely affected by our ménage, we have perhaps been over zealous in our protection of you. I will speak to them”
The ire that rose inside Sophia as she listened to her niece’s frank observation quickly subsided. There was no point in rebuking Hermione. Sophia had no illusions about who else she needed to berate at the appropriate time, which, she accepted was not at that moment. Men could be somewhat over protective even when it wasn’t necessary. Sophia was sure those two had no cause to be and in her opinion she was well able to stand up for herself. However, she decided to leave well alone for the time being, until her revenge could be taken in the way she felt most appropriate.
“Come,” she said instead. “We had best leave, or we will be unfashionably late, and unaccountably rude. Estella is expecting us to dine before the dancing. And,” she said, “I presume I will have the delight of speaking to those two gentlemen later?”
It is a sad thought that even if someone had been willing to dally with me, they would have been dissuaded. No one sensible would cross Hermione’s lovers.
Hermione laughed. “I wish to be a fly on the wall at that meeting. Do I warn them?”
“You do not.”
***
The dinner was extravagant, the courses were many and varied, and the wine superb. Once she had dined, the last thing Sophia felt like doing was dancing. What I really want—apart from a man—is to go home, get out of my finery, and relax. Perhaps read a book from the circulating library, and drink a glass of brandy. Instead, she found herself within a stuffy crowd of her peers. For, as per usual, the throng to reach the ballroom was fashionably large. Resigned to a long, slow, shuffle forward, hemmed in and trying not to have her silks crushed, Sophia stood behind Hermione and wrinkled her nose. The dowager in front of them was renowned for her use of a particularly overwhelming scent, and she had excelled herself that evening.
“I abhor this,” she said in a low voice to Hermione. “So many people and that disgusting perfume of Mrs. Demmorand. Why is a ball not considered to be a success without such a crush?”
Hermione didn’t reply. Behind her, a deep male, appreciative chuckle sounded. It seemed she’d been overheard. Sophia tried to turn her head. Was the chuckle aimed at her comments? The crowd was so intense, she could only move her head mere inches in any direction.
The queue moved forward. Sophia found herself propelled sideways, away from Hermione. It mattered little, for once inside the ballroom, having greeted their hosts, they would go their separate way until it was time to leave. As far as Sophia was concerned, the hour they had agreed upon could not come soon enough.
Carried by the mass, she discovered she was now near the edge of the room. Expecting a little more space, Sophia drew in a deep breath. It was hot, airless, and...and there was a cock pressing against her bottom. Again that chuckle, then a breath on her ear.
“So now I can do something I have long wished to do, my dear. Tis only a pity we have clothes in the way.”
What? Sophia wondered just who was speaking. The voice was vaguely familiar, but even though she racked her brains she could not place it. Still she tried to crane her head. A large, male hand slipped with erotic precision over her hip, caressing, and exciting.
“Don’t turn; look straight ahead.” The note of command in his voice was absolute. His hand moved forward and cupped her quim. Even over her silks, the heat warmed her and her juices collected at the juncture of her thighs.
“Lean back into me.”
Should she?
“Oh you should.”
Had she spoken aloud?
“I can read you, my dear, there is no need for you to speak,” the unknown person continued. “Now lean back into me, let my cock be cradled. Let our hands hint at delights to come.” She obeyed instinctively, without thinking. Her mind flitted over the words uttered. Our hands? Not my hands, but our hands. Yes, there was no doubt she felt more than two hands on her. One, very skillfully held her arse tight against a very hard throbbing cock. Another hand was carefully holding her close to a male thigh, the rest of the body it belonged to was out of sight, behind her. She could see no face. Oh my. Another hand touched her quim, softly rubbed her wet cunt through her silks. All this in the receiving queue of a ball? Was she dreaming?
“It is real. We want to show you what you can expect.”
“Three hands?” she asked. Sophia held on to her temper with difficulty. It was hard not knowing to whom she was directing her speech. “And no names”?” A fourth hand skimmed across her breasts. Long, elegant fingers unerringly brushed her nipples. To her dismay they did not conform to fashion. There wasn’t even a clue to be found of their owner by a signet ring.
“Four hands, two mouths, and two very hungry cocks.” She felt another rub across her arse, a soft caress on her breasts, and suddenly all pressure was gone. Even the crowd seemed to thin. With a jolt, Sophia realized she was almost at her hostess. For nigh on thirty minutes she had been—entertained—by she knew not whom.
Surely Hermione had not had the chance to call the watchdogs off already? Determined to find out, Sophia greeted her host with less ceremony than was strictly correct. Her mind was on other things, and therefore her curtsey only just qualified as proper and her thanks for her invitation were perfunctory. She was lucky her hostess was more interested in the newly engaged couple who queued behind her, and was therefore pleased to let Sophia pass into the body of the room.
Once inside she sought her niece.
“Have you spoken to those reprobates and demanded they back off? Told them of my displeasure?”
“No, not as yet, why?” Hermione queried.
“No reason,” Sophia improvised rapidly. She could still feel the imprint of those bodies on her. “I wondered what I would play tonight, cards or dalliance?”
“Sadly it seems, it must be cards,” Hermione replied. “For I feel no one will defy Berry and Ran.” She patted Sophia’s arm. “I’m sorry. I will speak to them, with your leave.”
Sophia nodded, her mind awhirl. Somebody—no, two somebodies—had been ready to defy two of the ton’s most influential members to provide themselve
s and her with a little light flirting. She only wished she knew whom, if for no other reason than to thank them, even if it went no further. She felt more enervated than she had in months.
Two hours later, she had experienced enough of the so-called gaiety. How long before she could greet her hostess and find somewhere more congenial to wait out the hours until she could leave? Sophia had reluctantly conversed with those she felt necessary, and taken part in the one country dance expected of her. Her dancing partner, a prosy baronet, held her so stiffly she felt he would have stopped dead in the middle of the dance floor had she said “boo.” Why it was considered necessary for the ladies to have at least one partner, she had no idea. She would be much happier sitting and watching.
With the dance over, she headed toward the room set aside for penny-stake whist. Those gentlemen who took their cards seriously would not play on an occasion such as this, but go to their club, or heaven forbid, it was whispered, a gaming hell. Even though Sophia enjoyed using her considerable skill at the tables, she would never dream of upping the ante. However, she could see no reason why if gentlemen wanted to lose their fortunes they should not do so. Sadly, it seemed this night she was to be denied even the chance of winning or loosing a guinea or so. The tables were full, and no one looked up to offer her a seat.
It seems my mastery of cards goes before me. Unaccountably disgruntled, she turned back to the doorway and came up against a wall.
A very human, hard, male, and—oh my—aroused wall. She had no need to take a swift downward glance to verify that fact. The pressure on her cunt told her so, as he held her close very close for what seemed an unaccountably long time, before he stepped back.
“My apologies, Lady Rose.” His eyes twinkled.
Rose? No one ever called me by my given name. At an early age she had decreed it was not for her, and henceforth would only use her middle name—Sophia. Now this young man—for she would hazard he had not yet seen many more than thirty years, chose to do so.
“My name young man,” she said frostily, “is Sophia.”
“Your name, my dear, is Rose Sophia,” he corrected gently. “You choose not to use such a beautiful name with the evocative pictures it conjures up. I, however, chose to do so. And heed me well, when I cry your name as you writhe beneath me, over me, beside me, in passion, it is Rose I will use.” He was watching her carefully, perhaps to see her reaction. “And when I fill you and fuck you to fruition, it is Rose I will use to encourage you.”
A Rose Between the Thornes Page 1