Memoirs of Lady Montrose

by Virginnia DeParte

  “Relax,” he answered. “I’m here to pleasure you.”

  He removed the pillow from under her, then pulled her closer to the end of the bed before hooking her legs over his shoulders. Again, someone else climbed onto the bed. The newcomer’s arms travelled under her shoulders and held her. Their breath warmed her throat as they leaned over her and again they licked and sucked her breasts. A myriad of sensations overwhelmed her mind. The deep massaging of her vagina, her anus being circled and entered, raised her excitement to a new level. Each pulsing probe explored a little further, each foray a little deeper, increasing her desire in tantalising increments. This new experience banished any thought of saying stop and the sensation—not painful, just different—continued to please her.

  Deep inside her heat, his fingers had found her G-spot and she moaned with pleasure. When he withdrew there was a sense of loss, until he licked her juices and sucked her sensitive clitoris. Her breasts ached with the constant suckling. Should I whisper stop? Except, at that moment, she climaxed for the second time, climbing her peak in delicious, shuddering steps.

  She rejoiced in the experience of her mind filled with joyous tingles while her partners played their magic. Her spine tingled and she mewled in delight. She didn’t want it to stop…ever. Even when he sucked, enough to make her want to cry out, she clamped her jaws shut to muffle her shout of joy.

  Grabbing her hips, he pulled her off the edge of the bed and down onto his cock. The person above had released her breasts and held her firmly, supporting her body while the first man drove his long pleasurable cock into her wet, waiting pussy. Faster and faster he pumped in time with her own response, meeting her demanding G-spot. With clenched buttocks to hold him, she wrapped her legs around his waist then tensed as he lifted her. Would he now slip into her ass?

  “St—” She hesitated. Did she want this experience?

  “Are you sure you want to stop?” he queried, and gently parted her smooth labia, spreading the lips flat, then slowly lowered her again onto his hard, firm cock.

  “Not this time, Madam,” he said.

  Her flesh complained of soreness and she decided she’d had enough, but at that moment he shuddered and she knew he’d finished. In return for his expert attention, she allowed him to soak a moment before placing her hands on his shoulder and pushing him away.

  He eased her buttocks back onto the bed. His partner slid his hands under her armpits and manoeuvred her to a comfortable position. Those hands had been most supportive and necessary. Her breasts now felt abandoned and her nipples ached.

  Without a word, they withdrew and the door clicked close, leaving her to doze as she waited for the next phase to begin. Though not sexual, she enjoyed the pampering.

  The sound of water running breached her light sleep and she heard the bathroom door open. Guiding hands helped her, and she swung both legs off the bed to stand before she was led to the bathroom. She was lowered into a warm shallow bath and left to soak for a few minutes before soft, small female hands soaped her all over.

  Washed and rinsed, she stepped out of the bath to stand while she was dried with soft towels, dusted with powder then lowered carefully onto a chair. At the sound of two people leaving the room, she removed the blindfold.

  Helen noticed her clothes still hung where she’d left them, along with her purse, hat and veil. The navy blue suit, fine nylon hosiery and sensible smart shoes contrasted with her underwear, expensive and delicate. While in Brighton, she role-played at widowhood but Henry insisted her undergarments be luxurious even if her outer layers were demure.

  After dressing, she walked through to the small lounge furnished with a sideboard, a table and two chairs. Set out on the polished sideboard sat a fresh pot of coffee. Beside the coffee and cakes stood a decanter of sherry and a crystal glass. The smell of beeswax polish mixed with the heady scent from the floral arrangement. Too tender to sit, she stood to drink her coffee, glancing through the lace curtains at the passing parade along the Brighton beach.

  Autumn winds shook the trees and the sea looked grey and wild in contrast to the warmth and sated glow of her sex. The pier stretched out into the water like a shaft and the sea splashed around its base, sucking in and out. The waves stroked the supporting piles. Further along, the breakers rolled in, pushing the wooden piles before sinking back. Everywhere she looked, sexual images appeared.

  * * * *

  The next day, she took her sore body back to London. Henry laughed at her bruised breasts and red tender areas, then kissed them better, and listened to her detailed account of her Brighton trip, knowing his money had been well spent.

  “I’ve been inspired, my love.”

  She stretched down and wrapped her palm around his erection, stroking the swelling organ, encouraging its length. Straddling him, she eased her sex down onto his now-firm cock. She rocked her hips, locking him inside her sex then moved back and forth along Henry’s pelvis, keeping a firm grip with her muscles. Henry’s pleasure bathed his face—his eyes were closed and the corners of his mouth curved up.

  “God, that feels wonderful.” She rocked faster but to no avail. Henry grabbed her hips, sliding his hands up her sides to cup her breasts. She leant forward so they hung pendulous in his grasp.

  “Oops, the Member seems to be ignoring Standing Orders,” Henry commented, his eyes flicking open.

  She saw a flash of sadness in his eyes and leant down to kiss his nose. She kept his member tight until finally she raised her hips to release him, sliding her body over to lie along Henry’s side and resting her head on his shoulder, his arm curved around and down her back as he stroked her spine.

  “Sorry, darling,” he said.

  “Nonsense, Henry. As a Member of the Lower House, he shows promise. I’m sure he’ll stand again.”

  “Let’s hope so,” Henry said.

  His expressions of love, and her desire to love him in return, kept their marriage firm. By those means, they combated the leers of the younger men within their social circle. With a haughty toss of her head, she could ignore the lewd suggestions they whispered. She would place her hand on Henry’s arm with a smug smile. It was no one’s business who put the smile there.

  * * * *

  At home, after her evening at the Albert Hall

  Her mind leapt again with fear and dragged her back to the present. The loud pounding of her heartbeat filled her ears, then slowed. She was safe at home with Henry, but out there in the dark danger lurked.

  One of her Brighton lovers had recognised her. Which one and who was he? Her name would have been recorded in the Brighton establishment whenever she’d visited as ‘Mrs Brown’. He must have read the records. How else would he know to call her by that?

  She had no doubt that by now he would have learnt her real name. As Lord and Lady Montrose, they frequented social gatherings in the city, mingling, dining and attending shows, operas and charity events. Any casual query would elicit her true title.

  Henry served in the House of Lords and in his position as Chairman of the Committees he could not afford scandal to be attached to his name. However, she knew from his comrades’ stories that Henry could be fearless in battle, verbal or physical. He had injuries from the war to attest to this. He’d joined as an officer in 1938 and had fought bravely in France before being invalided home. He still walked with a limp from his hip injury. Sadly it was not his injury, but his age, which had brought them to this situation. At sixty-five, his body had begun to betray him. His desire was still strong, his heart still willing, though his flesh refused to rise to the occasion.

  She hated to consider what the tongues of acidic gossipers would say, the titters that would be barely hidden behind raised hands and the gasps of mock horror should her Brighton trips become common knowledge. She would be shunned by many and courted assiduously by the salacious few. Surely Henry would be proven right—this man must only want money, not to ruin her reputation. There would be no profit for the man to broadcast his kn
owledge, especially if he wished to establish himself in London’s society. Being at the Albert Hall this evening indicated he’d already begun to make contacts. To reveal his previous employment would damage his own footsteps up the social ladder

  This reasoning gave her some respite and as dawn crept under the bottom of the bedroom’s velvet drapes, she finally drifted off to sleep, more from exhaustion than a sense of peace.

  Chapter Three

  Bassett, Henry’s manservant, brought the mail in with their morning tea. Three days had passed and the autumn wind had turned bitter, chilling the house as well as her bones. The fire crackled in the hearth, trails of light sparking their way through the soot on the chimney’s back. Beside its cheerful glow, Helen and Henry sat reading sections of The Times. After Bassett had left, Henry lifted the mail from the silver tray.

  “I think this is what we’ve been waiting for, darling, addressed to you. Rather poor quality paper at that.”

  Ever the gentleman, Henry offered her the plain envelope. She shook her head and waved his hand away, not wishing to even touch it. Nausea rose in her throat and her stomach clenched. After three days of tension, her insides were now wound as tightly as a hangman’s noose. “You do it.”

  She watched him slit the top with the paperknife and studied his face, fighting the urge to close her eyes and not see his reaction. His eyebrows rose and a smile played at the corners of his mouth.

  “As I thought. It’s a summons to meet ‘for a discussion of mutual interest to you both’. I’m quoting him here,” Henry said, then continued, “this fellow says he doesn’t wish to cause you distress but feels his knowledge of your Brighton activities would be of interest to others and as he desires to live in London, with the possibility of your meeting again in public, he suggests a financial arrangement would be of benefit to you both.”

  Henry dropped the letter onto the table between them then pushed it towards her. Her gaze was riveted on the paper and she brought her hands to her lap. Just looking at it made her feel ill.

  “Pure and simple blackmail, dressed up in flowery terms, but blackmail all the same.”

  Tears welled and one trickled down her cheek, causing Henry to rise slowly and come to sit beside her.

  “Hush, my love. He’s asked that you set a time and place. I’ll be there, close by and we will confront this young pup. I’ll sort it out.”

  She sniffed loudly and, unable to find her handkerchief, wiped her wet cheeks with the back of her hand. Henry handed her his ‘kerchief with a flourish as Bassett returned to remove their tea things.

  “Is everything alright, m’lady?” Bassett asked.

  “She’s fine, lad. Just a bit of soot in her eye. Must get the chimney cleaned.”

  Poor Bassett looked puzzled, not taken in by Henry’s lies and she could see him passing his worries on to Mrs Bassett, their cook, within minutes. Why Henry continued to call him ‘lad’ she didn’t know. Bassett had fought as a corporal under Henry’s command and they’d both begun to look old. Bassett, standing more erect than Henry, being a few years younger, had lost a hand in the war, but managed well with the stump that remained. Henry had employed him when the war had ended and Bassett and his wife were loyal servants to their house.

  Once Bassett had left the room Henry reached to pat her arm. “You can write him a short note, Helen. Shall we send him to the Huntsman’s Arms? It’s an hour’s drive away on the banks of the Colne River.” Henry’s brow furrowed as he formulated a plan. “It’s private, a good-sized dining room, and not too expensive. We can’t have him dining too well on our purse. You can bet he won’t pick up the account.”

  As much as she hated to do it, she knew she had to. Henry fetched a pen and paper. They choose a day the following week when Henry would be free and stipulated noon as the meeting time. The return address, a post office box, revealed nothing of where the man might live.

  “He calls himself Christopher Mortlock, if we can believe it,” she said, and wrote the address on the envelope before she licked it then pressed it closed.

  “I shall call him Lucifer,” Henry said.

  * * * *

  The day of the meeting arrived. The watery sun shone through the branches of the trees in the front garden and the fallen leaves made a carpet on the lawn, bunched between the rose bushes. A breeze stirred and whirled them in eddies down Holland Park Road. On each side of their home stood a foreign embassy, and the respective security systems overlooked the Montrose’s Georgian mansion. Its lovely cream stone walls always made Helen feel safe, but terror had arrived a week ago, sliding in through the mail slot in the front door and it had held her captive ever since. By the end of today, she hoped her heart would be lighter and the dark pall that had smothered her since the night at the opera would be dulled to a soft mist. Perhaps it wouldn’t be quite gone, but would be clear enough for her to see a way forward.

  She’d dressed demurely in a costume that spoke of quality and put on her fur coat. It had become unfashionable to wear fur, but on this occasion, being warm concerned her more than public opinion. She prevaricated over wearing a hat and decided against it—perhaps it was a bit too dressy for luncheon with a blackmailer.

  Henry had gone on ahead an hour ago with Bassett driving. He’d taken his walking stick, the one with a knife hidden in the shaft, and she’d teased him that he might be provoked into stabbing Mortlock.

  “I’d cut his balls off, more likely,” he’d retorted.

  Bassett would share a table with Henry and once Mr Christopher Mortlock had settled at her table, Henry would join them. That was the plan, in case Mortlock tarried nearby, watching to see if she’d called in the police.

  Bassett had been told the man she intended to dine with claimed to be a distant relative, who had fallen on hard times and wanted money. Pangs of guilt stabbed at her for telling their loyal servant such lies. However, Bassett’s whole demeanour displayed his delight in today’s outing and his part in the proceedings.

  She was driving the Humber Super Snipe. If Mortlock arrived by car, Bassett would tail him home in her car and she would drive Henry home in the Bentley. An alternative plan allowed for Mortlock arriving by train—Bassett would then shadow him on foot. Henry considered it imperative to know where Mortlock lived. She wondered why Henry needed this information, but he’d told her not to worry her pretty head about it. He could be quite masterful at times, as the current situation proved.

  “Quite like old times, sir.” Helen had heard Bassett say to Henry earlier as he’d helped him into the car. Bassett’s voice had trembled when he’d asked whether he should take a small pistol to protect Lady Helen from a physical attack.

  “Good God, laddie. Can’t have you shooting Lady Helen’s relations, regardless of how distant or distasteful they are. Perhaps a punch to the jaw would be safer.” Bassett appeared to have caught Henry’s air of bravado and while their joint antics had amused her, their mock comedy act had not been funny enough to raise a smile. Perhaps tomorrow she’d manage one.

  * * * *

  Helen chose a table with a view through the large bay window. The waiter left her with two menus, one for her expected guest. While she waited she let her gaze drift to the trees growing along the riverside walk. The oak’s leaves clung tightly to its branches but the walnut tree tossed its dinner-plate-sized leaves high in the air to greet the winter wind. The chill breeze and light rain helped stick them to the parked cars like large pieces of confetti. At a nearby table she saw Henry and Bassett dining with gusto and obvious enjoyment.

  How typical of men. They had a plan. Their emotions appeared to be tightly under control and their appetite remained hearty. Not for her. Everything she read on the menu made her stomach churn. She wished the day to be over.

  A man approached from the left and paused beside her.

  “Mrs Brown?”

  “Don’t be facetious, young man. You’re quite aware of my real name.” Her voice didn’t echo the turmoil inside her, i
nstead she snapped her disapproval at his attempted humour. She gestured towards a chair and gave him the full benefit of a steel-cold stare.

  He was rather handsome, in a rugged sort of way. His thick brown hair flopped over his forehead in a cowlick. He wasn’t that tall, rather stocky, with wide shoulders that stretched his dress jacket more than the design allowed. In the soft lilt in his voice and his pronunciation of ‘Brown’ she’d heard his Welsh heritage. His olive skin and brown eyes also spoke of the distant coal fields of Wales.

  She looked him square in the face and forced herself to appear calm. “I can hear the Welsh Valleys in your speech. What is a young man like you doing this far from home?”

  “Trying to better myself, Lady Helen.”

  “And you think your path to improvement is by extortion and intimidation?” She passed him the menu, ever conscious of her manners, even to a blackmailer.

  “I hope to establish myself in London, ma’am, and when I recognised you at the opera the other night I thought you could perhaps help me with this.”

  “Which is a roundabout way of saying you saw a chance to threaten me with defamation.”

  “You don’t have to accommodate me, Lady Helen,” he cajoled in velvet Welsh tones. “A simple ‘no’ will suffice and I will leave. However, I cannot guarantee that I shan’t be forced to offer your name as a user of my services.” He smirked. “Perhaps you could then confirm my prowess with your personal recommendation.”

  “I might, if I knew on which occasions in Brighton you gave me pleasure,” she retorted.

  “All of them, Lady Helen.”

  A blush of memory rose, its heat warming her breasts before it travelled up her neck. She turned to look through the window, refusing to acknowledge that his verbal spear had penetrated, wishing Henry would finish his lunch and join them. Surely his hot pot and roast potatoes were not as important as her present discomfort.