“Relax,” he instructed. “Just wait a minute.” There was an urgent quaver in his voice and she heard the crackle of paper. He sounded anxious. It was unusual for Mortlock to sound tense.
“What is it?” Distracted by the noise, her mind began to wander. Her desire slipped from a song to a mere hum, still a deep throbbing demand yet dulled by the delay.
She closed her eyes to keep her attention focused, holding on to the promise that tingled between her thighs.
“Let’s try some fairy dust,” he said. “You’ll enjoy this, I promise.” He stroked her clit with a quick slide of his finger, then dipped it into her cunt. His fingertips rested on her anus and one slid in, deeper, gently, to a place never touched, its path eased by the rose oil. She stiffened. It hadn’t hurt at all, in fact the fullness rather appealed. He withdrew his finger and left behind a soft thrum of sensation that puzzled her.
Had he spread something on her? While she wondered what he could have done, an unbelievable sensation overwhelmed her with the force of a train crash. Her clit rose in delight. Her labia thrummed and her sphincter tightened and clamped with a prickly thrill that travelled up her spine. She became consumed with the wonders of fairy dust and barely registered it when he swung her down to stand on the floor. Wrapped in her rainbow climax, she leant forward to rest her breasts on the bed and reached back to grab him, any part of him she could find. Demanding he fill her need she grasped his thighs and clenched her hands on his muscles.
A rattle of paper once more then his cock slid into her cunt and caused her heat to spasm. Each push of his hard shaft gave her great pleasure. Her eyes were open but she registered only red and purple floral bursts. Her spine quivered with delicious spasms and trails of tickling ran up and down her limbs.
And her clit, dear God, her clit! She moved her arms down between his legs and grasped his balls. “Suck me,” she begged. He dropped to his knees and the soft laps of his tongue drove her to another height. She lost herself in the shimmering climax that went on and on. Her bones melted. Her voice erupted from her throat in shouts of delight. She had no strength to move and lived in the moment, shuddering with joyous uttering. He obliged her until she stopped quivering minutes later absolutely sated.
Exhausted, they lay spread-eagled on the bed until he covered her with the top sheet then left.
For an hour or so, she slept. Never had she experienced such sensations. She relived her shouts of joy, the exquisite tingling, the rollercoaster of climax after climax and indescribable pleasure.
She couldn’t wait to try it again. While bathing, she hoped he would return at any moment and begin once more. He didn’t. It seemed even Mortlock had a physical limit.
Chapter Eight
“What did he call it?” Henry’s voice had a hard edge.
“Fairy dust.”
“Fairy dust be damned. More like cocaine.” Henry rose from his chair and paced the room. “I’ll ruin the bastard. How dare he try and get my wife addicted to cocaine.” He stopped and wheeled to look at her. His reaction, so unexpected, stunned her.
She realised her jaw hung open and closed her mouth. How could she have been so naïve?
“Darling”—he came to her—“I’m not angry with you.” He cradled her in his arms, sitting beside her on the sofa. “Mortlock wants to get you addicted so he’ll have a greater hold over both of us. You would only be able to get it through him and he could then make you do anything.”
Mortlock’s betrayal of her trust caused a wave of rage to rise in her chest and tears welled in her eyes. A sob of anger escaped her throat. Shame swamped her like a black tide. She should have asked? Instead she’d listened to his honeyed assurance that she’d like it. Well she had. She’d loved it. No wonder people got addicted.
“Don’t cry, darling. I’ll fix the little shit.” Henry stroked her hair, his gentle touch curved down to cup her chin, his gaze locked on hers. “You’re not to see him again. Ever.” She closed her eyes.
“Until I get this sorted I want you to go to Scotland with Charlotte, perhaps tomorrow, or if not then, as soon as you can.”
She nodded. “Anything you say, Henry, anything.” She clasped his hand and kissed his fingers. “How will you fix this, Henry? What can you do?”
“I’ll sort the bastard out, Helen. Don’t worry. We won’t be involved at all.”
* * * *
The next day, she and Charlotte travelled to the Scottish coast. Charlotte was glad of the break from her demanding widowed mother and they spent a few days in St Andrews. Tiring of the cobbled streets and quaintness, they returned to Edinburgh to stroll George Street, and window shop.
One evening Charlotte queried Helen’s long silences.
“It’s a touch of the flu, Lottie, nothing more. I’ll be as good as gold by next week.”
“It’s not like you to turn down an evening out,” said Charlotte. “Edinburgh does have some social life Helen, if you’d only make the effort.”
“You go, Charlotte. Truly, I’d rather go to bed.”
“But you’re having an afternoon nap most days as it is.”
“Lottie, this is getting repetitive. It’s a touch of the flu.” At the sight of Charlotte’s hurt expression, she apologised. “I’m sorry, Lottie. I can’t seem to get rid of this exhaustion.” She blamed her tiredness on her despair that being blinded by her sexual desire she’d trusted Mortlock completely. Her sheer selfishness combined with Henry’s desire to keep her happy had put their very existence at risk.
Every day she expected a call from Henry. Every day weariness overcame her. Could it be depression? She’d see a doctor once she returned to London.
* * * *
“Time to come home,” Henry said four weeks later, and so they returned to London.
Her limbs were taught with apprehension and the tension made her jaw ache. Henry had said little on the phone, except to summon her home. When she’d asked if there was any news, he’d laughed and said ‘when you get here. Just come home’. She’d clung to the sound of his laugh and now, at Paddington Station, there he stood with a broad grin on his face.
They dropped Charlotte off at her mother’s house and once they were home, Henry fussed over her like an old hen. To her queries, Henry tapped the side of his nose and said, “Later, Helen, later, when the staff are gone.”
Bassett poured the pre-dinner wine and instead of staying to make polite conversation, he gave her a sad smile and left the room.
“What’s all that about, Henry? He looks at me as if there’s a death in the family.”
“He’s sad over your relative’s fall from grace, Helen. Let me explain.” With a large whisky in his hand he stood by the window, sipped his drink and looked out.
She rose to join him, to admire the roses blooming fiercely in the late summer sun.
“He certainly had a way with roses, but I wasn’t having him destroy you, my rose.” He walked back to the table to top up his glass.
She sat on the window seat to listen and watch the man she loved so much tell his story. No one could hurry Henry—he would do it in his own way in his own time.
“I knew where he lived, you see. Bassett found that out after our luncheon date. So when I knew he’d given you cocaine I dropped a hint to our local constabulary and suggested they search him on the street. I mentioned Thursday would probably a good day to do this.” He came to her side. “It stood to reason he’d be carrying it the next Thursday, ready to give you another taste.”
She gasped.
“They arrested him, Helen and in his lodgings they found more drugs. That was as month ago. He’s been before the court and is now in jail. Cocaine is beginning to become a problem in this country. It’s rife in the USA. Many of their soldiers have come home addicted from Vietnam.” Henry rubbed his hand through his sparse hair and continued, “I’ve told Hansen, who is now also Mortlock’s solicitor because I kept up the pretence that he was a distant relative of yours—I told Hansen to pass on to
Mortlock that once he’s served his time, perhaps only two months for good behaviour, I will pay his airfare to the other side of the world.” Henry downed his whisky and raised the empty glass. “A one-way ticket. He can go to Australia or New Zealand. Anywhere, but here in the UK.” The hall clock chimed six times. Dinner would be ready. “He’ll take the offer I’m sure.”
She drank her wine in one long gulp. “Thank you, Henry. You’re a good man and I love you dearly. I’ve been so selfish and I’m so ashamed.” She stepped close and wrapped her arms around him, grateful beyond explanation.
“Nonsense, my love. Mortlock instigated this fairy dust issue and I did warn him. I told him I would ruin him if he hurt you.” He held her at arm’s length, his gaze mirroring the love deep within her heart. “We can reinstate our arrangements with the Brighton Establishment whenever you want.”
She smiled at her old darling, knowing his heart was too big for his own good.
“Not for a while, Henry.” She held out her glass for another. “Can we tell Bassett we don’t want dinner after all? Would Mrs Bassett be offended? I’d rather go to bed with you, Henry…now.”
“Oh, darling. I’ll just tell Bassett that we’ll eat later. They can go home.”
She watched him as he hurried towards the kitchen and thought how it’d been a win-win situation all round, except for Christopher Mortlock, but with his talents he’d surely find his way in the world, out there in the colonies.
The only small concern she had was the noticeable swelling of her breasts and the darkening of her nipples. Could Mortlock have left her and Henry a farewell present? Could he have succeeded in the one area where Henry and she had failed in all the years of their marriage? A smile lifted the corners of her mouth as she remembered how Henry often said Mortlock certainly had the knack of getting seeds to germinate.
* * * *
Wrapped in each other’s arms, limbs entwined, noses almost touching, their breath mingling, they enjoyed the afterglow of sexual satisfaction.
“So you think you might be with child, Helen?”
Dear Henry, such an old fashioned expression. “Yes, I think I must be. A doctor’s visit will confirm it, but yes, I think I am. Do you mind?”
“What? After all the years we’ve tried, not one jot do I mind. It’s probably Mortlock’s, but it could be mine. It doesn’t matter, Helen, it’ll be ours. An autumn lamb for the Montrose’s, I can hear society muttering already.” He chuckled.
“Do you want a son and heir, Henry?”
“Not really, I’d rather have a daughter, the mirror image of her mother.”
She stroked his face, running her fingers down his jawline and kissed the tip of his nose. “I do love you so, Lord Montrose.”
“And I love you too, Helen. My lady, my rose.”
Also available from Total-E-Bound Publishing:
In Service to the Senses
Demelza Hart
Excerpt
Chapter One
Yorkshire, August 1910
The kitchen of Foresham Hall, furnishings, pots and all, seemed itself to be drooping in the incessant heat. With preparations underway for lunch and the August sun shining in, even if only through the narrow windows, it was almost unbearable. Mrs Brodie, normally so in control of her kitchen, was in a state of considerable agitation about the jellies not setting, her dimpled arms glistening with sweat as she flapped about. The kitchen maid sat dejectedly, fanning herself madly with the London Illustrated News, the lettuce she was supposed to be washing left to wilt before her. Mr Brewer, butler, had given them no respite from their tasks, despite the torpor that pervaded their limbs in this weather. Even little Billy, bubbliest of them all, frowned with discomfort as he polished his boots.
Edward alone was still and silent. The silver hairbrush placed before him was in need of a good polish, but he sat with one long, strong leg crossed over the other, leaning back in his chair, his mind elsewhere.
Edward Marham, valet to Lord Reginald Fortescue, sixth Earl of Atherton, was distracted for reasons other than the heat. He’d missed an engagement the previous night. His Lordship had made him busy without warning, keeping him up starching his bloody shirts. It had been a fucking inconvenience. The person he was supposed to meet would have given him welcome relief from what had been a mind-numbing day below stairs. With a sigh, Edward picked up the cloth and scrubbed half-heartedly at a stubborn mark on the brush. It wasn’t shifting—needed a good seeing-to.
She needed a bloody good seeing-to. Always did. Fuck, he wanted her now. He pictured her gorgeous round breasts swaying as he pounded her, her lips open as she gasped in air, her legs spread wide, the inside of her thighs wet with lust. She was always wet for him, wet and fucking tight. With that vision in mind, he now went at the silver with determination, his muscled arms straining under the white cotton shirt—he’d stripped off the rest of his suit in the heat. He spat onto the silver to try to shift the mark, and his thick black hair fell over his eyes. Edward tossed it back.
“My lady!” Cook’s startled squeal roused him.
Standing in the doorway was Lady Isabella Fortescue, Countess of Atherton, mistress of Foresham Hall.
She glanced dismissively at the damp little group, her nose wrinkling in distaste. Lady Atherton was, amongst friends and those who wished to be friends, regarded as a cool, distinguished beauty. Amongst those not her friends, she was considered an arrogant, disdainful bitch. She had married the earl in her early twenties, and now, four years later, it was clear that the marriage was hardly the stuff of fairy tales. But that was unimportant. Lady Atherton was immeasurably beautiful, a good hostess, and would soon produce an heir, one assumed. What else was marriage for?
It was not usual for the lady of the house to appear without warning in the kitchen. But here she now stood in her burgundy day dress, all exotic silks and laces, staring at them as if they were objects in a specimen cage. Her staff waited for her words. They eventually came tightly.
“It is a warm day. You all need some fresh air. Go outside and take some. Do not return until midday.”
Despite her startling appearance in the kitchen and her bizarre request, the staff knew better than to argue with Lady Atherton. With a surreptitious glance at each other, they rose rapidly to their feet, bobbed quickly, muttered ‘My lady’ in rushed breaths and hurried out. All except one.
Edward didn’t move. He remained seated as he had been, legs crossed, posture reclining, staring up at the lady of the house with a coolness bordering on arrogance.
Lady Atherton did not enquire as to why he had not left with the others, but instead stared down at him, her tight disdain now gone, replaced by a flush on the smooth cheeks. She drew in rapid breaths. At last Edward slowly, languidly, pushed himself up, tossing the polishing cloth dismissively onto the table. He took steady steps across to the countess, stopping a foot in front of her, and stared down.
“Bored, are we?” he drawled.
“You didn’t come to me last night, Marham.”
“I were busy, my lady. Yer husband wanted his shirts sortin’. Took me all night.”
“I…”
“What, my lady?” He didn’t move. He didn’t uncross his arms.
“I was expecting you. It has been three days since…last time.”
“I’m a busy man, my lady. We can’t be havin’ all fun and games now, can we?” He smirked.
“You told me you’d be there last night.”
Edward sniffed derisively. “Oh, it don’t work like that with me, my lady, y’know that.”
She stepped into him, her sculpted face now open and needing, her words urgent. “Show me how it does work with you, Marham.”
His mouth curled up again and he cocked a teasing eyebrow. “What? Right here and now?”
“Yes. Now. Right now.” She could barely speak between breaths. Lady Atherton reached up a hand and placed it on the valet’s shirt, drawing it up over his torso with deliberate sensuality.
&
nbsp; Edward moved swiftly and strongly, gripping her wrist hard and pulling it off him. He leaned in again. “Oh no. You’ll have to ask more nicely than that.”
She glanced down at where he held her. “You’re hurting me.”
He only tightened his hold, causing her to suck in sharply. “You like me hurting you. That’s why you’re here. You need me for the pleasure and the pain. Don’t you…my lady?”
She looked up, her eyes wide, fearful and desirous. Isabella nodded.
“Now…ask me nicely.”
She swallowed, held his gaze, and stuttered, “Please.”
“Please who?”
“Please…Edward.”
Leaning across, he brought his mouth close to her ear. “Good girl.”
And with that he picked her up so that her legs were clamped around his waist and he gripped her backside in assured hands. Edward took strong steps forward until she jolted against the table. She gaped to draw in a gasp, but her open mouth was silenced by his lips, brutal and searching. Isabella reached up to tangle her fingers in his hair and pulled him harder yet against her. He let his tongue invade her and circle with delicious intent. She opened for him, giving him her own tongue.
He was already dragging up her skirts, searching underneath.
“Fuck,” he moaned after tearing himself from her mouth. “Trouble with you, my lady…always so many bloody clothes…”
“I wouldn’t want to make things too easy for you. After all, it’s so much more… Aah!”
He had managed to find his way through the intricacies of her underskirts in surprisingly rapid time.
“You were sayin’?”
Edward slid his fingers, skilled with more than just silver polish, through her gorgeously wet quim.
“As ever—ready and willing, eh, my lady?” His teeth were as tightly clenched as his back muscles, which she clung to as he worked his fingers deftly. Now there were two pushed hard up in her, and she clenched onto them with a groan. He was tapping away at that perfect little place, that place which he knew made the light behind her eyelids flash green and blue.
Memoirs of Lady Montrose Page 5