My Lady's Lover_Surrey SFS 1

by Nicola Davidson

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Epilogue

  My Lady’s Lover

  Also by Nicola Davidson

  Standalones

  About the Author

  My Lady’s Lover

  Surrey SFS #1

  Nicola Davidson

  Nicola Davidson

  MY LADY’S LOVER is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.

  MY LADY’S LOVER © Nicola Davidson

  First Edition: November 2017

  Edited by: AuthorsDesigns

  Cover design by: Dusean Nelson at AuthorsDesigns

  Stock art: Inarik at 123RF.com

  Formatted by: Formatting 4U

  Contents

  My Lady’s Lover

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Epilogue

  Also by Nicola Davidson

  Standalones

  About the Author

  My Lady’s Lover

  Beatrice Irving has been in love with her employer since the day they met. Even more forbidden, she is Amelia, Countess of Garrick—intelligent, beautiful, and very much married—and an affair that would cause the society scandal to end all scandals. It seems Beatrice is destined to remain alone, her only joy the deliciously wicked monthly meetings of the Surrey Sexual Freedom Society.

  Amelia Garrick is desperate. Trapped in a bad marriage to a man she doesn’t love and unable to give him an heir, her one solace is her companion, Beatrice. Until the night friendship becomes something more, and Amelia is introduced to an intoxicating new world. Together they risk all. Yet now she’s had a heady taste of scorching hot pleasure, Amelia can’t resist…

  To all the ladies and their lovers…

  This one is for you.

  Chapter 1

  Surrey, England, August 1814

  “Ahem. A-hem. Let us bring this meeting of the Surrey Sexual Freedom Society to order! We have a great deal to discuss today, and as per usual, your mind will be educated and expanded in all matters erotic.”

  Miss Beatrice Irving sighed happily and settled her tall, willowy frame back into her chair at their hostess and chairwoman Lady Portia Butler’s crisp order. The society might be very small, with just five members at present, but the monthly meetings were Beatrice’s favorite thing in the world. The only reason to keep smiling really, when the rest of her life was such shambles.

  Indeed, a woman who had been disowned by her parents, had little money, and was desperately, painfully, in love with her married employer, had little to be of good cheer about.

  “Bea, old girl, did you see what Lady Portia has tucked under her arm? I think it’s those drawings from Venice she promised. The nymph orgy,” whispered her second cousin Mr. Clayton Irving, probably the only man to have been thrown out of Cambridge’s school of divinity three times despite substantial donations and heartfelt pleas from his father, Lord Irving. Why the viscount bothered, she couldn’t say. Some third sons were just not meant to be vicars, no matter what was expected. Clay had a heart of gold, but was an unredeemable, gloriously attractive rake who enjoyed fucking both women and men, drinking, gaming, and cursing. Not ideal qualities for a man of the cloth.

  “Shhh,” she hissed out of the side of her mouth. If Lady Portia caught them whispering, there would be hell to pay. Their fiercely proud spinster bluestocking hostess was fifteen years their senior and ran the society with an iron fist. Even the lady’s powerful marquess brother had conceded defeat and permitted her to live in her own fully-staffed manor and manage her own affairs, his only condition being that her footmen be specially trained for her protection. Each member of the society had benefited from the marquess’s reluctant benevolence; his sister was even more generous in her time and assistance to friends as she was to her charitable works and enthusiasm for the advancement of women’s rights.

  “Now,” said the petite and slender Lady Portia, her keen gaze darting about the elegantly furnished parlor. “Before we look at and discuss the erotic drawings, I believe we should hear an update from each member. Denham, we’ll start with you.”

  Captain Randall Denham tensed, as he always did when called upon to speak about himself. He was Lady Portia’s chief bodyguard, a retired soldier who had resigned his commission after twenty years serving king and country, and accompanied her everywhere, including these meetings. It was indeed fortunate that nothing fazed the distinguished, dark-haired man who dressed like a clerk and could kill with his bare hands, dagger, or pistol. “I’m just fine, my lady.”

  Their chairwoman sighed. “No progress in your intimate affairs? Really, Denham. For a man who boldly charged down the enemy on so many occasions, I am surprised you are so hesitant about approaching a woman you quite desperately wish to bed. You aren’t some silly young buck who doesn’t know which end of his cock is which.”

  The captain folded his brawny arms, his face expressionless. “She’s not just any woman. Proper campaign takes time.”

  “As you keep saying,” said Lady Portia a trifle irritably before she turned and smiled at her next guest. “Madeline? What about you, dear?”

  Madeline, Lady Upcott, beautiful, young, titian-haired, and a widow since her much older knight husband had passed on two years prior, smiled grimly. “I grow weary of town. The pressure from both my family and his to marry again is quite unbearable, and I understand they will shortly be sending representatives with lists of acceptable suitors. Ack! I greatly enjoy a widow’s freedoms. The last thing I want is to be shackled to another aristocrat who desires nothing more than a pretty, silent broodmare to control. I’d rather have a kind man who knows where my clitoris is and can fuck for hours, than any damned title.”

  Beatrice giggled. “A kind, skilled, and steadfast lover? More likely to find a purple lion dancing at Almack’s.”

  “Excuse me!” said Clay, with an injured sniff, his emerald eyes gleaming with laughter. “We paragons do exist. And can even provide detailed written references.”

  “I know,” said Madeline with a fond smile. “If only the thought of bedding each other didn’t appall us both.”

  “Tis true. I mean no offense because you and Bea and Lady Portia are all fine fillies…but ugh. Not sisters by blood, but definitely of my heart.”

  Lady Portia’s lips twitched. “And that silver tongue is how our Mr. Irving lures all and sundry to his bed. How goes Cambridge?”

  Clay scowled. “They are running a very profitable operation of suspending and readmitting me. M’father’s a bloody fool. I will never be a vicar. I don’t want to be a vicar. Or a soldier for that matter, with all due respect to Denham. I want to paint. I know I could make a living from it.”

  “Yes, you could,” said Beatrice, patting his arm. “You’re ever so talented with your nude portraits. A lady’s inner beauty and raw sensuality for all to see.”

  “Talented indeed,” said Lady Portia. “I will do better in finding possible commissions, I promise. Actually, a new couple I’ve just met might be interested, frightfully wealthy from trade and investments and gifted a barony for their troubles. But spea
king of ladies…Beatrice?”

  Pain gathered from every nerve in her body and arrowed straight into her heart. Perhaps out of the whole group, hers was the most hopeless case. The most forbidden. She had been lady’s maid-companion to Amelia, Countess of Garrick for two years and four months. She had been in love with Amelia, Countess of Garrick for two years, three months, twenty-nine days, and a handful of hours. Completely, ridiculously, head over heels in unrequited love with a married lady who had it all—a handsome and attentive husband, wealth, title, and grand social position. Every day she spent with the exquisitely lovely blonde, talking to her, brushing her hair, bathing and dressing her mouthwateringly voluptuous curves, was equal joy and torture.

  “Alas,” she said, attempting a brave smile, knowing she failed utterly when every single person in the parlor gazed at her with such pity and compassion. “I have nothing to report. I daresay I never will.”

  Tears of relief streaming down her face, Amelia Garrick watched her husband’s carriage race away from their country estate. He permitted her to accompany him to London less and less nowadays, even during the Season, saying the fresh air was far better for her delicate constitution. In reality, he wanted her far away so he could enjoy his actresses, courtesans and maids without a hint of guilt, well, any woman who spread her legs for him really. Garrick was neither choosy nor careful, as his growing brood of illegitimate children demonstrated.

  His countless affairs had long ago lost the power to hurt, but the children did. It seemed every other woman in England could get pregnant by Garrick—knowing the failure to do her duty and conceive was entirely her fault clawed at her soul. And he always threw the knowledge in her face. How many times had he hissed in her ear what an ugly, worthless, frigid bitch she was as he forced himself on her in a desperate attempt for an heir?

  And yet she couldn’t relax as his hands bruised, his bulk crushed, and his manhood hurt her unwilling body. There was clearly something wrong with her because the other ladies she knew who were married, or widowed and enjoying a liaison, all spoke of bedsport as if it were a welcome and pleasurable thing. And yet when she looked at her handsome husband, when he came to her chamber, she felt not even a spark of desire.

  This visit had been the worst. He’d been furious, hitting her repeatedly and hurling her onto the floor when he learned his most recent efforts to get her with child had been unsuccessful. At least now the cooler weather provided a welcome respite. Garrick tolerated Surrey in high summer but preferred London and its entertainments the rest of the time. It would just be her, Beatrice her lady’s maid-companion, and the servants.

  “Good evening, Amelia.”

  She spun around from the window to see Beatrice standing behind her, smiling and holding several packages, and immediately her raw nerves calmed. Beatrice always had that effect, like a cool drink for a parched throat. Even though she didn’t speak much about her life before commencing employment here, they had become very close. So close that even though it wasn’t really the done thing, Amelia had asked to be called by her first name in private. “Good evening. How was your visit to Guildford?”

  “Excellent. I picked up the gloves and bonnet you ordered. No need to wait for delivery.”

  “This is supposed to be your day off,” Amelia scolded. “Not running around after me.”

  Beatrice shrugged and tucked an errant strand of dark hair behind her ear. “I had time after Lady Portia.”

  Amelia bit her lip. The friendship between the two women would forever be perplexing. Beatrice was kind and soothing. Lady Portia Butler was a firestorm and a runaway cart all at once. “Well, I do appreciate it.”

  “Are you well? You look as though you’ve been crying.”

  Blast it. Her companion saw far too much. “I, ah…quite well, thank you. I opened one of my winter trunks and the camphor layer was a trifle strong.”

  “Indeed,” said Beatrice, her lips tightening. “May I ask where his lordship is?”

  “He’s gone,” she whispered. “Back to London…thank heavens.”

  Beatrice’s eyes widened at the blunt pronouncement. “I…er…did he say something dreadful?”

  Years of lectures on a wife’s responsibility to smile and assure all was well brought yet another lie to the tip of her tongue. But she couldn’t bear the burden of daily pretense anymore. Especially not in front of Beatrice. “Nothing I haven’t heard a hundred times before. I am the worst wife. A barren failure. C-cold and frigid.”

  “No!” said Beatrice fiercely. “No, you are not. Any…anyone would be proud to have such a sensual beauty on their arm.”

  Amelia blinked at the vehemence. Then laughed weakly. “Sensual? Hardly. Garrick’s physician gives me foul-tasting tonics, and yet still I do not warm up. Because there is something wrong with me I…I do not crave or enjoy my husband’s touch.”

  “Oh. I…oh,” stuttered Beatrice.

  Lord above. She’d shocked her companion with such frank, unladylike talk. Another failure. “Never mind…” she said, turning away as tears blurred her eyes. “It will be fine.”

  Seconds later a soft hand rested on her shoulder and gently nudged, coaxing her to turn back. Blindly, she did, entirely misjudging the distance and finding herself face-first in Beatrice’s bodice. Humiliatingly, she didn’t pull away, and when slender arms clasped loosely about her and began to stroke her hair…

  It felt good. Too good. Warm and safe and floral scented. Almost loving. And she wanted more. To be held tighter and caressed until the empty ache subsided.

  Until Beatrice pulled back. “I should, ah, put away your purchases in the armoire.”

  For the first time in two years, a frisson of fear shot down Amelia’s spine. Oh no. Had she become the problem countess? A pathetic, needy lady who demanded far too much? Would Beatrice leave and return to London for another post, or a gentleman to court her? That was perfectly reasonable. Love was perfectly reasonable. Just because she had none in her life didn’t mean Beatrice had to go without. And her companion was connected to a viscount, and only twenty-three. Not on the shelf by any means.

  “I’m sorry,” Amelia blurted out. “How selfish of me. Perhaps like Garrick, you would also prefer to be in London. Stepping out with a nice gentleman.”

  Unaccountably, Beatrice’s shoulders stiffened, and the frisson of fear became a pounding heart of panic. Without her, Amelia would have no light in her life.

  “No,” said her companion eventually, and at last, she turned her head and smiled. “I prefer country living, and it is easier to visit my friends in Guildford.”

  Amelia nearly swooned in relief. “It is lovely here.”

  “Perhaps a bath might make you feel better? I can have the copper tub sent up.”

  “Actually, I had a sponge bath this morning, but if I could trouble you for one of your splendid massages…my back is aching right now, I clearly spent far too long out riding.”

  Beatrice nodded. “I’ll fetch the oil. Your back will loosen far better if it is applied directly to your skin, rather than a massage through your clothing.”

  Lord above. Beatrice Irving was an angel, and Amelia Garrick a wicked sinner. How else to describe a woman whose back was perfectly fine but who desperately wanted to be touched some more? And the massages were always wonderful, making her feel warm and tingly inside. Like she mattered. Like there was still hope. “Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  Oh, but she had a thirst for inflicting suffering upon herself. And was a liar.

  Beatrice walked over to Amelia’s carved mahogany writing desk that contained the small glass bottle of citrus-scented oil. The oil, sourced from Lady Portia, was far more commonly used to lubricate the backside before the introduction of jade or leather dildos or a man’s cock, but Amelia didn’t need to know that. Nor did she need to know that insisting oil massages were better than those done through clothing was quite possibly untrue. The only thing that mattered was that very shortly she woul
d be undertaking the most joyous torture of all: stroking Amelia’s naked flesh.

  “What is easier?” said Amelia. “I always forget. Should I lie down or sit?”

  “Sitting at your dressing table, leaning slightly forward and resting on your elbows. Then I can attend to your shoulders at the same time.”

  “Very well.”

  In short time Beatrice had assisted in removing her mistress’s gown, petticoat, stays, and chemise. Hell and damnation, but Amelia was beautiful. Honey and sunshine hair, doe-brown eyes, and pouting pink lips just begging to be kissed. She was petite, probably not even five and a half feet tall, so her lush curves were richly pronounced. Full breasts tipped with large dusky nipples. Wide hips and rounded backside. And most beautiful of all, her pussy. The sweet nub of her clitoris and darker pink folds of her labia guarded by crisp curls a few shades darker than her hair.

  Imagine being able to suck those tender nipples until they jutted out, proud and hard. To bury her face between Amelia’s thighs and tease her clitoris, lap all the spicy juices from her core until her mistress writhed and screamed with pleasure.

  It took every bit of her willpower, but she carefully arranged Amelia’s dressing gown so it draped around her backside and covered her pussy from view. Then she trickled the oil onto Amelia’s back, her nose twitching in pleasure at the light, fruity scent.

  “Are you ready?” asked Beatrice, about ready to plead. It was always the same. Even though bathing or massaging her mistress cruelly reminded her what she would never have, she never surrendered the chance. Taboos be damned. And today, with Amelia clearly upset, the need to touch, to bring comfort, was stronger than ever.