Memoirs of Lady Montrose (7 page)

“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.”

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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.

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.

“Spread wider.” Now, right now, he was the master. She moved her legs wide apart, and with a grunt and grimace of concentration, he inched another finger into her. “Fuck, you’re ready. Always wanting more, aren’t you, you greedy little vixen?”

“God, Edward, please come into me. It’s been too long.”

“Shut it, my lady. You know better than to dictate things now. Dear, oh dear. Can’t let that go unpunished, can I?”

Her eyes widened and she threw her head back and wailed, half in despair, half in rapturous delight.

“Get up,” he demanded, pulling his fingers out suddenly and tugging her off the table before spinning her around and pushing her roughly down onto it. He pressed down on the small of her back, holding her in place, while throwing her skirts up with his other hand, exposing her smooth rounded arse.

“No drawers, just like I asked. Perhaps you are listening to me after all. Still, now that you’re like this, there’s only one thing to do.”

She shuddered in a breath and waited, gripping the far edge of the table so hard her knuckles blanched.

Edward brought his right hand up high, his face contorted with determination, and he hurled his palm down onto her with brutal force. The countess released a sharp cry as the sting tore into her. But her servant didn’t give her a chance to recover. Drawing his hand up quickly again, he then brought it down on the other cheek so that a pink glow of four fingers and thumb bloomed on the pale skin. He chuckled. She moaned.

Isabella lay bent over before him as Edward set about a regular spanking, varying his strokes, some a mere tickle, some a ferocious pelt. She took each one—she sought each one, her body craving every sensation he deigned to give her. By now the pain had dulled into blissful floating heat and she stared blearily ahead, the copper pots on the opposite wall dancing before her lust-ravaged eyes.

Edward delivered two more searing final blows, his breathing heavy. Isabella gripped the table for dear life. She would slump to the ground if she didn’t.

“There. You’re as red as one of Cook’s strawberry tarts. Come to think of it, I’m just goin’ t’ have t’ eat you.”

With that, he knelt swiftly and took her burning cheeks in both hands, spreading them apart and making her groan with ripe agony. And before the burn had time to fade, he plunged his tongue into her dripping quim. Her right leg gave an involuntary twitch as pleasure hurtled her closer to the precipice. She sobbed, incapable of words.

Edward’s tongue had a knack of exciting places other tongues couldn’t reach, and even in this position he was able to swirl and suck and drag on her swollen clit with perfect accuracy. It didn’t take long. Isabella came so hard he had to grip her arse brutally yet again to steady her. She juddered uncontrollably as wave upon wave of melting pleasure ravaged her abused body, drawing the most profound groan of fulfilment from her.

As soon as she had settled he was on his feet, releasing his heaving erection. Placing his ample girth at her opening, without warning he thrust in to the hilt in one go, jolting her against the table so that her thighs were rammed against the hard edge. Another cry.

Edward leaned over, clasping her wrists and pulling her arms back. Crossing them behind her, he held them in one large firm hand and started to move. Fast and brutal, working-class cock ploughed relentlessly into upper-class cunt. She was sobbing with each plunge, loving it, taking it, wanting more and more.

Her cunt gripped him, tightening upon him, preparing. But he held back, slowing his strokes.

“Ask me. Ask for it this time.”

She could only moan—her orgasm was poised to rob her of thought.

“Fucking ask for it!” he demanded, gripping her wrists and ploughing ever more powerfully into her, hitting her sweet spot each time, making her task increasingly improbable.

“Please…please…” she mumbled.

“Please what…
my…La…dy?
” Each syllable was punctuated by another driving thrust of hard, thick cock.

“Please, please let me come, Edward!” She screamed it out, desperate, helpless, her body so alive, so hot and tight and ready.

At first he didn’t answer. She wept for release, wept for pleasure, wept for him inside her.

“All right then. Come for me, Isabella.”

And she did. With a rising wail, Isabella shattered, her face pressed hard into the wood of the kitchen table. She let the sound rise from her in tune with the shaking of her body. On it went, on as his cock didn’t slow, until she knew she could take no more.

He withdrew suddenly, and with smooth but certain strength, spun her over so that she was lying back, facing him. Edward dug his hands into her hips, pushed again into her, then, his eyes intent on his cock as it plunged in and out, he released in long bursts, cum spilling hot and plentiful into her depths.

They didn’t speak for a time. At length he pulled out, observing his seed leaking from her, dragged out with his still-firm cock. His hair was dark and damp and he ran a hand through it in an attempt to tame it.

The countess took some time to even attempt to stand. She wasn’t sure her legs would function. Her backside throbbed agonisingly. She wanted it no other way.

After a while, she dared push herself up and found—luckily—that she did in fact remain upright. Her skirts fell around her and she glanced down to adjust her bodice.

Then, raising herself tall, she cast a dismissive eye over the valet. “The others are returning soon. You had better tidy yourself up and clean the table, Marham.”

Edward averted his eyes, placed his hands by his side and held his chin up, returning immediately to deferential servant. “Yes, my lady.”

“I understand we’re down a footman and that you are waiting at table, tonight?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“We have important guests, Marham. Make sure all is in order.”

“Very well, my lady.”

And she turned and walked out. Not in a straight line, admittedly, but she did walk.

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About the Author

I have played with words most of my life and now have the time to put my dreams and fantasies on to paper. I’m a published poet and I try to put poetic images into my prose. I endeavour to express my ideas in a manner that will entertain and amuse.