Lords, Ladies, Butlers and Maids Page 5

  Despite her shock, Anne kept her face perfectly placid, but John grinned nonetheless. ‘I’d even go so far as to say that you didn’t have a good man between your legs when you were married. My recollection of Mr Pearson was an affable, elderly gentleman, fonder of port and cigars after dinner than the company of a nubile young wife. Am I correct?’

  Anne couldn’t tell if it was the twitch of her mouth or something else that gave away the truth, because his grin turned to a triumphant smile.

  ‘That sounds like slander rather than a wager, Mr Stanley,’ she said coldly.

  ‘Then let me speak plainly. I bet even when you did indulge you rarely reached your own satisfaction. I bet you yearn to feel the heat of a man between your legs just once more before you are relegated to the schoolroom. And I bet I could satisfy that urge, if you would allow it, Mrs Pearson.’

  Anne stood motionless. His comments cut too close to home. Stiffly she replied, ‘You have been most diverting, Mr Stanley, thank you. But now I feel the need to seek less … provocative company.’ She left with a small curtsey, hoping that her fluttering heart did not show in her gait. His words were shocking and accurate, and his offer unbelievably enticing. It was true that many nights she had lain cold and frustrated after her husband’s visit, and that the thought of what she might be free to indulge in now her mourning was passed had not eluded her. And John Stanley, with his broad shoulders, slim waist and painter’s fingers, was as intriguing a prospect now as he had been all those years ago.

  Yet even the taint of scandal that soured such thoughts could not prevent her heart from leaping with excitement when a knock sounded on her bedroom door that night.

  ‘Mr Stanley, this is most improper,’ she hissed as he strode past her. She closed the door quickly, hoping no one had seen.

  ‘I know.’ He grinned wickedly. ‘My valet has taken a fancy to your maid and it suited both our purposes to find out when she finished her duties tonight.’

  ‘What is it that you want?’ she asked in exasperation, although she could guess.

  ‘I have come about the bet we discussed earlier.’

  ‘I see. And if I did have such carnal desires, what makes you think I would indulge them with you?’ she asked haughtily.

  ‘Because I bet I can make you orgasm while I remain fully clothed and without removing a single item of your own clothing.’ She was intrigued. He stepped closer and against her better judgement Anne did not step away. ‘And I bet I can stretch out your pleasure for an entire recitation of The Twelve Days of Christmas.’

  Anne couldn’t stop herself laughing, half amused, half shocked, thoroughly tempted. She glanced at his hands, imagining the feel of them running over her bare skin, and she had to hold back a shiver.

  ‘My husband was adept with his fingers too, Mr Stanley,’ she replied, one eyebrow cocked.

  ‘I promise to keep my hands flat on the bed at all times. Interested?’

  She was. With him standing before her in her own room, the threat of scandal seemed distant, merely a delightful frisson.

  She smiled enticingly. ‘We have a bet, sir, since I am guaranteed satisfaction either way.’

  Her heart pounded as she allowed John to help her onto the bed. She expected him to lay her down but instead he made her kneel, facing the headboard, with her hands resting on it. She was shocked to see him lie down behind her and slide his head between her thighs, still fully clothed as promised.

  ‘Are you ready Anne?’ he asked from beneath her skirts. A conflicted, breathless laugh left her. The situation seemed ridiculous, yet every inch of her skin tingled with excitement.

  ‘Ready and intrigued, John.’

  ‘Then please begin your recitation.’

  ‘On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me a partridge in a pear tree …’ Anne intoned and felt John’s lips against her inner thigh; they warmed her flesh, moving upwards with purpose. By the third day of Christmas, he had reached the crease between her legs. She faltered at three French hens and John’s voice came from below, his breath tickling her sex.

  ‘Keep going, Anne. You’ve still nine days of pleasure to go.’ He chuckled as his lips moved to her other leg, beginning down by her knee and working up again. Anne’s legs quivered.

  His lips moved much quicker on this side and she had reached the fifth day when his lips touched her own. Anne gasped as the warmth of his kiss spread upwards to form a tight knot in her belly.

  ‘Five … gold … rings,’ he prompted, each word punctuated by a kiss on her most intimate area. She shivered, arousal shooting through every limb.

  ‘Five gold rings,’ she repeated dutifully but breathlessly, ‘four calling … birds, three French hens … two …’ She continued distractedly. John’s kisses, so light against her legs, were now growing firmer. All her attention was between her thighs. As she spoke of seven swans a-swimming, his tongue speared down to her bud and her whole world contracted. Anne tried to concentrate on words she had recited dozens of times, but her mind kept slipping into a sea of pleasure where nothing existed but her own arousal.

  Halfway through the tenth day of Christmas, John’s lips fastened firmly onto her clitoris. Her husband had often done the same to her nipples but never with such effect. Anne squeezed her eyes shut, certain her legs would give way at any moment and she would tumble down onto his face. Her limbs were shaking and she could feel her climax drawing near.

  As John’s tongue lapped faster and harder against her, all recitation ceased and her breath came in ragged gasps. When orgasm bloomed within her, shaking her whole body with its force, a cry escaped her lips. She had never before given voice to such ecstasy and she collapsed, quivering, onto the bed.

  As she lay gently panting, she was dimly aware that John had moved to stand beside the bed. He leaned down and murmured in her ear, ‘What a shame we only got to the tenth day. Perhaps I will have better luck with my bet tomorrow night.’ He planted a gentle kiss on her temple. Sated for the first time in many years, Anne was already drifting into sleep as he left her room.

  *

  When Christmas Eve dawned, the sun crept over a crisp, frosty landscape. The horses in the stables flicked their tails. Servants scurried silently about their tasks.

  Alone in her room, Anne turned away from a shaft of sunlight and buried her head, groggily wondering why she was so tired. Then, like a shock of cold water, memories of the night before returned.

  She threw off the bedclothes, their weight suddenly suffocating. She hurried to the basin and pitcher that her maid had left but she stopped, her hands hovering over the water. She had expected to feel dirty, to feel the urgent need to wash away all traces of her shame. Yet she felt none of these things. Instead, she felt a tingling excitement and an unexpected smugness. She had certainly never experienced any such satisfaction with her late husband. John had introduced her to new possibilities and, rather than being horrified, she felt a craving to experience them again.

  However the threat of scandal still soured her excitement and she did not seek out John’s company that day. Yet in quiet moments she couldn’t stop herself recalling the feel of his lips against her thighs, the warmth of his breath on her most intimate parts. She had to snap herself out of such reveries abruptly, fearing someone might read her sinful thoughts in her eyes.

  As was customary, the whole household stayed up until midnight on Christmas Eve to welcome in Christmas Day, which would see the true start of the festivities. The adults drank wine and played cards, while the children sneaked back down in their nightclothes and were allowed to curl up by the fire to await the stroke of midnight.

  At the appointed hour, a cheer was raised and the Yule log hauled onto the fire. Some of the more elderly guests retired but Anne was among those who stayed up to decorate the house with paper streamers, garlands of ivy and bunches of holly. She was tired but exhilarated and chatted enthusiastically to those around her. On the rare occasions when she permitted herself a glance at
John, it was to find his eyes already on her. She was grateful for the weak candlelight so that no one could see the blush that coloured her face.

  It was as she was indulging in such a glance that she felt a presence at her shoulder and was horrified to hear Mary Maitland’s voice by her ear. ‘He cuts quite a dashing figure, does he not?’

  Anne concentrated hard on the garland of ivy she was hanging up. ‘To whom do you refer?’ she asked, trying to keep her voice light.

  ‘Why, John Stanley, of course! You’ve been staring at him like a rabbit stares at a fox.’

  The prospect of scandal drenched Mary’s words. Anne glanced back again and her quick mind saw her salvation standing next to John. She stood straight, pulled her shoulders back and turned to face Mary with a cold, imperial look.

  ‘I believe if you cast your eyes to the left of Mr Stanley you will see my uncle. If your eyes are keen, you will see the large glass of port in his hand. If your mind is sharp you will wonder, as I do, whether that is his fifth or sixth glass of the evening. And if you have any concern for your hostess, you will hope that he will not do anything to embarrass my aunt, as he did last Christmastide.’ Mary’s mouth opened and closed, working for words that would not come. In a cold voice Anne concluded, ‘If you have been making eyes at another man over your husband’s shoulder this evening, Mary, then that is your business. Please do not make it mine.’ Anne walked sedately away from a stricken Mary. She felt so elated that, when she caught John’s eye later that evening, she bestowed on him a saucy wink that he received with surprised pleasure.

  Christmas Day itself was dark and drizzly, but nothing could affect the cheer within Murton Hall. Presents were exchanged, carols sung and games played. By mid-morning, Anne felt as if she’d expended a whole day’s worth of energy. She joined her aunt and her aunt’s friends as they sat on the sidelines, watching the others dance or play cards. Even though she was hidden among the old spinsters and married women, her hand was solicited for several dances by different gentlemen, although not John. While she was grateful for this, since Mary Maitland watched her like a hawk, she nevertheless felt a twinge of disappointment. It wasn’t until Boxing Day, his last day with them, when she saw him again.

  It was late afternoon and the house was mostly empty. The ladies were resting in their rooms, the men were out at the Boxing Day hunt and the servants were snatching a moment’s peace. Anne was lounging in an armchair in the library with her aunt, who was embroidering and passing on all the gossip. Anne listened while idly stroking her aunt’s dog, a docile tan spaniel named Harry.

  Sylvia was in full flow when the door opened and John walked in. Anne’s heart quickened as he sauntered to the fireplace and leaned nonchalantly against it; she couldn’t prevent her gaze travelling hungrily down his lithe form before she demurely turned her eyes away.

  ‘Good afternoon, John – are you not at the hunt?’ Sylvia enquired.

  John smiled cheerily as he lit a cigar with a taper from the fire. ‘No, I leave tomorrow and I wanted to spend some time seeing to a few last matters.’

  ‘Our best wishes go with you, my boy,’ Sylvia said with fondness. ‘You will be welcome here when you return from Italy – whether a year or ten years from now.’

  ‘You are most gracious, madam,’ said John, inclining his head.

  During this exchange, Harry had abandoned Anne to sit at Sylvia’s feet and look imploringly up at her. Sylvia patted him on the head.

  ‘Yes, yes, Harry. It is well past time for our sojourn.’ Sylvia got up then hesitated, glancing uncertainly between Anne and John.

  ‘Do not worry about the lack of chaperone,’ John said quickly. ‘I came only seeking a light. I shall be returning to my room imminently to attend to some correspondence.’

  Sylvia smiled and patted his arm on the way past. ‘Such a good boy,’ she said warmly. John hastened ahead and held the door open. Sylvia walked out, an excited spaniel bouncing around her feet, leaving Anne and John alone. John closed the door and quietly turned the key in the lock. The click of the mechanism set Anne’s pulse jumping.

  ‘What about your correspondence?’ she asked as he sauntered over to the window.

  ‘It can wait. Join me.’ He held out a hand. Anne hesitated. Reason instructed her to unlock the door and walk away. A locked door itself would arouse suspicions, not to mention all the servants’ secret passages. It was too risky.

  Yet her heart was hammering with excitement, and reason was being silenced by a tingling anticipation. Her feet brought her to stand beside John. He had pulled the curtain almost shut so that, although Anne could view a small section of the garden, it was unlikely anyone could see in. As she peered through the gap, she felt John step up behind her. She straightened, pressing back against him, and a thrill of desire ran through her as his stiff manhood pressed against her buttocks.

  ‘Do you have another bet for me then?’ she asked, pleased that her voice sounded calm despite her inner turmoil.

  ‘Indeed I do.’ His breath warmed the back of her neck. Anne’s mouth suddenly felt dry; she licked her lips.

  ‘Do you see your aunt?’ he asked. Anne nodded. Sylvia was heading away from them towards the rose garden. ‘I bet I can make you come twice before she has finished her turn around the garden.’

  Anne laughed and was forced to control the quaver in her voice as she said, ‘You risk scandal, John. Can you not wait until –?’

  ‘No, I cannot,’ he said, urgency lending heat to his words. He reached down and tugged her skirt up to her hips before sliding his hand underneath. She gasped at his boldness even as she shuddered with pleasure. His fingers went straight for her sex, delving between the soft lips to find her bud. He chuckled at what he discovered, and the vibrations of his mirth rippled through Anne. ‘And judging by how wet you are, Anne, I guess you cannot wait either.’

  ‘John …’ Her words faltered as he began to rub her clitoris, spreading pleasure through her. Her hand reached for the wall as her knees weakened.

  His other hand embraced her and plunged down her bodice so his fingers could tweak and tease her nipple. Anne closed her eyes and gave in to the sensations. Nothing existed beyond his finger slipping between her legs, his hand fondling her breast and his warm lips against her neck. Her climax came fast and unexpected, a torrent of sudden pleasure that left her panting.

  John turned her slowly round to face him. ‘That was once,’ he observed with a wicked smile. She smiled, breathless and lost for words.

  Gently pressing her against the wall, he began to plant feather-light kisses on the tops of her globes. Even as satisfaction cooled her blood, Anne felt lightheaded with rising desire again. John began to free her breasts but she stilled his hand.

  ‘You must give a lady time to recover from your … ministrations, John.’ She gave him a wicked smile. ‘And while I recover my breath, it would only be polite to allow me to explore you as you have explored me.’

  As she spoke, her hands started to stroke down his chest, her fingertips tracing the contours of his muscles beneath his shirt. She wondered what it would be like to have his naked weight pressing down on her, their hot and eager flesh writhing as one, but knew it was not something she had leisure to discover today.

  Her fingers deftly undid the buttons on his breeches as he bent his head to kiss her shoulder, his lips now as familiar on her skin as if they had been lovers for a lifetime. Anne wriggled her hand through the gap in his breeches until she found his manhood. It was thick and warm, twitching as her fingers brushed against it. She touched it gingerly, suddenly uncertain about such forwardness, but John’s deep, lusty groan gave her heart, and she wrapped her hand around it. The heat of it stirred an answering glow within her and her sex tingled with anticipation.

  A quick glance through the curtains revealed that her aunt was halfway through her turn about the garden; in the heat of the moment, the prospect of scandal only stoked her desire further. John’s hands were beneath her skirt agai
n and she parted her legs eagerly. He was pressed against her, his fingers slick upon her while her hand worked on his shaft, imagining it buried deep inside her. As if reading her thoughts, John removed his hand, freed himself and then, gripping her hips, guided himself inside her. He filled her in a way her husband never had and, for one delicious minute, they paused to stare into each other’s eyes. Anne could feel every inch of him inside her and she could not resist the urge to wriggle against him, to feel herself stretch around his magnificent length.

  He began to move his hips, sliding in and out of her with little grunts of effort as he supported her weight. She breathed his name against his cheek. ‘It’s never been like this. I never thought it could be.’ She wrapped her legs around him, opening herself up to him body and soul.

  John twisted his head to glance out of the window. ‘I cannot see Lady Ellis. I fear we must bring this to a swift conclusion, my love.’

  ‘By all means,’ replied Anne breathlessly, uncertain whether she could have held off the orgasm that was rising within her even if Lady Sylvia Ellis herself had walked in on them. Her fingers grasped his coat, drawing them as close together as possible. John’s thrusts became faster, more urgent, and Anne lost all sense of the world around her.

  She urged him on with what little breath she had spare and her second climax flooded through her only a moment before his own. They cried out together as Anne rocked her hips against him, greedy for every last ounce of pleasure she could glean, until she thought she might faint from exhaustion and satisfaction.

  In the wake of their pleasure, her legs still wrapped around him, she planted a tender kiss on his neck. He returned it lovingly as he lowered her gently to the floor. Anne gritted her teeth against the shooting pins and needles in her feet but even that could not dislodge the smile from her face.

  As they rearranged their clothes, silence stretched between them. Anne could think of no words that could do justice to her feelings but felt that something should be said before the silence turned sour. She commented, ‘You won your bet, sir.’