by Sahara Kelly
James licked his own lips, bypassed the description of Lord Strongstaff’s…er…staff, and finished his brandy in one swallow.
It wasn’t so much the lascivious nature of these tales, or even the excellent writing of such scenes that was affecting him so forcefully. It was the thought of Letitia writing them that aroused his own staff to the point of pain.
Did she write at night? By candlelight in her room, much as he was reading her words right now? In her night robe, perhaps, or over those warm summer nights, just a loose chemise?
Did she let that soft hair down to tumble over her shoulders and caress her naked arm as she penned the vision of Mistress Dove arranging Sir Woodward Peregrine’s cock within her bosom, the easier to bring him to his completion?
God Almighty, he was hard as iron.
Finishing the final chapter, he closed the book and stood, tearing his clothes away from his body. They itched, irritated skin that seemed to burn with an inner fire.
He wanted. He needed. He desired that damn woman more than he’d ever realized. This book, this revelation of what she held inside, had shown him that his affections were more than a polite wish for her as his wife.
He lusted. Paul was right. He wanted her in his bed, underneath him, screaming out his name as he fucked her every which way he could think of. Then they’d rest, read a couple of chapters of her book, and do it all over again.
His cock throbbed, his spine tingled and he took himself in hand. It had been quite some time since he’d lost control of himself this way, but tonight…the book…thoughts of Letitia mingling with the visions she’d created—it was all too much.
He surrendered, and with a few firm strokes found his release. It brought him a measure of physical relief along with a slightly embarrassed sensation.
But one thought remained uppermost in his mind.
He was going to have Letitia, and it had to be sooner rather than later. Faint heart and all that.
Paul had been absolutely right.
Chapter Ten
Earlier in the evening, the inn and tap room down in Ridlington Vale, had seen a brisk few hours as the Saucy Sows engaged the Cagey Cows in a do-or-die darts competition. It was a mostly friendly affair, and everyone managed to ignore the fragrance of the farmyard that lingered around the competitors.
There were cheers, rude comments, much laughter and the occasional groan as one or other dart went wildly astray. Several of the local champions were competing, and strangers had been welcomed to take a turn between the formal contests. Sam Pewsey had decided to linger in Ridlington, apparently, and was a very popular contestant, especially with the few women who happened to be there. He was also an excellent player, consistently scoring bullseyes. His accuracy had been noted, and if his eye held—several of the farmers were discussing the prospects of offering the lad a job, just to get him on their team.
The fire roared merrily, and Mr. Fisher, busy behind the bar, radiated good humour. As would any publican who sees a night where profits will most definitely enhance his financial situation.
Tucked away in the corner of one bench, a man sat with a tankard of Mr. Fisher’s best in front of him. Unobtrusively clad in dark brown jacket and breeches, he let his hat fill a little space beside him, perhaps discouraging those who might wish to converse.
His eyes roamed the room, observing, noting, cataloguing the crowd. Every now and again, he would remove a small notebook from his pocket along with a short stub of a pencil.
He would make a note or two, then replace the items, returning to his ale.
Finally, at the height of the contest, another man looked around for a seat and came to the bench. “Will ye share the space, lad? Ma feet are that weary…”
“Of course,” said the first man, moving his hat. “Sit and rest.”
“Ye’ve a kind ‘eart, and I thank ye.” He sat. “I’m Watson. Herbert Watson.” He held out a hand.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Watson. My name’s Hodgkins.”
The men shook, then refreshed themselves with their drinks, since shaking hands and making friends was thirsty business.
“So what’s yer line o’ work, then, Hodgkins?” asked Watson.
“Oh bit o’ this, bit o’ that. You know how it is these days.”
“I does indeed.” Watson nodded sagely.
“How about yourself?
“I’m lucky. Got meself a good job ‘ere, like. I’m the ‘ead ostler for the inn.”
Hodgkins’ eyes widened. “A good job indeed. Must be exciting…all the comings and goings…”
“’Tis that.” Watson nodded.
“So,” Hodgkins continued, “you’d know about them Ridlingtons, then, wouldn’t you now?”
“You mean the Baron an’ ‘is kin?”
“I do.”
“Aye, then I know ‘em. The old man—well now, ‘e was a one.” Watson sucked air through his teeth. “Right ol’ bastard, ‘e was. Never a nice word or a penny fer anyone. Strutted ‘round like the rest of the world smelled like cow shit, he did.”
“Ugh.” Hodgkins’ response was encouraging.
“Nobody round ‘ere shed much of a tear when ‘e passed. But the new one, Baron Edmund ’tis, now ‘e’s another kettle o’ fish. Nice as the day is long. Always got a nod fer us, remembers our names, doin’ ‘is best to get us back on our feet. M’brother’s farm were on its last legs but the new Baron, ‘e come by and gave ‘im some chickens an’ a cow. Said he ain’t got no pounds to give ‘im, but it saved the farm an’ now they’re growin’ fast.” He nodded and raised his tankard. “‘Ere’s to Baron Edmund, I say.”
Hodgkins joined the toast, and generously offered another round.
“Most kind o’ ye, sir. Most kind,” accepted Watson with a happy grin.
A few waves of the hand and a serving girl appeared with two full tankards, efficiently removing the empties before she left.
Thus refreshed, the two men continued their conversation.
“So this Baron’s a good man. Wonder if he’s hiring? I could use a job for a bit…” Hodgkins sipped the ale.
“Dunno,” answered Watson. “I ‘ears that they’re still tryin’ to get their money troubles t’ go away. Old man ran ‘em into the ground, like.”
Hodgkins shook his head. “How many Ridlingtons are there? I think I saw a woman recently with that name…”
“Oh aye. There’s a bunch of ‘em.” Watson grinned. “Bastard ‘e was, but old Jack managed to sire ‘imself a brood. Three sons an’ three daughters. Six of ‘em.”
“Good God.” Hodgkins blinked. “So I may have seen a daughter then?”
“Most likely, aye. Miss Letitia, I’ll bet. Miss Kitty an’ Miss Hecate is up in town. I pick ‘em up now an’ again and drive ‘em back to the Chase.”
“Miss Letitia had a maid with her, so she’s the oldest?”
“Dunno nothin’ about no maid. But Miss Letitia is the oldest girl, aye.”
“Nice to have such a good family at the head of the village,” Hodgkins observed, leaning back in his seat.
“Aye.” Watson finished his tankard. “Ye know about ‘orses, do ye?”
“I do, a bit, yes.”
“Ever drive four-in-hand?”
“Yes.”
“Well then, seein’ as yer kind enough t’ buy a round, I might ‘ave a job fer ye. Just a few days, like, but if yer interested…”
“I am indeed, sir.” Hodgkins nodded.
“Right, then. Come by the stables tomorrer around six in the mornin’. Sharp now, ye hear?”
“I hear, Mr. Watson.”
“One ‘o the lads is down wi’ a busted leg. ‘Is cousin’s comin’ to ‘elp out, but ‘e ain’t goin’ t’ be ‘ere ’til next week.”
“I’ll be there. Thank you. Very kind.” Hodgkins held out his hand and Watson shook it, sealing the arrangement.
Shortly after, Watson took his leave, further reminding the other man of their morning appointment.
Hodgkins wasn’t likely to forget it. He might have to do some odd jobs, but it would put him in a place where the Ridlington family were obviously well liked and openly discussed.
He needed to keep track of one of them, Letitia Ridlington, and by default her maid.
This job allowed him to do just that. And a few days of hard work was a small price to pay for the handsome reward waiting at the end of it.
*~~*~~*
Letitia emerged from the nursery the following morning filled with good humour.
Rosaline and Hugh the Tadpole, as the future Baron was currently named, were enjoying each other’s company and Letitia had loved being part of it. Although not particularly eager for offspring of her own—she considered herself too old at this point—she did delight in holding the gurgling bundle and watching the smiles chase themselves across his chubby cheeks.
“He has his father’s eyebrows, doesn’t he?” commented Rosaline proudly as she watched Letitia tickle the baby’s toes.
“Poor lamb, don’t listen to your Mama.” Letitia grinned and dropped a kiss on the downy head. “We’ll shave them when you get older.”
Rosaline’s maid tapped on the door to let her mistress know that breakfast was being served.
“I’ll go down then,” said Letitia, handing over the precious bundle. “I know you like to share this time with Hugh, here.”
“I’ll see you later, I’m sure,” smiled Rosaline, arms ready to accept her son.
Edmund was reading his letters and finishing his tea as she walked in to the small parlor. There was no one else there, but their footman keeping the breakfast dishes in order.
“Oh dear. So quiet sometimes, isn’t it?” She took a plate and allowed the lad to serve her with eggs and toast. “Tea would be lovely,” she added, smiling at the servant.
“Of course, Miss,” he bowed. “Comin’ right up.”
Edmund folded a note and returned it to the envelope. “So what are your plans for the day, Letitia?”
She buttered the toast. “I’m not quite sure, actually.” Glancing out the window, she observed a heavy grey sky and what could be either wet air or the beginnings of drizzle. “Obviously not a walk.”
“Needlework?” One of Edmund’s famous eyebrows rose quizzically.
His sister was unimpressed. “I don’t think so.”
“Have you ever done needlework?”
“I’ve darned my clothes,” she said. “There were times I think I may have darned yours as well.”
He blinked. “But you would have been…a mere child.”
“Not for long,” she stared at the rain. “We weren’t really children at all, Edmund. Were we?” She sighed. “Hugh is going to have a wonderful childhood, full of love and warmth and toys and smiling faces.”
“All the things we never had,” agreed Edmund. “He’ll probably turn into a spoiled brat.”
Letitia chuckled. “Well, that can easily be dealt with.” She looked up at Edmund. “It’s harder for us, isn’t it?”
He nodded, understanding. “We can’t erase the past. Or repair it. We just have to go on.”
“It’s easier for you now, though?”
“Yes.” He stacked is letters into a pile. “Yes, it is. Thanks to Rosaline.”
“You’re lucky.”
He stood with his packet of mail and looked at his sister. “Don’t be afraid to find your own happiness, Letty. It doesn’t hurt, you know.”
She smiled at the childhood name. “It might, though. And I don’t think I could stand that.” She rose as well. “Besides, I have too many other things to think about at the moment. I must find Harry. Perhaps it’s a good day to go through another room we’ve not touched yet.”
He walked her to the door. “We will eventually run out of rooms to renovate, my dear.”
“Then it will be time to start over again.” She gazed around her at the newly polished and repaired hall. “There’s always work at the Chase, Edmund. I shan’t be bored.”
“It’s not your boredom that worries me, my dear.” He touched her shoulder affectionately. “It’s your happiness.”
“Oh pshaw.” She brushed the topic away. “Go and do Baron things, brother mine. I shall endeavour to pass the time fruitfully. There are still mice to be routed. Perhaps I shall find us a cat…”
“Oh good Lord.” His deep laugh echoed around the high ceiling as he strode away.
Leaving Letitia to wonder exactly what she was going to do today.
Lurking in the back of her mind was the obvious response to that question. She had to start editing her book…a task she wasn’t quite sure she was ready to begin.
She felt…nervous, of course. But in addition she sensed an impatience of sorts growing within her. A need for something, some activity perhaps. A ride? Not on a day like this. It would not be pleasant. Was she running from her duty as a writer? Probably.
Uncomfortable dithering about like a lost butterfly in the hall of Ridlington Chase, Letitia pulled herself together and strode upstairs to find Harry. There were indeed a few unexplored rooms left in the Chase, ones that they could enter without fear of dropping through for an impromptu visit to the room below.
Perhaps that was the best thing to do. Work off this strange energy, and then set to the business of reviewing her book. Oddly enough, the image of James popped into her mind as she pictured an afternoon spent re-reading her erotic work. A dart of fire shot through her, making her legs shiver and her belly tighten.
Now what on earth was that all about?
Chapter Eleven
“Are you quite sure this is proper, Letitia?” Harriet looked up at FitzArden Hall as they approached.
“Of course. Even more so, now that you’re with me.” Letitia shifted her bonnet to shelter herself as much as possible from the large drops of rain falling on them from the thinning canopy of trees. Autumn was setting in.
“But…”
“Harry, please stop worrying. If James isn’t there, I shall persuade one of his lovely footmen to give us a cup of tea, and then we shall return.”
“It’s one thing to encounter the gentleman on a walk, you know. Quite another to visit him at his home without a chaperone.”
Letitia sighed. “Harry. I am not a young debutante, and the Ridlington reputation is far more damaging than a brief visit to a neighbour in the country. “
“Hmph.” Harry strode onward, but made her feelings known quite accurately with her snort of derision.
Letitia walked up the new marble steps to the front door and rapped hard. “As soon as the door knockers are installed, this will be a lot easier.” She rubbed her knuckles.
James himself opened the door, then held up his hand. “I know. Door knockers are on the list for this week.” He grinned. “Do come in. Try not to drip near the wainscoting. It’s just been varnished.”
“Such a delightfully formal welcome, James,” laughed Letitia as she and Harry divested themselves of their damp outer garments. “You know how to make guests feel right at home.”
“Once it’s done I’ll be better at this sort of thing. Trust me.” He made sure that their cloaks and bonnets were handed to a maid, then ushered them into a comfortably sized parlour where a warm fire burned.
“How lovely.” Letitia approved. “The fireplace is perfect and the furnishings everything you could hope for.”
“I’m glad it meets with your approval. Since you suggested most of it, anyway.” He smiled as he seated the ladies. “How do you go on, Miss Harry? Is Letitia treating you well?”
“Indeed yes, sir. Thank you.” She looked around. “This is truly a lovely room, but I’m not sure if I…”
The door opened and Paul peered inside. “Can I join you or is this a private party?”
James beckoned him. “The more the merrier. Perhaps tea is in order?”
Paul looked unimpressed as he walked to the fire and held his hands to the flames. “I’m thinking that on a day like this, after the walk
these ladies must have endured just to visit you, James, you might offer something a little more—warming?” He strolled away to a side table where a decanter of deep gold liquid sparkled in the firelight next to an assortment of glasses. “May I interest you ladies in a drop of brandy? Just to chase away the chill, of course…”
Letitia laughed and clapped her hands together. “Yes. I am most interested. And we shall be quite unorthodox in our views; Harry will have a glass as well, and we shall discuss…oh, all manner of things without restraint.” She leaned back negligently in the couch and eyed the men with interest.
“An unorthodox afternoon it shall be then,” agreed James. “Um, should I have those kinds of views on anything? I’ve never really thought about it.”
Paul distributed snifters of brandy and took a seat. “I’m sure there are a dozen topics that might suit,” he offered. “Providing they’ve nothing to do with building, finishing, painting or furnishing things, I’m all for them.”
Daringly, Harriet chuckled. “Has it been so bad then, sir?”
“You have no idea, Miss Harry,” smiled Paul. “I swear I feel a megrim coming on as soon as James says things like I’ve had an idea or What do you think of this?”
His words produced a general laugh.
“Paul, you’ve never had a megrim in your life, have you?” James pointed a finger at him. “You’re being dramatic. Overly dramatic, since I don’t recall using either of those expressions for…well…quite some time…”
“Yesterday?” quizzed Paul.
Thus the conversation took a light-hearted tone, with the men enjoying a back-and-forth of good-natured insults and the ladies chiming in when appropriate. Relaxing under the influence of the warm fire, the convivial company and an excellent brandy, Letitia was delighted to note that Harry was smiling and adding her own quick rejoinders without hesitation.
At this moment, she could see the lady that Harriet must have been; her education and breeding showed clearly. This was a safe environment, and Letitia felt that perhaps it did Harry good to be herself, even if only for a little while.
