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Ménage a Must
ISBN # 978-1-78184-348-2
©Copyright Renee Michaels 2013
Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright May 2013
Edited by Eleanor Boyall
Total-E-Bound Publishing
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.
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The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.
Published in 2013 by Total-E-Bound Publishing, Think Tank, Ruston Way, Lincoln, LN6 7FL, United Kingdom.
Warning:
This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has a heat rating of Total-e-burning and a sexometer of 3.
This story contains 48 pages, additionally there is also a free excerpt at the end of the book containing 7 pages.
Molly’s Mayhem
MÉNAGE A MUST
Renee Michaels
Book one in the Molly’s Mayhem Series
Can Molly juggle a pair of frisky lovers and prevent her adventurous young mistress from playing fast and loose with her virtue? Yes, she can.
Molly O’Dowd is a maid with ambition. She doesn’t intend to spend the rest of her life in service. But she feels bound by loyalty and gratitude to see Annabelle, her young mistress, settled before she leaves to make her fortune.
At the estate of her employer’s potential suitor, she meets Graeme and Logan, a lusty pair of rogues who entice Molly to indulge in a tryst or two…or three.
To Molly’s delight and relief, her employer takes matters into her own hands and secures a proposal. Molly is now free to go, but she hesitates—after all, she now has two reasons to linger a while…
Chapter One
When the wheel of the carriage Molly O’Dowd sat in dropped into yet another rut, she slapped a hand on her prized bonnet and hugged her mistress’s jewellery case to her chest. The vehicle gave an ominous creak and listed to one side before it lumbered forward. She sent up a fervent prayer that they’d reach their destination soon. Her sore bum could not take another round of bouncing on the thinly padded seat.
“No title is worth this discomfort.” The loud, petulant complaint came from the young miss she served as a personal maid.
Her mistress sat across from Molly, arms folded across her chest. Ethereally beautiful, with flawless skin and cornflower blue eyes, and an heiress to a fortune built from railways and coalmines, Annabelle was the only child of the late August Calder. He’d been an overindulgent but neglectful papa, which had made her just a tad spoilt.
With her tight fist holding the purse strings, Annabelle’s social-climbing stepmamma had dragged her to England in her hunt for a title. And not a moment too soon—the girl needed a man but more importantly a husband. Molly had caught Annabelle’s dancing master lapping away at her virginal cunny.
There was no telling her mistress anything once she got a notion in her pretty head. She’d kept Molly busy smuggling the man in and out of the Calder mansion. Molly had barely managed to preserve Annabelle’s virginity using dire threats and never being more than a few feet away from the amorous couple.
“Hush, Annabelle, the earl’s servants might hear you.” The admonishment hissed from the perpetually pursed lips of Annabelle’s stepmother, Priscilla.
Her name suited her—prissy by name and nature. Mrs Calder never had a hair out of place or a thread hanging from her ensemble. She was a thin woman with a fondness for ruffles and pastels, which didn’t suit her sallow skin.
As far as Molly knew, Priscilla never showed any emotion but disapproval or irritation. Molly wondered for the millionth time how she had become the wife of that lusty old letch August Calder. Before he had died, he’d pinched Molly’s bum and fondled her breasts on the sly more than once. Given the chance, he’d have tossed up her skirts for sure. Now she wasn’t adverse to a good tumble, but to spread her legs for the master under his wife’s nose was the act of a slattern. She had standards—a little relaxed, but they served her well.
Annabelle groaned as they hit another pothole. “I still don’t see why we couldn’t hire a conveyance for our use.”
“His lordship offered the use of his carriage and we didn’t want to offend him.” Her tone suggested that their discomfort was inconsequential.
Annabelle’s rosebud mouth formed a pout. “Molly, you did pack my bed linens, didn’t you?”
Priscilla waved her hand to cut off Annabelle’s gripes. “Never mind that, I wanted to have a word with the both of you before we arrived.”
This explained why Molly wasn’t travelling with the rest of the servants Mrs Calder deemed necessary as a show of her wealth.
“Now you listen to me, miss, I’ve paid that impoverished noblewoman a small fortune to secure this invitation. Muck it up and I’ll ship you off to my aunt in Maine.”
The threat hung in the air. Priscilla’s aforementioned relative would make a Puritan look like a hedonist.
Annabelle narrowed her eyes into slits and her expression turned mutinous. Even then, she looked like an annoyed fairy. “The executors of my father’s estate wouldn’t let you.”
“Everybody has a price.” Priscilla pinned Molly with an inimical glower. It seemed she wasn’t to escape Priscilla’s censure. “I expect you to keep her in line and not pander to her odd whims.”
Molly gulped and nodded. She couldn’t afford to lose her place, not when she was so close to getting out of service on her own terms.
Priscilla sniffed and smoothed out her wrinkleless skirts. “Gertrude Whittenham got a baron for her buck-toothed daughter. I want that earl. You are lovely enough to catch the eye of any peer. With your inheritance, it shouldn’t take much effort to engage his interest.” Her eyes glittered with the unhealthy avarice of someone who had everything but wanted more.
“And if I don’t comply?”
At Annabelle’s defiant question, Priscilla’s thin lips curved into a humourless smile.
“It would be a pity if word got out Molly facilitated your meetings with that Frenchman. I’ll put your precious maid out without a reference and funds for her passage home.”
The tea and bun Molly had gulped down at the last posting inn curdled in her stomach. She glanced at Annabelle, and hoped she caught the silent plea she sent her.
“Pardon me, ma’am, but Miss Annabelle knows what’s at stake,” Molly murmured, injecting the right amount of timidity and subservience into her voice.
“For both your sakes, I hope so.” The frosty warning wasn’t lost on Molly. She’d bear the responsibility of making sure Annabelle toed the line.
A fraught silence hung in the air as the seconds ticked by and Molly’s apprehension grew.
After what felt like several lifetimes, Annabelle shrugged. “Fine, have it your way, again, but Molly stays. I’ll need to dress my hair and see to my clothes to bait your honey trap.”
“Your speech is appalling. Maids are ten-a-penny. She is not indispensable.” Priscilla’s eyes raked over M
olly with dismissive condescension and Molly’s face heated with humiliation. “Besides, it would be more appropriate for you to have a French maid. It is all the rage.”
“I said I’ll go along with your little schemes, Priss,” Annabelle snapped. She used the name that would jab at her stepmother the most. “But don’t overplay your hand. Once I marry, I’ll be free of you,” Annabelle said flatly in a rare show of defiance.
With a sour expression, Priscilla turned her head and looked through the window. “Then I will have to make sure you marry a man who dances to my tune, won’t I? We’ve arrived.”
Molly twisted in her seat to look at the Earl of Glenhaven’s ancestral home. It might be tumbling down about his lordship’s noble ears, but the autumn was kind to the great rambling Elizabethan manor. It softened the signs of neglect and disrepair and gave the stone edifice a rosy glow. With a great deal of hard work and pots of Annabelle’s money, it could shine like a gem.
The aged carriage jerked to a halt. A footman opened the door and let down the steps. Priscilla allowed the servant to help her disembark.
Seeing the mischievous sparkle in Annabelle’s eyes, Molly almost groaned.
“Wait for me in my rooms,” Annabelle whispered.
“What are you up to now? Don’t antagonise your stepmother. She watches you like a hawk.”
An unladylike snort escaped from Annabelle’s pretty mouth. “More like a vulture waiting to pick our bones clean. Don’t worry, Mol, I have a plan.”
Molly groaned. “You always do, and that’s what worries me.”
Annabelle shot her a grin full of charm and naughtiness. “I am afraid the earl is going to find me as appealing as a day-old fish,” she declared and hopped from the carriage.
The door snapped shut and the carriage rolled to the rear of the building with a series of creaks.
Molly slumped against the squabs. Maybe it was time for her to put her plans into motion. Between her savings and Annabelle’s off-hand generosity, she had a tidy sum put away. It didn’t feel right to leave until Annabelle was free of Priscilla’s machinations, though.
Still, even if she managed not to get tossed out on her arse by the end of the husband hunt, she’d better think about moving along. A girl had to prepare for her future.
Chapter Two
Molly didn’t realise that the vehicle had stopped until the door swung open and a soft cough pulled her from her reflections. Her eyes flew open to stare into the leaf-green eyes of the man standing by the carriage.
His expression heated as he fixed his attention on her breasts with a blatant carnality. Molly’s cheeks grew warm. Heavens, she hadn’t blushed since she’d let Billy Doyle have his way with her against Miss Whitney’s kitchen garden wall at sixteen.
She had the inexplicable urge to cross her arms over her chest but she was made of sterner stuff. With a boldness mimicking his, she took her sweet time with her own perusal, and ran her gaze over the lock of ink-black hair curled over his broad forehead, the clean-shaven jaw with the impudent cleft in his chin, the width of his shoulders, his long lean torso. Molly let her attention linger on his groin as he’d done to her bosom.
She quirked her brow, and lifted her gaze to meet his laughing one.
“Touché.” The flash of his lopsided grin was full of unabashed flirtatiousness. “Who might you be, lovey? And will you come out to play?” he asked in a deep baritone. The intimate tone awakened the first tug of arousal between her legs.
Warning bells clamoured in Molly’s head. The sensual curve of his mouth, the unspoken question in his eyes piqued her interest, not to mention the way he waited for her response with an intensity that both flattered and provoked at the same time.
He’d have her drawers down to her ankles before she could say Jack Flash if given the opportunity. Molly bit her lip. One misstep and Mrs Calder would hang her out to dry.
“I’m Miss Calder’s personal maid, and I choose my playmates with care.” Her pert reply earned an appreciative chuckle.
“As you should. Prudence is the byword in our positions, now, isn’t it?”
“Do you make it a habit to proposition every female servant who visits his lordship’s estate?” From Molly’s observations, she surmised he wasn’t a house servant. His darkly tanned skin told her he worked outdoors. Molly could price clothing and leather goods at a glance. His shirt was made from a fine linen, his vest a good tweed, and his boots, though scuffed and smeared with God knew what, were handmade. Though old, they were worth more than what anyone in service earned in a year.
“Ahhh, but you’ve stolen my heart.”
Her mouth dropped open at his audacious statement. Molly fought to suppress the laugh threatening to burst from her.
“And how often does your heart get stolen?”
He flashed her a lopsided grin. “Only on the rare occasion that I encounter a lass with black curls, pansy-blue eyes, and a pink mouth like yours.” He held out a callused hand. “Logan Devlin, at your service. I’m the head groom here.” His beautiful mouth spread in a suggestive smile. “I have a way with the fillies.”
Molly laughed. He was a complete scamp. “I’m sure you do. As to deepening our association, we’ll see…” She let the words hang and Logan’s cocky smirk widened. “I need to get on with my chores.” She took his proffered hand and hopped down when he moved back.
“Logan, where the hell are you?” A man rounded the corner. The irritation on his face eased into a smile. “Is this scoundrel bothering you, miss?” He snatched off his cap to reveal a mop of chestnut curls. He fixed a mock glower on his face and narrowed his hazel eyes into a parody of a threat.
Charmed but not fooled, she lifted her brows to show her misgivings about her would-be rescuer’s intentions. He was bigger than Devlin, barrel-chested, with massive muscles straining the material of his rough trousers tucked into his work-worn boots. His footwear had been made by the same hand as Logan’s if she wasn’t mistaken.
“Forget it, Graeme, I saw her first,” Logan growled darkly. His breath wafted over her ear, and Molly shivered from the unintended caress.
The possessiveness in his voice had Molly trying to tug her hand from his grip. “Saw me first?”
“He is too bold by far, miss, and a fickle sort.” Graeme offered his arm in a gallant gesture, which belied the glint of sexual curiosity in his eyes.
“Yes, he told me.” Molly’s dry rejoinder earned her a solemn nod.
“Well, then, you won’t want to have anything to do with the likes of him. I didn’t catch your name.”
“I never said.” She stepped back from the two men as they shifted to pen her in. Molly pressed her back against the lacquered body of the outmoded carriage. They eyed her like a pair of hawks about to swoop down on their prey. She licked her lips and fidgeted under their intense scrutiny. Yet she didn’t feel threatened by them. They smiled, no, smirked with a seductive expectancy.
The faint hint of healthy sweat, sun-heated grass and a whiff of musk emanated from the men. The words of reproof she intended to utter caught in her throat like a burr.
“What’s your name, love?” Graeme urged. He didn’t touch her but the deep rumble of his voice sent vibrations through her body. “I need to know what to call you when I ask you to take a walk in the moonlight with me.”
His words were innocuous, but she doubted there’d be much strolling done. Shadows cast by the moon provided deep pockets of darkness, which concealed many a night-time tryst.
Wildly erotic thoughts popped into her head. Graeme or Logan? She could choose the latter, whose long lean frame suggested a tensile strength and the stamina of a thoroughbred. Or Graeme with his big brawny body—he’d take her with the power and forcefulness of a bull. An involuntary quiver ran up her inner thighs and the fine batiste of her unmentionables dampened. It reminded her how susceptible she was to a bit of seduction.
It had been a long time since she’d felt a lover’s hands slide over her skin, grasp an
d caress her flesh with feverish need. Molly longed to feel a hungry mouth fasten on the tip of her breast and the rake of teeth over her nipple. She missed the press of a hair-roughened body ramming against hers, caught in the frenzied throes of blind desire.
Molly trembled, and lowered her gaze, fearing they might read her yearning in her expression.
Composing herself, she gave them a shaky smile. “You’ve almost turned my head, but my mistress’s stepmamma would be sure to notice your interest.”
A conspiratorial grin spread across both men’s faces.
“Never fear, lass, leave everything to us. We’ll see to your pleasure without her being any the wiser.”
Molly’s eyes widened. Both! Their implication sowed delicious possibilities in her fertile mind.
“Oh, my.” She gave them a nod to show they were in accord.
The thunderous slam of a door and a long string of expletives, accompanied by the measured thuds of boots hitting the ground, heralded the approach of someone in a foul temper. The two men spun and blocked her view.
“I feel like a fucking stallion about to be put to stud.” The raw words didn’t conceal the clipped intonation of a member of the nobility. The earl gave vent to his feeling in an explicit manner.
Priscilla must have looked him over like bloodstock she was preparing to purchase.
The two men stepped aside to reveal her presence. They flanked the irate man, their action subtly protective. They might be master and servants, but they shared a friendship. A ruddy flush spread across his lordship’s handsome face, and he choked off the salty words spilling from his lips. He was a fine figure of a man with piercing blue eyes under a mop of inky black hair. He didn’t need any padding sewn into his clothes to make him look well muscled. Annabel couldn’t do better unless he was a top-lofty milquetoast.
Ménage a Must Page 1
