My Lady's Lover

by Nicola Davidson

  “They were. Father wanted the loftiest title possible. He approved Garrick when I turned twenty.”

  “Oh, Amelia. I knew at a young age, perhaps fourteen or so, that the female figure caught my eye rather than the male. Later, I was able to indulge and grow in experience for many years before my parents discovered my preference and disowned me. But I’m not brokenhearted. They are cruel and small-minded. Besides, I still have Clay and the others. And you…mmmm.”

  Amelia grinned and delved her finger a little deeper into Beatrice’s pussy. “Is this good?”

  She quivered, her hips instinctively tilting. “Up the top. Do you feel a little ridge? Rub me there…yes. Right there…don’t be shy…feels divine…oh…”

  And all of a sudden she was writhing and coming so hard she shrieked Amelia’s name, the abandoned cry, fortunately, or not so fortunately, drowned out by a violent thunderclap.

  They looked at each other and laughed helplessly.

  “Never have I been so thankful for thunder,” gasped Beatrice.

  “I’m not sure we’ll be saying that in a moment,” said Amelia glancing over to the west. “The sky is very dark up there.”

  Beatrice shook her head. “That is what happens when you are distracted by a beautiful woman. A storm creeps in without you even noticing. We’d better pack up fast.”

  It only took a few minutes to gather their belongings, but the two women had barely walked ten steps when the first raindrops hit their bonnets.

  “Oh no!” yelled Amelia, her eyes bright with laughter. “We’re going to be soaked. Run!”

  It was only about a mile from the field to the manor, yet by the time they reached the wide wooden stile separating the fields from the manor proper, the heavens had opened and unleashed a deluge. Their straw bonnets hung limp, their gowns were sodden, and hems coated in mud. Each hurried step along the paved garden walkway was accompanied by an awful squelching noise as their ruined kidskin half-boots protested their mistreatment.

  And then Amelia came to a dead halt.

  “Dearest, what are you doing?” said Beatrice incredulously. “The manor is right there. Towels! Hot water! Roaring fire!”

  “Three carriages,” replied Amelia, her rosy complexion turning gray. “My father. Garrick. And someone else.”

  Her stomach now churning, Beatrice turned her head to where Amelia pointed. Oh God. She was right. Lord Garrick’s crested traveling carriage, another fancy, but non-crested one beside it, and a third, rather plain one, sat ominously on the circular gravel driveway like three black crows. “Why d-do you think they are here?”

  “We’ve been discovered,” Amelia choked out. “There is no other reason both my husband and father would come all the way to Surrey. Oh, Bea…”

  “Come along,” she said firmly, shifting the picnic basket to her other hand so she could link a comforting arm through Amelia’s and guide her to the kitchen entrance so they could dash upstairs and change before facing down their enemies. “It might not be,” she added, although not believing her own words for a second.

  Yet before they could escape and gain themselves a little more time, the manor front door crashed open, and Mr. Tilton, Amelia’s portly and florid-cheeked father, appeared on the front steps.

  “Amelia,” he roared, beckoning her furiously. “Get over here now!”

  As if to seal their doom, another sharp crack of thunder blasted the air, and bright white lightning lit up the rapidly darkening sky. They ran the rest of the way until both stood dripping water and mud onto the steps.

  “Look at you,” said Mr. Tilton. “Drowned rats both.”

  “I apologize, Father,” said Amelia, her tone impressively even. “I did not know you would be visiting today.”

  “I didn’t bloody know. But in light of the very, very serious matter that has been brought to my attention, we have come here, and I don’t even have the words to describe how furious I am.”

  Beatrice barely suppressed a shudder. Amelia’s father might be dressed like a gentleman, but he looked like he was ready to kill with his bare hands.

  “Sir,” she said, “Might Lady Garrick and I get changed out of our wet clothing first?”

  Somehow, her innocuous words only made his expression darken. “No. No time. I’ve sent a maid to fetch a blanket for my daughter, but his lordship and the bishop are waiting in the parlor, God damn it to hell. You aren’t required, so are excused, Miss Beatrice.”

  Mr. Tilton turned and stormed away, leaving the two of them temporarily alone on the steps, drenched to the bone.

  “I’m so sorry,” said Beatrice brokenly. “This is all my fault.”

  “No,” Amelia said, lifting her chin. “I am the sinner. I was the one who willingly broke my marriage vows, and must now pay the price. For what it’s worth, Bea…I will always cherish the memory of this past week. It was the happiest I have ever known.”

  Tears almost blinding her, Beatrice dropped the picnic basket and wrapped her arms around Amelia in a brief, fierce hug. “And mine. I…I will always hold you in my heart.”

  They clung together for a few precious seconds more, then Amelia stepped back and straightened her shoulders, just as a maid came dashing down the stairs with the promised blanket.

  Without another word being said, her beloved walked away.

  And Beatrice’s world shattered.

  Chapter 4

  Here she was, about to be on trial, without the dignity of dry clothing or the support of Beatrice, the only person who truly cared about her.

  Amelia positioned herself in front of the fire to dry, so at least she wouldn’t perish of a fever while awaiting judgment. It was odd, but in one corner sat her father, the kindly bishop who had officiated at her and Garrick’s wedding, and her scowling, fallen angel-handsome husband. To the left sat a man who looked very much like clerk with his plain attire and spectacles, plus another older, more roughly-dressed man and a beautiful if rather garishly-rouged brown-haired woman. Who on earth were these strangers? And why did they have to be here to witness her shame and humiliation?

  “Well,” said her father, glaring at the assembled guests. “Here we all are.”

  Amelia clasped her trembling hands. “Before anyone begins, I just want to say how very sorry I am. I never meant to cause harm or embarrassment. Sometimes life takes you on a road you never thought to travel.”

  “Pretty words,” said the brunette, her voice flavored with a Highland burr, much like Garrick when he lost his temper and forgot his elocution lessons. “And I appreciate the sentiment, given the circumstances.”

  “Uh, yes madam,” she replied, confused.

  The bishop smiled gently. “There is no need to apologize, dear lady. You are blameless in this matter. But know our heavenly father cares deeply for you and is steadfastly at your side during this time of great personal trial.”

  What on earth was going on? Why did it feel like she had walked onstage in a play where everyone else knew the lines except her? “Thank you, bishop. I will not say blameless, for I am indeed a sinner.”

  “A sinner perhaps,” snarled her father. “But not a criminal. Unlike a certain earl in this room.”

  Amelia’s gaze flew to her husband. “My lord?”

  “Amelia,” he replied sullenly, folding his arms and looking like a spoilt child refused sweets. “I have…we, um…”

  “Oh, just say it, Garrick,” snapped the other woman. “Don’t leave the lass with her backside in the breeze. Tell her the truth about us.”

  Amelia frowned. All this for another in a long, long line of paramours? Lord above. She was wet and muddy, and darling Bea was probably upstairs worrying herself frantic right now. “I am stunned that yet another mistress warrants this kind of theatrics, my lord. May I ask why?”

  “A mistress?” screeched the brunette, leaping to her feet. “How dare you, you shameless harlot! You are the mistress! I am his lawful wife!”

  All the air whooshed from her lungs. “Exc
use me?” she said weakly.

  “Garrick is a goddamned bigamist,” roared her father, his face crimson, and his hands curled into fists.

  Her stomach flipped repeatedly, and for a horrible moment, Amelia thought she might cast up her accounts all over the rug. A bigamist? Unable to believe the stunning accusation, her gaze flew to Garrick. Yet he remained silent, a mutinous set to his lips.

  Guilty?

  “I…er…” she swallowed hard. “But…”

  “Believe your ears, girl,” said her father, in that same alarmingly thunderous tone. “A goddamned bloody bigamist.”

  “Now, now,” said the bishop crisply. “No need for bad language in front of ladies. I feel your anger, Mr. Tilton. I have also been wronged, asked to post the banns and perform a ceremony in good faith, when all the time the groom was not free to wed.”

  “Damn your sensibilities. Twenty thousand pounds that lying, thieving bastard took from me for Amelia! I’m going to kill him!”

  Garrick jumped up from his chair and darted behind it, while the bishop, the clerk, and the older stranger—the brunette’s father?— restrained Mr. Tilton.

  Amelia sank to the floor, her legs unable to support her a moment longer. Black spots danced in her vision, and the urge to succumb to blessed unawareness had never been stronger. “I’m not married?” she croaked out. “How?”

  “Quite simple, my lady. Er, miss,” said the clerk pompously, even as he kept a firm hold on her father’s arm. “Lord Garrick is Scottish. Scottish marriage laws are different to our own. While there are regular marriages in church and so forth, those rebellious rascals also permit quite irregular marriages. They don’t require parental permission or a clergyman. If a Scottish couple are each older than fourteen, make an oath before witnesses saying they are married, and then a, ah, intimate relationship follows, they are married in the eyes of the law.”

  “Nonsense,” said Garrick, his Highland accent stronger than it had ever been. “Rebecca was just a fuck, Tilton, I swear. It was just a lark. I didn’t want to marry her.”

  “I am your wife,” yelled the brunette, hurling a nearby figurine in Garrick’s direction.

  “The lady is correct, my lord,” said the clerk, his forehead puckered. “You made the oath. You consummated it. You even wrote a promise note and signed it.”

  “I am the Countess of Garrick,” added the woman ferociously, “and have been these past six years. Don’t you dare keep lying, you know very well I am. You said I was too young to come to London, then too naïve and provincial, that I could join you only after I had taken lessons and traveled the world to broaden my experience. So I did. But what do I find? You and your ladybird living in sin! Calling her your wife!”

  “The Tiltons had the blunt, Rebecca,” snapped Garrick at last. “You were nothing but a pretty face and an eager quim. And now you’ve gone and ruined everything. I deserve to live in splendor, but I’ll be an earl in debtor’s prison…”

  The angry words flew like arrows above Amelia’s head, but her foggy mind could only grasp one thought: I’m not married!

  Not Countess of Garrick, but Miss Tilton.

  She might have screamed with joy, except she was hauled to her feet by her father and dragged toward the parlor door. “We’re leaving, girl. I don’t want to hear one more word from that sniveling weasel.”

  “No!” she burst out. “Beatrice!”

  “Don’t fret about the servant, she’ll find a new position,” said her father. “Intelligent, gently-bred young woman like her will be fine.”

  “But I need to see—”

  Rebecca Garrick clapped her hands and grinned triumphantly. “You need to see to nothing. It is not yours. Everything is mine. Now get out, Miss Tilton. The lawyers will be in touch, I’m sure.”

  And just like that, the world as she knew it, ended.

  It was raining again.

  Beatrice resisted the urge to hold her hands over her ears as she stared through the bedchamber window at the bleak weather outside. She couldn’t bear hearing it now, it reminded her of the terrible day Amelia had been torn from her.

  Three whole weeks ago.

  Twenty-one days of sleeplessness, of numbness, of letters returned unopened.

  It had been the worst time of her life, and not even the kindnesses of the society members had been enough to drag her from the abyss of despair she found herself in. When she had been unceremoniously dismissed from her post just hours after Amelia and Mr. Tilton departed the Garrick estate, she had sent word to Lady Portia who had not only come and rescued her but immediately offered a guest chamber for as long as she needed. It felt wrong living in such luxury, but returning to her parents wasn’t an option, and she couldn’t stay in Clay’s bachelor lodgings. Neither did she have the funds to stay in a boarding establishment, or rent her own cottage. Like a fool, she hadn’t planned for an unemployed future with any degree of dedication, so her savings were on the meager side. And thus far, all her applications for companion and lady’s maid positions had been rejected.

  No one wanted a woman associated with the Garrick scandal, something so tawdry and despicable it still hadn’t died down. Lady Portia, Madeline, and Clay had done their best to champion her cause with their friends and associates, but it was all in vain. Beatrice Irving was a pariah. God only knew how dearest Amelia fared, but if the newspapers were any indication, her reputation lay in tatters thanks to her wretched bastard of a false husband.

  A knock sounded, and a maid peered around the door to her guest chamber. “Excuse me, Miss Beatrice, but there is a woman here to see you. A Mrs. Smythe. Something about a position you might be interested in? She’s waiting in the gold parlor.”

  Beatrice blinked in shock. “Uh, yes. Yes! I’ll be right down.”

  Dashing over to the dressing table, she quickly smoothed her hair, and checked her blue-striped calico gown for any wrinkles or spots, and added a touch of rosewater behind her ears to ensure she made a favorable impression. “You can do this,” she lectured her reflection. “You are experienced and competent.”

  Then she took a deep breath and made her way downstairs. The gold parlor was the room where the society held their meetings, so it was at once familiar and wonderfully soothing, a place of many happy memories.

  Her gaze appropriately lowered, Beatrice entered the parlor and dropped into a deep curtsy. “Mrs. Smythe? I am Beatrice Irving, and I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.”

  “Hello, Bea.”

  She froze, her mind not believing what her ears and heart were screaming. Then slowly she looked up. Oh God. Amelia stood just twenty feet away, her hands clasped in front of her. “You…you’re here…” she blurted, having lost the ability to form coherent words.

  Amelia’s expression was grave. “Yes. I gave a false name and wore a veil over my bonnet. I didn’t know if you would see me after everything that happened.”

  “I’ve been so worried! Your father dragged you away, the whole debacle in the newspapers, and all my letters were returned unopened!”

  “I didn’t receive any letters. At first, it was a kindness, my father shielding me from the scandal. I never knew people could be so vicious, although, with the ton, I shouldn’t have expected anything different. But then he began pressing me to consider new suitors. And men made calls, men with several things in common. Silver hair, grown children, and empty pockets. See, it is established that I’m barren now, but my father still wanted a title in the family, and he is so very wealthy. I refused them all. And finally…I confessed to him that I had tender feelings for another woman. You. He disowned me then.”

  Time seemed to stand still, and a buzzing sounded in Beatrice’s ears. “Wait. What did you say?”

  Amelia bit her lip. “I’ve missed you terribly. My days have been very bleak, like living in an endless winter. I couldn’t bear it a second longer. Not when I need you so.”

  Her heart began to soar, and tears burned in her eyes, but this time not tears
of pain, but astonished joy. Bolting forward, Beatrice halted a mere foot in front of Amelia. “Oh? How much?”

  “More than anything in the world,” said Amelia, and slowly, she opened her arms wide.

  “Oh dearest,” said Beatrice, stepping into the embrace and holding Amelia tight, inhaling the scent of her hair and reveling in the feel of her lush curves. “I don’t have any idea what we are going to do, but as long as we are together…”

  “Well, I have a plan. I may not be Mrs. Smythe, but…I do have a position to offer.”

  Beatrice kissed her deeply, twining their tongues, and then nipped at Amelia’s neck, making her quiver. “And what, Miss Tilton, might that position be?”

  “My lover. My best friend. My helpmate. Living in blissful impropriety with me for the rest of our days. I have a cottage, not far from here, actually. Newly purchased with money my late mother left me and my father cannot touch. It isn’t an extravagant sum, but if we are careful—”

  “Yes,” she yelled. “Yes, yes, yes!”

  Amelia leaned back and lifted one hand to cup Beatrice’s cheek. “Thank heavens. There isn’t happiness without you. I think in some ways I’ve always known that you were the light of my life…but it took a very special massage to set me on the right path.”

  “Speaking of very special massages,” said Beatrice wickedly, “I still have the oil. Let’s go upstairs to my chamber. Lady Portia is out shopping with Captain Denham right now, but as chairwoman of the Surrey Sexual Freedom Society, I know she would understand completely.”

  “Yes!” Amelia yelled in an echo. “Yes, yes, yes!”

  “Oh God…I cannot come again…”

  Amelia glanced up from where she lay nestled between Beatrice’s thighs, probably her favorite place in the world, especially with delicious pussy juice spicing the air and silken on her tongue. “I think perhaps you can. We have a lot of time to make up for, Bea.”

  Her lover whimpered. Beatrice had never looked more beautiful—so wonderfully disheveled, with her hair unbound, her naked skin glistening with perspiration, and her cheeks flushed from her orgasms. “I know, but today is the Society meeting. Downstairs in the gold parlor. I can’t wait to introduce you to everyone.”