Miss Simpkins' School: Lydia

by Raven McAllan

  Molly grinned. So many young ladies had the same response—at first. “Port. Your intended likes it. And no I haven’t drunk any with him, but I know a few gentlemen who have, and they tell their ladies who tell me. How else can we...I help you?” She’d have to watch how she worded things. Until any prospective pupil signed the confidentiality agreement, the information given out was sparse.

  “It tastes nothing like the drink my papa purports to be port. This is good.” Lydia took another sip. “So, what do I know and what do I want to know? I know nothing. No.” She shrugged. “That is a lie. I know what I’ve read. I’m lucky my papa has no idea what books are in his library, or that I have read them. Memoires of a Woman of Pleasure, for instance. But do men really use so many terms for their...” She waved her hand toward the apex of her legs and then put them to her cheeks. “It was instructive, once I fathomed out what meant what. However in practice? I am an innocent.” She giggled. “In every way. Grief, Molly, his, his...”

  “Pego, cock, prick, weapon, yard, though that is surely a contentious boast, tool, meat, needle, pudding, machine...”

  “Oh, stop.” Lydia was holding her sides as she giggled, and Molly joined in. “Yes, all of those and a few more besides. His appendage”—she snorted—”brushed over my quim, and yes I know, honey pot, muff, cunt, and sundry other terms, and even through our clothes I swear it throbbed. So how do I attend to that?”

  “Do you want to?” Molly asked. “Really want to? Because if so you’ll have to be prepared for the consequences.”

  Lydia bit her lip. “The worst thing is he decides not to offer for me, so I’ll be no worse off than I am now. Except for Mama’s ire, but I’m so used to that, another dose will make no difference. Papa will forgive me, he enjoys my company. So, both. For didn’t I read somewhere making love is another form of dancing?”

  “Or another form of bondage.”

  “Yes, well if you listen to the tittle tattle in the withdrawing room, where ladies gossip what they’ve overheard, George Stokoe is an aficionado of that as well.”

  Really, there are hidden depths to Lydia Frampton.

  Chapter Three

  “If this snow doesn’t stop, we’ll never even get to Stokoe, let alone have visitors.” The Dowager Lady Stokoe let the curtain drop with a twitch of her hand and turned to her son who lounged against the fireplace and spun his quizzing glass between his fingers. With one eyebrow in an imperious manner he glanced toward the window as the heavy velvet curtains blocked out the flakes of snow that hit the glass and gathered on the outer sill, then he shrugged.

  Jane Stokoe glared at him. “Say something,” she demanded. “Do something.”

  Really, if glares could kill I’d be dead and buried, and have no need of house parties, wives, or a way to assuage my hunger for someone who may well not appreciate my demands. The thought of the one well-shaped body that he’d like under him in a myriad of ways was enough for him to have to tamper his sudden surge of arousal and wish his mother to perdition. Without her he could have repaired to his chamber and taken himself in hand. Instead, he faced his parent and smiled slightly. It wasn’t her fault they both had the same end in sight, albeit with a different method of getting there.

  “True, Mama, so why worry? As you say if we can’t travel to Stokoe neither can our guests. I’m not God, I can’t control the elements.”

  “Provoking man. And do stop fiddling with that thing. Why do you have one anyway? Affected and foppish, something you are most certainly not.”

  He laughed, and her eyes darkened. “Why, I do it to annoy you. Now excuse me, I have a meeting.” He bowed, knowing fine well it was a parody of a conventional salute, and walked to the door.

  “To play cards at Watiers no doubt,” his parent said waspishly. She was getting more splenetic every day. Since his papa died, she was a shrew.

  He turned and regarded her steadily until she flushed. “Why no, Mama. Never fear. I’m not gambling our monies away. I’m off to meet a woman.” He shut the door on her outraged gasp.

  Although, as he trudged through the snow with his hat pulled low, and greatcoat collar up round his ears, George wondered why he bothered. The snow was still falling heavily, the ground icy, and the air cold enough to freeze your bollocks off. It would be unfair and dangerous to make animals work in it. Walking was arduous, so surely the lady he was to meet wouldn’t get to their chosen destination either? He blinked snow from his eyelashes and looked at the dim glow of the street lamp, almost in a trance as the flakes whirled and eddied in the light. In the dark with the snow so pristine, London could almost be called attractive. Almost.

  George dodged an errant dog and a pedestrian slipping over the cobbles much as he was, and eventually turned the last corner until he reached his destination. The steps to the front door had been swept, but even so the snow fell so fast George reckoned it wouldn’t be more than an hour before you’d never know. He stomped his feet to shed the snow caked on his once-pristine boots. Mothram, his valet, would need soothing when he saw the state they were in. Ah well, ‘tis his job. George and Mothram well knew, the position of George’s valet was not an arduous one. Happy he wouldn’t tread snow indoors, George pulled the bell. As the noise echoed the door swung open.

  “Ah, my lord. We were becoming anxious.” Towse winked so fleetingly, if George hadn’t been looking up at his face he’d have missed it. “The ladies are waiting for you in the blue room. May I take your coat and dry it for you?”

  George nodded and let Towse help him out of the garment. He put his hat on a side table and finger combed his hair into a semblance of a style, and then brushed his pantaloons down. He grimaced at where the snow had landed and melted, darkening the biscuit hue. Not the correct attire for an evening visit maybe, but perfect for what he hoped might happen. Easily dispensed with and easily re-donned. “The blue room? Aptly named.”

  Towse permitted himself to essay a smile. He’d worked for Ivo Daranton, one of George’s crony’s, before he’d been seconded to take care of his present employer. He was well aware of double meanings and the need for a poker face when necessary. To say nothing of turning a blind eye, or fighting dirty if circumstances dictated.

  As he’d once remarked to George, “’Twould be me stones in a vise, m’lord, if aught were to happen to Miss Molly.” When agitated, Towse’s hard-learned Kings English vanished like a pickpocket with a fob watch. “And Miss is a perfect employer, if I may say so.”

  Now he nodded sagely. His face looked like a wizen gnome, and as he moved his head, the tufts of hair on his crown waved like they performed a victory dance. “Yes, my lord, as you say. I’ve made sure the port decanter was full. Though the ladies?” He coughed. “Miss Molly’s guest? Worried perhaps and Miss Molly thought a glass might calm her.”

  Oh lord. “Bosky?”

  “I watered it, my lord. This is yours.” Towse handed over a bottle with the seal still intact. “Miss Molly will not have mentioned the state of that upstairs unless to say it’s a different supplier to the one the lady drank last time.” He leaned forward. “She deserves the best you know, but this port is too good to be swigged.” The smell on his breath made George wonder which bottle had been tested.

  “Right, I’ll go up. It’s a given we won’t be disturbed?”

  “Of course not.” Towse sounded affronted. George nodded, and took the stairs two at a time. Now he knew the lady was there he wanted to see her face when she saw who her tutor was to be.

  ***

  It didn’t disappoint. The glass she was about to set on the table—luckily empty—missed the surface and bounced on the Persian carpet, to roll onto its side and lie there unnoticed. Her hand went to her mouth and her skin flushed red, paled, and went red again. “You.” The distaste was evident.

  That bodes well.

  “Me,” he confirmed as he picked the glass up and set it on the mantle well out of Lydia’s reach. He didn’t want it available as ammunition. George made a swift
leave us gesture toward Molly who stood to one side looking diverted. It amused him to see Lydia make the same gesture.

  Molly gave a brief nod, indicated two hours with her fingers pointing at the clock, and cleared her throat.

  “As you both say I’m superfluous, I’ll leave. The bell push, or that hand bell on the table is the equivalent of a safety net.”

  “Instead of crying foul and no one hearing,” George said, in a dry tone. “I promise I’ll use it if it all gets too much.”

  Both women stared at him as if he’d stripped naked and tipped the hat from the watchman, then as one they burst out laughing.

  “I’ll be gentle with you,” Lydia said and then rolled her eyes. “Oh dear, can I blame the port?” She put her fingers over her mouth, and quashed the giggle that emitted.

  I want those hands over my mouth. I want to suckle each finger in the same manner as I hope to do her breasts and her quim. I want it all. George ignored his cock as it began to stretch the material of his pantaloons, and addressed Lydia. As a gentleman he also ignored the way her eyes flickered toward the growing bulge, and then back to his face.

  “Of course,” he said in a grave tone, as Molly left the room and closed the door softly behind her. “But why? The poor port is but a paltry excuse for what you understand. Be honest with me. Did you really think I’d let someone else be in charge of your education?”

  She reddened once more, and wrung her hands together. “Education? I want to learn to dance so I don’t embarrass you at your house party that is all.” Lydia nibbled her top lip. “I need to learn how to follow directives.”

  George narrowed his eyes, and she dropped hers toward her slippers. Now that I like. But not the silly skin mutilations. He put his hand under her chin and forced her head up so he could look her in the face. “That you do, love, that you do.”

  Her eyes widened, and Lydia gave a soft gasp. The gentle sound was more of interested anticipation than fear, and he smiled.

  “Stop hurting yourself. The only one to mark your skin will be me, and that I promise you will be arousing, exciting, and in a place seen only by me. Now tell me honestly; are you saying you thought Monsieur Alphonse or someone similar would be here to teach you to waltz, when you and I know you can do such dances when you stop thinking. The truth now.” He tightened his hand just enough to sting.

  As he thought, the pulse in her wrist jumped and her bosom heaved. Nowhere in her demeanor or actions did he see worry or fear. She giggled, and the soft sheen of arousal coated her skin.

  “I have heard there are many forms of dancing my lord, which Monsieur Alphonse and his ilk are not privy to. I would very much like you to teach me that which is not accepted in the ballrooms of the ton, but in the bedrooms of the demimonde. And also I am led to believe, in the marital beds of those who are enlightened.”

  Chapter Four

  George stared at Lydia for so long she had to force herself not to fidget. Had she and Molly read it all so wrongly? No, it wasn’t possible. Molly knew all the right people to ask questions, and she had assured Lydia this was the way to progress. It had taken several lessons from Molly, and a lady of the ton, to explain and show Lydia how to act. The lady, by name and nature, was most informative.

  “George Stokoe has a reputation of riding his ladies hard and fast, but not of deflowering virgins or despoiling young innocents. If you are a virgin?”

  Lydia flushed the color of her companion’s dress, and nodded.

  “Then your job may well be harder. You will need to show him it’s your utmost desire to be fucked by the finest, and your initiation is to be from him and him alone. George is a fair man, and he will know if you are in earnest. He is well liked by his peers, and the ladies whom he favors or lets down gently, and considered to be a gentleman by all. For you see, he only plays with those who know the rules.”

  “If he weds me he won’t. Ride ladies, whether they know the rules or not. I will be his mount, and only I will be his plaything,” Lydia had responded fiercely. “Rules be damned, I will not share.”

  “Bravo,” Hermione had replied. “Now it’s up to you.”

  So it is up to me to do it.

  ‘”No answer, my lord?” Lydia hoped she didn’t show how her knees knocked, and her stomach churned. She strove to keep her voice light, almost amused, and level. She moved from one foot to the other in order to relax her toes, which she’d scrunched up in tension, and did her best to take deep, level breaths. Whoever said worry had a smell was correct. It hung in the air like the wood smoke from the fire. Sweet, sickly, heavy, and vaguely menacing. As if it could take over. “I’m disappointed, I was sure you wouldn’t leave a lady to wait for your response.”

  “Oh, I think you know the reply, my dear.” He rubbed one hand over the other. “I admire your intentions, if not the way you essay them. Tell me, where does your mama think you are?”

  The change of subject made her start, and she had to unscramble her brain before she could answer him. “Ah, with Tilly Hammond and spending the night with the Countess of Addersley. Addersley has had to make an unexpected visit to one of his estates, and it was decided Adriana shouldn’t accompany him in her condition. She is due to increase very soon, and the only journey Ash wants her to undertake is to be confined at their country home. It is very convenient.”

  “As you say.” Once again the saturnine expression on his face made her restless. “Stop fidgeting.” He snapped the words out and stopped her mid-movement. How her jaw didn’t gape, Lydia had no idea. “Come here, kneel at my feet, bow your head, and let us set out the ground rules.”

  What? Now she was certain she was slack-jawed. “Ground rules?” She walked across the room, stood a few feet away from him, and hesitated.

  He stretched out his arm, took her hand, and tugged. For several seconds she resisted the pull on her arm. Just as the twinge of discomfort hit the edge where it would morph into pain, George relaxed his grip. He didn’t let go, just stared in a way designed to make her insides go to jelly, and her quim start to quiver. By the knowing look on his face he fully understood the effect he was having.

  “Am I expected to know what you mean?” she asked.

  “Do we dance around this?”

  She giggled at his terminology and he raised one eyebrow. It silenced her mid-snigger and she gulped. He was so masterful with that attitude. Her body acknowledged it with a shiver that hit her bosom, streaked through her to her quim, and circled her nub.

  “Is it funny? You want to learn to dance. We both know it’s not the dances of the ballroom. With me you didn’t put a foot wrong when I distracted your attention from one, two, three, one, two, three. So tell me; what is this really all about?”

  Lydia jerked out of his grasp and began to pace. She needed to get away from his scent, his aura, and his authority. To try to explain what she desired she needed a clear head. She leaned against an elegant Hepplewhite console and bit her lip. The sting of pain gathered her senses.

  “Are you cognizant with all the plans of our parents?” she asked him baldly. “And are you in accord?” Her heart missed a beat as he stood immobile and just looked fixedly at her. She had no idea how she would prefer him to answer. To want me for myself and not for any other reason. However, is that likely? I’m his childhood annoyance, and I have nothing to make me stand out in the ton. And I am an innocent. Would he be prepared to train me? Do I want him to? Can I be a match for him? So many questions to be answered if I have the nous to put them to him. Even my inheritance, although very comfortable, surely cannot match that of many others.

  Not that George Stokoe would need her money. He was often compared to a nabob. He was unostentatious, generous when necessary, but not a soft touch. His estates were well cared for, his crop yield high, and his worker’s cottages in good condition. The local church benefitted from a generous stipend for the vicar, and the village children were given rudimentary schooling. His peers all thought him a good fellow and the ladies, for
all they whispered about his proclivities, liked him. He was the perfect gentleman.

  For once his eyes weren’t hooded and they showed dark in the candlelight. Tiny flickers of something unbeknown to Lydia flashed in their depths and went as fast as they appeared. His hair reflected the flames, and strands of red appeared in the dark tresses. He lived up to his nickname of Darkness as he smiled, inclined his head, and said nothing. The smile did nothing to reassure her. In fact, Lydia decided it was annoying her. There was no depth to it, and it made a mockery of what a smile should mean.

  “Are you mute?” she said and heard the snap of vexation in her voice. “I usually receive an answer to a question, not a look that makes me feel like a mouse who is being toyed with by a cat. What are you going to do about them?”

  “If, if you want me to answer you, my dear, I think we need to set out a few ground rules. First of which is I do not want to be married or indeed associate with a harridan.” The ice in George’s tone sent prickles of fear skittering over her skin, and tiny unpleasant goose bumps broke out on her arms. “Any woman I associate will not only know the rules, she will adhere to them. Are you ready for that, Lydia? Can you give yourself to me as and how I demand? For make no mistake, demand is the word. And I would expect your instant obedience. You want to learn to dance and defy our parents, in a conventional way? Then the ballroom is below. If, however, you want to learn to dance to my tune, in my manner and in a way that will benefit us both, let’s think. If it is as a secondary manner which will appease our parents and ensure my title doesn’t become obsolete, then now is the time to decide. We have less than two hours for your first lesson.” His voice was flat, and he spoke in such a dispassionate manner she could almost believe it mattered not to him what she decided. It was only the tiny pulse at the side of his neck which showed how affected he was. “Are you prepared to ask for what you really want?”