by Merry Farmer
“Understandable, sir, perfectly reasonable,” Samuel nodded and gave his most obsequious smile to a middle-aged gentleman checking into the hotel. “You will find that the staff here at The Dragon’s Head is of the highest caliber and can cater to your every wish. Flossie!”
Flossie had been about to march on to the housekeeping storeroom. Samuel’s sharp hail stopped her and sent a burst of anger through her. She swallowed it down.
“Yes, sir.” She approached the desk with a bright smile…for the guest, not for Samuel. “How can I help you?”
Samuel saw right through her attempts to ignore his command. “Mr. Rushworth is just checking in. He has very sensitive needs and must have all of his linens laundered in a concoction of his own making.”
He sounded so supercilious as he shared the information with her that Flossie blushed for Mr. Rushworth’s sake. For his part, Mr. Rushworth didn’t seem particularly put out.
“It is a mild detergent made with soapwood and marsh mallow,” Mr. Rushworth told her, handing over a clay jar with an apologetic smile.
Flossie took the jar, putting on her most accommodating demeanor. Whatever would make the guest happy. Anything to prevent Samuel from having the pleasure of snapping at her for not doing her job well.
“Do you have any special instructions for the handling of your linens?” she asked.
Mr. Rushworth seemed pleasantly surprised that his oddity was so easily accepted. If he only knew what other oddities she was called on to deal with.
“Only that the linens be rinsed thoroughly and allowed to dry completely before the bed is made up. The blankets and coverlet too, I’m afraid. Although on a night as warm as this, I’m not certain they will be needed.”
He laughed, all good nature, and nodded to Samuel. Samuel was forced to put on a smile and pretend that the hotel staff was one happy family.
“Don’t think you can get away with doing a half-hearted job,” he snapped at Flossie as soon as Mr. Rushworth had gone on to the dining room to break his fast.
“I had no intention of doing anything but the most thorough job,” Flossie told him.
“Because I’m not just a common concierge now,” he went on, ignoring her. “I’m Mr. Throckmorton’s liaison with his London hotels.”
“Yes, I know,” Flossie said, voice flat. He hadn’t tired of telling her since Jason had given him the position.
She tried to move on, to take Mr. Rushworth’s concoction to the laundry, but Samuel stopped her. “Not a hint of scandal with that business last week,” he reminded her. “The whole thing was hushed quite nicely. Mr. Throckmorton was grateful for it.”
“I’m certain he was,” Flossie said, the acted smile she had used with Mr. Rushworth making another appearance.
“Your days of being the boss’s favorite pet are coming to an end, love,” he gloated.
Flossie’s smile became genuine. “Why, bless you, Samuel. I had no idea you had ambitions of being someone’s favorite pet.”
Samuel’s face reddened. He leaned toward her across the desk and opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Jason came striding out from the dining room. Samuel clamped his mouth shut so fast he looked like an irate sturgeon. Jason caught the expression as he headed toward his the desk and his office and stopped short.
“Is something wrong?” His brow knit into an ominous frown. He had no patience for the rivalry between Samuel and Flossie, not even from Flossie’s end.
“Nothing, sir,” Samuel clipped out the words.
“We have a guest who has made a peculiar request to only wash his linen in a special detergent he has crafted himself,” Flossie said, playing the game better than her opponent. “He is quite sensitive, apparently.”
Jason continued walking. “Carry on,” he said. Clearly that was the extent of what he wanted to know about that.
It was the extent of what Flossie had to say about it as well. She let out a breath, spared one last glance for Samuel, then headed on her way. Rather than heading straight for the housekeeping storeroom, she made a detour and marched down the hall to the laundry.
The laundry was one of the areas of the hotel that worked when much of the rest of the hotel was asleep. The girls had been hard at work for hours by the time Flossie entered the humid, steaming room.
“Gabby, we have a new guest with a sensitivity to detergent who has made his own,” she started speaking to the head laundress as soon as she entered the room.
She stopped suddenly. Gabby, Dora, and one of the laundry girls, Belinda, were gathered around a rolling bin of linens, staring at it with wide, perplexed eyes.
“What is it?” Flossie started toward them.
“I just brought this bin in here a few minutes ago, ma’am,” Dora told her. “Just now, from the chute in the hall.”
“We found this, ma’am.” Gabby nodded to the bin.
Flossie approached the edge of the bin, then looked inside, bracing herself for what she might find.
It was a challenge not to gasp outright, though she did slap a hand over her mouth. There, nestled on top of the folds of rumpled bedsheets and damp towels, was a limp and very much used French letter. In an instant, her cheeks burned bright red. How could they be so careless? How could she be so careless? She had stripped Jason’s sheets and whisked them out to the hall without making a thorough check. Jason was usually beyond fastidious about these things. A slip like this was…was….
“What is it, ma’am?” Belinda asked, all wide eyes and innocence.
If possible, Flossie’s face burned even hotter. Dora looked equally as baffled. Gabby, on the other hand, was older and wiser.
“I…I’m not sure,” Flossie lied. The nearly irresistible urge to laugh out loud crept up on her.
“It’s almost as if a snake has shed its skin,” Dora said. She then reached down into the bin and picked the condom up between her thumb and forefinger. “But what is that at the end there?”
“Looks like clotted cream,” Belinda said, leaning in to get a better look.
With an odd snort, Flossie swiped out and took the condom from Dora’s outstretched hand. “I don’t know of any snakes that ingest clotted cream,” she blurted. “I’ll see if I can make heads or tails of it.”
She pivoted and rushed out of the room before Dora or Belinda could say another word, and definitely before Gabby could educate them or question how Flossie knew what such a thing was. The problem with that was, of course, that she was then standing in the downstairs hall holding a used French letter where anyone might see her.
Stifling a squeak, she gingerly tucked the item into the pocket of her apron and rushed across the hall to the staff lavatory. She slipped inside and firmly shut and locked the door behind her. That was when the laughter started. She slumped against the door, withdrawing the item and holding it in front of her as she shook with mirth. Dear Lord, she would never live this down.
Doing her best to stop giggling, she took the item to the sink to rinse and wash it. Jason usually took care of his supply himself. She knew very little about the items, but that they were effective for their intended use. And thank heavens for it. What she didn’t know was what to do with it besides rinsing out its contents and making sure it was clean. He’d never said anything about what kind of soap should be used or how it should be laid out to dry. He kept them stored rolled up, but it didn’t seem right to roll it while it was wet. In the end, she tamped it dry with a towel—a towel that she would inspect carefully before throwing into the laundry—waved it in the air for a moment before deciding that that looked perfectly ridiculous. There was nothing else to do but slip the item into her pocket and take it to Jason for safer disposal.
Of course, walking the halls of the hotel with an illicit item that she knew full well had been put to good use only a few hours before felt rather like she had given herself one of the challenges she had started giving Jason. The item burned a hole in her pocket, as if everyone she passed, staff or guest, knew
exactly what she carried and why. She could feel the blood flushing her cheeks, and it took a Herculean effort not to giggle with every step.
Unfortunately, Jason wasn’t in his office. Samuel glared at her as she popped her head in to search for him, but didn’t offer any information until she asked, “Has Mr. Throckmorton gone out?”
Only then did he grudgingly tell her, “He’s in the garden.”
All the better. Outside, with any number of bushes, hedges, and shrubs to hide behind, she would be able to transfer the item to Jason without drawing notice.
As it turned out, however, Jason was in the side garden, helping a group of Brynthwaite’s finest young ladies setting up to play croquet. He was the center of their attention as he handed out mallets and explained the rules to the giggling, blushing women. Oh Lord. The young ladies were actually trying to flirt with him. They were too young to know any better, likely trying out their newly discovered wiles on the first attractive man they saw. Jason was either unaware or, more likely, struggling not to take notice.
“Excuse me, Mr. Throckmorton, sir.” Flossie approached with caution, nodding appropriately to the young women.
“Yes? What is it?” Jason barked. Ah. Terse, seemingly irritated. Yes, Jason was trying his best not to squirm under the coy smiles and tittering of the young women.
“May I speak to you in private for a moment, sir?” Flossie gave him her best subservient curtsy.
For a split second, Jason arched an eyebrow. His eyes flashed with a playful light. “Yes, yes. A moment,” he said, frowning for show.
He stood taller, glancing around for a bit of concealment, then nodded toward a narrow walk of rose bushes. Flossie followed him until they were just out of earshot of the young women. The giggling group spread out across the croquet lawn, sending curious glances in their direction. The scent of June roses filled Flossie’s senses as Jason marched between the rows of bushes, then turned to face her.
“What is it?” His voice was a fraction softer.
All at once, Flossie snorted in her attempt to stifle her own giggles. She wished the rose bushes came higher than her ribcage, but they would do.
“This was found in the laundry just now,” she whispered over laughter that was desperate to escape.
She drew the French letter from her apron pocket. Jason took one look at it, and his frown twitched into something halfway between a snort and a curse. He swiped the item away from Flossie, keeping it below the level of the bushes so no one could see. His expression contorted through shock, shame, and irrepressible laughter.
“What the devil?” he burst out, fiddling with the thing as though he would roll it up. “It’s damp.”
“I washed it,” Flossie said. She couldn’t hold her laughter inside anymore. She could only cover her mouth and blush. “I didn’t know what else to do with it.”
“How did it get into the laundry?” he asked, biting his lip to keep from exploding.
“I don’t know. It must have been in the sheets when I stripped the bed.”
“Well, we can’t have it out here,” he said, holding it out to her. Unrolled as it was, it fluttered in the breeze. “You’ll have to—”
“Mr. Throckmorton,” Lady E’s voice came lilting over the rows of rose bushes. “Mr. Throckmorton, there you are.”
Jason’s already bright red face flushed even hotter. He snapped straight, thrusting his hands and the item behind him. Flossie whipped around to find Lady E. strolling quickly toward them, Polly right behind her.
“We decided to arrive unfashionably early,” Lady E. went on. “To see how the preparations for the competition are going.”
“Take it, hide it,” Jason whispered to Flossie, his voice tight with laughter. He nudged her back.
“I can’t,” she hissed over her shoulder, almost in pain with the effort of holding her laughter inside. “It’s too late.”
It was beyond too late. Lady E. and Polly rounded the corner of the rose bushes and started up the row toward them. Flossie heard a quick swish of fabric behind her.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Lady E. said.
“Not at all,” Jason answered as graciously as if they’d met in a ballroom. He stepped to Flossie’s side, then in front of her to greet Lady E. “I was just discussing those very preparations with Flossie here.” He turned to Flossie. “And you say the boats are all in order?”
“They are, sir.” Flossie curtsied, keeping her face turned down.
Anyone with eyes would see the deep flush on both of their faces and know the conversation had nothing to do with boats. Judging by the sly twist of her lips, Polly, at least, knew something was in the wind. She always did.
“I’ll just see to those preparations,” Flossie finished with a curtsy for Jason.
As she rose, she noticed the flap of his coat pocket was tucked in at the side. He’d put the item in his pocket. Lord help the both of them. She scurried off. Polly gave her a questioning look as Flossie passed her. She tried to return that look with one that communicated “I’ll explain later,” though what she would explain was anyone’s guess. There was nothing else she could do. The afternoon was shaping up to be far more interesting than she and Jason had planned.
Alexandra
Few things had every brought Alex such undiluted, languid joy as stretching to wakefulness with a man’s warm, naked body beside her. She reveled in the press of her skin against George’s, hummed at the pleasure of joints that were still loose and limber from making love so passionately the night before. She took in a breath, relishing the scent of George’s skin as he slept on.
She still couldn’t believe it had actually happened. The whole thing had taken her completely by surprise. One moment she and George had been participating in a dull and uncomfortable game of charades in the large parlor with the other guests, the next they were wrapped in each other, lips locked in passion, behind a screen in one of the side rooms, and before she could blink, they were alone in her bedroom, stripping each other’s clothes off. The whole thing had been a whirlwind, and she had been swept away in it.
George stirred, groaning as he awoke. He rolled to his back, shifting away from Alex, and rubbed his face.
“What time is it?” he asked.
A slow smile spread across Alex’s lips. “Who cares about time when we have spent ours so deliciously?”
A heavy pause hung in the air. George dropped his arm to the side and blew out a breath. “I’m serious. What time is it?”
Alex’s grin dropped as the gravity of his tone hit her. She sat up, clutching her bedclothes to her chest. Her hair was a mess, and she brushed it back with distracted movements as she sought out her clock. As soon as she saw the time, she gasped.
“It’s after ten thirty,” she said.
George muttered a curse and pushed himself out of bed on the side opposite her. “You shouldn’t have let me sleep in so late,” he admonished her, raking a hand though his hair and searching for his clothes on the floor.
Alex watched him, drank in the sight of his powerful, naked body. That body had shown her so much last night. He had touched her and caressed her and possessed her with the expertise of a master. Even now, his member was not entirely flaccid. She licked her lips, wishing they had the time for her to explore that part of him and many more in greater detail. Ah well, there would be time for that later. There would be a lifetime for that.
She watched until George tugged on his trousers and buttoned them, hiding what she wanted more of. “Where are my bloody suspenders?” he demanded, face scrunched in a frown.
“You wanted to use them to tease me,” she reminded him with a coy smile. In fact, he had detached them from his trousers and attempted to use them to tie her hands until she told him she’d rather use her hands to touch him.
“Oh.” The one, flat syllable was all George could manage. He stomped around the bed, swiping his shirt off the corner, and bent to retrieve the missing suspenders from the floor
on the far side.
It wasn’t until he was nearly fully dressed that Alex noticed both that she hadn’t made a single move to get up and dress herself and that George hadn’t once looked at her. She slipped out of bed now, feeling bold at displaying her nakedness to him.
Her boldness hit a snag with a burst of self-consciousness as a small, sticky wetness trickled down her inner thigh. A twist of fear at the potential consequences of their nocturnal activities clutched at her. Instead of going to George to wrap her arms around him for a morning kiss, she skipped to her washstand and poured water from the pitcher to the basin, wetting a rag to clean herself. Faint traces of blood came away on the cloth along with the remnants of George’s ardor. She hissed. She should know better, about all of it.
“I’ll just pop out and go down to breakfast,” George said, heading for the door.
“No,” Alex entreated him. “Wait for me?”
He pivoted toward her, letting out an impatient breath. The irritated droop of his shoulders straightened as he beheld her. His eyes raked her body settling in the most inappropriate places possible. Alex tingled with the wickedness reflected in those eyes.
“You are a sight,” he told her, strolling to her and reaching to cup her breasts. “A beautiful sight.”
He raked his thumbs over her nipples, and Alex gasped. His hands swept down her sides and over her hips to squeeze her backside.
“I’d bend you over this table and take you hard and fast from behind, if we had the time,” he murmured, biting his lip.
The boldness of those words sent dangerous shivers through Alex. She tried to imagine what he was suggesting, and as uncertain as the pictures that came to her mind were, she thought she just might like being made love to that way.
“Perhaps we could try that later?” she suggested.
He stared, long and deep, into her eyes. Then he drew in a breath and stepped away from her. “Maybe. I’m not certain what’s on the menu tonight.” He turned away, heading for the door.
