As her legs began to cramp at the unnatural position she was in, Felicity decided she had no option but to move. She couldn't sense anyone nearby, and usually her sense stood her well. However, she mused, as she decided she had to change position if she didn't want to be atrophied, her sense of what was right and good had let her down severely of late.
She wriggled out of the gloom, and sneezed as once more the dust rose. Whoever is the maid in here needs to be taught the basic premise of housekeeping. This is not what one expects to be found in a chamber of a gentleman's house however small. Not for the first time since her impromptu visit a week earlier, she wondered about the gentleman who might live here. Did he have a wife she could appeal to? Would they even listen, or say she was over reacting? Perhaps she was, but she needed time to think without pressure or coercion.
Felicity stood, hands on hips and surveyed her surroundings properly. Before her mad scramble to hide, all she had noticed was the mess. Now she had time to look closely. Her first impression was correct: the room was a mess. But she realized it was generally an organized one. The chaos was, she suspected, deliberate, even though she had no idea why. She guessed whoever created it could put a hand to what they needed within the blink of an eye.
She walked to the door and squinted into the lock. She'd been correct in her surmise. They key was still lodged there and she wouldn't be able to use her key to escape. She set the problem aside to be thought about later. Maggie would come and find her eventually—perhaps.
The bottle of brandy she'd espied earlier was still on the desk. Although she would have preferred a dish of tea, or even a glass of Madeira, Felicity decided brandy would do. She'd have to wait in the room until Maggie realized she was missing from the servant's room she'd occupied these last days. All had worked well whilst His Lordship was away visiting another hunt in the next shire. He'd returned two days before and Felicity's wandering had been sharply curtailed. However, her room in the attic was stifling, and she'd needed air. As she looked carefully out of her tiny window she'd seen the rear view of two men disappear toward the paddock, and taken the chance to stretch her legs.
Their return had taken everyone by surprise and Felicity had hurried up the stairs to be almost caught before she could gain the safely of her room.
She'd left for fresh air and freedom in such a hurry, sustenance had been her last thought. Her stomach growled, and Felicity bit her lip as she walked toward the desk. Then she stopped dead and stared at the floor.
In her rush to check on the state of the lock, she'd forgotten all about it, but there beside the bed was her silk scarf, its deep red color glowing in the dim light. With a prayer of thanks it hadn't been spotted she picked it up and wound it around her neck, before she firmly knotted it. She wouldn't dare lose it again. Next time she might not be so lucky.
Her mouth was parched, and she swallowed. If she couldn't eat she would have to drink. She was sure there would be a glass or goblet somewhere but she couldn't see one. No matter, I will drink from the bottle. Felicity sniggered as she pulled the cork and put the bottle to her mouth. If her papa could see her now, perhaps he wouldn't think her suitable for his plans. She took a hefty slug and sputtered as the fiery drink hit her taste buds. If this was brandy, the liquid her papa purported to be that spirit was an imposter. After the first shock receded, she realized she liked the taste and took a further mouthful.
Felicity held the bottle by the neck and wandered around the room. As she looked at the paintings on the walls—hunting and fishing scenes—and the books on the shelves—mainly atlases and what looked like breeding lines of hounds—Felicity wondered once more who lived there. Even after all this time, she still didn't know the name of 'His Lordship'. All the servants called him that or the master. Sometimes she wondered if his name was being withheld on purpose.
If only she'd listened to her cousin when she'd rambled on about the local population. But Judith had been so earnest that Felicity had switched off her brain, and waited until Judith had finished talking. Every conversation seemed to finish with…
"So all will be well, since there is nothing to upset your papa or your intended."
Felicity had remonstrated in vain with her. "Judith, I'm intended for no one. Oh Papa may think so, but I assure you I've not been asked, and as far as I'm concerned, I have no understanding with anyone. If, if I say, a certain gentleman is interested in me, I want to be more than expediency. I want him to at least have a little regard for me as a person, want to take me as a lover, not a commodity." Her blunt words had shocked her cousin, who had blanched, blushed and changed the subject. It seemed since her marriage Judith had become matronly and complacent. To say nothing of accepting the mundane. Her cousin's husband, Lord Welland, apart from his pomposity, was, Felicity supposed, all that was kind. But to her mind, he was boring. Content to sit in his study and manage his estates, all without an iota of personality. However if Judith were happy, who was Felicity to condemn that state just because she knew it wouldn't suit her? Hence her presence somewhere other than her cousin's house.
Felicity hiccupped and giggled. The level of brandy in the bottle had dropped dramatically, and she realized something pressing. She needed the chamber pot, and had no idea where one would be. There was no bedside cupboard similar to the one she had in her own bedchamber. That had been all the more reason for assuming this room unused. A cursory check told her there was no facility to be found in the room, and that indeed however she jiggled the lock, the key wouldn't budge. The exit to the hallway was impassible. However the other entrance she had noticed was not. With more haste than secrecy, she lifted the latch and pushed that door open.
It led to a bedchamber, which was obviously used for its intended design. The large canopied bed was covered in a deep blue silk spread that was not obscured in papers and clothes. The dresser top was neat and tidy, with only a set of brushes on it, and the surfaces of the dresser and the tallboy were free from dust, and gleaming with polish. Another doorway on the far wall was ajar, and through it she saw the end of a bath. Perhaps the chamber pot was in there?
It was, and she used it with relief. After washing her hands and face, Felicity wandered back into the bedroom. What on earth was she going to do? It was one thing running, another to not have a well thought out plan. But all she had known was she couldn't stay and await her fate. She was sure the gentleman in question was all he should be, but she wanted more than that in a husband. Why her papa, after thirty years devoted to her mama should want less for his daughter, she couldn't imagine. But to be told she was to accept the eminent lord's suit, without any feelings other than that of disinterest went against the grain, and she couldn't do it. Indeed the only time she had met the man and he had told her he was going to speak to her papa, she'd asked him "why?"
He'd looked at her blankly, and told her he thought they would suit. Also he needed a wife; the government preferred it so.
The government perhaps, however Felicity didn't. She'd smiled and told him that it was not worth his time or effort, as she didn't think they would suit. Lord Corby, had patted her hand, like I was his pet spaniel, and told her she was wrong. He was a man, and not to worry, they would suit. Men knew these things. Felicity could only gawp as he then bowed and left her.
The following day, after appealing to her papa's better nature, something she now accepted he didn't have, Felicity left to visit her cousin—only to be told Lord Corby would be calling on her. To know that Judith and her husband agreed with her father had been the last straw.
So she fled. To end up in the bedchamber of someone she didn't know, in a house she wasn't sure where it was, and having left her cousin a very lame excuse for her departure—in a note no less, not even in person.
The brandy was having an effect on her. Nevertheless she tipped the bottle and drank the last inch or so. The room swayed and settled.
Am I drunk? I can see two beds, therefore surely 'twill be in order for me to rest for a while on
one of them? Until I decide what to do and where to do it. Felicity hitched up her skirts and climbed onto the high bed. Her knees sank into a soft feather mattress and she sniggered. If she rolled over she'd be surrounded by it. Could a bed smother one?
Did she care? Felicity yawned and looked at the bottle still in her hand. It was empty. Her tummy rumbled and she giggled and rubbed it. There was little chance of filling it for a while, not when she was so tired. She'd just close her eyes for a few minutes, sort out a plan and leave. All she needed was time to regroup.
Chapter Five
Nash squinted at the staircase and frowned. Since when had it swayed?
Beside him Randall groaned. "I think your stairs might not like me. They are trying to bite. That is not friendly." He hit Nash on the shoulder. "Is it?" he demanded. "Not good at all, and me a guest. I tell you, you need to control them better. I bet you that they wouldn't be so unfriendly toward Perry, they would not dare." He snorted.
Nash decided the noise was not unlike that a stallion that sensed a mate. He didn't think that was the case with Randall, but who knew?
"You sort 'em Nash; I'll wait in the library until you soothe them." With a tipsy bow, Randall turned and staggered back the way they had come. Nash had no doubt his brother would be snoring in the library chair within minutes.
With a shrug—or what he thought might be a shrug—Nash looked at the offending fixture they had been attempting to mount. It was true they did seem to be ready to attack in waves. "Down boys." He sniggered, recognizing that reprimanding a staircase was not the attitude of a sober man. Nash took a deep breath and put his foot where he decided the first step should be. He was right. Emboldened, he lifted his other foot and waggled it in the air. The waggling helped him decide what moved the most, him or the wooden treads. He tilted his head to one side and decided that made the sway worse. Straight up was the way forward, for head, feet and indeed all his body.
"Be brave." Why did his voice sound unnaturally loud? No matter, he thrust his foot downward. The jarring that went from his foot to his chin as he hit the hard wood was most unpleasant. Nash looked upward. He still had a long way to go. Even after he tried to shake his head to clear it, the ascent still looked daunting. Perhaps all fours would be better?
He tried; it was. Ha, let Perry tell him he had no mind for complications, he'd solved this problem. Nevertheless, one thing was certain, Perry would not have been beaten by such a small obstacle as a moving staircase. With hardly a thought to what his elder brother would say if he could see him, he adjusted his cock, which, with all the abnormal moves, was perking up quite nicely. It was a pity it was all in vain. His weapon would have to get used to abstinence just as he would. Nash bit his lip, and wondered not for the first time why he credited his prick with a mind and a will of its own. He moved onto his hip and rubbed his tool for a second. Another wayward thought crossed his mind. Why did one small albeit important part of a gentleman's anatomy have so many ways of describing it? He grinned at the now considerable bulge.
"And want, and I will be your master My Lord pego." Nash put one hand in front of the other and followed them with his feet, until inch by swaying inch he reached the landing. As he knelt there he pondered his next move. He ought to stand up, just in case. Nash rolled his eyes and wished he hadn't. Now he could add a headache to his motion sickness. Just in case of what? The plague? An earthquake? Neither was likely in Rutlandshire. Ah, he remembered. The servants. Not that he expected them to be about anytime soon, but he should set a good example.
Nash moved his head cautiously and scanned the landing. The only thing available as leverage was the newel post or several door handles. For no reason he could think of he crawled to the door at the left hand side, and began to pull himself up. His nose was a mere inch or so from the wood. He'd never really scanned the grain before but the tiny pattern delighted him. It was something to marvel over when his brain decided to work once more.
Eventually, with more effort than he felt it deserved, Nash stood upright. The last time he had expended so much energy was when he was balls deep inside Madame Felice. He smiled reminiscently. She had given him a night to remember. It had saddened him, that after he had fallen into an exhausted sleep with her in his arms, he awoke to find himself cuddling a pillow. On questioning his staff, no one would admit to seeing any hint of his visitor. She had, to all intents and purposes, vanished into thin air. It had taken the tiny heart inked on his groin to make him believe it himself. Those hours spent with her had been amazing. How one woman—in a mask no less—could tie him in knots for months was way beyond him. Especially as their time together had been so short: five hours give or take and over half of one of those hours they had spent having matching tattoos. At least it meant he'd recognize her again. As long as she is naked and I can see her cunt and that telltale sign. Sadly Nash had long accepted that was the least likely scenario ever.
The door he had decided on was the one he'd locked earlier. He searched his mind to try and remember why he had done that. Then he remembered, it had been open. Someone had wanted his brandy … but he thought he'd left it there? Or was it something else? He had brought his stud books up, and some of the latest progeny were valuable. In his bosky state Nash accepted he couldn't fathom the mystery out, or have the skill to insert a key into a lock. But he intended to. It took four tries to look for the key in his pocket and realize it wasn't there but in the lock, and a further five to work out how to turn it. He thrust his tongue between his teeth and concentrated. Then the key turned, he lifted the latch and all but fell into the room as the door swung open.
"Ha, thought you could beat me, oh door? Not a chance, I am skilled and," he hiccupped. "And … where's it gone?" He addressed the empty room with a question. "Where have you hidden it? I want that scarf. It re-reminds me of, oh hell." He put his hand to his head. No matter what the scarf, or lack of the scarf reminded him, he needed to lie down. That meant on his bed, where there was room, and not papers.
Sadly, it also meant navigating another closed door. That was the one into his bedchamber and it wouldn't be locked. His hand provided a helpful tool to anchor him to the wall as he shuffled the few yards to his goal.
It took him longer than he'd ever thought it was possible, but finally he lifted the latch and stumbled over the threshold of his bedroom. The scent of lavender was stronger now. Nash sniffed. Damn! Why can't I remember who or what I associate with that smell?
The room was shadowed, even though his shutters and curtains were open. Nash half remembered he had given his valet the evening off, and told him not to wait up. He'd known the evening would stretch into the small hours. It was so rarely he and Randall had a chance to get together without anyone else around. Now faced with the need to remove his pantaloons he wondered whether it had been a wise move. Not that Ericht usually undressed him per se, but he had been known to help on the odd occasion that Nash was what Ericht called diplomatically, 'under the weather'.
Nash swayed around the doorjamb and rocked on his heels as he decided how best to get to the bed.
"One," He lifted his leg ridiculously high and placed it with exaggerated care a foot or so ahead of his body. "Two … I can do this. Three, four, five." He high stepped toward the chair set at right angles to his bed and collapsed onto it. "I did it." He wriggled his nose. The chair was all fine and dandy, but he needed his bed. With a sigh Nash toed his house shoes off, and looked at his pantaloons. They were knitted and stretched to fit the contours of his body. Therefore in theory they should pull down even over his still hard cock. It was no good; once he was able to rest in comfort he would have to take himself in hand. However, before then…
He struggled to his feet and with one hand to anchor him steady, he used his other to pull the garment over his cock and arse and thence down his legs. Once they gathered around his ankles, Nash used his feet to tug the pantaloons off and stepped over them. His shirt could stay. That was one effort too much. He measured the distance
to the bed. Two strides should do it.
The first stride worked. The second was slightly longer and had him wobbling, but it brought him to the edge of the mattress. He let his body fall forward.
Not onto the mattress, on to…
A body? He tried to see clearly. Two bodies? Surely not, not in his bed. He squinted, put his hand into the direction of where he thought one of the bodies could be, and patted flesh. Soft warm female flesh. His vision wavered and cleared enough to know it was one body…
It stirred. Nash levered himself to stand on the floor one more, loath to leave the soft comfort he'd found, but aware enough to know he needed to. He let his hand move to the left and drift up what he decided was a damn curvaceous thigh. If only he could see clearly just who had offered herself as his plaything. It would be best to have a face on the body he was about to fuck.
The body jerked as his fingers circled damp curls and he nipped her soft nub until it hardened in a beautiful mimicry of his cock. Then he let his fingers delve into the warm channel under them. The body tried to pull back even as a soft mewl showed him his ministrations were appreciated. Then he heard a scream, one that most certainly wasn't a sound of pleasure.
"Do not move," he said in a rough voice. He felt it only fair to warn whoever he was now filling with his fingers, and who he noted was writhing in time to his thrusts, that, "I have a weapon, and I will use it."
Chapter Six
Felicity was having a beautiful dream. Her brandy-filled, hazy mind was full of body thrumming pleasure. Someone was playing with her curls and increasing her juices. His—she knew it was a he—fingers teased and played with her nub, and then with an exquisite slowness pushed inside her cunt. She moaned and wriggled as he thrust into her channel. She squirmed. Why fingers? Why not his tool? A thought struck her. Dreams didn't talk. She opened her eyes and from out of the mist that surrounded her, and the semi lightness of the night, she saw a large figure. It loomed over her and she jerked back, no easy feat, as his hand clamped onto her skin like a limpet. The wicked fingers increased their pressure both inside her and over the tiny nub, which she had learned could give her so much pleasure.
Nash's Niche (Behind Closed Doors) Page 4
