A Very Surrey SFS Christmas

by Nicola Davidson

  She whimpered. “I cannot wait for the return journey.”

  “You shall have to. Carriage wickedness is best done on country roads, town is too busy and even a kiss would cause mass swooning. Instead, you may take my arm as we stroll and imagine all the lovely things to come.”

  A quarter hour later, their driver found a place to stop just around the corner from the top of High Street. An enterprising young couple had set up a pie cart near Abbots Hospital, and when their driver and the two footmen glanced longingly at the meat pasties, Amelia laughingly nodded permission. After all, they only needed ribbon, and the haberdashery was less than fifty feet away on the cobbled street.

  As soon as they entered the red brick shop, the proprietor Mr. Johnston hurried forward. He was a darling, a middle-aged black man who possessed more style than Brummell and had a kind word for all.

  “Ah, Miss Tilton and Miss Irving! What a lovely surprise. How fares Lady Portia? We are all so excited for the ball. Such an unexpected treat.”

  Amelia grinned. Lady Portia had invited her favorite merchants and town clerks, as well as the retired soldiers living at Denham’s barracks, and every spinster or widow she could think of to join the local gentry and nobility at the upcoming masked ball. It was their fond hope Mr. Johnston would finally ask a certain widowed modiste to dance. They had been making calf eyes at each other long enough. “She is well, sir. Very busy with preparations. It is for this we visit you today; more red and white ribbon is required for the decorations, the same wide band if you have it. Several yards of each.”

  “Of course, of course! One moment, please.”

  As he bustled away to fetch the ribbon, Amelia glanced around the shop and sighed. This was a place she could spend a small fortune. Trimmings were a guilty pleasure, and as she no longer had her father’s deep pockets at her disposal, extremely important in refreshing older gowns to look new. It was quite astonishing the difference a pretty sash or some lace at the bodice or hem could make to a gown, and as she’d always been skilled at embroidery, the process was not burdensome.

  “You may look but not touch, Miss Tilton,” joked Beatrice. “Resist the siren’s call of the display cases.”

  Amelia sighed again. “Those cards of Irish lace. And braiding. And beads…”

  “I know. They are lovely.”

  “Here you are, Miss Tilton,” said Mr. Johnston, as he returned with the red and white ribbon. “I’ll just wrap it for you. Unless you require something else?”

  “No,” she said bravely. “That is all. Please add it to Lady Portia’s account.”

  “Excellent,” he replied, as he nimbly wrapped the ribbon in brown paper and secured it with string. “Until the ball, then!”

  Once outside, Amelia and Beatrice linked arms and turned to walk back toward the hospital. Snow kept threatening to fall, and Amelia shivered, glad of her cloak and fur-lined muff. Although she loved snow, especially at Christmastide, it would be a terrible shame if it interfered with the ball in any way. Everyone they’d spoken to awaited the occasion with great anticipation.

  “Good day, pretty ladies…” a voice slurred.

  She and Beatrice both froze as a man came to a stumbling halt in front of them. From his askew cravat, reddened cheeks and rather stale fragrance, he had been indulging heavily in the mulled wine.

  “Sir,” said Beatrice frostily.

  “Want to dance around my Maypole? It’s a fine one.”

  “Alas, it isn’t May but December.”

  He blinked and swayed on his feet, looking like a startled owl. “Didn’t think of that. Probably why no one has said yes.”

  Amelia nodded solemnly. “I’m sure that’s the reason. Good day, sir.”

  They hurried on, each looking at the other with glinting eyes, but somehow managed to contain their laughter until they were safely ensconced back in the carriage.

  “Oh dear,” Amelia choked out, giggling uncontrollably.

  Beatrice’s shoulders were shaking. “His Maypole. Good heavens. I’m sure he’d like to think of it so…then again, perhaps we were hasty in our refusal. In the spirit of Christmastide, we could have given it a pity dance. Then it might have frozen and snapped off, and no longer would he ask such an impertinent question.”

  “Indeed.”

  “I am relieved the gentleman was a placid drunk. If he proved otherwise, I would have been forced to demonstrate my skill with a dagger. Those lessons from Captain Denham do make me feel safer, even if the wretch refuses to teach me to box.”

  “He won’t even teach Lady Portia to do that, and he loves her madly,” Amelia pointed out.

  “Mmmmm. Speaking of loving someone madly…have I told you today that I do?”

  “Several times. And I adore to hear it. You could also, however, show me,” she replied hopefully, all her thwarted desire from earlier returning with a vengeance.

  “I could, couldn’t I?” Beatrice purred, licking her lips. “Perhaps, Miss Tilton, you might display your wares.”

  A heady rush of anticipation filled her, and she shuddered. No matter how many times they kissed and touched and fucked, she always wanted more. Accessories such as soft leather dildos had added spice to their nights, but there was something about a moving, swaying carriage that heated her lust to boiling point.

  “Well, Miss Irving,” she said, slowly raising her blue gown. “I have kidskin half-boots to sell…no? Perhaps some silk stockings?”

  “Higher,” growled Beatrice, her eyes glittering. “Show me that pretty pussy.”

  Leaning back against the leather squab, Amelia braced her feet on the floor, tilted her hips, and lifted her gown to her waist. The cool air made her shiver, yet at the same time, pure fire scorched through her body at the appreciative lust on her darling Bea’s face.

  “Merry nearly-Christmas, my love.”

  For one endless moment, Beatrice denied herself the feast her mouth watered for, and instead drank in the delight of Amelia happy, aroused, and at peace with her curvy body. She looked like an angel—albeit a very naughty angel—with her gown raised, pink cheeks, impish smile, and all the love in the world shining in her brown eyes.

  It was both humbling and powerful, making her feel as though she were ten feet tall. Yet each day as they learned new things about the other, navigating life as a couple in the face of societal and church distaste and disapproval, their love grew even stronger. Of course it wasn’t easy. Amelia’s father and her own parents might never accept their partnership, there would always be soirees they weren’t invited to, and those who would ignore them or worse in the street.

  But the joy they’d found together, the friendships formed with the other Society members, even Mittens the diabolical cat, dulled such pain. And certainly life was far too short to waste time seeking approval from those who would forever deny it.

  Love was worth the chance. The risk had reaped the best possible reward.

  “Miss Irving,” said Amelia softly. “You make me blush with such a tender gaze, but you are also withholding your tongue, which I find most unsporting.”

  “Cannot have that,” replied Beatrice, squeezing her thighs together against a wave of lust as her lover again tilted her hips in blatant invitation.

  Deliberately taking her time, she sat forward on the squab and trailed her fingertips up Amelia’s stocking-clad legs until they reached the garters. Then she began stroking the sensitive bare skin of her inner thighs.

  Amelia whimpered, spreading them wide, and the delicious scent of wet pussy filled the carriage. But scent wasn’t enough. She needed that spicy honey in her mouth.

  Moving to kneel on the floor of the swaying carriage, Beatrice braced a hand on each of Amelia’s thighs. Then she leaned down, teasing her lover with a brief kiss to the top of her mound, brushing the tangle of blonde bush but not parting it to attend to her swollen clitoris.

  “Beatrice. Lick my pussy. Make me come. Please.”

  She smiled at the desperation in Amelia
’s voice, knowing exactly what her dearest needed to make her gasp and writhe and cry out in ecstasy.

  “Patience, Miss Tilton. I’m exploring. But you should probably cover your mouth,” she murmured wickedly, nuzzling the crisp hair again, before parting it with a finger and lashing the slick pink flesh with her tongue.

  Amelia moaned, the guttural sound muffled by her hand. But Beatrice offered no quarter, fastening her lips around Amelia’s clitoris and sucking the swollen bud until her lover bucked and ground her pussy against Beatrice’s chin.

  “Ohhh,” said Amelia eventually. “Bea, that was…oh heavens, again?”

  Without replying, she licked a trail down the folds of Amelia’s labia until she reached her entrance. Then Beatrice pushed her tongue inside, reveling in the delectable flavor of pussy and the sound of Amelia’s panting gasps, an unspoken plea to be brought to orgasm a second time. How powerful it felt, giving Amelia such intense pleasure.

  Settling into an easy rhythm of advance and retreat, Beatrice fucked Amelia’s pussy with her tongue while gently circling her swollen clitoris with a single fingertip. Knowing her lover would be helpless to the sensations, she hastened the tempo of her tongue and increased the pressure of her fingertip. Amelia came with a choked cry, the inner walls of her pussy clenching and releasing hard as waves of ecstasy overtook her again.

  Amelia blinked dazed eyes. “Bea.”

  “Merry nearly-Christmas, my love,” she replied with a grin.

  “I want…I want to pleasure you now. Do you wish my mouth? My fingers?”

  Beatrice shivered, so close to orgasm herself she could scarcely bear it. Licking Amelia’s pussy always aroused her, as though somehow they were connected and the sensations shared. “Your fingers. Hard and deep.”

  In the confines of the swaying carriage, it was easier to turn and brace herself on the opposite squab, facing away from Amelia. Soon her knees rested against the edge of the cream leather, her hands flat on the wall of the carriage, and she waited in an agony of expectation as Amelia folded up her gown until her stocking-clad legs and bottom were fully exposed.

  “You know,” Amelia mused from behind her, trailing a fingernail across bare skin, “I am, and always will be, an ardent admirer of your backside.”

  “Why thank you,” Beatrice managed, biting her lip so she didn’t beg. The light scratch, the scent of her own wetness, the inability to see what was happening…almost overwhelming.

  Then two fingers teased her clitoris, and a low cry of acute need burst from her lips. Amelia had become so very proficient at this, swirling and dipping two fingers, ensuring they were slick with juices. But nothing could improve the sensation of being penetrated, of those skilled and delicate fingers inside her pussy, rubbing that spot just beyond her entrance that made her scream with pleasure. Well, nothing other than a faster, deeper cadence of course.

  Beatrice tried to muffle her cries in the crook of her arm, but Amelia remained tenderly ruthless and added a third finger, fucking her pussy hard. She soared to the stars, turned inside out and upside down as waves of bliss shook her entire body.

  When at last she recovered her senses, Amelia had righted her gown and moved to sit next to her on the seat.

  “I don’t know how,” Beatrice said breathlessly, as they cuddled together, “but each time it gets better.”

  Amelia nodded, her expression thoughtful. “I think because we talk. We know what we like, and care very much about each other’s pleasure. Giving and receiving. It always feels so…so right.”

  “And we love each other madly.”

  “Indeed, there is that,” said Amelia with a contented sigh. “Also, we have perfect timing. There are the gates to the manor. Oh dear. Do we look like we just fucked in this carriage?”

  Beatrice laughed. “Hopefully our cloaks will hide the worse gown wrinkles. Let me smooth your hair…”

  Minutes later, the carriage pulled up in front of the manor. When they climbed out, their close friend Lady Madeline Dare stood on the steps cradling her snugly wrapped and sweetly sleeping newborn daughter Jessica.

  “Well, good afternoon you two,” Madeline began, before her gray eyes took on an unholy glint. “I’m just waiting for the men, they went to fetch the yule log. Susanna is in the nursery with David, Lady Portia is supervising ballroom preparations, Fairfield is giving her advice, and I believe Mittens is enjoying a large saucer of cream. You have time to dash upstairs and change your gowns.”

  “Whatever for?” asked Amelia, batting her lashes.

  The titian-haired beauty hooted. “You think I don’t recognize evidence of carriage fucking when I see it? Good grief. I don’t know why we bother with careful gown folding. It never helps.”

  They all laughed. One of the most wonderful things about the Society members, all were so accepting and open-minded, so generous and fun, and often discussed topics that would send the stuffier men and women of the ton into full swoon.

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” said Beatrice. “My dearest and I are the ones history will forever insist are just good friends.”

  “Quite,” said Madeline, rolling her eyes. “Now go and change those gowns. I’ll see you soon.”

  And with that, Beatrice clasped Amelia’s hand, and they strolled into the manor.

  As always, in perfect step.

  Chapter 2

  Madeline and Ethan

  Two days before Christmas

  “More sweets, anyone? You’ve certainly earned all the treats after a full day’s hard work.”

  Lady Madeline Dare considered her plate, and the state of her belly, at Lady Portia’s words. After a delicious supper she was rather full, but the candied fruit, sugared almonds, and thick slices of fruit cake with vanilla custard were hard to decline. Besides, nowadays she always seemed to be hungry. No one had informed her that having a baby would leave her exhausted and yet ready to storm the kitchens at any given moment.

  “Perhaps a little more candied fruit,” she said, trying not to eye the dish too covetously as it was passed down the dining table. Much like an indoor picnic they dined informally at the manor; although Lady Portia’s servants were extremely discreet, everyone appreciated the ability to talk as freely as they did at a Society meeting.

  “Save some for me!” said Lady Susanna Fenton from across the table, and they exchanged a laughingly rueful look.

  As two new first time mothers, they had relied on each other heavily to navigate the initial bewildering, alarming, and emotional weeks. Dare had been a tower of strength for her after Jessica’s birth, and she knew Susanna enjoyed equally steadfast support from Lord Fenton and Clayton with baby David, but occasionally conversation with someone going through the same experience was necessary. Someone who could answer the important questions, such as what the bloody hell is my body doing now? And is it really so wrong to fall asleep while playing a pianoforte?

  “Do you need a rest, sweetheart?” asked Ethan, curving an arm around her shoulder, and she leaned into him with a sigh. He might be five years younger than her at twenty-four, but no woman could ask for a better husband. Loving, solicitous of her welfare, remarkably intelligent, and deliciously skilled in the bedchamber.

  “I think perhaps I do,” she admitted softly, although it pained her to say so. How humbling it had been, to go from a woman who could dance until dawn at a ball, or fuck in a carriage for hours and still be eager for more, to a woman whose current lustiest fantasy involved pillows, quilts, and a full night’s uninterrupted sleep.

  “Go, gel,” said Fairfield, almost sympathetically, from the end of the table. “Before you droop face-first into the syllabub, or start rattling the wineglasses with lady snuffles.”

  Her gaze narrowed. “I do not lady snuffle.”

  Ethan coughed, then spluttered as she lovingly gouged his ribs with her elbow. Her husband hardly had a leg to stand on when it came to snores, he, the sporadic Lord of Gentle Rolling Thunder.

  Captain Denham gr
inned. “What my father meant to say is, by all means excuse yourself. Portia and I are planning to thrash him soundly at whist in the drawing room, so will extract vengeance on your behalf. Anyone is welcome to join us…well, except Mittens of course. I’m quite convinced the knocking of items onto the floor is a ruse to distract from blatant cheating.”

  Amelia giggled. “That makes perfect sense, come to think of it. Bea and I will gladly join you, after we’ve sacrificed another ball of yarn to the cause.”

  Susanna, Clayton, and Fenton also agreed to play for a round, but when Madeline got to her feet, Ethan joined her. After wishing all a good evening, they departed the dining room for the grand staircase to the left of the entrance hall. The stairs seemed to multiply as she climbed them, and she was glad of Ethan’s arm to assist, but she needed to check on Jessica before a rest.

  As soon as they entered the temporary nursery, the experienced older maid Lady Portia had graciously employed for the duration of their stay leaped up and curtsied.

  “Good evening, Lord Dare, Lady Dare. The little lamb is fast asleep. She had a brief cry earlier, but when I rocked her she settled again.”

  “Thank you,” said Madeline, peering into the wooden cradle at her six-week old daughter, undoubtedly the loveliest baby ever born. At the moment Jessica had a wispy cap of red hair and blue eyes, but nearly every London matron who stopped and cooed had been adamant that would change when she was older.

  Ethan stood behind her, reaching around to adjust Jessica’s blanket. “She’s a cherub. It’s hard to believe this little miss can yowl louder than Mittens.”

  “Shhhhhh. Do not say such a thing out loud. The cat might consider it a challenge.”

  “I’m quite certain that cat considers all things a challenge. Beatrice calls her the empress of destruction, and it’s hard to see anyone or anything usurping the title.”

  Madeline smiled. “Oh, I don’t know. Give Jessica a few years…”

  He stepped back from the cradle, and after one more fond glance at her tiny rosebud-perfect form, they left the nursery. The other thing matrons often said: let the baby sleep. That advice, she concurred with completely.