by Josie Litton
Rearing back slightly, he observed the evidence of his handiwork with a smile of pure wickedness.
“Strawberry and cream, my favorite.”
To her utter mortification, Gemma saw that the evidence of her own intense arousal was oozing out of her, coating the red, ripe berry and dripping onto the blanket beneath her.
“Pop it out,” her husband ordered.
With a groan, she obeyed. He seized the berry as it dropped from her and raised it to his lips. Holding her stunned gaze, he took an avid bite, savoring it thoroughly even to licking the last drop from the corners of his mouth.
“Delicious.”
Holding the remainder between his fingers, he said, “Your turn. Taste how sweet you are.”
Shamed beyond words, she did as he said, taking the remains of the berry onto her tongue. The fruit was sweet, if also slightly salty. She had just barely managed to swallow it when her husband reached for the second bottle of champagne. This time, instead of easing the cork out, he forced it loose.
The pressure of the exploding spray against Gemma’s tormented clit was her undoing. Her back arched as she came helplessly, her hands digging into the soaked blanket and her entire body convulsing. She was hurtled from one peak to another and another until at last, she lapsed exhausted and shuddering against the fertile earth.
All in all, as picnics went it was one to remember.
But it wasn’t over, not quite yet.
Chapter Four
You’ll want to clean up before we go back,” Charles said some time later.
Exhausted as she was, Gemma could barely stir. She was vaguely aware that she lay in a most inelegant position, on her back with her arms and legs akimbo, leaving her shamefully exposed.
Yet she could not muster the strength to move. The languor that filled her was bone deep. She felt at once utterly defeated yet exalted. As though she was still discovering just the bare outlines of the power rooted deep within her.
Even so, she supposed that he was right. She certainly did not want to return to the house in her present state of obvious carnal excess. Sister Ismay would have a field day. Worse yet was the thought of how Brother Harold would react.
“Is there a shower somewhere?” she asked.
Her husband laughed. “You’re not a country girl, are you?” He cocked his head toward the pond. “That’s the perfect swimming hole, spring fed and as fresh as you could ever ask.”
“If you say so,” Gemma mumbled. She was half-way back to sleep when her husband stood, lifted her effortless and holding her in the crook of one arm, strode over to a thick, knotted rope dangling from the thick branch of a tree.
“What,” she said, “what are you going to--?”
Too late. With an easy motion born of long practice, he grasped the rope, took a running leap and swung them both out over the water before suddenly letting to. They fell what seemed like an immense distance.
One instant they were hurtling toward the blue-green depths of the water that was closing over their heads and the next Charles was propelling them back to the surface with a few easy strokes of his powerful legs.
As they broke through, Gemma gasped for air. She was soaked, stunned, shivering and thoroughly exhilarated. The shock of the cool water had banished her lassitude. With a laugh, she struck out, swimming toward the middle of the pond as her husband gave chase.
“No wonder you loved coming here,” she said over her shoulder. “It’s idyllic.”
He looked pleased that she thought so. Belatedly, it occurred to her that Charles had wanted to share this place with her. That thought struck a tender chord at odds with his rough use of her.
He caught her where the pond folded inward toward a field left fallow for the season with the result that nature had filled it with wild flowers. The scents of bright red poppies, gold yarrow and pale pink rose angels filled the air. Industrious bees buzzed close to the water’s edge. A family of ducks, paddling by, eyed the cavorting humans curiously.
For all that, Gemma saw only her husband. Tilting her head back, he looked into her eyes for a long moment before kissing her quite gently and thoroughly.
“Can we come back?” she asked a few minutes later. A vivid blush suffused her cheeks. Despite the coolness of the water, she felt pleasantly warm. “I mean without others being around.”
“I shall banish them at regular intervals,” he promised and drew her even closer, holding her with such tender care that her eyes sheened with tears.
They frolicked in the water until the sun, drifting westward, fell below the tops of the surrounding trees. Walking back to the little coupe dried them off sufficiently that they were able to re-don their clothes.
The drive home along the road dappled in sunlight was all too swift. As much as Gemma appreciated the beauty of Ardsley Manor, she dreaded every moment that brought her closer to the Furies. If only she and Charles could remain, just the two of them, together on a road of their own making. How much more pleasant life would be.
As though he sensed her unease, her husband said, “I don’t believe that I’m in the mood to share you again quite yet. How about a hot bath, followed by a private dinner in our suite?”
Her look of such intense gratitude won her a boyish smile and a firm pat on her bottom as he guided her up the stairs.
∞ ∞ ∞
Deep in the night, Gemma awoke to the sound of rain pelting against the tall bedroom windows. Turning over, she realized that she was alone in the bed. This was such an unusual occurrence--she could not recall it ever happening before--that she sat up at once and looked around.
Charles was nowhere to be seen. No crack of light shown beneath the door to the bathroom. The chair he favored by the fireplace was empty. Where had he gone?
Swiftly, she left the bed, pulled on a white satin robe and cracked open the door to the hallway. Nothing stirred on the other side. The hallway itself was in shadows relieved only by the dim glow from sconces set at regular intervals along its considerable length. Other lights left on below illuminated the curve of the broad staircase.
She slipped down the steps silently, her fingers brushing lightly over the polished bannister. At the bottom, she paused and strained her ears for any sound. The last thing she wanted was to run into one of the Furies. Denied the opportunity to bait her at dinner, they would be in even viler form than usual.
Softly, padding on bare feet, she crossed the marble entry hall with its high, domed ceiling and made her way toward Charles’ study. Her persistence was rewarded; the door to his inner sanctum stood an inch or two ajar, enough to let a slim beacon of light escape.
For a scant instant, she hesitated. As uncharacteristic as it was of him, what if her husband truly wanted to be alone? What if he sent her packing with unkind words that would crush her lingering pleasure in the day they had shared?
Scarcely had that fear arisen than she rejected it firmly. She was his wife; his well-being should be her concern.
Head up, she laid her hand against the door and eased it open just far enough for her to slip through into the study. Glancing around the room, she saw a single lamp glowing on the desk. Otherwise, the large space was wreathed in shadows.
Even so, she could make out the unmistakable form of her husband sprawled on the leather couch. A shiver ran through her as she remembered kneeling before it, panties around her knees and her bared bottom in the air. The firm smack of Charles’ hand against her--
Never mind about that; she had a duty to see to. Crouching down beside him, she wrinkled her nose. The smell of whiskey was unmistakable. To her knowledge, her husband enjoyed his drink but certainly not to excess.
She had never seen him drunk. Still, if the mostly empty bottle of Glenfiddich 21 Year Old Gran Reserva on the floor beside the couch was an indication, he had imbibed far more than his usual.
Puzzled as to what could have prompted such behavior, she wondered if she should leave him to sleep it off. He didn’t seem likely to com
e to any harm. Still, she didn’t want him to catch a chill.
He was naked, of course, not having bothered to put on any clothes before traipsing down to his fortress of solitude. She had only the satin robe and was loathe to give it up. Fortunately, some sensible soul had left a soft wool throw neatly folded and laid over the back of the couch.
She was about to spread the cover over her errant husband when Charles suddenly snorted in his sleep. The sound so startled her that she dropped the throw over his head. Before she could seize it back, he sat up flailing.
His arm knocked over the small table beside the couch. It fell with a clatter and rolled into a suit of armor standing next to one of the bookcases. Fortunately, the armor was the real thing--not some cheap tin reproduction. Its weight held it firmly in place, limiting any further damage to the room, even as Gemma scurried to calm her befuddled husband.
“Wha’!” he yelled, trying to yank the cover off but only managing to get it twisted more firmly around his head. “Bloody hell! B’igands! B’igands ina house! To arms!”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Gemma muttered. She seized the throw and swiftly yanked it from him.
Blinking in the sudden light, Charles looked up at her in bewilderment. “Gemma? W’at are you doin’ here?”
“Seeing to my husband,” she said with some asperity. “I woke and you were gone. I didn’t know where you were.”
He blinked at her owlishly. “Couldn’t sleep. Big day t’morrow.”
“You mean the fair?” She couldn’t hide her surprise. However important the event was to the people of Ardsley, why would it be of such concern to their lord that he downed the better part of a bottle of whiskey in anticipation of it?
Before she could think of a way to ask him, he sighed deeply. “Don’t wanna be the one to muck it up, not af’er all this time.”
Gemma frowned. How did one muck up a country fair? Give the blue ribbon to the wrong pig? Choose the less popular pie? Fail to join in the dancing or mummery or whatever quaint country past-times would be going on?
She had no idea and her husband appeared in no condition to enlighten her. Slumped upright on the couch, he seized her hand and tugged her down sharply. She landed on his lap, her legs straddling his muscular thighs.
Nuzzling her neck wetly, he mumbled, “You’re so sweet. Thought tha’ first time I saw you. Sweet Gemma…thaz your name.”
The white satin robe was slipping open. As she clutched the top of it together, Charles pulled the bottom farther apart, baring the smooth cleft of her thighs.
“Ho, ho, wha’ have we here?”
“Never mind that, you’re in no condition to--”
“Wha’ now? You besmirch my ‘asculinity, madam. I’ll show you--”
Trying hard not to inhale too deeply--the fumes really were that bad--Gemma managed to get both her feet on the floor and stand up.
Charles pouted at her. He looked for all the world like a boy denied his favorite toy. Petulantly, he muttered, “A wife refusin’ her husband…sad.”
Hastily, she said, “I’m not refusing. Just not here. It’s…chilly, with the rain and all. Let’s go back upstairs.”
He brightened at once. “Now you’re talkin’…I got a few ideas--”
She was sure that he did but she was no in mood to indulge him. Not that she thought he was in any condition to carry through. Getting him up the winding staircase was a challenge.
By the time they reached the top, her legs shook so violently that she feared she might have to leave him right there. But surely that would not be safe; he was foolish enough with drink to tumble down again.
With the last of her strength, she managed to haul him the rest of the way, thankful that she’d had the foresight to leave the bedroom door open. They fell together onto the bed.
She was still trying to untangle herself when his sonorous snores filled her ears. For a moment, she thought to grab a blanket and find refuge in the dressing room but the effort was beyond her. With a sigh, Gemma covered them both and settled down to an uneasy rest punctuated by dreams of affronted pie ladies and strutting pigs.
Chapter Five
At the first hint of dawn on the day of the Village Fair, the few tardy volleys of rain still splattering on the wooden booths set up around the Green hastened away. The sky in the east hurried to brighten.
As the first boisterous lark burst forth, the human inhabitants could pull aside their bedroom curtains and confirm that once again Nature was holding up her end of the grand bargain.
It was a fact, recorded in the Ardsley Chronicles dating back centuries before the Conquest, that it had never rained on the day of the Village Fair. Not for well over a thousand years and in all likelihood not even before then.
This remarkable consistency of weather--inconceivable anywhere else the length and breadth of the British Isles--was greeted by the locals with a knowing nod. It was nothing less than what they expected.
Still, there was much left to do. Having dressed hurriedly and bolted down their simple breakfasts, men, women and children streamed from their homes eager to complete the tasks awaiting them and begin their revelries.
In the manor house, still snug abed, Gemma awoke more gradually. She recalled the events of the previous night but they felt more like a dream than reality.
Had she really gone downstairs to find Charles in a state of inebriation over the fair? Then dragged him upstairs and put him to bed like the good wife she was not--in the secret recesses of her heart--certain that she wanted to be?
With the brightness of day all that seemed inconceivable. Yet her memory would not be denied. Determined to know the truth, she turned over in the bed with a view to assessing her husband’s condition for herself.
Once again, he was not there.
Perplexed, one might even say perturbed, Gemma rose, showered and dressed with haste. She made her way down to the family dining room expecting to find the miscreant imbibing some appropriately foul hang-over remedy.
Instead, there was only Sister Ismay, dressed in her usual riding pants, jacket and high, gleaming boots. She was just finishing up what appeared to have been a breakfast of large, bloody steak topped by several runny eggs.
“Good morning,” Gemma said with as much enthusiasm as she could muster.
Without looking up from the morning’s edition of the “Horse Breeder’s Gazette”, Ismay grunted, “Morning.”
Retreating to the buffet, Gemma tried to appear engrossed in the choices to be had but she had little appetite. Only one matter claimed her attention. “Is Charles about?”
“In the village, I should think. Overseeing the final preparations.”
Mindful of her wifely duties, Gemma asked, “Shouldn’t I be there as well, helping out somehow?”
Ismay folded her paper, set it aside and arched an overly plucked eyebrow.
“I suppose you can be, if you wish. But this being your first time, you might want to put your feet up and get a little extra rest before plunging in, as it were.”
This apparent thoughtfulness for her well-being was so out of keeping with her sister-in-law’s usual manner that Gemma had no idea what to make of it.
“Surely not? I’d much prefer to be of use.”
Ismay’s brayed of laughter was most disconcerting. That and the flash of her long teeth put Gemma in mind of a particularly nasty mule that she had encountered as a child on holiday in some godforsaken part of Scotland. No doubt Ismay herself, with her devotion to thoroughbreds, would have been quite put out by that but the resemblance was unmistakable all the same.
“Oh, dearest, you will be, don’t doubt that for a moment. But if you insist…”
She pulled out the pocket watch from the vest of her riding habit. It was a mannish affectation, one of many she sported yet somehow it suited her.
“The opening celebrations are an hour from now. Much tooting of horns, the vicar will say something appropriate and Charles will cut the ribbon officially open
ing the fair. I’m sure everyone would be thrilled to get a look at you.”
Although she did not relish the thought of being such a focus of attention, Gemma was relieved to have a proper task. “Then I shall be there.”
Ismay rose, barred her teeth again and departed. Her laughter drifted behind her down the hall and out the front door.
At a loss what to make of any of that, Gemma nonetheless decided that it would be wise to fortify herself. Grateful for the absence of Mother and Brother Harold, she took advantage of the opportunity to eat a decent breakfast.
She managed to finish off a coddled egg, a piece of thick Irish bacon--sinfully delicious--and a slice of buttered toast before the day beckoned, startlingly bright, filled with bird song and all together lovely.
