Kitty huffed in frustration and crept away from the bedroom door. So much for the good telling-off she’d been hoping to hear.
She stomped down the stairs, her jaw clenched, her brows drawn in a sharp frown. Oh, if she were high-bred, she’d give the French bit a damn good hiding. That would sort her out. Kitty grinned, an even better idea occurring to her. What Pascale needed was a good firm prick inside her. That would turn up the corners on that tight little mouth of hers.
Then again, if there were any lusty young men going spare, Kitty was going to be first in the queue. Fingers
were nice enough and they did the trick, but there was nothing like a proper thrusting to get a girl all hot and dizzy.
As she stepped on to the tiled floor of the hall, there was a loud rapping at the front door. She ignored it. That wasn’t her job. Then a holler from below stairs told her it was. She swore volubly. Housemaid, parlourmaid, cook’s skivvy and, now, the cursed butler. She should have stayed at home. Slopping out suds was a lark compared to this.
She opened the heavy oak door to find a top-hatted cabman standing before her. Kitty smiled coquettishly and looked at him from beneath lowered eyelashes. Well, he was under thirty years, she thought. But the man, unmoved, merely handed her an envelope, stating it was for Charles Longleigh, Esquire. Then he bid her a curt good day and made his way down the steps.
Kitty sighed and closed the door. These Londoners weren’t up to bantering the way country folk were. She stared at the envelope, not quite knowing what to do with it. Then she remembered: letters went on the hall table.
She turned smartly, smug to think how quickly she was learning. But it had gone. The table had gone. Kitty scowled at the empty space. The new missis must have had it carted off, along with everything else she didn’t much care for. What a waste of good polishing.
There was a shout from the basement stairs. Cook, her fat cheeks bulging, emerged from the doorway at the far end of the corridor.
‘Kitty Preedy,’ she yelled, wagging her finger. ‘If I find you shirking once more, I’ll have your guts for garters. Get down here. There’s work to be done.’
Kitty groaned and pushed the letter into the deep pockets of her skirt. When she had a spare moment she’d breathe. Then she’d give the master his letter.
* * *
Dusk had yet to fall but in Clarissa’s bedroom the long, crimson curtains were already drawn. The waning sunlight filtered through them as a soft red hue. It turned the oak dado into mahogany and the gilt picture frames into rose-gold.
In the grate a small fire burnt. It had been lit not for heat, but for the curling irons. Clarissa sat before it in the hip bath, feeling deliciously languid. Her long legs, crooked over the front of the tub, gleamed like amber in the flickering light. Her head lolled against the sloping back. Her eyes were closed.
Pascale had a magical touch. She didn’t just cleanse. She massaged and soothed, her touch both firm and gentle. While she worked, she murmured soft compliments and hummed lazy melodies. Any friction between them had now melted away. They shared a calming lassitude, undercut with the tension of anticipation.
Pascale, kneeling by the tub, dipped the sponge into the soapy, attar-scented water. With a slow, sensuous movement she swept it up, through the valley of Clarissa’s breasts and briefly over the full, high mounds. She rubbed it across her shoulders and the flat of her chest, squeezing lightly.
Rainbow-glinting foam slithered down Clarissa’s body, back into the water which frothed about her waist. Pascale lifted a wet arm and ran the sponge along it, twisting and turning so as not to miss an inch. Then the sponge slid over to Clarissa’s breasts and lingered, just a little longer than it had done before.
‘Such a beautiful bosom,’ said Pascale in a husky whisper. ‘So firm and young.’
Clarissa felt a slight awkwardness tighten her body. But Pascale had now moved her attention to one of Clarissa’s hands. She was sponging between her fingers, admiring the pearly sheen of her almond-shaped nails. Clarissa relaxed again, chastising herself for being so bashful. When the sponge returned to her breasts and circled over the yielding white globes, she ignored the
niggling self-consciousness. She would have to grow accustomed to this style of bathing, and Pascale was merely being thorough.
‘Your betrothed is a handsome man, no?’ asked Pascale quietly. ‘And young also?’
‘I’m told he is very handsome,’ murmured Clarissa. ‘Though I believe some years older than myself.’
‘Ah, an older man is good,’ replied Pascale. ‘A virgin bride does not want a virgin groom. No. She wants a man with experience. Your husband will give you much pleasure, I think.’
As she spoke, her thumb grazed lightly over one nipple, then the other. The sensitive crests tingled and puckered. Clarissa felt a flutter of nervous excitement at both the reminder of her wedding night and Pascale’s illicit touch. For a brief moment she considered expressing her disapproval. But the touch had been too fleeting and the sensation too pleasant for it to matter.
Pascale, gently holding an ankle, raised Clarissa’s right leg. She sponged back and forth, soaping the slender length of her calf and thigh. Clarissa wondered how it would feel to have a man’s caress. When her husband made love to her, would his hands glide along her flesh like this? Would he be slow and attentive or would he just take her quickly, the way Kitty said so many men did?
Pascale slid the sponge down Clarissa’s leg, beneath the water, and pressed it between her thighs. Clarissa shifted in discomfort but the maid pressed more firmly and began rubbing at her intimate parts.
‘I’ll do that, thank you, Pascale,’ she said thickly, trying to ignore the heat swelling in her groin.
Pascale made no move to obey. She tightened her grip on Clarissa’s ankle and kneaded the sponge against her soft folds.
‘Do not be shy, mademoiselle,’ she purred. ‘I can show you many things. From me you can learn something of
what your husband will do. It is not good for a bride to be too
naı¨f
. The husband, he will grow bored.’
The sponge bobbed to the foamy surface. Pascale’s diving fingers sought out Clarissa’s sex, swiftly parting her lips. Clarissa yelped and wriggled, sending water sloshing over the edge of the tub.
‘No,’ she urged breathlessly. ‘Stop it at once.’
With a power that belied her petite frame, Pascale held on to Clarissa’s writhing ankle. With a calm smile she turned aside, blinking rapidly, as the water splashed her face and clothes. Her persistent fingers glided along Clarissa’s slippery cleft.
‘The lady should learn,’ she said, above Clarissa’s protests, ‘that a husband does not always hear the word “no”. This is a good lesson, mademoiselle. Very good.’ Her questing fingers probed at the narrow entrance of Clarissa’s vagina.
Clarissa squealed and, with a violent jerk, wrenched her leg free. Pascale recoiled, a hand cupped to her cheek where she’d received a glancing blow.
‘Tish, mademoiselle,’ she said, without a trace of anger. ‘Such a fuss.’
‘Pass me that towel at once,’ ordered Clarissa. ‘And in future keep your hands to yourself.’
Pascale shrugged. ‘I meant no harm, mademoiselle. I thought my touch was giving you much pleasure. Forgive me. Please.’
Ignoring her, Clarissa took a jug of clear water and stood to rinse the soap from her body. Her sex pulsed with light sensation and she could not deny that a part of her had wanted to surrender to Pascale’s invasive caress.
‘I’ll dry myself,’ she snapped, stepping out of the tub and wresting the towel from the maid’s extended arms.
Pascale raised her brows in an ironic arch. ‘And will mademoiselle also dress herself and arrange her own hair?’ she enquired pleasantly.
Clarissa, cursing under her breath, briskly rubbed
herself dry. She could hardly do without Pascale’s help, especially tonight. But the girl wasn’t getting away with such insubordination. Perhaps Alicia should deal with it later. She was the one who had appointed the bossy little wretch.
Dropping the towel to the floor, Clarissa snatched up her chemise from the bed. It was a delicate garment, of white China silk threaded with pale-blue ribbons. She jerked it over her head and punched at the armholes.
‘Please, mademoiselle,’ whined Pascale. ‘You will tear your beautiful new clothes. And do not frown so. You will make an ugly line there. Think only that I made a silly mistake. In France, a maid helps her lady with many things. Perhaps here it is different. Come, say it is forgotten and let me lace you.’
Clarissa, somewhat reluctantly, acquiesced. She feared Pascale’s touch and the tiny spark of need it had aroused. But the maid, insisting on doing everything, set about her task without a hint of suggestion in voice, eyes or hands. With a firm action, she unrolled silken stockings along Clarissa’s outstretched legs then secured silver-grey garters at her thighs. She was reassuringly strong in lacing up the stays, and nimble-fingered in pinning the heavy petticoats so they trailed just so. Perhaps, conceded Clarissa, Alicia had been right to appoint the Frenchwoman.
Almost two hours later, Clarissa, dressed in her finest and groomed to perfection, was quite certain her stepmother had been right. Her gleaming black hair was pinned into a high chignon and woven through with ribbons of ice blue. Wispy tendrils curled about her face. Her indigo gown, fashionably smooth in front, sheathed the dips and curves of her body. At the back, a mass of elaborate draperies fell to the ground in a train of lace-edged flounces. The neckline, low and square, hinted at the merest shadow of her cleavage.
‘
Magnifique
,’ trilled Pascale, her face glowing with
satisfaction. ‘Your betrothed will demand an earlier wedding when he sees you tonight.’
‘Thank you, Pascale. That will be all,’ said Clarissa coolly. ‘I shall ring if I need you.’
Clarissa crossed to the window and opened a chink in the curtains. She would not descend until Lord Alexander arrived. Then she would sweep into the room and he would rise to greet her, a smile of admiration and desire lighting up his handsome face.
She watched the carriages rumbling along the cobbled road of the Embankment below. Each one sent her hopes soaring and plunging. He was late, perhaps only ten minutes, but nevertheless he was late. While society might consider that fashionable, Clarissa couldn’t help thinking it was just a little rude.
She brushed her cheek against the velvet curtains, imagining the touch was that of Lord Alexander, a gentle caress. Her lips skimmed the soft fabric in a breath-light kiss.
‘Please, my love,’ she whispered, ‘don’t be too fashionable.’
In the flock-papered drawing room the gaslights purred gently in their sconces. Alicia Longleigh, in silks of caramel and gold, sat in a deep-buttoned armchair. Her head was bowed over an open book and her smile was serene. Standing before the marble chimney piece was Charles Longleigh, thickset and bewhiskered, his thumbs stuck in his waistcoat pockets. Occasionally he rocked forward on to the balls of his feet, pulled out his watch, or cleared his throat.
On the mantelshelf, the ormolu clock ticked with loud impatience.
The kitchen window was open wide. The heat from the range and smells of roasted meats drifted upwards into the yellowing gas-lit street. Kitty and cook sat at the enormous pine table, each cradling a glass of sherry.
Scullery maids weren’t allowed sherry but Kitty wasn’t a scullery maid any more. She was a housemaid and she was the best housemaid that ever there was. All day she’d been rushing round, fetching this, cleaning that, polishing the other, and not once had she complained. She’d helped lay out all the crystal, the hams and the jellies. And she’d done marvels in fancying up the dining table with flowers and candelabras. It looked a treat upstairs and, like cook said, they’d earned themselves a drink.
The sherry, rich and syrupy, warmed her insides like nothing else. The first glass had slipped down so quickly she’d had to ask for a second. Cook had looked a little doubtful, then she’d said, ‘Ah, bugger it,’ and poured some more. Kitty was beginning to feel all soft and giddy.
Cook wasn’t in much of a mood for talking though. Her face was one big scowl, but Kitty didn’t mind. She was happy enough just sitting there, dreaming about her farmhand, Tom. He had a lovely prick and a good hard thrust in his body. And he was a dab-hand at finding sneaky places to do a bit of sweethearting. Kitty’s thoughts drifted until suddenly she cocked her head to one side and frowned at the tureen.
‘Why hasn’t that soup gone up yet?’ she asked. ‘Aren’t they hungry upstairs?’
‘It ain’t gone up yet,’ said cook, straightening her back defiantly, ‘because his lordship ain’t bloomin’ well arrived. Hasn’t even sent word on to say as he’ll be late. No manners ain’t rich folk. No bloomin’ manners.’
‘Oh,’ said Kitty, draining the last of her sherry. It was to be hoped the meat didn’t get all dried up. Then her blood turned to ice and a great mallet thumped in her guts.
‘Oh, lord,’ she breathed, fumbling in her pocket. She rose unsteadily to her feet and pulled out the crumpled letter. ‘Oh, lord ha’ mercy.’
* * *
There was an almighty shout. Clarissa’s stomach lurched. She hurried to the bedroom door and, picking up her skirts, hastened down the stairs. It was almost an hour past the time appointed by Lord Marldon and her father hadn’t made such a noise in months. Something had gone dreadfully wrong.
At the drawing-room door she caught a warning glance from Alicia and came to an abrupt halt. Her father, oblivious to her presence, was towering over Kitty, his face red with fury.
‘You great scatterbrained loon,’ he raged, waving a piece of paper inches from the young girl’s face. ‘You jumped-up little scarecrow. I knew you’d never make a housemaid. I bloody knew it.’
Kitty, her eyes cast to the ground, sniffed convulsively.
‘Your brains are in your drawers,’ continued Charles. ‘Didn’t anyone ever tell you about letters? They’re meant to be read. You put them on the hall table, where I can see them. Do you understand? Do you? On the hall table.’