“Use those funds I’ve given you on yourself, Bea. Buy gowns, shoes, whatever you want and need.” He smirked, and the lover reappeared. “Some new items of lingerie would be nice. But nothing woolen by Dr. Jaeger, please, or other unbecoming stuff. I want to see you and feel you in silk and lace from now on, although you’re perfectly at liberty to wear more rational items in your own time.”
“Why, that’s most accommodating of you. I’d hate to have to give up my woolen combinations all together. I’m extremely fond of them.”
“Of course you are.” Ritchie pursed his lips, obviously trying not to grin.
“But seriously, Ritchie, what about these creatures who occasionally lurk outside? Charlie might have debts in some very obscure quarters that even you might not have tracked down. Goodness knows who’s likely to turn up looking for payment. Surely I can use some of this money you’ve left for that purpose?” She patted her pocket, thinking what a relief it would be to actually have funds to silence any threats.
“Don’t be alarmed, Bea. I’m leaving an associate of mine in charge of the greater financial affairs. He’s an expert in dealing with difficult types. Mainly because he used to be one himself.” Ritchie nodded, as if mentally ticking off his list again. “But Jamie is an astute and intelligent fellow, loyal and honest in my service. Consider him the steward of your household, if you like. Clearly your brother can’t be trusted with money matters, and even though I know you’ve a sharp, intelligent mind, my dear, I don’t want you distracted by mundane matters during our month.”
Beatrice opened her mouth to protest. Of all the high-handed arrogance! But then, she thought better of it. In some ways, Ritchie was right. Charlie was worse than useless at being master of a household, and at keeping hold of money. And how could she make a good fist of being a pleasure-loving courtesan if she was worrying about the price of chops and cabbage and whether to air the carpets or not? Ritchie’s precious steward could take over all that if his master insisted on installing him. She smiled, suddenly picturing some big brawny type in an apron, sweeping the front step. If she was hors de combat servicing Ritchie’s sexual whims, Polly and Enid would need an extra pair of hands.
“That’s extremely thoughtful of you,” she murmured, still finding it difficult to keep her face straight.
“Oh, I think of everything, my dear. You’ll soon discover that.”
“I don’t doubt it, Ritchie. I don’t doubt it.”
Just what else lay in the depths of his labyrinthine intelligence? A finger of icy doubt tickled her spine as she watched his dark eyes. She had a whole month of discovery ahead of her.
But as she shivered, he took her in his arms and kissed her. Hard.
It was indeed almost as if he’d reached in and read her mind.
CHAPTER TEN
Cupboard Love
POLLY SWUNG OPEN
the door to the cupboard. The passage itself was dim, lit only by a small stained-glass skylight over the back door, but the cupboard offered a black hazard of cleaning paraphernalia—mops and brooms, and galvanized buckets to bark the unwary shin.
Yet somehow, the dusty little niche still had a clandestine allure and its close darkness was her sometime venue for trysts with Charlie. Not that she planned to let that get in the way of her seducing her handsome new friend. Jamie followed her willingly as she drew him along by the hand, and a dense darkness enveloped them both as he pulled the door shut.
“Are you sure we won’t suffocate in here?” he whispered, his hands already upon her, searching for the curves of her breasts and buttocks.
Polly leaned against the wall, nudging a sweeping brush out of the way. “We’ll be all right. I think there’s a ventilation brick somewhere, and it doesn’t usually take that long anyway.”
The moment the words left her lips, it was as if she’d dropped that ventilation brick right into the middle of their conversation.
“Now, now, now, Miss Polly, what other lucky fellows have you lured into your Stygian lair?” He grabbed her by her right bottom cheek and pulled her up hard against him, and Polly’s sex leaped when she felt the sturdy bulge of his erection.
Should she tell him? Could she trust him? The Weatherly household had scandals enough, but then again, the tale of a young master poking a parlor maid was hardly news, was it? The same thing probably happened in most Belgravia houses on a regular basis, and Polly knew of at least two similar arrangements in South Mulberry Street alone.
She wound her arms around his neck and put her lips against his ear. “It’s not always a roast beef sandwich that Mr. Charles comes down here for, you know.”
There was a long pause, and even though Polly couldn’t see Jamie’s face, in her mind’s eye, she saw a considering expression on it. Had her revelations given him pause for thought after all?
“So, Charlie Weatherly likes the girls too, eh?”
Too?
Now it was Polly’s turn to consider. She’d long had a suspicion that Charlie liked his bread buttered on either side, but she had no absolute proof.
“What do you mean?”
“Do you mean to say that you didn’t know the young master likes to bat for both teams?” Jamie chuckled, hauling steadily at her skirts until he had them up, and his hand inside the vent of her drawers at the back.
“Well, I’ve had that notion.” His knuckle brushed her anus and she let out a breath. “But I’d like to know how…how
you
know,” she stuttered as he rubbed her there softly but with authority.
“Oh, a man like me recognizes certain characteristics.” He plunged in for a kiss as his fingers rode the wicked groove.
Polly gasped into his mouth. It was as if someone had lit a lamp.
“When did you meet Charlie? What do you mean ‘recognize’?” she demanded when he freed her lips and leaned down to kiss her neck above the collar of her frock. “Are you an invert too?”
“Would it revolt you if I said yes?” His mouth opened against her skin, his tongue sweeping hot over it. The way he kissed her throat showed her he liked a woman’s taste.
“Not in the slightest, Mr. Brownlow. It takes all sorts,” she gasped as his fingertips curved around her sex from behind and dabbled in a tantalizing rhythm against her entrance. Of their own volition, it seemed, her hips tilted, trying to nudge him in the direction of her most sensitive part. “I’m a country girl at heart and you’d be amazed what goes on out of town. Sophisticated London folk think we don’t know anything, but we do, you know, we do.”
“Amen to that, Polly. I’m country myself originally. I can vouch for all those high jinks in the meadows and the barns and the potting sheds.” Jamie’s other hand began its voyage into the convoluted hinterland of her petticoat now, and after some fishing about achieved its goal—the vent of her drawers from the front. “And now it seems that both me and your Mr. Charlie like a bit of a fumble with
you,
as well as each other.”
Polly opened her mouth, but whether to protest or proclaim her delight, she didn’t quite know. But there was no chance for either, because Jamie plunged in and kissed her hard and long, over and over again. And as his tongue worked inside her mouth, his finger found her clitty.
As he fondled her there, wicked images filled her head.
Charlie rubbing her. Her rubbing Charlie. Charlie and Jamie rubbing her,
and
rubbing each other. Between her legs, her sex leaped and fluttered, and grew stickier and stickier with each thought. Something Jamie seemed to appreciate as he doubled his efforts to arouse her.
You’re so selfish, Polly Jenkins,
she castigated herself suddenly, still rocking and wriggling against Jamie and his fingers.
You should think of others, not your own entertainment.
Here she was having a lovely, fruity time with a handsome and personable man, and she’d completely forgotten all about Miss Bea and the dangers upstairs.
“What is it, Polly?” Jamie’s fingers still moved, but there was concern in his voice.
“I’m still worried about Miss Bea and your Mr. Ritchie.”
“Don’t, my love. Don’t worry,” he breathed, fingertip swirling, “He likes the ladies, yes, but he’s a good man too. He once saved my life, and he’s saved my hide in other ways too.”
Polly caught her breath as the finger pushed inside her, but Jamie went on. “He’ll not hurt your lady, believe me. He knows far too much about pain and anguish to hurt another.”
Questions churned in Polly’s mind, but Jamie’s touch was too clever for her. She wriggled and bore down, her thoughts in a whirl, her worries forgotten.
As were Jamie’s, it seemed. “Oh, I wish I could fuck you here and now, Polly,” he gasped, “You’re the most toothsome young woman I’ve met in an age, and I’d love to plunge into your puss and make us both happy.”
Polly wished it too, but she was cautious. So-called sophistication wasn’t all that “town” was notorious for. Country girl or not, she knew about the consequences of pleasure, and that sometimes falling with child was the lesser misfortune.
“I never go the whole way, I’ll have you know, Mr. Jamie Brownlow. Nothing goes inside anywhere, if you take my meaning, and there’s no exceptions.”
“Very wise, Miss Polly, very wise. You’re a very progressive young woman.” He squeezed her breast teasingly, clearly taking advantage of whatever she
was
willing to permit. “Very forward thinking, as I happen to be myself. There’s no pleasure in sex if you’re worrying all the time, is there? Personally, I’m a great believer in the efficacy of French letters, when fucking either sex. But alas, I wasn’t expecting to meet a goddess in a broom cupboard this morning, so I don’t happen to have one about my person.”
French letters, eh? Now here was a man she
might
be able to go all the way with. Especially if Miss Bea took up with the apparently saintly and lifesaving Mr. Ritchie.
“Well, that’s a shame, Jamie,” she said softly, working back against him, “because despite our very brief acquaintance, your avowed perversions, and the peculiar circumstances of our meeting, I do believe that I like you very much, and as I said, I’m of a mind to take my pleasure where I may.”
“Oh, Polly,” he murmured back to her, “a man doesn’t meet a peach like you every day. And it’d be a shame to waste this opportunity.” He began pulling at her skirts again. Polly pushed them back down just as determinedly, but he soothed her with another silky kiss. “So I think we ought to try and improvise without taking undue risks. What do you think?”
Polly laughed. Could she trust him? She certainly wanted to. “I’m game if you are.”
“Good girl, I knew you were a sport.” There was a laugh in his voice, unadulterated happiness. He was a straightforward pleasure-lover, untrammeled by guilt and tiresome peregrinations on what was moral and what was sinful. As she responded to him, her hands sneaking beneath his jacket to stroke his back, Polly recognized a match for her own persuasions.
While Jamie grappled with buttons and petticoat, Polly fought skirmishes of her own with layers of gentlemen’s clothing. But it wasn’t long before she finally drew out a solid, sturdy cock into the dusty darkness.
He was thick and hard, the tip silky with the fluid of his excitement. It felt exquisite as she ran her fingers over him, slick and warm and inviting. She wanted to taste it but clearly Jamie had other ideas.
“Turn around, sweetheart, brace yourself against the wall,” he gasped, his hands relaxing their hold on her breast and her pussy. But not before he bestowed the latter with a wicked parting squeeze.
“What an omnivorous fellow you are, Jamie Brownlow,” Polly observed, turning as per his instructions. “You enjoy the gentlemen, yet you handle the ladies like a pro.”
“That’s the truth, Poll, the honest truth.” Positioning her, and renegotiating her under-things, he pressed his hot and sticky cock against her bottom, then clasped himself against her. Hand against drawers, drawers against cock, cock against the rounded curve of her bottom. With his other hand, he reached around and found her clitty again.
“Now, there we are. Something for everybody,” he remarked roundly. “Now let’s get to it, lass, before my boss comes back again.” Positioning his finger, he started to swing his hips and rock.
Polly thought fleetingly about Beatrice again, wondering how far her dealings with Mr. Ritchie had progressed. The toffs were just the same under the skin as their servants. Would it take them any longer than she and Jamie to get to business?
A moment later all thoughts of the world beyond the broom cupboard evaporated. What Jamie was doing wasn’t quite like having a man inside her—nothing felt like that—but it was certainly a particularly delicious substitute. The friction between her legs soon had her adjusting the position of her hands and elbows against the wall so she could bite her knuckle. It was either that, or bay like a she-hound when she spent.
Which she did. Again and again, in quick succession, her empty channel clenching the air in luscious waves.
“Do you like that, my Polly?” growled Jamie, his voice low and ragged and full of mirth. “Are you spending? Are you spending now? Answer me!” he demanded, beating on her clit in a way that made her soar. “Tell me you’re spending, you wicked little trollop.”
The words were harsh and exciting, but the way he said them mellowed, then grew soft and full of warmth. His tender quality made her suddenly think of Sam.
And it was that, the sweetness and the nostalgia, that filled her eyes with tears as she rocked and swooned. Pleasure overcame her again as Jamie jerked and anointed her. His essence was slippery and unctuous, warming her thigh.
Squashed against the boarded wall of the cupboard, it was hard to breathe. Both their chests heaved as they slumped, gasping, hot and thunderstruck. But after a moment or two, Polly struggled, feeling suffocated by Jamie’s bigger body still pinning her to the wall.
“Oh, I’m sorry, lass,” he said, lifting himself away in the darkness. “Have I squashed you? You’re not injured, are you?”
There was such honest solicitude in his voice that Polly laughed. Bless him, he really seemed to care.
“I’m perfectly well, thank you, Jamie. It’ll take more than that to hurt common clay like me, you know. I’m no delicate drawing-room lady.”
Her own words caught her on the raw.
Miss Bea! Was she safe? As yet unmolested by the randy Mr. Ritchie? If the master was anything like his handsome, opportunistic servant, who could tell?
“What’s wrong, Polly? Have I upset you?” Jamie grabbed her arm as she fumbled with the buttons of her bodice in the dark, hampered by her twisted-about apron. With no fuss, and a good deal of skill, he fastened them up, working blind, and set the bib of her apron neat and straight.
“No, I’m not upset. Just concerned about Miss Bea. It just occurred to me that if your master is anything like you, she might already be compromised.”
Listening to the small movements of Jamie doing up his fly buttons, Polly could also almost hear his keen brain ticking too.
“Your mistress is safe with Ritchie. It doesn’t matter whether a woman’s had a thousand lovers or is as pure as the Virgin Mary, he never forces himself where he knows he’s not wanted.” His hand settled reassuringly on Polly’s shoulder. “If anything has happened, it’s because your lady wanted it to.”
“If you say so, Jamie. If you say so.”
“I do, pretty girl. Don’t fret.”
Evading Jamie’s searching hands, she slid out into the passage, with him following.
“I still think I might go up and knock. As if they want tea or something.”
“No! You’re doing nobody any favors by interfering, Poll. Least of all your mistress.” Jamie’s hand clamped around her arm, firm but unyielding. “Just bide your time until you’re rung for, there’s a good girl.”
“Get off me.” She tried to shake him free. “I don’t trust you and I trust
him
even less.”
She pulled and tugged, but got nowhere, and was just about to kick his shins when the morning-room bell trilled out clearly from the kitchen.