Miss Simpkins' School: Lydia (2 page)

Now she put her ledgers away under lock and key and hung the key and its ornate chain around her waist, under her dress. The metal stroked her skin, its chill arousing and reminding her that a cold piece of steel could be used in oh so many ways. It also served as a reminder that the information held between those covers would be dynamite on the wrong hands. She looked around to make sure everything that needed to be stored or filed had been, and a note on the desk made her smile. An invitation to a wedding breakfast she would have to decline. But how good to know her pupil was happy.

The knock on the door made her check her skirts were smooth, and her ankles covered. Really, sometimes convention was such a nuisance. As if a glimpse of an ankle would turn a man or woman into a sex starved beast, intent on plunder. If it did, Molly reckoned there would be a lot more ankles on show.

Nevertheless, in her precarious position in the hierarchy of London class, Molly knew it was a fine line she walked. Many might wonder why she had friends in high places. No one knew better than she how easily they could turn people against her. Others would be her champion, and for those people she would do her best so that position was never needed.

She called for the person to come in, and the door opened to show Towse, her majordomo. He coughed, as dour ever. Molly though he reminded her of a lugubrious bloodhound.

“A young lady to see you, madam. She won’t give her name.”

Molly smiled. It was ever thus. “Show her in.”

He bowed and Molly heard him, heavy footed as usual, clomp down the stairs and a few moments later returned with a cloaked and hooded person.

Why do they all look like fugitives? Surely that is more likely to bring notice to them?

“The young lady, madam.”

The young lady in question gave a nervous giggle. “Neither young or lady I fear,” she said once Towse left the room, and closed the door behind him. “I feel so stupid, but bloody Freddy Littlethorpe was in the square, and I didn’t want him to wonder what I was doing.” She threw her hood back to reveal corn-colored curls—sadly getting less curly by the second—and big brown eyes. “Who would he be visi...no don’t tell me. Mercy Benning. Poor Mercy. She doesn’t want him.”

“No,” Molly agreed. She’d already helped Mercy with certain areas of her life. “So, Miss Frampton, how may I help you?”

“By calling me Lydia, and helping me to dance and converse at the same time. Not that I think you can. Help me, I mean. Oh, I can dance, sort of, as long as I concentrate, and I can converse definitely, as long as my partner has a thought in his head. But do the two together? Not a chance. And I am to join the Earl of Stokoe’s festivity house party. Mama is sure he’ll propose, but I fear not. After all, I would be a liability, not a help to him.” She gave a huge sigh and rustled the papers on the desk. “Furthermore he said his...” She blushed and swallowed. “His manhood was uncomfortable and it was my fault. Why?” she asked with indignation ringing in her tone. “I didn’t even touch him.” Lydia spoiled the innocent look by laughing. “I admit, I know a little but reading is not experiencing.”

Molly schooled her features to polite blankness. It was worrying just how many young ladies were ignorant of the basics of anything that could make their adult lives easier. It seemed that at least Lydia had tried to discover them.

“Do you want to know more about his manhood and the way it and he reacts to a warm loving and sensuous woman, or how to dance and converse at the same time?” she asked with caution. As she had no idea how knowledgeable Lydia was, it would be as well to tread with caution.

“Both, I think,” Lydia said in a voice full of gloom. “For if he does offer for me, and I do wed him, he is not playing with someone else when he could be playing with me.” She glowered. “At the risk of sounding indelicate; if other women can give him what he needs then why can’t I? Surely we are all equipped with the same orifices?” She blushed and giggled. “Unless to be a wife renders you somehow helpless? I don’t think so.”

“That’s the spirit.” Molly went to the side table and poured two glasses of port. She handed one to Lydia. “Give me your cloak, take a seat, drink this, and let us plan.”

Lydia undid her cloak and passed it over. She looked at the glass somewhat dubiously, but took it and sniffed the contents, then walked across to where two comfortable chairs were set at right angles and sat down.

“If we can come up with anything that helps me show him I can be his perfect wife, then by all means let us plan. But perfect in every way, not compliant and, well, boring. I want more to our conversation than the price of lamp oil, or Prinny’s health. However, I have two left feet, and I’m all fingers and thumbs when I’m agitated, so how we can do it is beyond me.” She wrinkled her nose, took a hefty swallow of port, and spluttered and coughed. “Good gracious, what is this?”

Molly grinned. So many young ladies had the same response—at first. “Port. Your intended likes it. And no I haven’t drunk any with him, but I know a few gentlemen who have, and they tell their ladies who tell me. How else can we...I help you?” She’d have to watch how she worded things. Until any prospective pupil signed the confidentiality agreement, the information given out was sparse.

“It tastes nothing like the drink my papa purports to be port. This is good.” Lydia took another sip. “So, what do I know and what do I want to know? I know nothing. No.” She shrugged. “That is a lie. I know what I’ve read. I’m lucky my papa has no idea what books are in his library, or that I have read them. Memoires of a Woman of Pleasure, for instance. But do men really use so many terms for their...” She waved her hand toward the apex of her legs and then put them to her cheeks. “It was instructive, once I fathomed out what meant what. However in practice? I am an innocent.” She giggled. “In every way. Grief, Molly, his, his...”

“Pego, cock, prick, weapon, yard, though that is surely a contentious boast, tool, meat, needle, pudding, machine...”

“Oh, stop.” Lydia was holding her sides as she giggled, and Molly joined in. “Yes, all of those and a few more besides. His appendage”—she snorted—”brushed over my quim, and yes I know, honey pot, muff, cunt, and sundry other terms, and even through our clothes I swear it throbbed. So how do I attend to
that
?”

“Do you want to?” Molly asked. “Really want to? Because if so you’ll have to be prepared for the consequences.”

Lydia bit her lip. “The worst thing is he decides not to offer for me, so I’ll be no worse off than I am now. Except for Mama’s ire, but I’m so used to that, another dose will make no difference. Papa will forgive me, he enjoys my company. So, both. For didn’t I read somewhere making love is another form of dancing?”

“Or another form of bondage.”

“Yes, well if you listen to the tittle tattle in the withdrawing room, where ladies gossip what they’ve overheard, George Stokoe is an aficionado of that as well.”

Really, there are hidden depths to Lydia Frampton.

Chapter Three

“If this snow doesn’t stop, we’ll never even get to Stokoe, let alone have visitors.” The Dowager Lady Stokoe let the curtain drop with a twitch of her hand and turned to her son who lounged against the fireplace and spun his quizzing glass between his fingers. With one eyebrow in an imperious manner he glanced toward the window as the heavy velvet curtains blocked out the flakes of snow that hit the glass and gathered on the outer sill, then he shrugged.

Jane Stokoe glared at him. “Say something,” she demanded. “Do something.”

Really, if glares could kill I’d be dead and buried, and have no need of house parties, wives, or a way to assuage my hunger for someone who may well not appreciate my demands.
The thought of the one well-shaped body that he’d like under him in a myriad of ways was enough for him to have to tamper his sudden surge of arousal and wish his mother to perdition. Without her he could have repaired to his chamber and taken himself in hand. Instead, he faced his parent and smiled slightly. It wasn’t her fault they both had the same end in sight, albeit with a different method of getting there.

“True, Mama, so why worry? As you say if we can’t travel to Stokoe neither can our guests. I’m not God, I can’t control the elements.”

“Provoking man. And
do
stop fiddling with that thing. Why do you have one anyway? Affected and foppish, something you are most certainly not.”

He laughed, and her eyes darkened. “Why, I do it to annoy you. Now excuse me, I have a meeting.” He bowed, knowing fine well it was a parody of a conventional salute, and walked to the door.

“To play cards at Watiers no doubt,” his parent said waspishly. She was getting more splenetic every day. Since his papa died, she was a shrew.

He turned and regarded her steadily until she flushed. “Why no, Mama. Never fear. I’m not gambling our monies away. I’m off to meet a woman.” He shut the door on her outraged gasp.

Although, as he trudged through the snow with his hat pulled low, and greatcoat collar up round his ears, George wondered why he bothered. The snow was still falling heavily, the ground icy, and the air cold enough to freeze your bollocks off. It would be unfair and dangerous to make animals work in it. Walking was arduous, so surely the lady he was to meet wouldn’t get to their chosen destination either? He blinked snow from his eyelashes and looked at the dim glow of the street lamp, almost in a trance as the flakes whirled and eddied in the light. In the dark with the snow so pristine, London could almost be called attractive. Almost.

George dodged an errant dog and a pedestrian slipping over the cobbles much as he was, and eventually turned the last corner until he reached his destination. The steps to the front door had been swept, but even so the snow fell so fast George reckoned it wouldn’t be more than an hour before you’d never know. He stomped his feet to shed the snow caked on his once-pristine boots. Mothram, his valet, would need soothing when he saw the state they were in.
Ah well, ‘tis his job.
George and Mothram well knew, the position of George’s valet was not an arduous one. Happy he wouldn’t tread snow indoors, George pulled the bell. As the noise echoed the door swung open.

“Ah, my lord. We were becoming anxious.” Towse winked so fleetingly, if George hadn’t been looking up at his face he’d have missed it. “The ladies are waiting for you in the blue room. May I take your coat and dry it for you?”

George nodded and let Towse help him out of the garment. He put his hat on a side table and finger combed his hair into a semblance of a style, and then brushed his pantaloons down. He grimaced at where the snow had landed and melted, darkening the biscuit hue. Not the correct attire for an evening visit maybe, but perfect for what he hoped might happen.
Easily dispensed with and easily re-donned.
“The blue room? Aptly named.”

Towse permitted himself to essay a smile. He’d worked for Ivo Daranton, one of George’s crony’s, before he’d been seconded to take care of his present employer. He was well aware of double meanings and the need for a poker face when necessary. To say nothing of turning a blind eye, or fighting dirty if circumstances dictated.

As he’d once remarked to George, “’Twould be me stones in a vise, m’lord, if aught were to happen to Miss Molly.” When agitated, Towse’s hard-learned Kings English vanished like a pickpocket with a fob watch. “And Miss is a perfect employer, if I may say so.”

Now he nodded sagely. His face looked like a wizen gnome, and as he moved his head, the tufts of hair on his crown waved like they performed a victory dance. “Yes, my lord, as you say. I’ve made sure the port decanter was full. Though the ladies?” He coughed. “Miss Molly’s guest? Worried perhaps and Miss Molly thought a glass might calm her.”

Oh lord
. “Bosky?”

“I watered it, my lord. This is yours.” Towse handed over a bottle with the seal still intact. “Miss Molly will not have mentioned the state of that upstairs unless to say it’s a different supplier to the one the lady drank last time.” He leaned forward. “She deserves the best you know, but this port is too good to be swigged.” The smell on his breath made George wonder which bottle had been tested.

“Right, I’ll go up. It’s a given we won’t be disturbed?”

“Of course not.” Towse sounded affronted. George nodded, and took the stairs two at a time. Now he knew the lady was there he wanted to see her face when she saw who her tutor was to be.

***

It didn’t disappoint. The glass she was about to set on the table—luckily empty—missed the surface and bounced on the Persian carpet, to roll onto its side and lie there unnoticed. Her hand went to her mouth and her skin flushed red, paled, and went red again. “
You.
” The distaste was evident.

That bodes well
.

“Me,” he confirmed as he picked the glass up and set it on the mantle well out of Lydia’s reach. He didn’t want it available as ammunition. George made a swift
leave us
gesture toward Molly who stood to one side looking diverted. It amused him to see Lydia make the same gesture.

Molly gave a brief nod, indicated two hours with her fingers pointing at the clock, and cleared her throat.

“As you both say I’m superfluous, I’ll leave. The bell push, or that hand bell on the table is the equivalent of a safety net.”

“Instead of crying foul and no one hearing,” George said, in a dry tone. “I promise I’ll use it if it all gets too much.”

Both women stared at him as if he’d stripped naked and tipped the hat from the watchman, then as one they burst out laughing.

“I’ll be gentle with you,” Lydia said and then rolled her eyes. “Oh dear, can I blame the port?” She put her fingers over her mouth, and quashed the giggle that emitted.

I want those hands over my mouth. I want to suckle each finger in the same manner as I hope to do her breasts and her quim. I want it all.
George ignored his cock as it began to stretch the material of his pantaloons, and addressed Lydia. As a gentleman he also ignored the way her eyes flickered toward the growing bulge, and then back to his face.