Читать книгу Three - Noelle Mack - Страница 7

The morning sun cast a bright ray across her pillow. Lady Fiona wondered drowsily how it had got through the draperies and turned her head away. The room filled suddenly with light and Fiona opened her eyes all the way and rolled back over. Sukey was pulling the heavy brocade draperies apart and singing softly under her breath.

“You are happy today, Su.” Fiona yawned.

The maid gave her a cheeky grin. “I have Summers to thank for that, milady.”

Fiona laughed and sat up, pulling the comforter up over her bare breasts. “Have you no shame?”

Sukey only shrugged. “Does he, mistress? Did he not pull open my dress and show my tits to you last night?”

“Yes, but he did not mean to—”

“All the same, he thought he might be sacked.”

“Dear me, no. Not for that. I knew it was an accident—was it, Sukey?”

“More or less.”

“Equivocal words. I suppose I ought to reprimand you. But as long as no one knows, I don’t really care.”

Sukey moved about the room, putting things to right, and letting in the tweeny when she knocked. The younger girl, a new servant hired by the housekeeper, came in with a tray laden with a tea service and something freshly baked hiding under a napkin that covered the silver basket.

“There is someone belowstairs to see you, milady.” The girl bobbed a clumsy curtsey after she set down the tray.

“What? It is far too early for social calls.”

“It is past noon.” Sukey said.

“Oh, dear. I suppose I must arise.”

“Who is it then?” Sukey asked the tweeny.

“She said her name was Mrs. Mellon, I think. That tall man, Mr. Henchley, spoke to her. He seems to be in charge of many things.”

“Yes,” said Sukey rather rudely. “He is the butler. Very full of himself, he is. Likes to give orders. Not that I listen.”

Fiona sighed. “Oh, dear. You ought to, you know. If only for the sake of appearances.” She smiled at the tweeny. “Mrs. Mellon is my cousin, but only by marriage. And she is my dear friend.”

The tweeny nodded.

“I do not receive callers in my bedroom as a rule,” Fiona went on, “but she has seen me en deshabille before. Sukey will show her up.”

“Yes, milady.” The tweeny bobbed another curtsey, as if she were practicing. Sukey turned the girl around and propelled her out the door, following immediately behind and shutting the door firmly.

Fiona threw back the covers, and stood up and stretched. A visit from Harriet Mellon required preparation, as the woman was an incessant—though entertaining—chatterbox who might dally for an hour or more. First things first: Fiona dashed into the watercloset next to the alcove, straddled the bowl and pissed, rising after several seconds with a pleasant feeling of relief. She wetted a washcloth and dashed it between her legs. Well and good. It was not as if anyone was going to sniff there.

Then she came back into the bedroom, still quite naked and lifted a corner of the napkin covering the silver basket on the tea tray to see what was beneath. Scones. Excellent. And was there jam? There was. Perhaps she could cram in a few mouthfuls before Harriet reached the bedroom and began to talk.

She broke a scone into pieces, slathered one with jam and butter, and nibbled it, pouring a hasty cup of tea and downing that next. The sound of slow footsteps reached her ears. No doubt Harriet, who was plump, was carrying Beastie, her pop–eyed spaniel, to save the spoiled dog the trouble of climbing the stairs.

Fiona reached for her silk robe upon the chair where she had left it last night, slipping it on and tying the sash firmly about her waist. She ran a brush through her sleep-tangled hair, putting it up with a few hairpins, glad she’d had a thorough bath the night before. A glance in the mirror told her that she looked presentable.

The bedroom betrayed no trace of a man’s presence, she noted with a look about into the corners. Of course, Harriet undoubtedly assumed that Fiona had a lover.

Because I always do, Fiona thought smugly. Not that one had ever mattered much more to her than another. Charming as Thomas was, it was variety that she liked more than anything else. And if all of London wanted to whisper about her, as Harriet had often hinted, let them.

Of course, dear Harriet was inquisitive to a fault. She might very well try to winkle information on the subject out of Fiona. But there was no need to name names. The simplest thing to do was get Harriet talking about her own sexual adventures, as these were often disastrous—or comical.

Her cousin’s husband served as captain on merchant ships to China, bringing back tea and fine porcelain and all manner of odd knickknacks to please his amorous wife. The Chinese were unsurpassed when it came to erotic carving, and Harriet had a remarkable collection of ivory penises, larger than life, some with testicles, some without.

One, Harriet’s favorite, a foot–long specimen with enormous bollocks, had been ingeniously fitted with a tube through the tip and a small rubber reservoir at its base that required only a slight jab from a finger to simulate the male climax.

Ned had told his wife that the thing was used to teach the fine art of fellatio to novice prostitutes—and also used to excite men who liked to watch women suck a dildo while they had a real cock jammed inside them too. And, according to him, other whores sometimes joined the fun—for an additional fee, of course—reaching from behind to tickle the happy customer’s balls as he banged away. A hard poke or two and the dildo spurted thick white sugar–water, a treat to lick up at the high point of excitement. Cries of joy all around, a few swipes with a towel, a hasty refill of the dildo, and the next man would enter the chamber of decadent pleasures for another go.

Perhaps her cousin had some new toy to show, Fiona thought with a smile. She heard Harriet arrive upon the landing and traverse the carpet that led to the door of her bedchamber. The spaniel made a gasping noise, but from the lack of a thump, Fiona assumed that it was still clutched to its mistress’s bosom. No doubt it wanted to get down, if only to preserve a few shreds of doggy dignity.

“There, there, my poor Beastie,” Harriet trilled. “I have you safe and sound. But you ought not to wheeze. You are not the one who has been climbing these damned stairs.” She stopped outside the door and knocked. “Fiona? Are you decent?”

“Yes, Harriet.” Fiona flung open the door with a welcoming smile. “How delightful to see you and Beastie!”

The spaniel let its tongue loll out and gave Fiona a pop-eyed stare while it wriggled in its mistress’s arms. Harriet held onto it, as well as a bulging reticule that was emitting a mysterious soft chime.

“What is that noise, Harriet?”

“Oh, that is my latest present—or presents, I should say, from Ned. Really quite amusing. I brought a set to give you, but all in good time. Good morning, Fiona!” She bustled in.

“Will you join me for breakfast? There are scones.”

“Oh, Beastie hates scones. Have you any bacon?”

“No.”

Harriet kissed the spaniel on its moist black nose. “Alas. No bacon, my love. But you will survive.” She set Beastie down, and he waddled over to an ottoman and squeezed himself underneath it, panting rapidly.

“I daresay he will,” Fiona said, putting her arm through her cousin’s and drawing her into the room and toward a capacious armchair. “Would you like tea, Harriet?”

“Oh, yes. I find I am extremely thirsty. Your house has far too many stairs. And too many rooms. How you must rattle about here now that you are a widow. Don’t you get lonely, Fiona?”

A leading question if ever Fiona had heard one. She smiled politely. “Not at all.”

“Then perhaps you have recovered from the shock of dear Bertie’s untimely death.”

“Bertrand drank himself into an early grave,” Fiona said matter-of-factly. “The doctor said his liver was as hard as rock. He had turned a most unattractive shade of yellow towards the end and the lowest whore would not touch him. You know as well as I do that he got his hand up every skirt that he could. I do not miss him.”

Harriet nodded. “He was not a saint, certainly.” She settled herself into the armchair with a sigh and investigated the tea tray, lifting up the napkin and poking at the still warm scones. She broke off a piece just as Fiona had done, put twice as much butter and jam on it, and ate it daintily. Then she poured out tea for both of them.

Fiona helped herself to another scone, sitting on the edge of her bed and devouring it with greedy pleasure. Never mind the crumbs. Eating in bed was yet another good thing about not having a man around the house to quibble over such things. Harriet handed Fiona a cup of tea and drank her own, her bright blue eyes sparkling as she looked over the thin rim, sipping through pouted lips.

The word for Harriet, Fiona thought absently, was…succulent. Her round body was not the height of fashion but there seemed to be no shortage of lust-crazed gentlemen ready to bury themselves in her sweet flesh when her husband was at sea.

Fiona finished her tea and glanced discreetly at the clock. Five minutes had passed between the setting down of Beastie and the taking of nourishment. Refreshed and strengthened, Harriet was sure to launch into a tale of her latest conquest within seconds. And Fiona was curious as to what was in the bag that her cousin had set upon the floor.

The clock ticked softly in the quiet room. The spaniel wheezed and then snored. Harriet set down her empty cup and swept the crumbs from her lap, looking at Fiona’s attire. “What a magnificent robe. The material is Chinese, is it not? The embroidery is very fine—wherever did you get it?”

“I believe it is an Oriental design. The robe itself is my dressmaker’s handiwork.”

“Dear Fiona, I assumed as much. One cannot simply buy such things in shops. It is splendid. You look like…an empress.”

“I am not sure that is a compliment.”

“Oh, but it is. The color suits you, my dear cousin. Or do you have a new love? Who’s put that lovely pink in your cheeks, eh?” Harriet laughed heartily.

Fiona swung a leg back and forth rather impatiently and made no answer to that question.

“I quite approve,” Harriet continued. “You must not mourn forever. You are young and may marry again.”

Fiona raised an eyebrow. Marriage? Fie. Perish the thought. She still dressed mostly in black, of course, because she looked good in it. She had mourned her late husband for exactly the period of time that society prescribed, and not a minute longer.

Harriet did not seem to notice that her cousin wasn’t saying a word. “So you sleep in pearls, do you? You are a lazy cat, Fiona.” She squinted at the triple strand, which Fiona had forgotten that she still wore. “Or perhaps a sentimental one. Were they a gift?”

“Yes.” Not that Fiona would confess who the giver was. She reached up and turned them around so the clasp was in the back again.

Harriet cleared her throat. “Hmm,” she said slyly. “I think I recognize the clasp. From Coburn’s Jewellery, is it not? All the married gentlemen shop there. But not with their wives. And not for their wives. Not that I am one to talk,” she giggled. “Dear Ned never asks what I am up to while he is gone.”

“And you don’t know what he’s up to, either. He probably has a wench of every color in every port.”

“No doubt,” Harriet said affably. “In any case, those pearls are very pretty, Fiona. Now, do tell me who gave them to you.”

Fiona drew the flat lapels of her robe high up around her neck. “No. There is no reason for you to know.”

Harriet looked hurt. “But we share every confidence, my dear cousin. I tell you everything. I know that I may speak to you with perfect frankness, on every subject under the sun and that you will never judge me or tittle–tattle.”

Fiona knew that the best thing to do was distract Harriet, which was never difficult. “I am glad that you think so. Now, what do you have in that bag?”

Harriet looked down at the bulging reticule she had set on the floor and gave it a little kick with a silk–shod foot. Whatever was inside chimed softly once more.

“They are Celestial Spheres—have you not heard of them?”

Fiona shook her head. Harriet reached down and picked up the bag, drawing apart the strings that closed it and taking out two smooth balls of ivory, as big as eggs but perfectly round. She rolled them back and forth in her palm, making their cleverly hidden mechanism chime as they struck each other. Fiona looked more closely. She could see no seam in the ivory where the halves of each sphere had been fitted together.

“Ned said that the Chinese give these toys to their women, as it is impossible to keep all of their wives and concubines sexually satisfied.”

“Ah.”

Harriet nodded and let the balls roll in her cupped palm again. “He showed me exactly how to use them.”

“Hmm. Then he does have other women.”

“What of it?” Harriet said nonchalantly. “But he is very good to me, Fiona, when he is in London.”

Fiona laughed. “So long as you are both happy. Now explain the Celestial Spheres, if you please.”

“The woman lies on her back, with her hips raised on a soft silk pillow. She puts the balls deep inside her pink blossom—Ned says the Chinese have many names for that—and rocks her hips so that they move and make her love petals wet with dew.”

“I see.”

“He gave me a little book with pictures of a concubine demonstrating their use.”

“Thoughtful of him,” Fiona said.

“You can see the ivory balls within her since she seems to have no hair there—well, I have the book, Fiona.” She patted the reticule and smiled. “The pictures on the fifth page are delightfully lewd. Two younger concubines hold the lady’s thighs apart and put the balls in, then make her clasp her pink blossom with open fingers. They help her bounce her pretty bum up and down on the pillow while a third one licks between the lady’s fingers, dainty as you please, and she has her climax with all of them watching. The Celestial Spheres are supposed to give great pleasure.”

“And do they?” Fiona inquired. She looked at the balls in her friend’s hand, wondering how they would feel inside her.

Harriet shrugged. “I have not tried my set as yet, even though Ned has been home for an entire week. He brought me several sets, in different sizes, for my toy chest, as he calls it. I shall try them, you may be sure. He likes to see me enjoy his presents, especially if I put one toy in my cunny and another in my arse.”

“Both at once?”

“Sometimes.” Harriet didn’t even blush. “He always wants to spread my arse cheeks first—he loves it that I am so big and soft behind, Fiona.” She wriggled that part of herself against the seat cushion of the armchair and continued. “He begs very nicely for the honor of putting in a small dildo, if that is my pleasure. I have him put a dab of French cream there to ease the way.”

“Of course.”

Harriet sighed happily. “Just talking about arseholes makes him so hard.”

“That’s a sailor for you,” Fiona murmured.

“Well, yes. If he is very good, I bend over and let him touch the tight puckers with a fingertip and rub in the cream but no more. It excites him exceedingly. He knows I know it.”

“Go on,” Fiona said, quite amused. There was no stopping Harriet once she began to talk about sex. “What next?”

“I part my cunny lips and slide a huge rod inside, all the way up. Ned is mad for such play, especially when I finally ask him to gently stimulate my arsehole with the little rod I prefer there—watching his dear wife experience penetration fore and aft is his greatest desire, he says. Sometimes the sight makes him come without my even touching him.”

Fiona shook her head, reaching out to take the spheres from Harriet’s hand. “And do you moan long and low? Such a show requires appropriate music.”

“Indeed I do,” Harriet laughed. “Ned says he could find me in the darkest whorehouse just by the noise I make.”

Fiona could think of no reply to that. Harriet most certainly did speak frankly about every subject under the sun. “Well, well. Thank you for the spheres, Harriet. Are they the largest of the sets you have?”

“Yes. I put these aside especially for you, my dear friend. Of course I prefer the real thing, Fiona.”

“As do I. Still, these are interesting. And the sound they make is very pleasant.”

Now that Fiona was playing with the spheres, Harriet had her hands free to look inside the reticule on her lap once more. “The book—ah, here it is. I will leave it with you.” She handed it to Fiona with a wink. “Do you understand Chinese?”

“You know perfectly well that I don’t.”

“Then enjoy the pictures, as I did.”

Fiona riffled through the small volume. “The secrets of the East are revealed at last. It seems that they enjoy the act of love as we do.” She stopped at one page and turned the book sideways, then upside down, to study it. “Good heavens. However did they manage to get into that position? One would have to be an acrobat, which I am not. But thank you, Harriet. I will peruse it later.”

Harriet clucked to her spaniel and they both watched Beastie wiggle out from under the ottoman, then jump into her ample lap. “Perhaps your new friend will enjoy the pictures as well. What did you say his name was, Fiona?”

“I didn’t say.”