Memoirs of Lady Montrose Read Online Free PDF Page A

instead.
    “I’ll go home now, my dear. Have a nice luncheon. You and Mortlock can discuss the minor details.” With that, her dear, darling, clever Henry rose to his feet and kissed her on the head, before walking away swinging his stick, rather than using it to lean on. A wave of relief drenched her—the black cloud that had been suspended over her head for the past week began to fade. Through the window, the day seemed brighter, the breeze gentler and the rain had stopped.
    “Shall we order?” she asked. “I’m paying.”
    “In that case I’ll have the roast chicken and a glass of the house red.”
    “I believe the roast chicken is a house speciality here.”
    Mortlock leaned over the table, his face close to hers and whispered, “I can stuff your pussy better than any chef can stuff a chicken.” His male musk delighted her senses, her heat clenched in anticipation as his words trickled into her mind.
    She closed her eyes as memories of her last session in Brighton flooded her brain and she realised her appetite for sex had returned. Her social sense prevailed. Controlling the desire between her thighs and keeping her voice level, she chose to ignore his comment.
    “I’ll order a bottle of red wine. One glass may not be enough to toast our new arrangement.” Did he hear the quiver of excitement in her voice? When he opened his mouth to speak, she leant forward and put her finger on his lips. “Mortlock, in polite society we keep that sort of language for the bedroom. Please remember that.”
    “Of course, m’lady. I will use it only on Thursdays, but we may not always be in the bedroom.” The suggestive words and teasing tone in his statement nearly undid her. She’d never had sex outside of a bedroom and with that suggestion bouncing around in her imagination, she beckoned the hovering waiter and gave him their choices.
    Over the course of their meal, Mortlock drank plenty while Helen managed to make one glass last the whole time, refusing his attempts to refill her goblet. She hoped the excess wine would dull his perceptions when Bassett followed him. Henry insisted his plan be followed to the letter and she needed to be sober to drive.
    “Till next Thursday,” Mortlock said when their repast was over. He stood, bowing with mock servility.
    “Thursday, ten o’clock,” she agreed and watched him leave. The slight swagger in his step displayed his satisfaction with their business arrangement. He carried an air of restrained sexual power, heightened by his youth. He smelt delicious and she could attest to his virility. A smile played around her lips as she wondered if she could dispense with a blindfold now. She couldn’t pretend it was Henry anymore, having met Mortlock face-to- face.

Chapter Four
     
     
     
    The arrangement with Mortlock worked well. The rose beds became a riot of colour and their perfume wafted through the windows, gracing the air. Mrs Bassett appreciated the fresh produce from the vegetable garden and thought the work they provided for Helen’s young ‘relative’ while he established himself in London an admirable and charitable gesture on Henry’s part.
    Mortlock showed a surprising knowledge and talent for growing things—but not nearly as clever as his inventive and imaginative sexual exploits.
    The spring buds and the rapid rising of the sap in the trees mirrored Helen’s mood. She looked forward to every day, especially Thursdays—the one day of the week when her home became her playground.
    This morning Henry’s mood was sombre, one of stern looks, tutting noises and mutterings about the state of the world.
    “When are you leaving, dear?” She poured him another cup of coffee, wishing he’d hurry up and go, but she tried to hide her impatience. “Is something bothering you, darling? You’re tutting. Are you upset?”
    “It’s nothing.”
    “Henry, it’s not nothing. Is something wrong at the House of Lords? I wish you’d tell me what’s bothering