The Dowager Countess (The Saga of Wolfbridge Manor Book 2), Sahara Kelly [best thriller novels to read txt] 📗

She made her choice there and then. “Jeremy, would you come to me tonight? I need…I need your arms, your warmth…”

She felt his chest rise and fall. “It would be my pleasure, my Lady. And—I hope—yours too.”

She turned a little, her heart lifting at that thought. “I don’t think that’s in any doubt…”

His arms moved, loosening, his hands sliding beneath her breasts and cupping them. Her nipples hardened at his touch and he found them, rubbing his thumbnails in just the right place to make her gasp. “Do I have to wait until tonight?”

She choked out a laugh. “Yes, you do.” His thumbs moved again. “But this is an excellent start…” She leaned back, lifted her hands and placed them over his, crushing her breasts and moaning a little beneath her breath.

Then she pulled away, noting that he let her go immediately. She lifted her chin, but found she couldn’t turn and look at him. She was suddenly riddled with concern as to what she might see.

Would he look complacent? Satisfied his mistress had called on him for sex? Would he look disgusted or horrified? A number of emotions tripped over themselves as they skittered through her mind.

“I think I might ask Mrs Barnsley to join me for tea this afternoon.”

“An excellent idea. She will be very happy to hear about the plans for the Whit Sunday fête,” he answered.

With those prosaic words, the field had levelled, and order restored itself in her mind. Gwyneth turned with a smile. “Would you be so kind as to send her a message, Jeremy? And let Evan know I’ll need tea at possibly three o’clock or thereabouts?”

“Of course, Ma’am.” He bowed, smiled and turned away.

The die had been cast. Gwyneth had selected a lover. Now all that remained was to survive the day, and not regret the night to come.

The arrival of Mrs Barnsley, promptly at half-past two, certainly brought a breath of fresh air into the parlour.

“‘Bout time,” she said, sitting down with a thump in one of the upholstered chairs. “Yer leavin’ the fête awful late, m’Lady.”

“Forgive me,” said Gwyneth. “I didn’t know. I’m still learning about the whys and wherefores of Wolfbridge, and there’s a lot to take in.”

Mrs B nodded. “I’ll give yer that. An’ since yer were sick, makes it all the ‘arder. But we’re ‘ere now, so let’s be at it.”

Gwyneth told her of the Medieval fair idea, amused as Mrs B’s face lit up with enthusiasm.

“Now there’s a good idea, Ma’am. Yer got brains as well as looks, I’m thinkin’.” She paused, her eyes narrowing. “An’ we can do chickens on a spit outside, mebbe a pig if the weather ‘olds fine…lots ‘o them tent thingies…keep the sun off the pies, o’ course…”

“We were thinking perhaps toy swords, and hobby horses for the children? Maybe some bits and pieces of silk, scraps and so on, for a bit of veil here and there…”

Mrs B’s eyes glazed. “Ohhh…”

Taking that as an endorsement, Gwyneth continued to relate some of the other ideas they’d come up with, all met with the same enthusiasm.

Notes were made, alternative ideas tossed around, and neither realised that half an hour had sped by until Jeremy knocked and entered with the tea tray.

“Now that’s what I call tea,” beamed Mrs B. “Yer a good lad, Jeremy.”

Jeremy grinned and bowed. “I’m honoured you think so, Ma’am.”

She grinned back. “Don’t go Ma’am-ing me, Mr Cheeky. I seen you nabbin’ them peaches last week, of’f Fred Dibbin’s tree.”

Gwyneth couldn’t help laughing at Jeremy’s blush. “Jeremy. You were scrumping?”

“‘E were that, m’Lady. Broad daylight too.”

“It had to be in daylight. Fred lets his dogs out at night.” Jeremy sighed. “They guard those trees as if they bore florins instead of fruits.” He shrugged. “I was testing them to see if they were ready for Lady Gwyneth. Don’t tell Fred, but those peaches need a few more days of sunshine. Too early to be really juicy. Made my mouth pucker.”

“Them’s the wages o’ sin, lad.” Mrs B gave him the look that probably reduced him to about eight years old.

Gwyneth reminded herself to practice her own version of that look. It would doubtless come in handy in when dealing with her household.

Jeremy took himself off and she turned to pour tea and put one or two of Evan’s perfect tiny cakes on a plate for Mrs B.

“So which one yer takin’ ter yer bed, then?”

Gwyneth fumbled and nearly dropped the teapot at the question. “What?”

Mrs B smiled silkily. “Dearie, I bin ‘ere at Wolfbridge more years’n you got on this earth. Seen more ’n a few Ladies come an’ go, an’ plenty o’ these ‘ere gentlemen o’ yourn. What ‘appens inside these walls ain’t nobody’s business but yers. ‘Owever, I got to know them ladies an’ they all ‘ad the same problem.”

“They did?” Gwyneth stared, open-mouthed.

“Yep.” Mrs B nodded. “None ‘o them could pick just one.” She bit into a tea cake and chewed with obvious relish. “Oh they ‘ad a bit of a time fixin’ on the notion they could ‘ave any of ‘em. But once they got that in their ‘eads, it was all ‘bout which one.”

Sitting down, because all of a sudden her knees had become a bit wobbly, Gwyneth decided not to risk picking up her teacup just yet, although a sip of the warm liquid would have been most welcome. “So…er…how did they decide?”

“I dunno.” Mrs B reached for another cake. “Damn, these are ‘bout the best things ever.” She chewed with delight. “Far as I can tell, m’Lady, yer starts wi’ one o’ yer men, an’ then…”

“And then…?” Holding her breath, Gwyneth waited for an answer.

“Try more. Or all at once. Or two at a time. Whatever yer wants,