Memoirs of Lady Montrose Read online

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  Memoirs of Lady Montrose

  ISBN # 978-1-78184-388-8

  ©Copyright Virginnia De Parte 2013

  Cover Art by Oliver Bennett ©Copyright June 2013

  Edited by Rebecca Douglas

  Total-E-Bound Publishing

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Total-E-Bound Publishing.

  Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Total-E-Bound Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.

  The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.

  Published in 2013 by Total-E-Bound Publishing, Think Tank, Ruston Way, Lincoln, LN6 7FL, United Kingdom.

  Warning:

  This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has a heat rating of Total-e-burning and a sexometer of 2.

  This story contains 44 pages, additionally there is also a free excerpt at the end of the book containing 7 pages.

  MEMOIRS OF LADY MONTROSE

  Virginnia De Parte

  Christopher Mortlock—gardener extraordinaire. Everything you’d want from your gardener—and more, much more. Hedges trimmed and cravings tended with expert care and consideration.

  Lady Helen attends a Brighton establishment to be sexually satisfied by their staff. Her husband Henry pays for this arrangement and together they relive the experiences.

  This idyllic scheme falls apart when Christopher Mortlock recognises Lady Helen in London and endeavours to blackmail her. He is unaware of Lord Henry’s involvement and Mortlock’s blackmail plot is turned around to the benefit of all three of them.

  Mortlock agrees to a new proposal to satisfy Lady Helen’s sexual needs and is inventive and athletic in his labours as their gardener and employee—until the day he introduces her to ‘fairy dust’. Lord Henry’s wrath descends to save Lady Helen from addiction and punish Mortlock for his audacity.

  Dedication

  To Sally and Louise.

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  The Times: News Corporation

  Humber Super Snipe: Rootes Group

  Bentley: Bentley Motors Limited

  Chapter One

  “Good evening, Mrs Brown,” someone murmured behind her.

  Helen’s stomach lurched. Her heart leapt and pounded at speed. Fear fizzed down her spine and twisted in her throat. Only a small group of people knew her as Mrs Brown and those people would not mix with, or be known to the present company. The cream of London’s society eddied around her, dressed to impress for their night at the Albert Hall—the interval afforded an opportunity to be seen and husbands attended with no interest in the musical recitals of Mozart and Chopin, let alone Beethoven’s Pastoral pieces.

  She turned around, her gaze searching the moving crowd. Three men walked away through the theatre patrons, one younger than the others. From the rear, he looked well built, with wide shoulders, dressed in formal attire and walking with a slight swagger. The voice she’d heard had sounded young. Could it be him? Even if she could see his face she wouldn’t recognise him. When in the persona of ‘Mrs Brown’, she always requested a blindfold. If she had enjoyed his company, she wouldn’t know.

  “Helen.” Charlotte touched her arm to attract her attention and she turned back to concentrate on the moment and get her nerves under control.

  “Sorry, Lottie, sorry.”

  “Lady Helen, may I introduce the Honourable Stuart Whitmore, Member of Parliament for Minderhurst.” Charlotte indicated the gentleman who’d arrived while her gaze had been fixed elsewhere. “Mr Stuart Whitmore, may I introduce you to Lady Helen Montrose.”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t talk at the moment. Excuse me.” She inclined her head towards the fawning Member of Parliament and gave Charlotte a quick smile. “I must go, Charlotte. I’m worried about Henry. He was a little poorly when I left this evening.”

  “But the programme is only halfway through.”

  “I must go, Lottie. I’ve a feeling something is terribly wrong.”

  “I’ll walk with you.”

  They abandoned Mr Whitmore MP in the crowd. He would no doubt turn and inveigle his way into another group. More important things weighed on Helen’s mind than the ladder-climbing hopes of a back bencher. Lottie accompanied her through the throng that filled the foyer. The combined conversations hummed like a nest of wasps. They nodded politely to those who moved forward, hurrying past until they reached the entrance to wait for an available taxi.

  “Helen, you’re quite pale. Are you ill?”

  Charlotte had known her for many years but this was one secret Lady Helen could not share, even with her best friend. The nausea held its place, churning her insides and she couldn’t explain her pallor to Charlotte, no matter how desperate her need to spread the burden. Only to Henry could she talk. “Are you sure it isn’t you who is feeling unwell?”

  “I’m fine, Charlotte, just tired. I’ll be happy to get home.”

  The driver waited, holding the door open.

  “Thank you for your company this evening.” Helen gave Charlotte a quick kiss on her soft powdered cheek then climbed into the back of the black taxicab. Her heartbeat had slowed since the man had called her Mrs Brown, but the lump in her throat still hurt. The sour taste of distress filled her mouth and her breath came in fast gasps as if she were panting. She leant back against the upholstery and inhaled several deep, slow breaths in an effort to calm her apprehension. Thank God Henry would still be awake when she got home. She needed his wise counsel, his old frail arms around her, his liver-spotted hands stroking her hair.

  She pushed notes into the driver’s hand then opened the taxi’s door. Her relief to be home made her ignore the cabbie’s call about her change. In her haste to reach Henry’s side, she slammed their front door, the heavy oak connecting with a thud, then ran up the staircase to their bedroom.

  Friends of Henry’s considered her a ‘decoration on Henry’s arm’ and said as much behind her back, not loud enough for Henry to hear, but sufficient for her to catch the phrase. Despite being thirty years her husband’s junior, theirs was a love match.

  At first their age difference had meant nothing, but of late the effects of Henry’s age had torn a hole in their lovemaking. Henry’s kindness and his concern for her physical needs were the foundations for the state of panic now coursing through her. She threw her silk wrap over the chaise longue, kicked off her evening shoes and climbed into bed beside him.

  “What is it?” He tossed his book aside, then reached and wrapped his arms around her to pull her close.

  “A man called me ‘Mrs Brown’ this evening. Someone from Brighton has come to London and recognised me. It can only mean trouble, Henry.”

  “Sshh. Quiet, darling. Let’s think this out.”

  She rested her head on his chest and stretched beside him. He moved aside the bodice of her low cut dress to stroke her breasts with a smooth caress, his hands no lo
nger as strong as they had once been. With a soft touch, he wrapped his hand under the giving mass, cupping it, circling her nipple with his fingertips in a feather-light dance.

  “Did he say anything else?”

  “No, I turned around but several men were walking away from me, one a younger man. He had a thick mop of hair and his stride held an arrogance not seen in our circles. It could have been him, but even if I’d seen his face I wouldn’t have known who he was, Henry. You know I always wear a blindfold…so I can pretend it’s you.”

  “Sshh, darling. Don’t panic so.”

  Lady Helen listened to the steady, slow beat of Henry’s heart knowing his thought process could not be rushed.

  After a minute he said, “No doubt he’ll try to blackmail you.”

  She shuddered.

  “As and when he contacts you, we can arrange a meeting and I’ll be nearby. I’m sure we’ll be able to come to an arrangement. After all, surely that’s why he spoke to you, to prepare his approach.”

  “Oh God, Henry. I’m always so careful. It must’ve been pure chance that he’s mixing in the same company as we do.”

  “Perhaps he’s moved his services to London. Brighton may have palled and he wants to move up the ladder. It’s not in his interest to broadcast his previous means of employment. Discretion is the only means he can survive by, if he wishes to continue in his line of work.”

  Moments passed as Henry continued to stroke her breast and calm her pounding heart.

  “Did you meet anyone else? Anyone interesting? Who else was there tonight?”

  “Charlotte kept me company and that dreadful member of the lower house, Whitmore, snared us during interval. While my gaze was following the young man’s progress through the crowd, Whitmore came upon Charlotte, insisting that she make an introduction.”

  “Forget him, sweet. I’ll have lunch with him next week and satisfy his desire to be elevated in Society. He can then namedrop for a week or so.” Henry withdrew his hand and dropped a quick kiss on her aroused nipple.

  His desire shone in his faded blue eyes. “See if you can get a rise out of the old member tonight. I’ve been resting all day so we may be in luck.”

  With that she buried her head to his crotch and took his flaccid penis in her mouth, cupping her hands around his warm sacs. She worked. He sighed with delight, but with little physical response and after a time they admitted defeat.

  Helen slipped out of bed, changed into her silk nightgown, and returned to spoon her body into his, her mind going back over her last visit to Brighton.

  Lying beside Henry, listening to his deepening breaths, she thought of her last visit, recalled the pleasures, her mind dredging deep. She pictured herself spread-eagled once more on the spacious bed, her blindfold on, refreshed and ready to be amused and satisfied.

  Chapter Two

  A few weeks previously

  Her visit had begun as all trips to Brighton did, with Henry ordering a taxi for ‘our guest’. Dressed in her Brighton clothes, a navy trouser suit and a small blue hat with black veil, she pretended to have been a visitor to Lord and Lady Montrose’s residence. The taxi took her to Paddington Station. Her visits to Brighton always began on the staff’s day off and her most recent escapade had followed the usual routine. She’d caught the train to Brighton, sat among the hoi polloi, her head lowered, reading or facing the window, ignoring all other passengers. The likelihood of meeting any of their peers was negligible, however caution was her byword.

  When in Brighton she adopted the persona of Mrs Brown, widow—comfortably well off, still in deep grief and requiring complete peace and rest. The boutique hotel where she stayed accepted her cover story and she’d become a regular customer in years past with, recently, two sojourns in as many months.

  It took but a short, brisk walk from the hotel to reach the establishment in Moore Street that specialised in ‘sexual satisfaction for lonely ladies’, or so their discreet reputation purported to supply. Henry had made the initial enquiries, having overheard it being discussed at regiment’s reunion.

  In her first foray to this establishment she’d filled in a form on which she could state her sexual preferences. She’d stipulated no bestiality, no children involved, no penetration with foreign objects and no cocks in her mouth—Henry being the only male entitled to fill that space.

  Next to anal penetration, she’d put a question mark. She could always indicate at any time that she wanted an activity to cease. She’d requested a blindfold be supplied, not to be submissive but because she didn’t want to know who pleasured her. She didn’t care. All she wanted was to be sexually aroused and satisfied, sufficient to last her a few weeks, even months. In her mind she always imagined Henry at his most ardent, sharing the Brighton bed with her.

  She’d never stated the number of partners she wished to have and her last visit had contained a surprise, her first experience of ménage à trois.

  Her sexual experiences in Brighton always delighted and titillated her. They were so well managed and luxurious—no lady could ask for more. Each bedroom in the establishment had a bathroom attached and once she’d washed and applied the perfume of her choice, she took herself to the bed, naked or dressed as her fancy took her and waited to be pleasured—she preferred to be naked. Being undressed slowly didn’t arouse her particularly, but that could always change.

  Her limbs were relaxed at the beginning of the session. The fresh linen under her buttocks made her feel like a young girl again climbing between crisp ironed sheets on a hot summer’s night. The perfume of the fresh lavender in a nearby vase caused her to imagine she was about to be seduced in a bed of herbs, hidden among trees. Her shower had left her thighs moist and she could feel her heat surging, adding to the dampness. The anticipation aroused her and her excitement kept building until she heard the door open, then close with a soft click.

  Her servant had arrived.

  Where would it begin, this slow waltz of sexual teasing? It sometimes started with kisses, but this time, it started at her toes. Soft licks and gentle sucks moved along a toe at a time, and when each foot had been thoroughly treated the tongue began its long journey around her ankle and slowly up the inside of her leg. By now she’d decided from the touch of a cheek on her instep that the tongue belonged to a man. He stopped at the knee before beginning again at the other ankle. Next he moved from knee to thigh. Each inch that his tongue travelled closer to her clit aroused her even more. His hands slid up her sides to clasp her breasts, gently massaging them, feather touches over the nipples like being brushed by butterfly wings. With slow caresses, he stroked the insides of her thighs, bending her knees, before easing them apart with gentle pressure. He knelt between her spread thighs and licked her stomach in long, trailing sweeps, then slipped a pillow under her butt. He adjusted her position with gentle squeezes and prods until she lay, she presumed, to his satisfaction. Being so deliciously exposed excited her. His licking had begun again around the top of her thighs, over her pubic rise to trail each side of her labia in turn, until she had to clamp her mouth shut to prevent a begging request for him to hurry up and take her clit in his mouth. His teasing aroused her so much, her excitement dampened her thighs. Desire pulsed through her and he obliged, answering her silent cries of need. He cupped her buttocks and lifted her to his mouth. She might have blushed, but instead she imagined Henry’s head between her legs. She pressed her heels into the bed as she offered herself to him. His tongue, which had previously been gentle and trailing, adopted a rapid stroke. Her clit tingled.

  Above her head, the mattress dipped once more and to her surprise a third person joined them. Another’s mouth caressed one breast, the tongue circling closer to her erect nipple before lips clenched and sucked with vigour.

  At the same time a strong tongue penetrated her sex then withdrew and sucked her once more. The two sensations appeared to be in time with each other. She climbed slowly to orgasm. It had been two months since her last visit and her pa
ssion surged. The strength of her climax took her by surprise. She couldn’t resist the sensation overload. She moaned, drowning in the delicious moment. Every sensitive part of her sang with joy and she rode wave after wave of exquisite delight. An explosion of colours swamped her mind. She didn’t want the rush to stop. She mentally grasped the zenith and milked each second to make it last. Despite her efforts, it faded leaving her with a warmth that hummed throughout her limbs.

  “More?” the man queried.

  She could only murmur ‘soon’ and nod her head. The person near her breasts left the bed. The base of the mattress dipped and she gathered the man at that end had also departed.

  Moments later, hands lifted her and a warm towel was placed under her before she was washed with a soft cloth. The water ran over her clitoris, still proud and sensitive, its tiny head—a ball of nerve ends—clamouring for more. Another cloth, soft as silk, dried her. She loved being pampered. This was what Henry paid for.

  She’d thought to doze off and perhaps ring the bell at the bedside later when ready once more—but no, he returned.

  She heard the rustle of foil before his fingers probed her, careful not to touch her clit, still extended and tender. Her back arched as she enjoyed the pleasure of his hands. The smell of rose oil drifted to her and its aroma triggered memories of her childhood, summer days and picnics in the garden. She inhaled and felt him rub a little across her upper lip.

  His fingers returned and seeking deeper, they worked their magic. She tensed when his other hand began to circle her anus. Now she knew what the oil was for.

  “Careful,” she cautioned.