An Impolite Seduction. Alison Richardson
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as one might expect. “I’ve been making a great deal of money,” he said. “Manchester is a good place for that these days.” He lowered his voice. “You know, I’d be able to pay for much more of your time now, week in and week out.”
He’d been famous at the Paris brothel as a particularly cheap client.
I told him that I was no longer for sale.
“Ah, I see,” he said, speaking very softly to avoid being overheard. “Does that mean you’ll let me fuck you for free now?”
From the mischievous grin on his face, I could tell that he thought himself clever.
I turned away with a sniff and stared into the fire.
“Surely you aren’t still angry with me, Countess,” he said teasingly, as if cajoling a petulant child. “Not after all these years. Aren’t you pleased to see me?”
Luckily I did not have to answer that obnoxious question, because at that moment we were called into dinner.
As we entered the dining room, I saw at a glance that the table was not set at all according to proper precedent. Instead of being next to the host, as was my right as a Countess, I was halfway down the table in an entirely inappropriate place.
I pointed out, reasonably and calmly, that the servant laying out the cards had made a mistake, but the viscount said sternly that the seating order was just as he had wished it, and gave me a look as if I had said something rude.
It is perhaps not necessary to inform the reader that James McKirnan was seated to my right; she will have guessed that already, for such is the logic of fate and of literature.
To my left was an elderly clergyman, the second son of some undistinguished family from the lesser nobility. I pointedly made him the object of my attentions from the moment I sat down, and for the first few courses, James made no further attempts at conversation.
Then, as the meat was being served, he said, “How do you find Derbyshire, Countess?”
Such an innocuous question could not be ignored without awkwardness, and the viscount’s aging mother was waiting expectantly on the other side of the table for my answer.
“It’s very green,” I said vaguely, not having formed any real opinion of the place in the short time since I had arrived. “And peaceful,” I added.
That answer seemed to please the old woman. “Oh, yes, that’s still true, thank heavens. Though all the mines may spoil the place yet,” she said, shooting a nasty glance at James. I assumed from that last statement that his newfound wealth must have had some connection to coal mines.
“I hope you won’t find yourself lacking in diversions here,” the old lady continued, speaking again to me. “Since you are used to a life in town.”
I said politely that I was certain I would find plenty of things in Derbyshire to entertain me.
“We’ll all exert ourselves to make sure you aren’t bored,” James promised casually. As he made this remark, he slipped his left hand into my lap.
My surprise at this bold gesture made me choke on my first bite of cutlet. James leaned toward me in a show of false concern.
“Are you all right, Countess?” he asked.
I nodded and pulled at his arm under the table. He pinched my thigh and slid his hand between my knees.
I could not even risk glaring at him, trapped as I was in the middle of a dinner party for twelve.
The dining room was dimly lit and the tablecloth voluminous, so no one, I am sure, could have noticed the reason for my sudden discomfiture. James had strong hands, and with a few deft strokes of his palm, he had pried my legs apart. As I struggled to keep my face impassive, he slowly and firmly caressed my thighs, talking all the time to the viscount mother’s about the unusually dry spring weather they had had the past week.
Then, while continuing to cut his meat with his fork in a state of apparent uninterest, he slipped his fingers up to the joining between my thighs and began to stroke my pussy through my skirts.
I tried to squeeze my knees together, but his agile fingers found their way to my cunt no matter what I did, and to avoid the uncouth appearance of squirming in my seat, I was forced to give up the fight. I sat back in my chair and let my thighs fall apart, and James gave my leg another soft pinch when I stopped struggling against his hand.
The fashion in England these past few years has been to wear dresses without many petticoats, and my decision to follow this local custom made James’s assault more potent than it might have been otherwise. Being petted through one thin layer of silk and another thin layer of cotton is almost as intense as being touched naked, particularly when the man in question has such inventive hands.
You no doubt know what happens when a man fondles your pussy, especially if the man’s fingers are skillful. You begin to feel warm, and the circulation of your blood is disturbed, and you may find it difficult not to moan out loud. I can assure you that all these symptoms appear as a matter of course, even should the hand caressing you happen to be attached to an uncivilized brute with no table manners to speak of.
The viscount’s mother commented that she was glad to see that my color was so high tonight. I had looked fatigued after my long journey.
But was it normal, the good lady wondered, for my cheeks to be so red and my eyes so bright? Did I perhaps feel a bit feverish?
No, I assured her breathlessly, I was not in the least feverish.
Thankfully at that moment the servants came to collect the plates before the next course and everyone was distracted, because just then James found my clitoris through the folds of my skirt and I had to lower my eyes and purse my lips to keep from voicing my strong natural response to this discovery.
It was lucky that no one spoke to me directly for the next few moments, for I am not sure that I could have answered. For all his many faults, James had always been an accomplished lover, even when he was only using the tips of his fingers, and his touch had lost none of its dexterity.
To mask the moment of my orgasm, James made a pretense of reaching across my plate for the salt; if anyone saw me jerk in my chair, they doubtless thought it due to my neighbor’s breech of etiquette. For a second I clutched James’s arm under the table, and then slumped back in my seat.
James leaned over and whispered, “I think you are glad to see me, after all, Countess.”
I assured him that nothing could be further from the truth.
“Nonsense,” he said in a barely audible mutter. “I know what I felt through your skirts.”
I glared at him and scooted my chair closer to the aged parson on my left.
To my mind, James’s victory over me (for I think, unfortunately, that is how that first evening must be seen) was yet another injury to be laid at the door of my prospective cousin-in-law, the viscount. I am not cursed, I hope, with undue pride of place, but I am, after all, a Countess. No thoughtful host would have ever seated me next to the son of an apothecary, and had I not been forced to sit next to James at dinner, he never would have had the opportunity to gain such unfettered access to my lap.
I pause to emphasize another fact that everyone has surely already noticed—the proper way to eat the meat course is with both hands on the table, fork in one hand and knife in the other. If any further proof of James’s ill breeding was necessary, this incident that first night at dinner should put the issue beyond all question. During the soup course, such a foray into another guest’s lap would be less objectionable, but a man who would keep his left hand busy caressing his neighbor’s thigh when any civilized person should be handling a knife at table…I leave you to draw your own conclusions about such a man’s level of refinement.
I resolved to distract myself from my own unpleasant situation by focusing my energies on aiding my cousin, and my first obligation to Charlotte, as I saw it, was to remedy the unfortunate