Memoirs of Lady Montrose by Virginnia DeParte Page B

He’d missed an engagement the previous night. His Lordship had made him busy without warning, keeping him up starching his bloody shirts. It had been a fucking inconvenience. The person he was supposed to meet would have given him welcome relief from what had been a mind-numbing day below stairs. With a sigh, Edward picked up the cloth and scrubbed half-heartedly at a stubborn mark on the brush. It wasn’t shifting—needed a good seeing-to.
    She needed a bloody good seeing-to. Always did. Fuck, he wanted her now. He pictured her gorgeous round breasts swaying as he pounded her, her lips open as she gasped in air, her legs spread wide, the inside of her thighs wet with lust. She was always wet for him, wet and fucking tight. With that vision in mind, he now went at the silver with determination, his muscled arms straining under the white cotton shirt—he’d stripped off the rest of his suit in the heat. He spat onto the silver to try to shift the mark, and his thick black hair fell over his eyes. Edward tossed it back.
    “My lady!” Cook’s startled squeal roused him.
    Standing in the doorway was Lady Isabella Fortescue, Countess of Atherton, mistress of Foresham Hall.
    She glanced dismissively at the damp little group, her nose wrinkling in distaste. Lady Atherton was, amongst friends and those who wished to be friends, regarded as a cool, distinguished beauty. Amongst those not her friends, she was considered an arrogant, disdainful bitch. She had married the earl in her early twenties, and now, four years later, it was clear that the marriage was hardly the stuff of fairy tales. But that was unimportant. Lady Atherton was immeasurably beautiful, a good hostess, and would soon produce an heir, one assumed. What else was marriage for?
    It was not usual for the lady of the house to appear without warning in the kitchen. But here she now stood in her burgundy day dress, all exotic silks and laces, staring at them as if they were objects in a specimen cage. Her staff waited for her words. They eventually came tightly.
    “It is a warm day. You all need some fresh air. Go outside and take some. Do not return until midday.”
    Despite her startling appearance in the kitchen and her bizarre request, the staff knew better than to argue with Lady Atherton. With a surreptitious glance at each other, they rose rapidly to their feet, bobbed quickly, muttered ‘My lady’ in rushed breaths and hurried out. All except one.
    Edward didn’t move. He remained seated as he had been, legs crossed, posture reclining, staring up at the lady of the house with a coolness bordering on arrogance.
    Lady Atherton did not enquire as to why he had not left with the others, but instead stared down at him, her tight disdain now gone, replaced by a flush on the smooth cheeks. She drew in rapid breaths. At last Edward slowly, languidly, pushed himself up, tossing the polishing cloth dismissively onto the table. He took steady steps across to the countess, stopping a foot in front of her, and stared down.
    “Bored, are we?” he drawled.
    “You didn’t come to me last night, Marham.”
    “I were busy, my lady. Yer husband wanted his shirts sortin’. Took me all night.”
    “I…”
    “What, my lady?” He didn’t move. He didn’t uncross his arms.
    “I was expecting you. It has been three days since…last time.”
    “I’m a busy man, my lady. We can’t be havin’ all fun and games now, can we?” He smirked.
    “You told me you’d be there last night.”
    Edward sniffed derisively. “Oh, it don’t work like that with me, my lady, y’know that.”
    She stepped into him, her sculpted face now open and needing, her words urgent. “Show me how it does work with you, Marham.”
    His mouth curled up again and he cocked a teasing eyebrow. “What? Right here and now?”
    “Yes. Now. Right now.” She could barely speak between breaths. Lady Atherton reached up a hand and placed it on the valet’s shirt, drawing it up over his torso