Lust and Lace
By T. L. Jennings
Published by T.L. Jennings at Smashwords
All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Copyright © 2011 T. L. Jennings
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s peculiar imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be regarded or constructed as real in any way. Any resemblance to persons (living, dead or undead), actual events, locales, organisations or groups is wholly coincidental.
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Lust and Lace
- a Victorian Romance and Erotic short story collection
(Volume one in the “My Secret Quill” series)
Table of Contents:
***
~ St Hubert’s Day Fox Hunting ~
by Lady T. L. Jennings
www.mysecretquill.com
“I hate that stupid horse! And I hate this stupid bloody hunt, as well!” Quentin had always detested the yearly St Hubert’s Day Fox Hunting. First of all, the English weather in November was usually cold and damp; and secondly, Quentin was not at all fond of riding around like a madman hunting a fox in the middle of nowhere, when instead he could be sitting in front of the fire in his study with a nice book and a cup of tea. But, oh no, his father demanded that his oldest son had to compete in the big hunt, no matter what the weather was like, so here he was, on a deserted and muddy road just a couple of hours before sundown. The horse had taken off rapidly after leaving him swearing loudly in a thorny bush and now he had to walk all the way home to the estate, wet and soggy, just to be greeted by his father and brothers’ humiliating glares and questions. And all he wanted was to sit by the fire with a cup of tea and a book.
Quentin continued to walk down the country road while his riding boots slowly filled up with water from the endless rain. His father had arranged the fox hunting for more than twenty years on the property, a tradition that had started in 1840. This was the fifth time Quentin participated and he had never won or killed a fox yet.
He had however lost his riding bowler and his black hair ribbon, so his blonde wet hair was plastered to his head by the rain. After an hour of vowing that he would never ever celebrate St Hubert’s Day again, with or without hunting, he came to the horrible conclusion that not only was he wet and cold, he was also hopelessly lost. His father’s property was large, the third largest in whole Devon, which his father liked to point out at their dinner parties; and the property was filled with old fields and forest crossed by even older country roads. Farming had ended decades ago and the land was used mostly for hunting and occasionally logging of the large oak trees that grew in the area. Therefore it was quite possible to walk for hours without meeting a soul to ask for directions, as Quentin now gloomily found out. Every now and then he stopped to listen for the hunters’ horns or barking of their dogs, but all he heard was the light pouring of the rain and the sound of his teeth clattering together due to the cold and his shivers.
*
As dusk crept forward over the forest, Quentin realized that no one was going to find him and that the search party which probably was out there looking for him had to stop for the night and the best thing he could do was to find shelter, if he would stand any chance of surviving the night. Quentin continued forward along the road, scanning the forest and the overgrown fields for an old farmer’s house or hunting cabin, but found none. He had almost given up hope now and started to look for a fallen tree or a small animal cave, which could provide at least some protection from the rain. A slight breeze made the few leaves that were left on the trees whisper in the wind.
Suddenly in the dark he saw a small light ahead. First he thought it was a trick of the light, but there it was again: A small firelight of some kind to the left of the road.
Maybe it is a lantern or a torch? Quentin thought, and followed the light, which gave him a small flicker of hope in the now completely dark forest. Quentin staggered forward, not losing the light with his eyes, even when he fell several times over stones and branches on the old country road.
At last he stood in front of a little cabin, no more than a shack. The light came indeed from a lantern and it swayed gently from its old rusty chain in the wind.
“Hello? Is there anyone in there? Open immediately, for the love of God!” Quentin cried out and banged weakly on the shabby wooden door.
It opened slowly and for a moment, he could not see anything else in the cottage except the blessed fire in the far corner. Without waiting for an invitation, Quentin stumbled forward to the fireplace, fell to his knees and spread his numb hands in front of the fire. He closed his eyes as the heat spread slowly from his fingers up along his arms not caring about who or what that had opened the door.
“Thank heavens for this fire and its warmth,” he mumbled and flinched when a female voice with a strange accent replied,
“Or, you could just thank me instead.”
Some sense came back to Quentin and he realized that this could very well be a trap of some sort. After all, he was the oldest son and kidnappings in Devon and Cornwall were frequently occurring. He turned around rapidly but fell; his cold legs refused to follow his quick command. The cottage was small and contained nothing more than a small bed, a wooden three-legged chair and an aged cupboard and at first he did not notice the woman in the shadows.
“W-who are you?” he managed to say, laying half on his back in front of the fire staring at the figure in the shadows behind the still opened door.
“My name is Holly and I live here in the forest,” she said as she stepped into the light and closed the door behind her. She was dressed in rags, which once might have been a sturdy green woollen peasant dress and a brown knitted cloak, but what really caught Quentin’s attention was her hair. It was red. Not Irish red, but almost orange in the light from the fire. It was not braided or even covered, as any decent woman would have kept her hair, but instead spilled down freely over her shoulders in curls down to her waist. Strangely, even though her dress was only filthy rags, her hair looked clean and dry.
“The November nights in England can be cold and can easily claim a young man’s life,” she said. “Lucky for you that you stumbled over my cabin, eh?” she continued with a small smile which showed that she lacked a tooth next to her front teeth. She was otherwise a pretty girl with a heart shaped face, large dark eyes and a slim figure.
“…Yes, well, that is true,” Quentin said slowly as he tried to regain his composure. “However, you do know that you are on my father’s property? And he does not tolerate squatters on his lands. If I may suggest, you might consider…” He trailed off as Holly had turned her back against him and started to collect some dried herbs, which hung from the cottage’s ceiling. The ceiling was broken; rainclouds and the first sight of the moon could easily been seen through the broken woodwork.
The nerve! Quentin was outraged. She had not called him “Sir or My Lord”, she was dressed improperly, not to mention the lack of braids or a decent head protection. And now she even turned her back against him when he talked. It was… His thoughts got interrupted as Holly went passed him and placed a battered iron pot by the fire and added the herbs into it by crushing them together with her thin pale fingers.
“Do not worry, Quentin,” she said. “We are not in your father’s forest anymore. Save your energy and worry, if you want to survive this night. You are cold and full of bruises, and you need to rest. There is a bed over there. Why do you not go there and lay down while I make you some soup, eh?”
Without answering, Quentin realized that he indeed was overwhelmingly tired, and while he was not numb with cold anymore, the small bed with its mattress of hay looked undeniably inviting. He rose without a word and managed to take off his red riding jacket but forgot about the boots as he fell into oblivion on the bed.
*
Someone called his name far away. At first he did not want to wake up, but the voice with the strange accent refused to be silent.
“Here, I have made you some soup. You need to eat something hot, or the November cold may still claim you,” she said as he opened his eyes. The fire had burned down but its light still illuminated her silhouette and unkept hair.
The soup was made of various vegetables and some sort of meat and tasted strongly of herbs, which left a slightly acid aftertaste. Quentin felt weak but refused to get hand fed and ate the whole bowl of soup while Holly watched him. He drank cold water from a wooden mug that she gave him. It was not until after he had finished his meal and he saw his clothes, neatly folded and placed on the three-legged chair by the fire, that he became conscious over the fact that he indeed was naked under the thick blanket. Quentin blushed and was suddenly very glad over the dim light in the cabin.
“Feeling better now, eh?” she asked as he handed her the bowl and the mug. He mumbled something indistinguishable in reply, pulled the blanket up to his chin and closed his eyes, pretending to go back to sleep but keeping one eye slightly open to see what the strange woman would to next. First she fidgeted with the bowl and the mug in the corner by the cupboard, and after that she lighted a couple of small thin rods by the fireplace, where they burned slowly and left a sweet scent in the air.
Then, in the last light from the dying fire, she turned around and undressed. Under the old peasant dress she wore a loosely tied corset and a chemise, both in light colours. She had pale skin and a frail body. Frail body, yes, but still delicate, with a small rounded apple bosom with pink nipples. Her thighs were nicely shaped and her waist was thin.
Quentin’s breathing grew rapid as she approached the bed slowly. He had still not known the love of a woman, a privilege that only applied to those who had entered marriage; and his few adventures with tavern girls or servants had never included even a glimpse of a leg and definitively not the sight of a uncovered breast nor a naked woman. Her heart-shaped face was framed by red hair and large brown eyes looked down at him. The bed all of a sudden felt extremely small as Holly slipped under the blanket.
She was warm and soft and whispered in his ear: “I know that you still are awake.” She turned her body towards his and placed a warm hand on his beating chest.
“Who are you?” he asked quietly.
“Only a poor peasant girl,” she whispered with a smile and kissed him gently. He kissed her back and soon forgot his question. He explored her tongue and lips lightly until she moved closer and pressed her naked body against his. The kisses rapidly become more intense and once he by accident happened to bite her, which made her lip bleed a little. A slight taste of blood mingled with their kisses.
It felt like every thought and sanity left him. He could no longer feel his bruises from falling of the horse, nor did he care about his father’s hunt or the bitter cold he had experienced. Instead he grew hot, burning hot, under her fingers, as if her touch had woken something deep inside of him. He pushed himself against her rhythmically and she answered with the same pace until they lay naked, panting and sweaty, with the blanket long forgotten on the cottage’s dirty floor.
“What are you doing to me?” he asked, but she only smiled with her missing tooth and her hands followed down his body until they reached their goal, which made Quentin unsure if he had spoken at all. Her fingers touched the most sensitive spot on his body and he could feel himself instantly grow harder, harder than he had ever been before, and he thought that he probably would die if she ever removed her hands. At first she stroke him gently while he kissed her deeply, but then she handled him firmer and pressed both of her hands together around him in a manner that made him utter a small whimper, which seemed to please her.
“You will have to make a promise to me, before I continue,” she whispered between the kisses without removing her hands.
“Anything you want,” Quentin answered, dazzled. “Anything.”
“The fox hunting in this forest has to stop,” she said and carefully took her hands away from him. “Promise me that.”
“Yes. Yes, I promise. No more fox hunting on this property ever again. Just do not stop, please,” he said almost desperately, but a small part of him thought that it was a very strange request. However, he abandoned the thought – all thoughts really – as her hands started to touch and stroke him once again.
She gently pushed him on his back and in the dim light from the moon, which fell through the broken roof, she slowly straddled him. The moonlight fell on her naked breasts and hips and gleamed in her hair, which made it look like the ends of the red hair were painted with silver. Her hands rested on his chest and then slid down to help him enter her. She was surprisingly wet and warm inside. She bent forward and kissed him once, twice and then she straightened up and rode him slowly. He touched her breast and reached up to kiss them as she increased her pace. He caressed her breasts and licked one of her nipples, when she suddenly dug her nails hard into his back and pushed faster against him. She let out a small scream, an animal-like sound, and he felt her tighten inside. This unexpected sensual feeling, together with the increased pace and the pain from his bleeding back, caused him to come immediately. He came deep inside her and pressed her body to his until it felt as if their two bodies had melted together and he was surrounded by an ocean of red hair with white tips.
*
The search party found Quentin during the first couple of hours after sunrise. He lay asleep under a fallen tree and was unharmed except for some bruises and several cuts on his back. Everyone agreed about that it was quite a miracle that he had survived the cold and rainy night at all.
The horse appeared near the stable the next day, but Quentin’s red riding jacket was never found. His father was beside himself with happiness over his son’s narrow escape from death. Indeed he was so happy to see his son alive at all, that he never even asked why he wanted them to end the foxhunting on the property. The hunt had been a real disappointment anyway since nobody had been able to catch even a single fox. Quentin’s father just assumed that the request was a result of the boy’s trauma after surviving the cold November night during St Hubert’s Day fox hunting.
***
~ Strange Masks ~
by Lady T. L. Jennings
www.mysecretquill.com
“Look! What is that, over there?” Isabella was pointing at an object under a dusty sheet in the corner of the attic, which turned out to be an old wooden chest. The two sisters and their cousin immediately tried to open it.
“It is stuck, it will not open!” said Mary disappointed.
“Oh, step aside, little sister, and let me have a try,” said Isabella. “After all, I was the one who found it.”
“I think actually that I should have a try – after all, I am the oldest one here,” interrupted Jane, their cousin, sweeping her brown curly hair out of her eyes.
After much debating and fussing, they managed to open the antique chest. The metal from the hinges creaked a little. They looked into the chest curiously, pushing each other to get a better look see its contents.