Tight Laced Page 2

  ~ a sealed contract between The Earl of Highcastle and the Duke of Blantyre Highmeadow, 30th of August, 1877

  LADY LACILIA FOUND herself in her chambers before she realized that she still clutched the duke’s handkerchief in the palm of her hand.

  She lay upon her bed, her head pounding from weeping. She brought the square of cloth to her face, and gently wiped her eyes, and then drew it down her face, pausing at her nose. The smell was something new. The scent of deep forests. Tree bark after heavy rain.

  Lacy closed her eyes and drew in a lungful of air. The duke’s scent played with her, tickled her, like a vague memory of some delicious confection she couldn’t quite name.

  The tall, brusque duke had offended her, certainly, but when he’d placed his arm round her shoulder – a drunken gesture, but a comfort none-the-less – she’d felt the floor beneath her feet more solidly than she had since learning of her father’s death.

  The man had such audacity, however. Coming here the way he did and enjoying spirits in the receiving room before leisurely nodding off. Most improper, really.

  And at this very moment, two floors below, her stepmother and half-sister were filling his mind with who knew what. Lacy imagined they were maligning her:

  Please excuse the Lady Lacilia. She’s quite mad. We generally keep her locked away!

  The more Lacy ruminated on the possibilities, the angrier she became.

  She reached into her boot where she’d slipped the memorial locket, and upon opening the keepsake, she found that the lock of her mother’s hair had quite gone missing. Her heart sank. This was the only piece of her mother left in the house, after all. The countess had made sure of that.

  Lacy wished to dissolve into tears once again, but then, a memory surfaced. Something her father had once said to her:

  You have your mother’s determination, Lacy, my darling. She lived life on her own terms and when she died, she died knowing that she never wasted a false minute.

  Oh, if only her mother had lived!

  Lacilia fingered the edges of the duke’s handkerchief. She ran the tip of her pinkie over the nubbed Scottish beast.

  The embroidered dragon was impressive: a huge reptilian body covered with a mail of plate and scales from head to tail, ending in a great and deadly stinger. From gaping jaws emerged dangerous fangs and the belching of flame. The stitch work was more detailed than any Lacy had come across. The dragon’s beady eyes, a sharp spike on his nose, a forked tongue, eagle's feet and bat's wings.

  From her tutors she had learned a bit about the rampants of Scotland. The dragon symbolized power, wisdom and clear-headedness.

  But the duke? He certainly did not display clear-headedness. And what of wisdom? Lacy had no evidence of that, either.

  So why did she tingle so, holding the handkerchief in her palm?

  Why did her center suddenly throb with desire?

  Would it be sacrilegious to pleasure herself on such a day?

  Lacilia rose from her bed and tiptoed to her door. She peeked out into the long, dark hallway.

  It was empty of foot traffic.

  She closed the door, and threw the bolt, but as she crossed the floor back to her bed, she was discomfited by her father’s portrait over her writing desk. Without another thought, Lacy flung a tartan lap blanket over the frame. “Papa, your forgiveness,” she whispered as she did so.

  Once back upon her bed, she removed her mourning dress. She pulled down her crinoline and unfastened her garter belt. She lay back on her pillow and rolled down each stocking, and slowly peeled off her corset cover. Feeling a tingle in her woman parts, she wiggled out of her knickers.

  She was now nearly naked on her bed, wearing only her corset. Unlacing her corset would be a trick. Its removal necessitated help from her lady’s maid, as it tied in back (she so longed for the modern version that unfastened in the front).

  Lacy looked about. Clothing heaped on either side of her. Her stepmother would think her entirely scandalous were she to discover her at this juncture. Lacy again eyed the bolt on her door.

  She closed her eyes, and reached for the duke’s handkerchief, bringing it to her face once more, taking in the scent of him.

  One of her fingers made its way round the edge of the cloth and she licked it, knuckle to nail. She took the whole of it, then, sucking on it, as marrow from a bone.

  She felt her pulse quicken.

  With her wet finger she touched below her corset, where her soft mound lay open and exposed. She pried her lips apart and felt for her pleasure center – that slightly swollen button that now pulsed softly.

  Her breath caught in her throat as she inhaled the woodsy scent of the handkerchief.

  Duke, she whispered. Yes, yes. My duke.

  One hand on her soft sheath and the other tightly wrapped around the duke’s handkerchief, she let the first wave of pleasure unfold.

  But she was not finished. Not properly.

  She stroked her throbbing lady parts, circling the swollen pleasure center until her thighs pulled together. Her stomach contracted beneath her tightly-laced corset. Her nipples pushed up against the fabric’s edges.

  With the handkerchief in one hand, she wrested free one of her large breasts, thumb and finger pressing the dragon on the cloth, she enveloped her nipple in a tight pinch. A jolt of lightning seared up inside her and radiated out to her hip bones. She heard the creak of iron and spring beneath her as she bucked. Wet nectar gushed from her insides, and all the world exploded behind her eyes.

  She fell back upon her covers, spent, and it wasn’t until minutes had passed, that she heard the increasingly anxious knocking on her bedroom door.

  Darlington found himself at a loss for words in the presence of these two grieving ladies. At last he managed, “You have my deepest condolences, Lady Bloomsbury and Lady Sarah Jane.”

  The elder of the two, the widow, nodded her head and narrowed her eyes. “Duke, certainly you did not come all the way to Rosehaven just to pay respects when a handwritten note would suffice.”

  “I am, I admit, a bit old-fashioned. My parents taught me that face to face respects are much more sincere and appreciated.”

  “I see. Obviously, you come from a thoughtful pedigree.”

  The younger of the two piped up at this point. “Thoughtful, and, I dare say, much respected throughout the continent.”

  “The lady flatters me.”

  Sarah Jane smiled. Grinned, actually. A broad, wet grin that showed her teeth. Something about it caused the duke’s stomach to curdle. The poor girl’s mouth was full of crooked, waxy teeth. It was no wonder that her usual expression was a frown. It suited her better as her open mouth gave off the look of a circus spectacle.

  The elder Lady Bloomsbury did not smile, however. And she waved toward the far end of the room, where a divan and two large chairs took up space. “Let us sit together for a spell. As long as you’ve come all this way, perhaps we shall put aside propriety and discuss our business.”

  “Lady Bloomsbury, I wouldn’t dream of bothering you with that in your time of grief.”

  “Ah. I’m sure the earl will forgive us.” The countess made the sign of the cross and looked toward the ceiling. “And if his spirit is offended, perhaps we can give him something to cheer it onward.”

  Darlington found this statement quite unsettling. Particularly since the earl’s younger daughter looked like a hound just presented with a stag leg, her grin unwavering.

  The three sat down, and were soon presented with tea. Darlington tried not to be obvious in his appraisal of the young lady, but he couldn’t help recalling the brief interaction earlier with the elder sister. How could these girls both have sprung from the loins of Lord Bloomsbury? They were nearly a different species.

  Perhaps the original Lady Bloomsbury had been a more handsome figure. Easier on the eyes. An uncharitable ponder now thrust its way into Darlington’s consciousness. Maybe the earl was so miserable with this woman that he’d lost t
he will the live?

  Nervously, he rattled his spoon inside of his teacup, dissolving a lump of sugar as the lady spoke. “I understand that my late husband loaned you money for a speculative venture?”

  Darlington let out a little cough. This was a lady who didn’t mince about. “The coal mine isn’t, what one might call, speculative. It’s one of the finest in the Glasgow area.”

  “Ah. Well. Then you shan’t have trouble repaying the note under the terms agreed upon.”

  “We should be in much better shape come spring, Lady Bloomsbury. And, I suppose, as long as we’re talking business, I have a proposal.”

  “A proposal?” said the daughter, her bulging eyes lighting up.

  Darlington cleared his throat. “I am willing to increase the terms. Bump up the interest, if you will, if you’ll agree to allow me to push back the repayment date. Six months? Nine, actually, would be ideal.”

  Lady Bloomsbury held her teacup steadily, just inches away from pursed lips that never sipped. She inhaled, and then set her cup down on the side table. From seemingly invisible air, she produced a scroll which she unrolled, slowly. And then she turned to her daughter. “Sarah Jane, please ring for my eyeglasses if you would.”

  The daughter frowned, looked about, and then picked up a shiny brass bell.

  In a moment, the footman arrived with a pearl-edged tray upon which a lay a small, folded set of half-glass spectacles.

  Darlington could feel his heart beating wildly. What were these women up to, exactly?

  “That is all,” Lady Bloomsbury said, nodding dismissal to her servant.

  She cleared her throat, unrolled the scroll, and spoke the words of the contract that the duke had committed to memory. She read the terms, the sum the duke had agreed to, the date in which the note would be in default, and the consequences of such default.

  He was sunk. She would not let him out of his agreement. Not easily, anyhow. There was nothing else he could do, but divulge the truth. “I will be frank. I am not able to pay you at this moment.”

  The widow raised one eyebrow. “Pity,” she said. “I would hate to sully your good name with talk of debt-evasion.”

  They were silent for a moment.

  And then.

  “There might be a way,” said the widow Bloomsbury.

  “Yes? Yes?”

  The older woman turned her gaze to the younger, and stroked the ends of her straw-like hair. The younger smiled yet again. The duke’s stomach turned.

  “Sarah Jane is of age,” said the woman. “She is a virgin, and certainly ripe for child-bearing.”

  The young lady took in a breath, and a gleam shone brightly in her bug eyes.

  “Sarah Jane, run along upstairs and see that Lacy hasn’t clawed the moulding off the room, would you? I wish to discuss the details privately with Duke Darlington.”

  The daughter lurched up like a jester doll affixed to a spring, and nearly tripped on the hem of her unflattering mourning frock.

  Darlington noticed that his tea had turned cold and bitter. The widow watched him put it down before uttering carefully measured words. “I am not a fool, Duke.”

  “Nobody would think that of you, my lady.”

  “Sarah Jane is not a beauty. Nor is she terribly clever.”

  “I wouldn’t say…”

  The widow put out a hand to stop Darlington from continuing. She looked him straight in the eye. “You do not have to be faithful. Just discreet.”

  “So. That is the bargain then? You bankrupt me if I refuse to wed your daughter?”

  The widow stood. She turned her back on the duke, and then spun round, one long, crooked finger pointed his way. “I like to think that my late husband would rest in peace knowing that his daughter was happily married to one of his favorite business associates.”

  The duke felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. “This is blackmail.”

  “Oh, come now, duke. Let us not be ugly. I am a grieving widow. My child has lost her father. What an inspired and generous act this proposal of marriage. At a time like this.”

  Darlington pulled out a pocket watch, sighing deeply. “I shall think this over, Your Ladyship. I must head back if I am to get to the inn before midnight.”

  “Nonsense! You’ll stay here for the night. We have a room prepared. I’ll expect your answer at breakfast.”

  With that, the widow brought her hand down upon the bell and lifted it high, ringing it in the line of sight between them, more loudly than necessary, unceasingly, until her footman came rushing in to see what was so dire.

  “What on earth is it?” called Lacilia to whomever was creating the ruckus on the other side of the door.

  “Lala, let me in! I must tell you what just happened!”

  It was Sarah Jane out there in the hall, thudding about. It certainly would not do to have her witness the tossed clothing and rumpled linens. “Go away.”

  She bashed again. A fist rap, perhaps. And most likely some kicking as well, given the symphony of thumping. Lacy’s sister behaved like a child in many respects, even though the girl was nearly eighteen.

  “Can’t it wait until the morning?”

  “I’m much too excited, Lala. Let me in!”

  Hadn’t their father recently died? Had they not weeks earlier buried the man who’d made them, loved them, and cared for their very livelihoods? What was the matter with the girl? Lacilia sighed, tossed her clothing under her bed, threw on a bathing coat, and cracked open the door. “What is it?” she said, refusing to open the door completely.

  Sarah Jane was impervious to social graces and given to run-on chatter. Indeed, the younger Bloomsbury daughter was as dull as a crate of hammers when it came to reading the subtle messages of others. She was, however, not mean-spirited like her mother, and Lacilia had always felt somewhat protective of the girl. Protective and annoyed in one enormous and confusing package.

  The slight crack in the door was no deterrent for the young lady, and she burst through the opening. She trip-trapped right up to the bed and leapt upon it. The very same place where minutes earlier Lacilia had been writhing in fantasy lovemaking with the impertinent duke, who, shockingly, Sarah Jane announced just now, was her fiancé.

  “Duke Darlington Moore of Blantyre Highmeadow? Are you serious?”

  “Momma said ‘proposal’ and she’d told me on the way back from Papa’s funeral that she was going to get me a husband straight off, and why are you still wearing your corset under your robe?”

  Lacilia stood dumbfounded gazing at her sister’s bloated grin. The idiot girl married to that rogue? She couldn’t imagine it. Not only was she not fit for the Scottish drear and cold winters, but had she any idea what was expected of a wife? Just look at her, bouncing on the bed like a wee fool.

  She daren’t burst the girl’s bubble of glee completely, but someone needed to nudge her toward reality. “Sarah Jane, your mother means well, but am I correct in my assumption that the duke has yet to actually propose?”

  The bouncing ceased. Sarah Jane’s lower lip thrust forward. “He shall, Lala. He shall!”

  That was when Lacilia noticed the duke’s soiled handkerchief still lay upon the bed a mouse-tail length from her sister’s fingers. The whole situation was most improper. Lacy glanced at her father’s hidden portrait – a square of plaid wool still shielded him from his daughters’ amorality. What would he think of this behavior? His eldest giving way to her growing urges that seemed more and more pressing these days, and the younger forgetting his recent demise entirely in the face of a would-be suitor.

  Suitor. Ha! Lacilia cleared her throat and licked her lips. “Sarah Jane. The duke, I am certain, finds himself flattered by the thought of betrothal to someone as, um, lovely as you—”

  At mention of this possibility, Sarah Jane resumed her bouncing, her fingers clutching the bed linen, and, much to Lacilia’s horror, the handkerchief itself.

  Lacilia continued hastily, “However, I suppose he might already
have a bride in mind. Someone from the highlands, perhaps? Or a lass from Glasgow?”

  The younger girl screwed up her mouth. Her eyes, already bulging, took on the state of an owl and she stared unblinking at her elder sister. One of the biggest problems with Lacy’s half-sister is that she’d been indulged, and when one is indulged to the forfeiture of grace, it becomes hard to envisage a reality that includes others.

  At last Sarah Jane sputtered in a small voice, “Do you think so, Lala? Do you think he loves another?”

  Lacy was spared the burden of dragging her sister into the light, thank God, for at that moment Sarah Jane’s maid, Tansom, came bustling in, calling out impatiently, “Shouldn’t we be getting on with it then, m’lady?”

  Sarah Jane popped off the bed in her typical childlike manner, and Tansom, who served more as governess than maid to the young lady, pushed her toward the door, but just as they reached the threshold, Tansom pulled loose the duke’s sticky handkerchief from the girl’s grip. “What on earth…?”

  Lacy felt her cheeks grow warm, and she snatched the cloth from the maid before it might be examined further. “I have a bit of a cold I’m afraid,” she said.

  “Right. Well, perhaps you shouldn’t walk around in your undergarments,” the maid exclaimed, one eyebrow raised, pointing toward the ripple of clothing peeking out from under the bed.

  “Perhaps not,” agreed Lacilia. “Could I trouble you to unlace me? After you attend to my sister?”

  The maid bent in a half-curtsy-half-bow and blew out an audible sigh, and followed her charge out the door.

  “He shall propose,” asserted Sarah Jane from halfway down the hall.

  She said more, but Lacilia did not hear it, because she was once again involved with the woodsy (and now, slightly seashore) scent of the handkerchief.

  Headline and news from The Daily Scotsman: Appalling Colliery Accident at High Blantyre – More Than 200 Lives Lost - One of the most appalling colliery accidents that have ever happened in Great Britain, and certainly the most serious that has occurred in the history of mining in Scotland, took place yesterday morning at the High Blantyre Works of Messrs W. Dixon & Co., coal and iron masters. From the nature of the case, accurate details as to the number of persons killed cannot be ascertained, but it feared that no fewer than 200 miners have had their lives cut short either from the effects of the explosion or by the deadly after-damp.