Happy Sunday!
Yesterday marked the fourth annual (I think) Smut by the Sea extravaganza, organized by the vivacious Victoria Blisse (who is also responsible for the Sunday Snog tradition). Alas, I could not attend this year, but I marked the day by writing a brand new story, triggered by my memories of my visit to Scarborough for the event in 2015.
The mists of history lie heavy in Scarborough, from the Vikings to Victorians. As I wandered through the park on the hill overlooking the sea (complete with a statue of Queen Victoria), I could almost see the ladies strolling along the paths in their bodices and bustles. My story today brings one of them to life (and of course features a kiss or two). I've even illustrated it with some of my own photos from last week's trip.
Having gone to all this trouble, I decided to run a contest to encourage you to read the tale. After you read the story, leave me a comment with your email, and tell me what you think should happen next.
I'll randomly select one person who comments. The winner can choose one of my historical romances as a prize: Challenge To Him (MF BDSM set in the Gilded Age in America), Monsoon Fever (MMF menage set in Assam, India, after WWI), or Shortest Night (MM and MF set in Shakespearean England).
Oh, and when you are done here, do head back to Snog Central for lots more sexy Sunday kisses.
Anything but a Gentleman
Yesterday marked the fourth annual (I think) Smut by the Sea extravaganza, organized by the vivacious Victoria Blisse (who is also responsible for the Sunday Snog tradition). Alas, I could not attend this year, but I marked the day by writing a brand new story, triggered by my memories of my visit to Scarborough for the event in 2015.
The mists of history lie heavy in Scarborough, from the Vikings to Victorians. As I wandered through the park on the hill overlooking the sea (complete with a statue of Queen Victoria), I could almost see the ladies strolling along the paths in their bodices and bustles. My story today brings one of them to life (and of course features a kiss or two). I've even illustrated it with some of my own photos from last week's trip.
Having gone to all this trouble, I decided to run a contest to encourage you to read the tale. After you read the story, leave me a comment with your email, and tell me what you think should happen next.
I'll randomly select one person who comments. The winner can choose one of my historical romances as a prize: Challenge To Him (MF BDSM set in the Gilded Age in America), Monsoon Fever (MMF menage set in Assam, India, after WWI), or Shortest Night (MM and MF set in Shakespearean England).
Oh, and when you are done here, do head back to Snog Central for lots more sexy Sunday kisses.
Anything but a Gentleman
Meredith’s
curls adhered to the back of her neck, stuck there with most
unladylike sweat. Though several days remained until the end of May,
summer had arrived with a vengeance. Perched on a tree-shaded bench
in the elegant park near the top of the tramway, she found but scant
relief from the relentless noonday sun. In her tight bodice and
layered skirts, she could scarcely breathe.
Her
parents and sister had retreated to the hotel to refresh themselves
before luncheon. Meredith had promised to follow soon.
“Do
let me sit for a few minutes, “ she’d pleaded. “The sea looks
so lovely from up here. I will miss it when I’m in out in the
country.” Reluctantly, her father agreed.
Now
she was alone in the manicured gardens, a rare pleasure. All sensible
holiday visitors had followed her family’s model. She trained her
eyes on the faraway line where the pale sky met the blue-green ocean.
If only she could sail away, to the Continent perhaps. Or to America!
She’d gladly relinquish her privileged life, in return for her
freedom.
That
was naught but an empty dream, though. Indeed, she would soon pass in
deeper and more permanent servitude.
Life
was so unfair. If she’d been born a boy, she might have found the
adventures she imagined. Instead, in a month’s time, she’d be
imprisoned on a country estate leagues from anywhere, wed to a near
stranger twenty five years her senior. She screwed her eyes shut
against the sting of gathering tears.
“Why
the sighs, pretty lady?”
Her
eyes flew open. “What—what are you doing here?” The young man’s
attire and manner made it obvious he was no gentleman. He wore no
waistcoat or cravat. His shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbows,
baring his tanned forearms, while his hands were buried deep in the
pockets of his rust-brown trousers. A tartan cap perched on his
unruly black locks. His open collar revealed a shocking glimpse of
yet more hair. A man of the most common sort—though there was
something familiar about him.
The
speaker chuckled. “’Tis a public park. In fact, I have more
right to be here than you, seeing as I was born in Scarborough.”
His broad Yorkshire accent testified to the truth of his statement.
“You, you’re just a tourist, come out from the city to enjoy our
little diversions.” He gestured toward the distant horizon and the
gleaming ocean. “But you han’t told me why you’re weeping. A
lady like you, with every advantage the world can offer, should be
all smiles.”
“That
is none of your business, sir.” Meredith emphasized the honorific,
so inappropriate to this interloper. His confident grin unsettled
her. Black sideburns, too long to be fashionable, framed his
overly-red mouth. His smile broadened in response to her scrutiny,
showing surprisingly good teeth. He met her eyes with a boldness
that made her feel faint. What dreadful manners he had! With
difficulty, she turned her gaze back toward the sea. “Please depart
and leave me in peace.”
“Yea,
but you’re not. At peace, I mean.” Without asking her
permission, he folded his lanky frame and settled him on the bench,
not a foot from where she sat.
A
wave of heat crashed over her. She snatched her skirts away. The
young man laughed once more.
“You’ll
not catch anything from me, girl. Come now, tell me your sorrows. I
know you can’t share ‘em with your own people.”
“As
I indicated, my sorrows, as you put it, are none of your concern.”
Meredith knew she should simply stand up and walk away from this
impudent stranger. Somehow, her limbs failed to obey her.
“Let
me guess, then. You’re about to be married off. Pledged to some
gent who don’t interest you in the slightest.” He surveyed her
slender form with obvious appreciation. “Here’s you, so young and
beautiful, and all that’s going to be wasted on some lordling who
don’t care for anything but his hounds and his horses.”
“No,
no, that’s not true...” she began. To her horror and
mortification, she dissolved into tears before she could complete her
objection.
“There,
there...don’t cry, my pretty.” He captured her gloved hand in his
work-worn fingers and gave it a squeeze. “I’m sure Lord So-and-So
isn’t worth your tears.”
“Lord—Lord—Roderick
Walters—of Rathborne Hall—Herefordshire,” Meredith sobbed.
“He’s—he’s fifty six, and looks ten years older. Bald and
paunchy, with a dreadful mustache... And I—I—in just four
weeks...Oh, I can’t stand the thought of him! I can’t!” A
fresh squall of tears shook her.
“’Tis
a true shame, lady. You deserve better.”
Meredith
raised her eyes and saw genuine sympathy in those of her companion.
Moments ago, laughter had lit their green depths. Even now, when he
was serious, they sparkled, gem-like. “I—I’ve never been
anywhere, or done anything exciting. My parents treat me like some
hot house flower. If only I were a man...”
“I
for one am glad you’re not,” he told her, with a half-smile.
Her
chest ached. Her cheeks burned. Still, his attention made the moment
easier to bear. “I’m barely seventeen,” she murmured. “And my
life is over. I’ve never seen Paris. I’ve never been in love.
I’ve never been kissed.”
“Ah!
That, at least, we can fix.”
Somehow
he’d managed to take hold of her other hand. He pulled, and she
slid towards him along the wrought iron bench, until his trousered
leg touched her hip. The day grew immeasurably hotter.
Her
protests died on her lips as they met his.
His
mouth molded to her own with a firm pressure that hinted of great
strength, held in check. He did not force himself upon her. Instead,
he tempted her, the smoothness of his lips a thrilling contrast to
the stubble that grazed her cheek. A vigorous, male scent rose from
his flesh, sweat mingled with something sharper. It dizzied her. The
world whirled around her as she closed her eyes and allowed herself
to sink more deeply into the kiss.
Her
partner sensed her surrender. Releasing her hands, he grasped her
shoulders to draw her closer. Her frantic heart beat against his
tightly muscled chest. She moaned as a tuft of the hair protruding
from his shirt brushed her own throat. The intimacy—it was
overwhelming! She knew she should stop him, that she’d be
thoroughly ruined should anyone observe the liberties he was taking,
but the sensations were too delicious for her to relinquish.
He
took advantage of her parted lips to slide his tongue between them.
Reckless and hungry, she opened further, inviting him to explore. He
claimed her completely then, drinking her in while his fingers
trailed down her sides, teasing her through the many layers of silk,
linen and muslin that separated his skin from hers. She dared for a
moment to imagine what it would be like to shed those oppressive
layers, to truly bare herself to his touch. Oh, what a wicked woman
she was! The bliss surging through her erased her dutiful guilt.
He
tasted—sweet. Like the caramel toffies Alice had bought that
morning as they strolled along Foreshore Road. All at once she
realized why he seemed familiar.
“You—you’re
the candy vendor,” she gasped, struggling to extricate herself from
his arms and catch her breath.
He
did not try to restrain her. “Thought you didn’t recognize me.
You seemed in some other world when you passed my stall today.”
She
remembered him now, though—his bold eyes and the way he’d winked
as her mother hustled her away. “You followed me!” she exclaimed.
“What are you doing here? What do you want?”
“Nothing,
lass, that you don’t want to give.” His conspiratorial tone made
her shiver. He knew perfectly well she wanted him to kiss her again.
A
hot flush swept through her. What in the world was she doing? “I
must get back to the hotel, before my family comes looking for me. I
cannot be seen with you.”
The
toffee man gave her a sad smile. “No, that wouldn’t do, would it?
Run along then, my little lady.” He rose to his feet and tipped his
cap. “Good day to you, Miss.”
Meredith
lingered on the bench, one gloved hand clutching the other. “But...”
“Yes?”
“I—I
don’t even know your name.”
His
emerald eyes gleamed. “It’s Tom, Miss. Tom Barnes.”
“I’m
Meredith. ‘Tis best I don’t tell you my surname.”
Tom
nodded, a cocky grin lighting his face. “A true pleasure, Miss
Meredith. But maybe I should call you Merry. Seems like a fine name
for a sad lady like you.”
She
laughed, and felt the awful tightness under her breastbone relax.
“Not as sad as before, thanks to you, sir.”
“I
could offer you further cheer, if you’d let me.”
Oh,
what madness to even think on it! “I doubt that would be advisable,
Tom.”
He
shrugged. “Perhaps not. Then again, you should trust your
instincts.”
“Right
now, my instincts feel far from trustworthy.” She offered her hand.
“Goodbye, Tom. I’m very glad to have—ah—made your
acquaintance.”
The candy seller pressed his lips to the back of her hand, in exaggerated mimicry of a gentleman. She couldn’t suppress a chuckle. When he finally released her, he fished around in his pocket for several moments.
“Here,”
he said, pressing something small and hard into her palm. “You know
where to find me.” Turning his back on her, he headed down the
stairway to the beach, whistling.
Meredith
watched him disappear before she examined the item in her hand. It
was a toffee. She unwrapped the twisted, waxed paper and popped it
into her mouth. The taste reawakened luscious memories.
She
was whistling, too, as she strolled back toward the hotel. After all,
she’d be in Scarborough for another week. Anything was possible.
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