By Renee Michaels (Guest Blogger)
I primarily write
paranormal stories, but a call for an anthology caught my eye my. The
premise a spicy tale relating the naughty hijinks going on between
the staff, and the lords and ladies above stairs. Now I had never
written a story similar to what was needed, but I’ve read a lot of
historicals, and I’m a bit of a history buff. My brain retains
useless bits of trivia, which comes in handy for a writer. Why not?
I didn’t think I could
pull it off but it was chance to stretch myself. Now writing for me
is like cooking a good meal. Gather good ingredients, season well,
and add a dash of spice. Molly, my main character, was the first
essential component. Her employ and her troubles kept me interested
in finding out what would happen next even as I wrote the story.
Molly’s pair of lovers delivered the zest and sensuality. It was a
pleasure to write this story - so much so that Ménage a Must is the first
in the Molly’s Mayhem series.
Blurb
Can Molly juggle a pair of frisky lovers and prevent her adventurous
young mistress from playing fast and loose with her virtue? Yes, she
can.
Molly
O’Dowd is a maid with ambition. She doesn’t intend to spend the
rest of her life in service. But she feels bound by loyalty and
gratitude to see Annabelle, her young mistress, settled before she
leaves to make her fortune.
At
the estate of her employer’s potential suitor, she meets Graeme and
Logan, a lusty pair of rogues who entice Molly to indulge in a tryst - or two or three.
To
Molly’s delight and relief her Annabelle takes matters in her own
hands and secures a proposal. Molly is now free to go, but she
hesitates. After all she now has to reasons to linger a while.
Excerpt
When
the wheel of the carriage Molly O’Dowd sat in dropped into yet
another rut, she slapped a hand on
her prized bonnet and hugged her mistress’s jewellery
case to her chest. The vehicle gave an ominous creak
and listed to one side before it lumbered forward. She sent up
a fervent prayer that they’d reach their
destination soon. Her sore bum could not
take another round of bouncing on the thinly padded seat.
“No
title is worth this discomfort.” The loud,
petulant complaint came from the young miss she served as a personal
maid.
Her
mistress sat across from Molly, arms folded across her chest.
Ethereally beautiful, with flawless skin and cornflower blue eyes,
and an heiress to a fortune built from railways and coalmines,
Annabelle was the only child of the late August Calder. He’d been
an overindulgent but neglectful papa, which had
made her just a tad spoilt.
With
her tight fist holding the purse strings, Annabelle’s
social-climbing stepmamma had dragged her
to England in her hunt for a title. And not a moment too soon—the
girl needed a man but more importantly a husband. Molly
had caught Annabelle’s dancing master lapping away at her
virginal cunny.
There
was no telling her mistress anything once she got a notion in her
pretty head. She’d kept Molly busy smuggling the man in and out of
the Calder mansion. Molly had barely managed to preserve Annabelle’s
virginity using dire threats and never being more than a few feet
away from the amorous couple.
“Hush,
Annabelle, the earl’s servants might hear you.”
The admonishment hissed from the perpetually pursed lips of
Annabelle’s stepmother, Priscilla.
Her
name suited her—prissy by name and
nature. Mrs Calder never had a hair out of place or a thread hanging
from her ensemble. She was a thin woman with a fondness for ruffles
and pastels, which didn’t suit her sallow skin.
As
far as Molly knew, Priscilla never showed any emotion but disapproval
or irritation. Molly wondered for the millionth time
how she had become
the wife of that lusty old letch August Calder. Before he
had died, he’d pinched Molly’s bum and fondled her breasts
on the sly more than once. Given the chance, he’d have tossed up
her skirts for sure. Now she wasn’t adverse to a good tumble, but
to spread her legs for the master under his wife’s nose was the act
of a slattern. She had standards—a little
relaxed, but they served her well.
Annabelle
groaned as they hit another pothole. “I still don’t see why we
couldn’t hire a conveyance for our use.”
“His
lordship offered the use of his carriage and we didn’t want to
offend him.” Her tone suggested that their
discomfort was inconsequential.
Annabelle’s
rosebud mouth formed a pout. “Molly, you
did pack my bed linens, didn’t you?”
Priscilla
waved her hand to cut off Annabelle’s gripes. “Never mind that, I
wanted to have a word with the both of you before we arrived.”
This
explained why Molly wasn’t travelling
with the rest of the servants Mrs Calder
deemed necessary as a show of her wealth.
“Now
you listen to me, miss, I’ve paid that
impoverished noblewoman a small fortune to secure this invitation.
Muck it up and I’ll ship you off to my aunt in Maine.”
The
threat hung in the air. Priscilla’s
aforementioned relative would make a Puritan look like a hedonist.
Annabelle
narrowed her eyes into slits and her expression turned mutinous. Even
then, she looked like an annoyed fairy. “The executors of my
father’s estate wouldn’t let you.”
“Everybody
has a price.” Priscilla pinned Molly with an inimical glower. It
seemed she wasn’t to escape Priscilla’s censure. “I expect you
to keep her in line and not pander to her odd whims.”
Molly
gulped and nodded. She
couldn’t afford to lose her place, not
when she was so close to getting out of
service on her own terms.
Priscilla
sniffed and smoothed out her wrinkleless skirts. “Gertrude
Whittenham got a baron for her buck-toothed daughter. I want that
earl. You are lovely enough to catch the eye of any peer. With your
inheritance, it shouldn’t take much effort to engage his interest.”
Her eyes glittered with the unhealthy avarice of someone who had
everything but wanted more.
“And
if I don’t comply?”
At
Annabelle’s defiant question, Priscilla’s thin lips curved into a
humourless smile. “It
would be a pity if word got out Molly facilitated your meetings with
that Frenchman. I’ll put your precious maid out without a reference
and funds for her passage home.”
The
tea and bun Molly had gulped down at the
last posting inn curdled in her stomach. She glanced at Annabelle,
and hoped she caught the silent plea she sent her.
“Pardon
me, ma’am, but Miss Annabelle knows
what’s at stake,” Molly murmured, injecting the right amount of
timidity and subservience into her voice.
“For
both your sakes, I hope so.” The frosty warning wasn’t lost on
Molly. She’d
bear the responsibility of making sure Annabelle toed the line.
A
fraught silence hung in the air as the
seconds ticked by and Molly’s apprehension grew.
After
what felt like several lifetimes, Annabelle shrugged. “Fine,
have it your way, again, but Molly stays.
I’ll need to dress my hair and see to my clothes to bait your honey
trap.”
“Your
speech is appalling. Maids are ten-a-penny.
She is not indispensable.” Priscilla’s
eyes raked over Molly with dismissive condescension and Molly’s
face heated with humiliation. “Besides, it would be more
appropriate for you to have a French maid. It
is all the rage.”
“I
said I’ll go along with your little schemes, Priss,” Annabelle
snapped. She used
the name that would jab at her stepmother
the most. “But don’t overplay your
hand. Once I marry, I’ll be free of you,”
Annabelle said flatly in a rare show of
defiance.
With
a sour expression, Priscilla turned her head and
looked through the window. “Then I will have to make sure
you marry a man who dances to my tune,
won’t I? We’ve arrived.”
Molly
twisted in her seat to look at the Earl of Glenhaven’s ancestral
home. It might be tumbling down about his
lordship’s noble ears, but the autumn was kind to the great
rambling Elizabethan manor. It softened the signs of neglect and
disrepair and gave the stone edifice a rosy glow. With a great deal
of hard work and pots of Annabelle’s money, it could shine like a
gem.
The
aged carriage jerked to a halt. A footman opened the door and let
down the steps. Priscilla allowed the servant to help her disembark.
Seeing
the mischievous sparkle in Annabelle’s eyes,
Molly almost groaned.
“Wait
for me in my rooms,” Annabelle whispered.
“What
are you up to now? Don’t antagonise your
stepmother. She watches you like a hawk.”
An
unladylike snort escaped from Annabelle’s pretty mouth. “More
like a vulture waiting to pick our bones clean. Don’t worry, Mol, I
have a plan.”
About the Author
Renee Michaels is a
multi-published author. She is published with Liquid Silver Books, Red Rose Publishing, Samhain and Secret Cravings as well as with Total-E-Bound. She is also a contributor to the Ippy Gold Medal anthology Carnal Machines, published by Cleis Press.
Widowed with a grown daughter and son, she is a voracious reader, avid cook,
and die hard Trekkie much to her children’s embarrassment.
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