A Sinful Season Ch. 01

The Honorable Miss Olivia Henstridge, beloved only child of the inestimable Edward Henstridge, 8th Baron Henstridge, stalked imperiously through the echoing halls of Roseton Manor, her ancestral family home, pondering her hatred of weddings.

Despite her relative youth (19 years old this past month), she considered her opinion on this matter quite authoritative, informed as it was by a veritable mountain of supporting evidence. Though the Henstridge family tree had sprouted few extant branches, Olivia was blessed with several dozen cousins through her much-loved but long-departed mother, Lady Adelaide (Wharburn) Henstridge. The extended Wharburn clan, presided over by Olivia's uncle, Richard Wharburn, fifth Earl of Tennington, had hosted an average of two weddings every year since Olivia was small. And she had attended, and detested, every single one.

Perhaps that intensity of feeling was due to her relatives' refusal to ever allow her to simply be a guest at one of their weddings. No, whenever a Wharburn wedding party was convened, Olivia was sure to be a part of it. She had served as bridesmaid in every wedding until she left the schoolroom, as bridal attendant in every wedding thereafter, as maid of honor thrice, and on one particularly memorable occasion she had even been forced to play the part of surrogate bride. (Her cousin Elizabeth, having allowed her fiance, Sir Walter Ingston, Certain Liberties, and thus finding herself in an importune and extremely obvious physical condition, the preservation of the family's good name had required that Olivia, as the Wharburn relation most closely resembling Elizabeth in height and coloring, don a taffeta gown and an unusually opaque veil, mouth Elizabeth's vows during the ceremony, then pretend to vomit on the church steps so that Elizabeth's absence at her own wedding breakfast would be forgiven. The vicar received a heady sum for quietly marrying the overly-hasty couple the previous morn (and for his silence thereafter), Elizabeth and her Sir Walter had received a year-long honeymoon on the Continent, and Olivia had received a pat on the head and a piece of chocolate from Uncle (whose firm conviction that his sister's only child was still five years old remained undisturbed by the passage of time)).

In keeping with her place within the Wharburn family tradition, Olivia had recently returned from a journey to South Wailwick to choose the flowers and walk the aisle behind her cousin Sylvia (a thoroughly unremarkable event for a thoroughly unremarkable cousin, in Olivia's estimation. The wedding breakfast had served goat, for goodness's sake!).

But taste aside, Sylvia was her younger cousin. A fact that had escaped neither Olivia's notice, nor that of the abundance of female relations whose conversations had mysteriously stopped whenever Olivia walked into the room. Family weddings had always been a terrible chore, but never before had they been quite so humiliating. (Not even the Cousin Elizabeth situation.)

Her father's estate being entailed to her hated cousin Robbie (he of the watery eyes and nonexistent chin), she had long understood that it would be her fate to one day marry. (And, with a bit of luck, inflict as much recompense on as many of her cousins as she could feasibly manage. At times she had found herself daydreaming more about that than about the design of her wedding gown.) Watching a girl two years younger than she walk down the aisle had filled Olivia with the weight of that prescription. What if she never married? What would become of her as an old maid with no brothers and an aged father? Would she be forced into Cousin Robbie's (Olivia shuddered) protection? Would she become a burden upon her Wharburn relations? She did not think she could bear that.

But as she paced back and forth through endless empty corridors lined with portraits of long-dead ancestors, fear slowly gave way to purpose. A Henstridge never shirked her duty, and Olivia's duty was clear. She had always considered herself to be of a practical bent, and practicality would rescue her from this slowly-moving swamp. She needed a husband, preferably someone young, of adequate financial means and a good disposition. Someone in the neighborhood would suit most admirably; Lord Henstridge's age and health concerned his daughter greatly, and it would be a great relief to be close enough to tend to him after she married.

"Miss Henstridge?"

Olivia turned, her reverie broken. "Yes, Mrs. Hathaway?" The housekeeper, though older than God and twice as ugly, had always treated Olivia with the greatest kindness, and had been a great comfort in the years since Lady Henstridge passed.

"You have a visitor, miss. Young Mr. Stockington. He called to ask if you wished to go for a ride? I have put him in the green drawing room."

Olivia nodded, pleased. "Yes, that sounds lovely! Please tell him I will be down momentarily."

"Yes, miss." As Mrs. Hathaway walked away, a smile threatened to explode off of Olivia's face. Albie! Of course! Why had she not immediately thought of him? Mr. Albert Stockington was her longtime neighbor, a close friend and childhood companion. Though the son of a country squire more famous for his wine-sodden waistcoats than for any particular pecuniary advantages, Albie was young, reasonably good-looking, and jovial of disposition. Marrying him would allow her to easily care for her father as his health inevitably worsened, a benefit worth more than any amount of gold. Olivia was thrifty and well-suited to country living, and so was quite confident that her choice was both practical and reasonably realistic.

Yes, the more she considered the choice, the more Albie seemed to suit her needs quite splendidly. He had not yet proposed, of course, but Olivia was confident he would soon come up to scratch, so long as she took certain appropriate steps.

Aunt Wharburn would be furious at the idea of Olivia marrying beneath her—the Stockingtons, though perfectly respectable (old Mr. Stockington's wine habit aside) were mere country gentry—but that might be to the good. Perhaps her daughters would be deemed too ill-bred to serve at future Wharburn weddings. Olivia smiled, hiked up her skirts, and headed to her bedroom to change.

Olivia knew she looked quite dashing; her emerald-green riding habit and gloves matched her eyes and paired well with her long, glossy black hair. Her form was trim and shapely, her face decently proportioned. Lacking any formal tutelage in the more dangerous womanly arts, she understood her task ahead would not be simple; but if a well-shaped face was not enough to entice a man, then all of Society's rules and strictures made little sense, so really her prize should be well in reach. Her boots clicked heavily against the marble tile as she stalked toward her future.

Said future, it seemed, was doing some stalking of his own. Up and down the length of the green drawing room he marched, an air of anxiety bubbling around him, not unlike that of a hunter spotting a storm cloud on the horizon right as he rides out. Albie was tall and reasonably muscular, with wavy brown hair, laughing gray eyes, and a toothy smile. He looked every inch the country gentleman in his suit of brown and gray, and his face lit up when she appeared in the doorway.

"Livvie!" He strode over and kissed her hand. "I thought, since you are finally back, that we could go for a bit of a ride."

"It has been ages, has it not!" Olivia batted her eyes and hoped she was being just forward enough.

Mrs. Hathaway, seated in the corner as chaperone, interjected: "I would expect Miss Hurst to accompany you, but it seems she has taken ill. Jack and Sam are both down with the measles, so I believe Mr. Donnaghy shall have to accompany you."

That seemed a sensible plan, and Olivia and Albie joked and laughed as they proceeded out the door and headed for the stables, Mrs. Hathaway following behind at a discrete distance.

At the stables, Olivia spotted Albie's roan stallion, Thunderer, being gently patted by old Mr. Donnaghy.

Mrs. Hathaway, spotting her replacement, dropped a quick curtsy and scurried off. "Good day, Mr. Donnaghy," said Olivia politely.

"Ye gonna head out, m'lady?" he grunted, his brogue, as always, near-indecipherable.

"Yes, Mr. Stockington and I wish to go for a ride. Please saddle Pepperpots. Miss Hurst is ill, and with Jack and Sam the same, I must ask that you ride behind us." She waited expectantly.

"Ach, lassie, wassit now?" Mr. Donnaghy made no move toward Pepperpots's red leather saddle. He only stared at her, as if she had spoken some foreign tongue.

"We should like to set out presently, Mr. Donnaghy." Olivia was beginning to get impatient.

"Willna expect the young lord 'til next Tuesday, at least." Mr. Donnaghy turned back to Thunderer and proceeded to ignore them both.

Olivia and Albie shared a Look.

"Mr. Donaghy, perhaps it would be best if you had a sit-down." Albie carefully took hold of the old man's arm and steered him toward an old pile of tack and hay toward the back of the stable. Mr. Donnaghy sat down with little fuss and commenced staring at the wall with rheumy eyes, muttering to himself and nodding.

"Oh, dear." Olivia's heart fell. Mr. Donnaghy was almost eighty, and sometimes had his spells (though she had never seen one quite this severe). There was no way to tell when they would attack or how long they would last.

"He will never be able to sit a horse in this condition." Albie stared at the old man thoughtfully. "Should we run and tell someone?"

Olivia shook her head. "There is nothing to be done. Age, not illness, is his infirmity. It is usually best to simply seat him somewhere quiet until his mind returns. Oh Albie, I know it is so selfish to say so, but it appears we shall have to postpone our ride!"

Albie nodded, then stopped. "Perhaps, Livvie, perhaps. But it is not as if I am some stranger, of unknown means and ends. Your reputation is as dear to me as my own, and I would die before besmirching it even a small amount! It occurs to me that we have been friends for years, you and I. Surely there can be no impropriety in going for a short ride through your own father's property with a childhood friend by your side!

"Either we cancel our ride, or . . . or we simply go alone. An unchaperoned ride between strangers would be unthinkable, of course, but Livvie, we have known each other since we were children! You are perfectly safe with me. And if anyone asks upon our return, we shall simply say that Mr. Donnaghy attended us. He is hardly likely to contradict us in his current state."

Olivia was torn. On the one hand, being alone with a man—even one like Albie—was inconceivable for any gently bred maiden, and Olivia Henstridge had been raised with the strictest of proprieties, despite having lost her mother so young. If anyone discovered them, she fully expected that, Albie's assurances aside, she would be ruined, and would be forced to marry him.

On the other hand, Olivia now wanted Albie to marry her. And how likely was it that they would be discovered, in any case? If anyone approached them en route, they could simply say that their chaperone had fallen behind. Given Mr. Donnaghy's age, nobody would think that odd. (The odder thing might be if he was seen keeping up, to be perfectly honest.) And certainly there were very few in the neighborhood who would dare contradict the word of a squire's heir and a baron's daughter.

Her decision made, Olivia nodded. "I think you are right," she murmured, batting her eyelashes in what she hoped was a demure yet coquettish manner. "Indeed, we have been friends for so long, propriety simply cannot forbid a simple ride through my father's lands. And I know I am perfectly safe under your protection."

Albie laughed and clapped his hands. "Fantastic!" He strode forward and quickly saddled Pepperpots, her favorite black gelding, and gently grasping Olivia by the waist, set her in the saddle. Then, swiftly mounting Thunderer, he rode out of the stable, Olivia behind him.

They cantered gently down the drive, then stopped. "Where shall we head?" asked Albie, vaguely breathless. "I believe it should be the lady's choice."

"The meadow would be lovely, I think. All those spring colors, bursting through the grass!"

"An excellent choice, Livvie. And perhaps . . ." His voice turned hesitant. "Perhaps we could make a wager?"

Olivia turned a sly gaze toward him. "Oh? And what did you have in mind?"

He shrugged insouciantly, Thunderer practically pawing at the ground. "A race, of course. And for the forfeit . . . well." He grinned, and something hot and needy seemed to dance behind his eyes. "Let's leave the choice of forfeit to the winner."

Which was how Olivia came to be galloping through the meadow on the north edge of her father's property, Albie thundering along behind her. She had known Albie for years, of course, had played with him when they were children. But this was the first time she had ever been alone with him, had been alone with any unrelated man, since she had left the schoolroom. A fact which sent a delicious thrill singing through her chest, though of course she would never have admitted that in a thousand years.

With a triumphant cry, Olivia rode Pepperpots directly to the right of the lightning-split oak at the western end of the meadow, reached out with one green-gloved hand, and tapped the closest branch. "Victory is mine!"

Albie laughed behind her, pulled Thunderer to a halt, and nimbly dismounted. "So it is! My own fault, of course, for daring to race such a devastatingly capable beauty." And he gave her a very graceful bow, eyes twinkling.

Olivia preened. He had let her win, she knew. She was a competent but uninspired equestrienne at the best of times, and Albie's Thunderer should rightly have left Pepperpots in the dust. But it was all to the good.

"And what of my forfeit?" she asked, dismounting and throwing Pepperpot's reins over the tree limb.

"As you doubtless recall, Livvie, we agreed on a forfeit but left the nature of that forfeit to determined after the race was completed." Albie took a step toward her. "Have you decided what you want? Anything of mine is yours for the asking."

What she wanted was for Albie to go down to one knee and ask her to be his wife, but she could hardly simply say so. "A complicated proposition. When one can ask for anything, it becomes difficult to ask for any one thing." She pursed her lips. "Perhaps you have some idea of what I should want?"

"I can think of one thing." And Albie leaned forward and kissed her.

Olivia had never been kissed before, and was taken a bit by surprise by Albie's forthrightness, but soon warmed to the sensation. Albie's mouth was warm, his tongue gently prying, and an unfamiliar sensation started coiling in her tummy. She began returning the kiss, hesitantly at first, then more confidently.

Never breaking the kiss, he clasped her by the waist and drew her fully against his body, his lower body pressed firmly against her own. Olivia was shocked by the firm muscularity and unexpected strength of his grip, and shocked further when his hands reached behind her and began gently kneading her backside.

And shocked further still when Albie, apparently uncontent with his ministrations, gently but forcefully pushed her to the ground, onto her back, and wedged his knee between her legs.

Olivia knew little about Liberties. Her mother had died when she was ten years old, and neither Miss Hurst nor her old longtime governess, Miss Huxtable, had ever spoken to her of such matters. (Asking Papa was of course beside the question, and she had never had the courage to broach the matter with her Aunt Wharburn, or with any of the female staff.) She had picked up certain tidbits in bawdy jokes overheard during those interminable weddings, though, and believed she understood the overall generalities of the situation. Ever mindful of the specter of Cousin Elizabeth, Olivia decided that so long as her underclothes remained on, she should be safe. (A certain amount of play was expected between courting couples, was it not? Were that not so, there would surely be no need for chaperones.)

Albie suddenly broke the kiss. Before Olivia could say anything, he'd reached down and begun unlacing the bodice of her riding habit.

"Albie, wait—"

It was as if she had not spoken. Albie, more focused and determined than she had ever seen him, quickly divested her of her emerald-green riding blouse. Wasting no time at all (Olivia was partly in shock at this point, having gone from a gentle kiss to Undeniable Liberties in less time than it took to mount the stairs to her house), he unlaced her corset and bared her breasts to the air. He stared at them for a moment, his gaze hungry. Then, with a strangled groan, Albie leaned down and pressed his lips to her breasts, laving her nipples with his tongue.

The bright greens and browns and golds and blues of the meadow melted into a fog of white as lightning dashed through her veins, and Olivia gasped, overcome with sensation. Innocent in the ways of the flesh, she had no ready defenses against Albie's entirely unexpected ministrations. She had no time to even feel bashful as the strange, itchy pleasure rolled over her mind.

Albie's knee began slowly nudging back and forth, and sweetness burst between her legs, a rising itchy sweetness that grew worse and more wonderful with each swipe of his knee. Olivia's legs instinctively begin inching apart.

She had to keep her drawers on. Yes, she wanted to marry Albie, but he had not yet asked, and the last thing in the world she wanted was for her relatives to look at her the way they still looked at Cousin Elizabeth. This situation was progressing at a far faster clip than she had ever thought possible, and she needed to change the game. And keep her drawers on. He could not ravish her if she kept her drawers on.

His mouth alternating between her breasts, and the weight of his body pinning her to the earth, Olivia did not immediately realize that he was balancing atop her with only a single hand. When she finally did, she realized with a jolt that temporarily swept away the pleasurable fog that Albie was using his other hand to unlace his breeches.

He reared back, releasing her flushed and aching breasts, and she watched, stunned, as he removed a long, swollen tube of flesh from within his breeches. His manhood. That was his manhood. (His cock, her mind whispered, his penis, that limb of Liberties, the thing that would put a baby inside her, if she let it.)

She had no intention of letting it, drugging pleasure be damned. As Albie continued his quest to separate her legs, Olivia reached up and over, taking a firm grasp on the length of flesh.

Albie froze.

Remembering a lewd gesture she had frequently seen her Cousin John make, she stroked the organ from root to base and back again. When Albie did not move, she did it again. And again, more firmly.

Albie whimpered, then went quiet, pliable. He might want to place this organ in the warm place between her legs, but removing her drawers might mean knocking her hand off his penis and that, clearly, was not a risk Albie was willing to take. He stared down at her as if without seeing her, his eyes glassy and unfocused, as she stroked and stroked.

"Yes," he muttered. "Yes, like that. Just like that. Yes."

On and on it went, Albie balanced on his forearms atop her as she stroked his turgid flesh, thrusting his hips to aid in her ministrations. On and on, and the organ becoming redder and thicker and harder, the two fleshy sacs at its base growing and growing.

The meadow was soon filled with Albie's increasingly more incoherent moans and whimpers. In between those cries of pleasure—he sounded almost bestial, to Olivia's ears—he begged her to let him do the wickedest things. To let him stuff it inside her. To let him ride her like she needed, he'd take it out before the seeding, didn't she understand how much he was hurting, didn't she understand how magnificent it would feel?