She did it again and he groaned. She knew how engorged and hard he was, how sensitive, and how the light touches of her innermost muscles must tease him.
Henrietta repeated the motion and he cried out again.
“You’ll kill me,” he said. “I’m so close.”
She smiled. But she didn’t move. She knew that she barely needed to move for him to finish.
She gave him another teasing flutter and he swore a string of nearly incoherent oaths.
“Touch yourself,” he gasped. “I want to see it.”
When she reached down and touched her clit, he let out a guttural sound, approving and primal at the same time. As she continued to touch herself, she grew wetter, and began to feel her pelvic muscles clenching in stronger, uncontrollable tugs.
“Fuck, Henrietta, I can’t hold off any longer.”
But she was already coming herself. And he followed her, grasping her buttocks, and crying out. She felt herself clenching over his large cock, milking him of his seed, and it was one of the most satisfying feelings of her life. To know how she could make this man want—and how much she enjoyed it.
No feeling, she thought, could ever be as sweet as this one.
Volume the Third
Chapter Twenty-Five
It was a glorious day. The sun was bright and soft overhead and the air was crisp but not cold. Every tree and flower in Dorset seemed to have acquiesced to the season and blossomed for spring. And, standing outside the house of her estranged mother, or rather of the mother she had never known, Henrietta had to acknowledge that it was a picturesque place.
Catherine had told her that Mary Forster’s home was beautiful. But Henrietta had still not been prepared for, yes, its beauty, but also its simplicity. She was used to members of the ton regarding only large, grand homes as superior. This house was nowhere near as large as the massive Edington Hall. In her years since her debut, she had seen hunting lodges at grand country homes that were the same size as this farmhouse—and yet it seemed to her that few dwellings she had ever seen had the charm or character of this one.
More than anything, the structure looked like that of a home. Pretty vines scaled the exterior and made the house appear as though it had always been there, nestled into this sweet bend in the river. The home and its environs somehow managed to balance the romantic and the practical in an alluring blend.
“Ready?” Trem said, offering his arm. She turned to him and saw that he wasn’t studying the house but her. In his hazel eyes, she saw concern.
That morning, over breakfast, she had supplied Trem with the information she had about her mother—nearly all of it gained through Catherine. She related to him how Mary Forster had felt great anger at her father and had, at first, refused to accept the annuity he had willed her. She had only accepted it, in the end, allegedly, for Henrietta’s sake, so that she wouldn’t lose her dowry. Henrietta had never known how to interpret this act on Mary Forster’s part. Could it be called self-sacrifice to accept money? If she had done it truly for Henrietta, then why had she never written or tried to contact her in any way?
Catherine had also told her that Mary had received a last letter from Henrietta’s father after she had accepted the annuity. John had, apparently, thought that the letter may have softened her a bit, but he didn’t really know.
“Yes, I am ready.” Henrietta took his arm and a deep breath. Together, they traversed the stone path up to the doorway. She could feel her blood rushing, panic rising in her throat, but she kept walking.
They reached the door and Trem said, “Would you like to do the honors?”
She raised her hand to knock, but, to her shock, the door swung open.
“Thank God!” The woman standing in the doorway—in a simple but becoming day dress of light blue—was none other than Mary Forster. Before Henrietta had observe her fully, Mary had her by the wrist. “Come in.”
Henrietta looked behind her to see Trem following them, his expression poised between alarm and amusement. She was now walking through the entryway of the farmhouse, which was warm and welcoming and modest, and nevertheless had a certain spaciousness and elegance that made it more than it might have otherwise appeared.
“In here,” Mary said, still grasping her arm, tugging her through a doorway. Looking around the sitting room, Henrietta had the distinct sense that this space was Mary Forster’s own. One wall was covered in built-in bookshelves, the type they had at the library at Edington, and the shelves were teeming. A small desk in the corner was covered in pen nibs and sheafs of paper. Despite this relative disorder, the room itself was papered fashionably, the trimmings were modern if a bit past their prime, and the furniture a mixture of old and new. If the room was a reliable indicator of its principal occupant, then Mary Forster must be bookish, impatient, and exacting. Henrietta felt a thrill of recognition go through her as she gazed around the room. It seemed strange that she could feel such kinship with the woman when she had essentially never met her.
When they had all entered the room, Mary released her arm.
“Your cousin will be very relieved to know that you are well,” she said, moving quickly about the room and picking a letter up from the desk, “and you,” she said, gesturing towards Trem, but hardly looking at him. She picked up a new piece of paper and hastily scribbled on it. She folded it and then secured it with a wafer. “I must send her word immediately. Stay here.”
Beyond her own capacity for words, Henrietta turned to Trem, who looked equally stunned. They both watched as Mary Forster walked to the doorway again and called to a maid. “Please send back the messenger from the Duchess of Edington with this letter,” she ordered, handing over the paper.
The maid must have taken the command because, soon, Mary closed the drawing room door and turned to face them.
“Sit,” Mary directed. She pointed towards two faded but neat armchairs. Moving with a sense of unreality, Henrietta sank into the nearest. Catherine had told her that she and John had sat in this same room. However, Mary hadn’t been very happy to see them at the time and Henrietta had expected a similar reception for herself. And yet her mother did not seem discontented at their appearance—rather, she seemed quite energized.
“Catherine wrote to you?” Henrietta asked, as Mary settled herself on the sofa.
