Chapter 27
Annabelle
The next morning I struggle to get my bearings.
Dimly, I realize that we must have fallen asleep after I rode him in reverse.
Alfred is still sleeping beside me. And after the intensity of last night I do not want to be here when he wakes.
I dress quickly, quitting the room with as much rapidity and stealth as the situation will allow.
I walk into the gardens and take a few deep breaths of rich air.
As I walk, I ruminate.
There is no use lying to myself.
I have acquired a tenderness for this man that I have ruined.
This knowledge does not scare me any less because he claims that he loves me.
Of course, just because he claims to love me now does not mean he always will.
Doubtlessly a day will come when he will tire of me.
And the fragile tenderness between us will break into bitterness.
One day, I am sure, he will blame me for the ruin and scandal and infamy I have brought down upon him.
Not to mention the fact that I have plotted to use him since the beginning of our acquaintance.
I have lied to him about my intentions. He has spent inside of me many times now.
I told him that I did not think I would get with child, that I had methods of preventing a pregnancy, and of course, all of it, was lies.
Who knows how he will feel if he ever discovers the truth. Or if I fall pregnant.
In that case, he will not be the type of man to relinquish me or the babe easily.
These thoughts are enough to make me want to escape back to London and leave Trescott—and Alfred Saintsbury—behind.
I would, indeed, if I could bear it.
But right now, leaving him would be far too painful.
I turn back to the house, discontent.
When I reach the breakfast room, however, I am surprised to see that Alfred already sits there.
“I must admit,” he says, “I would have preferred breakfast in bed.”
“I wanted air,” I say. “But it is good that we are not in bed. Because we have things to discuss. And in bed we will only get distracted.”
A rakish man would chuckle at this characterization. But Alfred merely gives a kindly smile.
“What must we discuss?”
“You must be prepared for what comes next.”
“My ruin you mean.”
“Yes. The scandal sheets and the newspapermen will be run away with themselves. The proper vicar who turned out to be nothing but. You will become a figure of ridicule.”
“That will make it difficult to carry out my professional duties.”
“Yes,” I say. “But not impossible. And with time the scandal will die down.”
“I am not sure the village will be so sanguine. They were prepared to attack you not so long ago.”
“If I must hire protection, then I will. We will not cower to the village. Or the newspapermen. They can all hang. You will keep your post. And if you want to take a break from being so assiduous about your duties given the circumstances, then I would advise you to have Mr. Peabody carry out the bulk of your responsibilities for now.”
His color is heightened. But he manages to look almost unruffled given how much his life has been upended.
“The newspapermen and the hack writers will probably say worse things than you can even imagine now. I cannot control them. Material circumstances I can control. The church I can control. But the press I cannot.”
“I understand.”
“I also want to reassure you,” I say, knowing that I must speak of it even though bringing reality into the room with us is painful.
“That once our liaison is through I will provide for you. There may come a day when it does not suit either you or me for you to remain in Trescott as vicar. I will provide you with an income so that you may always be comfortable even after our liaison has ended.”
His eyes flare with anger.
“When you tire of me, you mean.”
“Yes,” I say. “Or you tire of me.”
“I won’t tire of you, Annabelle.”
“You cannot know that,” I say, my throat catching. I clear it. I hate myself for my sentimentality. “You are not experienced when it comes to love affairs. One day there may be other women that you would like to bed. You may grow to find me contemptible.”
“I will never tire of you,” he says. “I will love you until the day I die.”
“Even still,” I say. “I want you to know that you will never have to struggle for an income.”
He pauses. “Thank you,” he says stiffly. “I appreciate that once you are through with me, you will treat me well.”
For a moment, only a brief moment, tears cloud my vision. I blink them back. Still, I cannot speak. Luckily he does.
“And I have something to warn you of too,” he says.
“What is that?”
I cannot imagine he has anything truly alarming to share.
His current calm pains me because his indifference to disgrace cannot last. When he sees what the caricaturists and scandal sheet writers say of him, it is likely to estrange him from me forever.
Instead he gestures at my plate. “You must eat, Annabelle.”
“What must you warn me of?” I repeat, not moving to eat, wanting him to explain his words.
He takes a bite of his toast, swallows, and then speaks once more.
“It is not a matter of what but of who—my father of course,” Alfred says. “He will certainly come to Trescott. He will be enraged. It is the end of all his dreams for me.”
“Does that upset you?”
“I do not want to dishonor my father—and I very much shall. And he has, perhaps, driven me to this extremity. I told him I wanted to marry. Had he allowed it, he would have been spared this pain.”
I am aware that he has not answered my question, but I do not press for more. Perhaps because I fear the answer.
“And what of your mother? Is she a woman prone to anger?”
“Oh, she has been many years dead,” Alfred says. “My father remarried about ten years ago—to a woman much younger than himself. He has by her two children.”
I start at this piece of intelligence.
“How old is his wife?”
“I believe she is almost my age exactly.”
“She must have been very young indeed when they married.”
“Yes, some said, I believe, too young at the time—but only in whispers. And she came with an excellent dowry, so no one could accuse my father of only being motivated by baser urges. I believe that helped.”
Indignation flares within me.
“I must make sure I understand. Your father forbade you marrying—from having contact with women of any natural, erotic kind—while he married and presumably enjoyed a woman your own age. Am I correct in my assessment?”
“Yes,” Alfred says. “Fortunately, Emily has never been to my tastes. Otherwise, it could’ve been a very cruel situation indeed.”
“Well, I’m delighted to hear that you never coveted your father’s wife,” I say. “Nevertheless, it is abominable of your father. Such hypocrisy is not to be believed, even among the clergy. Although I suppose I should not be surprised.”
He looks up at me and I see an old fragment of that yearning that I recognized in him upon our first encounters. It makes me flush with desire so suddenly that I am taken aback.
“Come here,” he says as if sensing my reaction.
I cannot deny him. I stand and walk to his chair. He opens his arms and places me upon his lap.
In my ear, he says, “This is all I have ever wanted—to wake with the woman I love and breakfast with her. It is what I was made for. Let me be made for you, Annabelle.”
I can feel his hardness underneath me. I wanted to keep the heat between us out of this discussion. But when it comes to me and Alfred Saintsbury it is an impossible proposition.
I stand. He gives a little sound of objection. But I pay it no need. He will not control what happens here. I will.
“Take out your cock.”
He obeys, slowly unleashing himself. Then I raise up my own skirts and turn so my back is towards him.
I reach behind myself and grasp the hard, hot length of him. In one swift motion I seat myself upon him.
He groans in approval.
I hadn’t planned on this, hadn’t even wanted it when I entered the breakfast room, and yet now my core is so hungry for his cock that it is almost painful.
It feels so right for him to fill me. It seems to corrects something that has been wrong in my life for a very long time.
Just as I resolve to move because I cannot take the stillness of his penetration a moment longer, the door to the morning room swings open.
My footman, the one who usually presides over breakfast, enters the room.
When the young man sees us he freezes.
He will surely scramble from the room.
But after a moment he moves to the sideboard and begins arranging various foodstuffs there. With horror, I realize that it merely looks as if I am sitting on Alfred’s lap, and the footman has no idea that he is, in fact, inside of me.
Alfred surges inside of me and I bite back a whimper. I need to dismiss the young footman from the room, but I cannot find my voice. Then the young man turns to me and says, “Ma’am, do you need anything else?”
As the young man asks the question, Alfred lifts his hips slightly. The subtle movement nearly discomposes me.
I put my hand on his, as a command to stop, but he merely does it again. It takes all of me to stop the moan that rises in my throat.
Alfred has done it intentionally. He is trying to embarrass me.
Finally, I find my voice.
“Yes, you may leave us,” I gasp out. “Do not come back. We need no other attendance this morning.”
Despite my effort my voice is strangled. The young footman looks at me with perplexity—and then, blessedly, takes his leave.
When he is gone, I stand quickly and whirl around. To my shock Alfred is grinning.
“You think such a thing amusing,” I say, hating that he has managed to rattle me—and in front of a servant too.
“You must admit it is quite humorous.”
“You tried intentionally to discompose me,” I say. “You thrust inside me. I felt it.”
“I couldn’t help it,” he says, a mischievous smile playing on his lips. “You should have felt the way you clenched around me when that footman came into the room. I had to feel more of you.”
“I think you must be punished for such naughtiness, Alfred,” I say, quite irritated.
I step towards him. The chair he sits on is armless, and so it is no difficulty to seat myself upon him once more. This time, however, I face him.
“Mhhm,” he says. “This does not seem like a punishment but rather exactly what I wanted.”
From this angle, I have so much control—he is powerless.
“I will tantalize you until you are begging for mercy,” I say.
I raise myself up just slightly to give him a little sensation.
“That is very nice,” he pants.
I then reach down and begin stroking myself.
I take my time, letting the natural flexing of my muscles tease him. He grows taut underneath me. His cock hardens as I moan and roll slightly, but I do not give him anything more than that. When he tries to take over, I do not let him.
“It should be me,” he says, “who pleasures you.”
“No,” I say. “When you are good, you are allowed to give me pleasure. When you are bad, you are at my mercy.”
My orgasm comes, causing my muscles to spasm. Alfred cries out beneath me, clearly deeply aroused. And yet still I have not given him enough to make him come. I have deliberately deprived him of that.
Then I stand and dismount him. He cries out again at my absence.
“I am done with breakfast,” I say, turning on my heel.
Then I exit the room, leaving him there hard, pulsing, and unsated.