Lady: Impossible (28 page)

The orgasm hits me in waves, the pleasure so pure that I feel empty when it wanes, and whole again when it returns. It laps at me, making me convulse like I’m possessed. The final wave is so blissful that I close my eyes as I ride it out, and while I remember the way I chanted Blair’s name in reverence the last time around, this time I only say it once. Once, with as much gratitude and affection as I can afford.

My last moans are more like moans of loss, the pleasure receding. However, when I open my eyes and see Blair wearing a look of content and not shame, I’m struck by a satisfaction of a different kind.

To my surprise, he steps backward, carrying me with him. I tighten my grip on his shoulders before wrapping my arms around his neck more closely, the heat and contact between us more comforting than I would’ve expected.

I pant into his ear as he carries us over to the bed. ‘Did you come?’

‘Yeah.’ He sounds amused.
 

‘Oh. I wasn’t sure.’

Turning, he tries to set me down, only to find I won’t let go of him. So in a clumsy manoeuvre, we fall onto the bed together, the old mattress groaning a little under our combined weight.

‘Oof.’ Tumbling down was a strange sensation. Blair ends up rolling off me anyway, so I shift to the side so he can lie down in comfort. Constrained by the smaller size of the bed, but eager to remain close to him, I roll onto my stomach and snuggle up to his side, half-lying on him. I’m so thankful he hasn’t fled.

He rubs my back soothingly. ‘You okay?’

‘I’d let you know if I wasn’t.’ I kiss his shoulder and run my hand over his chest.
 

He chuckles quietly. ‘Of course you would. What a silly question.’

Neither of us says anything further while we both cool down. Despite this silence, I feel assured enough to rest my head on his shoulder, sighing contentedly as he tightens his hold around my waist. When he kisses me on the top of my head, I wonder if I’m allowed to sit up and kiss him properly on the mouth. It might sound like an odd thought, but we’re not in the heat of the moment any more. Quite the opposite, in fact.

I’m the one who breaks the silence. ‘You’re not going to run away, are you? Because I’m really happy like this.’

His response is calm. ‘Where would I run? This is my room. Besides, I have no trousers on.’

‘You can run trouser-less. It’s just uncivilised, as my mother would say.’ I shift and prop myself up on my elbow, with Blair mirroring the action by rolling onto his side.

There’s an extended moment where we merely stare at each other in a sort of mutual awe. What we did really happened. We slept together again.
 

‘The Ancient Greeks would disagree,’ he says, looking particularly handsome in the warm light. ‘All Olympic competitors were naked men.’
 

‘Yes, well, I suppose that would make some sports interesting. Not all, though.’

‘Such as?’

‘I don’t know. The equestrian events maybe.’

‘Why do you hate horses so much? I thought all rich girls grew up riding their ponies.’

‘My pony threw me off when I was ten. Apparently, we had the same temperament.’
 

He smirks. ‘Did you deserve to be thrown off?’

I poke him in the chest. ‘Excuse me, I was injured in that incident. Broken arm. My brother had to carry me from the stables to the main house. I was in a right state.’

‘All right, all right. Calm down. I was only teasing.’

He earns a sidelong look for his taunts. ‘Have you ever ridden a horse?’

‘I have.’

I expect him to elaborate, but no details are forthcoming. ‘Why are you so quiet? Did your pony hate you too?’

‘No, it was just a long time ago. Sometimes it feels like childhood was a different life. Carefree.’
 

‘Ah.’
 

There’s a change in the mood. I’m not sure how to handle it. I could continue to pry, or retreat and keep the conversation light.
 

Blair is contrite. ‘I know you get frustrated when I don’t talk. It’s just that I never thought I’d be where I am now. When you’re a child, you’re free to think you’ll one day be an astronaut, a football player or a professor. You’re free to have grand designs. Ambition.’

‘Ambition doesn’t die when you become an adult. Haven’t you ever thought about attending night school or something? Changing careers?’

‘I’m not particularly interested in retraining myself. I don’t have time.’

‘We could give you time off.’

He’s defiant in his answer, his voice taking on an edge. ‘I don’t want to start again. I have this. One day I’ll be old and no one will question why I’m a butler.’

‘I might.’

‘You’ll be married by then. I’ll just be a lover you once had.’ He averts his gaze, smiling wistfully as if tonight happened years ago. ‘Hopefully the best lover you ever had.’

A stabbing sadness comes over me. ‘Don’t talk like that.’

‘I’m just saying.’ He lies flat on his back, now staring at the ceiling. ‘It’s not so bad. Better to have fucked and lost than never having fucked at all.’

‘You’re getting angry again. Stop it or I’ll cry.’ Upset that he’s being like this, I clamber on top of him and cup his cheeks in my hands. ‘We’re supposed to be enjoying this. I told you I didn’t want to cause more regret.’
 

He quirks his lips before nodding. ‘You’re right. I’m sorry.’
 

I lean down and kiss him, massaging his tongue with mine before sucking on his lower lip. I need to quell my own fire as much as I need to quell his.
 

‘You’d better not be lying,’ I say when I pull away, throwing his words back at him.

‘I’m not.’

I sit up, straddling his groin when I probably shouldn’t. He groans, eyes fluttering closed for several seconds.
 

‘Lady Emilia. No.’

‘I know, I know. I should go back to my room.’ I toss my hair over my shoulder. ‘But I don’t want to leave.’

‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

‘Yes, when you go back to being Butler Blair, who pretends there’s nothing going on between us. You’re making me hate breakfast.’

‘I have to act that way when I’m working. You think I like acting as if I don’t care? Sometimes waiting on you makes me feel like Jane Eyre – punished by being sent to a particular room, except for me it’s a yellow one, not a red one.’

‘You’ve read
Jane Eyre
?’

‘M’lady, you’re on my dick. I don’t want to talk about what books I have and have not read.’

I give him a meaningful look as I dismount him. ‘I wish you’d call me Millie. We are acquainted now, after all?’

He sits up once I’m off the bed. ‘If I stop addressing you formally, you’ll forget I’m the help.’

‘I suppose that makes sense.’ I find my nightie and pull it over my head, still reluctant to leave. ‘So, you’ll at least be Normal Blair when it’s just the two of us?’

‘No. Because then I’ll have trouble switching back.’
 

I toss him his pyjamas. ‘I should spite you by going back to Tilton & Bree as soon as I can on Monday. Polly left me a message when I was napping earlier. Oliver called her to explain. She’ll probably line up a new date as soon as possible.’

He’s not impressed, putting his trousers back on in a huff before stepping over and snatching my thong off the floor. ‘Go ahead. See her, and line up Oliver Number Two. But I meant what I said about wanting to have you until that date. I’ll get out of the way once you get back on the horse, so to speak. It’s no good if this goes on for too long. I don’t want to risk getting caught.’

He hands me the undergarment and watches intently as I slip it back on. Hilariously, I feel overdressed. I really could lounge around naked with him all night. It wouldn’t exactly be a hardship.

I step forward to bid him goodbye, loosely wrapping my arms around his waist. He tenses at first – a sign of his frustration, no doubt – but eventually he reciprocates the embrace, cheekily groping my bum while he’s at it.

‘Tonight was fun.’

‘Yeah, it was. But now you have to get back to your room.’

‘Are we going to do this again tomorrow?’

He snorts. ‘Depends if you’ve ticked me off or not.’

‘So… does that mean I should tick you off so you’ll be angry enough to want to fuck me?’

‘You’re impossible.’

I stand on my toes so I can kiss him on the cheek. ‘So are you.’

He breaks the embrace and opens the door for me, even handing me my torch.
 

‘Good night, m’lady. Sleep well.’

Last Saturday night he stood outside my room, reluctant to see me after what happened on the stairs. Tonight, I remain outside his door for at least a minute, wanting more than anything to re-enter and be with him again.

***
 

I wake up at half past seven, which gives me enough time to make myself look halfway decent before Blair delivers breakfast at eight. I shower, moisturise and even apply a bit of mascara and bronzer to look fresh. In some way, these vain preparations are stupid. He’s seen me looking bleary-eyed and worse for wear – such is the nature of living in the same house. However, I insist on it and, by the time he knocks on my door, I’m back in bed, casually brushing my hair while reading a new issue of French
Vogue.
 

‘Come in.’

Blair enters, tray table in hand, and is quick to comment on my efforts. ‘Good morning, m’lady. I thought you were going to sleep in. Had I not walked past and heard the shower, I daresay you would’ve gone hungry.’

I shouldn’t provoke him into acting more naturally. We discussed why he has to behave like this.
 

‘Gone hungry? I doubt that very much, Blair. You’re very attentive to my needs.’ I pause, alarmed. ‘That wasn’t innuendo. I was actually trying not to make jokes.’

He clears his throat, stepping over to my bedside. ‘Would you mind moving the magazine, m’lady?’

‘Oh, right.’ I toss it aside, dropping my hairbrush too. ‘Sorry about that.’

‘No trouble at all.’ He sets the tray table down and lifts the lid off the silver serving dish. As expected, this is all work and no play for him. ‘Something different this morning. Banana pancakes.’

‘Ohh, thank you.’
 

‘You’re welcome.’

He leans over and swaps the placement of the maple syrup and coffee, somehow knowing I want to eat first. It’s simple but shows his attention to detail. I wonder whether this level of service is tailored to me, or whether he also serves my mother with such care.

‘Is my mother up and about?’

The question comes off as not so innocent, like I’m asking for a post-breakfast quickie. Really, I’m wondering whether I have to be on guard for early morning hysterics about yesterday’s dating disaster.
 

Blair glances at the open door. ‘She’s wide awake and currently on the phone.’
 

‘Okay.’
 

He nods. ‘Let me know if you need anything else, m’lady. I’ll leave you to eat in peace.’

‘Um…’
 

It’s unfair of me, I know, but I feel like I’m going to burst if I don’t make reference to last night. It’s only been a matter of hours, but I’m afraid I’ll feel alone if he doesn’t hang around.
 

‘Yes, m’lady?’ He looks at me pointedly, as if to deter me from saying anything inappropriate.

‘Nothing.’ I look down and start cutting up my pancakes. ‘You’re excused.’

‘Thank you, m’lady.’
 

He sounds infinitely relieved, which reminds me of the analogy he brought up. ‘You’re welcome, Jane.’

He presses his lips into a thin line, somehow refraining from talking back. His exit from the room is swift but two minutes later, I get a text:

I never read the book. Just read about it in the course of reading about other books. Thought I’d clarify that.

I roll my eyes and type my reply:
Chillax. I’m not pegging you as a Brontë lover, Charlotte or otherwise. I’m sure you’ll reference more ‘manly’ books from now on.
Heart of Darkness
maybe?

The horror! The horror!

I giggle at the reply before realising that a) we’re flirting, b) we’re flirting by way of a novella about the evils of colonising the Congo and c) these pancakes are amazing. C is not so much a problem, as it’s a reminder that he’s my butler and not my boyfriend.

Uh oh. I hear footsteps, and I don’t think they’re Blair’s. I hide my phone under the covers and go back to eating my breakfast.
 

I look up just as my mother appears in the doorway.
 

She’s part perplexed, part scandalised. ‘Did I hear you giggling?’

‘Don’t worry, it wasn’t a hysterical laugh. I received a humorous text, that’s all. No need for a straitjacket.’
 

I eye her carefully as she enters the room. There’s something about her that’s not right. Same kimono dressing gown, same suede slippers, same neat and tidy bob… What is it then?

Nerves. It’s not that she appears slightly haggard – after all, tiredness is to be expected after a round of stressful events – rather, there’s an uncertainty in her eyes and a cautiousness to her movements. It’s so incredibly uncharacteristic that I’m frozen in trepidation, wondering what on earth could make my mother act in this way.

‘What’s going on?’

She turns and shuts the door, again moving unsurely. For a split second I’m afraid she’s come to bust me for sleeping with Blair. But if that was the case, she’d be apoplectic with rage.

Slowly, she comes over to the edge of my bed and sits, patting down her dressing gown as if I actually care about her appearance. ‘I had a conversation with your father.’

‘Oh?’
 

I struggle to think of a more articulate response. I have to be careful. Their marriage is a complicated union, one full of spite and history. If they argued and she’s nervous, then any number of things could’ve happened. He may have told her exactly what he thinks of her foolish London excursions – the harsh truth, not the usual platitudes. It could be that, or anything all the way through to him filing for divorce himself.