Page 9 of The Shadow of Breninsol
“Eleanor,” he beamed with the same amusement in his lush eyes. “Norrie.”
She snorted into her glass. “Seriously? That’s what you come up with?” Eleanor wasn’t expecting to like this lord, but he was…growing on her.
“If I’m Riccie, you’re Norrie,” he said with a straight face.
There was no harm in his moniker for her, but she huffed, pretending to be put out by it, when in reality it was one of the nicest names she had ever been called. “Fine.”
As Riccie lifted the glass to his lips, she watched with intense focus, her eyes following the bubbly liquid's movement as it tilted and approached his mouth. As he finished his drink, a peculiar and unfamiliar sensation, a pang of something she hadn't felt in quite some time, washed over her. The shameful sensation sat heavily in her stomach, mixing with a sour feeling that tainted the taste of the wine itself.
The need for alcohol overrode Eleanor’s senses that she poured them both another sparkling wine, the bubbles tempting her despite her better judgement, this time not laced with anything.
Perched on the bed next to him, she leaned in, smiling. “Riccie.”
“Yeah,” he answered, tilting towards her.
“This is very fancy, you know,” she said, trailing her fingers up his lacy neckcloth and unwinding it slowly from its knot at his throat.
He swallowed as her fingers purposefully skimmed his skin. “You really think so?”
“Truly,” she whispered.
“Been…been trying to make a fashion of our own, you know,” he said, his voice croaked with nervousness. It confirmed her decision but didn’t make the souring taste in her mouth dissipate. “Thought…thought it’d make everyone see us as grown up, and it looked…looked good.”
“Would you like me to make you feel good, Riccie?” she whispered, letting his neckcloth trail down between them.
She knew the concoction was working when his erection was pushing through his trousers, and then his lush blue eyes grew glossy as he fought the light feelings, but it was futile. Eleanorhelped him to finish the wine and unbuttoned his trousers. His erection sprang free, already glistening with anticipation. As she straddled him, she gently directed his hand to his cock, the fabric of her dress draping over their entwined legs. The vacant smile stretched across his face made him seem younger than his years, while his full-flushed cheeks, combined with his pale glazed-over eyes indicated that he was entirely oblivious to what was happening. Eleanor often wondered what they were seeing, who they thought was riding their cock in this moment. They’d never guess it was their own hand giving them such pleasure.
Conscious of the painting with its spyhole, which provided the walls with extra eyes and ears, Eleanor synchronised the rhythm of her movements to the pumping of his hand, deliberately exaggerating the noises and facial expressions that commonly accompanied sex. Given the distance and angle, the unseen spectator would be unable to discern the subtle nuances of how her dress had been purposely gathered to obscure his cock, and she’d timed Riccie’s arm movement to suggest he was teasing her.
As Eleanor continued her display, Riccie’s breathing grew heavier, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He was close, so she increased her pace along with her moans and groans of pleasure and ecstasy. With a deep groan and a shudder, he came, spilling into his fancy neckcloth.
The hazy smile returned to his face, softening his features, his eyelids growing heavy as his breathing slowed to a gentle rhythm, a peaceful sigh escaping his lips. It wouldn’t take long, and he’d be asleep with a blissed grin on his face, dreaming of having a pleasurable evening.
Eleanor tucked the sticky neckcloth into his waistcoat pocket and got to her feet, making a show of adjusting her dress. She poured herself a generous glass of the amber liquid and sat on the edge of the bed, sighing against the pleasurable burn in herthroat. Her glass was empty after two large swallows, so she helped herself to another while watching Riccie’s deflated cock twitch against his trousers with his dreams. At least he’d had a memorable night filled with pleasure, a stark contrast to the persistent, sour aftertaste that heavily weighed on her.
Unexpectedly, she found herself liking this man, a feeling quite contrary to what she'd initially predicted, and she mused that a simpler life might have allowed her to appreciate his kind and agreeable disposition sooner. When she felt like she’d sat long enough, Eleanor quietly slipped from the room, the heavy gilded door closing softly behind her.
Chapter Four
Debts
Eleanor entered the noisy kitchen where the ladies of The Ladies Grace were sitting around the rickety wooden table in the middle of the room chattering over their breakfast. She’d taken her frequent companion to bed last night; a bottle of wine. Despite wishing for more than one bottle, it had been sufficient to drift off into a dreamless sleep. Eleanor hated mornings. From the conversation circling the kitchen, the newly selected courtesans were letting the others know what they’d missed at court by telling them about the various lords and the dresses and jewels they coveted.
Eleanor tried not to sigh in sadness as she ladled the dry, sticky porridge from the pot over the stove, a sign that Julia had been in charge of cooking this morning. The girl was moving quietly through her chores in the kitchen, filling the kettle and washing the dishes from those who’d risen early. Upon discovering Julia, Eleanor had been alarmed that Madam Grace had hired such a young girl, possibly only four and ten years old. But after having observed the girl, Eleanor was certain Julia’s sole purpose was cleaning the pleasure house. Julia was fortunate to find employment here, especially with a madam who possessed a sense of a conscience. Although Eleanor disliked the madam, she was surprised to discover the woman had a sense of morality.
Eleanor avoided the end of the table where Calla and Lauressa were usually huddled together, conspiratorial whispers and sharing knowing glances—their similar ages fostering a strong bond. Instead of sitting next to the quiet Veronica, who always had her head in a book, Eleanor positioned herself on the bench next to Iris, along the back wall. She’d found she liked the woman. Unusually so, but it was Iris’s no-nonsense attitude that came with her experience that Eleanor liked.
As far as Eleanor could guess, Iris was one of the older ladies; despite looking like she was in her mid-twenties. That was something else the ladies didn’t disclose, and Eleanor liked this unspoken rule just fine. The last time anyone had spoken her real name felt like a lifetime ago, a distant echo in the chambers of her memory. She paid attention to the surrounding conversation rather than her bowl of misery, hoping it would help her eat.
Before, Eleanor wouldn’t pay much attention to anyone, her only aim was to eat quickly and leave the room as quietly as she’d entered. This morning, however, Eleanor noticed the women were all in various states of dress or undress, a clear sign of whohad recently woken up. Iris, Mirabella, and Lucy, attired in their plain dresses and woollen shawls, worn only in the back rooms and for venturing outside, had been awake for a while. While the rest of the women had their dressing gowns tied around their naked bodies, and some had once-brightly patterned fringed woollen shawls draped over their shoulders. Eleanor had never seen such a diverse array of clothing on the ladies. Some were wearing a thin cheap cotton dressing gown that’d seen better days, like her own, while others wore flamboyant patterns and colours with a few tassels thrown onto the garment for added glamour.
Eleanor was a little startled to notice that all the women had their hair pulled back, revealing their natural faces. Some ladies had their hair simply tied up or plaited, while others had strips of cloth tied into their hair to aid or exaggerate their natural curls with a scarf covering their hair.
During the courtesans’ discussion of the lords, Eleanor learned that some younger lords were a little lacking. As a few chuckles rippled through the room, her hand tensed reaching for the coffee pot, hearing that collective noise made them sound carefree and light-hearted. Perhaps Eleanor disliked the mornings for what they represented: a time when all the women could gather for a meal. They all shared a natural, easy camaraderie, almost like sisters. A kind of companionship she’d always longed for but never experienced in a large group.
“…oh, and Lord Godefrey likes to lick your feet,” Lucy exclaimed loudly to the whole table.
“That’s fine. A bit of toe sucking can be good foreplay,” Annabella replied.
