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littleredroseonthevalley · 6 years ago

Text

St. Paul

Or, How the Ladies Take Their Tea in Grover

Summary: During a garden party at Edgewater, Ernest finds himself alone with Miss Beauchamp. She teaches him a thing or two about the arts of conversation and entertaining.

Rating: MA - for mature adults only. May contain explicit language and adult themes.

Words: 1522

Notes: So, this is yet another twist on Desire & Decorum. I seem to be full of those lately.

About tagging: since this is neither on the line of Drawing Room nor Mary Magdalene/St. Thomas Aquinas, I just went on ahead and tagged everybody I tagged for those other fics. If you happen to not like, sorry! I hope you do, though. Oh, and can someone talk to me on private to say whether you’re getting the responses for your comments? I answered them all, but I think some haven’t gone through. Crappy Tumblr, as always.

I hope you also find it exciting and humorous like I did. Because let me tell y’all, Ernest... well, you’ll see.

Before we move along to the story, answer me this: how do the ladies take their tea in Grover? With cream. Got it?

Enjoy!

“It is good for a man not to touch a woman.”

~ 1 Corinthians 7:1.

Ernest took as much haste as he possibly could down the gravel road, being hindered by the unsteadiness of his dress shoes and the discretion necessary for the completion of the task.

You see, he had seen Miss Beauchamp, the Earl’s natural daughter, racing that path a few moments earlier and he could not help himself but to wonder what was she doing.

It is how it is said about wilful little boys, they cave in easily to the whimsical flings that happen to enrapture their attention in any given moment. The country esquire could not resist the temptation to follow the pretty, new thing to see what she could be doing.

Fortunately for him, he did not have to walk far. She was pacing calmly by a pond on the edge of her father’s property. Her fan was in its intended use, producing a refreshing breeze into her lower neck and cleavage, which the stale air of early spring could not provide.

The exposed milky skin of the young woman glistened in the sunlight, while her cheeks seemed to be rather flustered. Her teeth were pressed delicately against her lower, crimson lip.

The man could not say how long he kept watching like a creep on the edges of the pond, but it was certainly more than any semblance of appropriate, and enough for the female to notice him.

Upon recognition, her head made a slight pend backwards, allowing her nose to stand tall and proud in the air. She released her lip, as she turned her expression into an arrogant smirk, half concealed by the now static, semi-opened fan.

“Have no-one told you it is rude to stare, Mr Sinclaire?” She asks, with that wayward tone she seemed to favour on every interaction between the two of them.

“Yes, they have.” He responded, oddly resembling of a child trying to escape a reprimand. “It is I who should ask about your manners, Miss Beauchamp. I am sure that even in Grover it is considered in poor taste to run off a party in one’s own honour.”

She chuckles, drily. “If you insist in admonish me, I must ask for you to step closer. I find discussions amongst shouting to be unproductive, especially those meant to be private.”

Minding himself, Ernest closes the distance between the two of them from about five meters to the minimum appropriate, which would be about an arm’s length.

“The Duke was looking for me. Undoubtedly to bore me to tears with yet another story about his greatness or bravery.” The woman says, clear disdain marred her words. Not that Ernest blames her in any way. “Miss Parsons was by me and suggested for us to escape to this area of the garden, but it seems she got caught up on something. I was enjoying the scenery until you interrupted me, and that should sum up my behaviour since we last spoken. Is it to your satisfaction?”

He supressed a side smile over the faux-spoiled act she was throwing and nodded solemnly. “I cannot fault you. Save for his title, there is little reason why anyone would willingly submit to the Duke’s conversation.”

“I am glad you see things my way, Mr Sinclaire.” She smiles softly at him before continuing, “I do not think Miss Parsons will be leaving the party soon. I assume it is your gentlemanly duty to entertain me before we, ourselves, re-join the celebrations.”

The blond man scoffs. “I am sure both of our reputations would suffer less taint if I just left you to your quiet contemplation.”

“You followed me here, Mr Sinclaire, to a quiet, empty corner of the garden. I think the good men down at the harbour put it best when they say that ship has sailed.” She stifles a giggle with the fan. “Besides, if I recall correctly, earlier this afternoon you complained about your difficulty with socialization. Think of it like practice.”

“And how do you propose to have me practice my social skills with you, Miss Beauchamp?” He asks, rather aggravated.

“I find myself to be a pleasant companion and a witty conversationalist, Mr Sinclaire, not to mention I am willing to be a patient mentor.” She says with a flick of her fan. “I daresay you will find no better alternative.”

He had to concede the logic of her argument. “Very well, Miss Beauchamp. Charm me with your accomplishments. Ravish my senses with your conversation.”

The woman clicked her tongue. “Don’t mind if I do. In fact, I have a crippling curiosity about you, Mr Sinclaire.”

“Is it? What about?” He questions, as she takes an arm that was not offered.

“How is it that a wealthy, handsome man like you, Mr Sinclaire, cannot find himself a lady for his manor?” She questions, with the neutrality of someone who talks about the weather.

Unsurprisingly, the blond chokes in his own saliva as he tries to make sense of the question, rendering the whole thing only the more entertaining for the young woman.

“I am a single man, it is no secret, but the matter of my perceived fairness is in your own account, Miss Beauchamp.” He says, masking his embarrassment in austerity. “Perhaps you ought to keep those observations to yourself.”

“Oh, like the enviable discretion you used upon studying my décolletage?” She asks, with ireful haughtiness. “God saw fitting to give me two perfectly functioning eyes just like yours, Mr Sinclaire, and a mind I do not believe to have inner workings much too different from yours. I see what I see, and I like what I like. It so happened to be you.”

“I… I…” He stutters. “Please, Miss Beauchamp. Do not talk those things, or a gentleman cannot be blamed for having the wrong idea.”

She chuckles, pulls his arm with her left hand and gently wavers the fingers of her right one over the buttons of his coat, bringing a pink glow to his cheeks and a tingling sensation to his midsection.

“I thought I told you.” She says, and, with barely a whisper, continues, “I tell only the truth. Lest to be misunderstood.”

“Miss Beauchamp…” He tried to say, but she was like a viper, having him surrounded and submitted to her ministrations.

“You talk about the way of the people from Grover. Perhaps I ought to teach you a trick that makes all the boys from the county town to lose their minds.”

Having his arm pinned the entire time, she used her free right hand to trail the entirety of his chest and stomach, up until it hovered over the top right button of his trousers.

“No!” He fought against her spell. “I can’t. You can’t! Your reputation… The taint!”

She chuckled once more. “Do not worry. Nothing that we will do shall jeopardize my virtue.”

Before Ernest could manifest yet another objection, she unfastened the buttons in front of his breeches and reached for the raging erection inside.

“This would be much more fun for both of us if we could remove the entirety of your garments.” She commented, with a pitch of taunt. “No matter, I am sure you’ll enjoy either way.”

The poor esquire could only stutter nonsense at this point, which worked fine for the lady lowering herself to her knees, as she could focus on the task at hand.

The young man’s sex was long and lean, an image of its owner, the pink, pulsating head testifying about its long neglect. It was, by no means, not the largest she had ever seen, but she conceded it had a respectable size for an Englishman.

Not to waste any more time, she covered her teeth with her lips and mouthed the whole thing in a swift move, letting the head hit the back of her throat. The first emissions hitting her tongue with a savoury, rich taste, typical of a man with an aristocratic diet.

Ernest, in turn, tried desperately to cling to the last remnants of dignity he had left by controlling his vocalization and his apex through thought exercises. First, he thought of his ex-wife’s annoying habits. Then, of his father’s saggy man breasts. Finally, he had to appellate to the Dowager Countess’ figure.

It was to no use, as too soon for his pride and for her wishes, Ernest almost shouted “Lord Almighty!” and filled Miss Beauchamp’s mouth with the white substance.

Raising to her feet once more, Miss Beauchamp nicks the handkerchief on Sinclaire’s breast pocket and softly cleans the corners of her lips.

“This has been most entertaining, Mr Sinclaire.” She smirked at him, as she hides the sullied handkerchief inside her dress, under her breast. “I will be leaving first.”

Without so much as another word, she turns her back and leaves up the gravel path that took him there in the first place.

Dazed in the afterglow, Ernest watched her retreating figure with his breeches still undone, no thought going through his head.

That woman would be the death of him.

Taglist: @choicesyouplayandmore @cocomaxley @laniquelovely @shelivesinthewoods

#desire & decorum #ernest sinclaire

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