Richard Cunning Jr knocked back another glass of champagne to calm himself. He was wise enough to know that all he was succeeding in doing was building the rate of his beating heart and fuelling his excitement. He could see Abigail Hemming glancing in his direction and giggling with her friends. He knew why as well, for when dancing with her, he had compared her creamy white skin to another in his mind. He'd rather let himself get away with his thoughts and when he had brought her in close on the floor, she'd clearly felt the graze of the rigid length in his tight pants.
When he found himself growing hard again he tipped them a wink and strolled out into the Doncaster's gardens.
Growing up in the colonies, he had little true interest in ballroom dances and the pomp and ceremony of public life. He wasn't out of place, for he'd learnt the part well and could dance better than most on his tidy feet. But in truth he'd much rather be in one of the port towns tipping back rum or else with a horse between his legs, from which height, the world was exhilarating.
There was something else he wished between his legs too and just thinking about the dark close knit hair and those round buttocks that jiggled when she walked made him twitch in his white breeches and he tried to shake it off. His lust had been building in him for some time, coming in awkward situations. His tented pants would be the talk of the island before the week was out and he could only mutter a prayer that his father hadn't been about to witness it in person.
Having made up his mind he tossed the empty champagne flute into the bushes and made for the stables.
Richard Cunning used the servants entrance to the house. He used the entrance regularly, not overly bothered on customs or particulars.
He had also hoped that by using the back door, he might bump into the maid Phoebe.
Only the serene black face of George the butler greeted him. On a drunken impulse he improvised and asked the man to send up his mothers maid Ethel, to soak a stain from his shirt, knowing full well the old crone was away with his parents.
'Ethel is away Sir, but if you'd like to give it to me, I'll see that Phoebe takes care of it when she finishes the thorough clean of your parents bedroom.'
'I won't trouble you with it George, I'm going up now, I'll, aha, give it to her personally. You should go to bed, it's getting late.'
'I shall do so immediately Sir.' the butler replied, his heavy lidded eyes blinking slowly. Richard knew too well that the old coot would finish his slow rounds regardless.
The maid had all the furniture out to clean the skirting boards, but stopped when he entered.
As he threaded his way to her she turned to the tall mirror, her breath fogging the glass in quick succession as she watched him prowl towards her. He stood a head taller than her so that he could look down over her curls into the reflection of her eyes. They were a deep brown, black in the lamplight where even his colourless eyes were dark. He put a hand to her neck and slipped the bow of her apron undone and with the other wrapped around her, he tugged the bib from her chest. His fingers made short work of the buttons below, and when she glanced down at his hands, one long digit tipped her chin back up to watch them in the shining glass.
