The pace of life was slower here in the Southern Barony. During the hottest part of the afternoon, activity slowed to a crawl and the day fell silent but for the sleepy drone of bees.
Harry spent that first afternoon on the porch, with a tall glass of lemonade close at hand and a book open but unread on his lap. Even reading seemed like too much of an effort. It was nicer just to sit in the shade while the heat-shimmers made quicksilver patterns on the horizon, and the horses drifted across the meadow like mirages.
The book also helped conceal his erection. There was one part of his body that didn't care about relaxing in the drowsy heat. That part wanted to do something much more energetic.
A few yards from him, Rheda and his mother, aunt, and sister were seated around a white wicker table with lemonade glasses of their own. The three older women were trying lackadaisically to teach Diana a card game. Harry was too far away to hear the rules, but close enough to admire the curve of Rheda's neck as she fanned herself.
She knew he was watching her. He was certain of it. The sly sidelong glances she kept tossing his way, the pink tip of her tongue coming out to wet her lips, the way she'd turn her body to make her abundant breasts press against the silk of her gown and outline them so clearly she might as well have been wearing nothing but a sheen of apple-green paint.
He didn't know what to make of it. She was old enough to be his mother, for Dorian's sake, far older than the girls' dorm Headmistress whose stocking-belts had so captivated him, but that didn't seem to matter. On the contrary. It intrigued him all the more. What might a woman of her age and experience be able to teach him?
The very thought made a nerve that seemed to run through the core of his body thrum like a lute string. His forehead was shiny with sweat that couldn't all be attributed to the weather.
A beautiful, voluptuous older woman flirting with him. He certainly wasn't complaining, but he was wondering like mad. Why? Was she genuinely interested, or merely having fun teasing him, or was there some more sinister aspect? Had she, for instance, been put up to it by his grandmother as a test?
Whichever it was, he wasn't about to make a fool of himself by acting on his impulses. It was her game; he'd be more than happy to play along until he figured out what the rules were.
As the sun dropped toward the sea, it turned to a scarlet ball and streaks spread across the sky. Blood of the gods.
Once the fiery orb slipped from sight, the air cooled and the wind stirred and the land seemed to come to life again. A ripple of renewed energy swept through the house. The servants bustled about, the horses capered in the fields and ran with their necks arched and tails streaming behind them like flags.
Dinner was served as a buffet, few hot dishes but a marvelous selection of cold cuts, salads, and chilled desserts. A thin and reedy girl sang in a thin and reedy voice, accompanied by a piper and a harpist.
Uncle Charles and his sons appeared from the depths of the house, arguing over ledgers. Chas was supposed to be a partner in the family business soon, Aeric felt that he should be one as well despite his lack of years, and just listening to them was almost enough to put Harry right to sleep.
Midway through the meal, Anson Byrtwold and his son arrived. The horse-lord, as he liked to be called, was a blocky, bow-legged man who looked as if he would be far more at home in a saddle than walking the earth. He was jovial and loud, prone to slapping people heartily on the back without realizing that his work-hardened strength made them stagger.
Drefan, a slope-browed troglodyte as a boy, had only changed in that he'd gained six inches in height and was now a slope-browed troglodyte of a man, sullen and unhandsome, communicating rarely and then only in grunts or monosyllabic replies when asked a direct question. The only one of the guests he seemed inclined to pay any attention to was Diana, following her every move with his piggy eyes.
Anson and Rheda brimmed with lively conversation, and soon even got Uncle Charles and the cousins talking about something besides his business. Harry was bemused and astonished, and found himself thinking about what his grandfather had said. Straight arrows, skipping a generation? Obviously, Harold Senior didn't spend much time around his other grandsons!
When everyone had finished eating, Anson led them all into his pride and joy, the game room. Harry had never heard that the Southern Barony people were such inexhaustible card-sharks, or known that there were so many games to be played.
He had trouble concentrating on his cards when they all took seats at the big table, though, because Rheda had contrived to be seated next to him. Apple blossom perfume, her throaty giggle, the occasional touch of her foot against his as she shifted in her chair ... good thing this wasn't a glass-topped table, because he had no book to put over his lap this time!
Good thing indeed ... four rounds later, as Drefan was ploddingly but with great burning concentration dealing out the cards, Harry felt Rheda's palm settle onto his leg.
He didn't jump, didn't bleat in surprise, didn't betray his reaction in any way except for a virtually unnoticeable quaver in his voice as he was regaling Mother and Aunt Pigeon with a funny anecdote from the Thespians Club at school.
Her hand rested where it was for a moment, then squeezed gently. He glanced casually in her direction but she seemed to be listening intently to his story, smiling merrily.
Harry kept talking, elaborating, drawing it out, making them laugh. As he did, Rheda slid her hand up his thigh, then curled down and in until her fingertips were at the inseam of his trousers.
By now, Harry had completely forgotten what had actually happened at the Thespian Club that day and was making up his story out of whole cloth. As he was the center of attention and using both of his hands to gesticulate and emphasize, there was no way he could subtly get one of his down there to either move hers away (was he insane?) or move it where he so throbbingly wished it to be.
The pressure lifted and he inwardly groaned in mixed disappointment and relief. But then, balancing on pearl-enameled fingernails, her hand walked like a small animal up and up, treading lightly over the buttons of his fly.
He paused for a much-needed gulp of icy lemonade and continued his story, which was winding toward its climax ... now there was a word ...
Tap ... tap ... tap ... on his buttons ... like harpsichord keys or a little girl playing hopscotch. Not unfastening, just pushing down briefly on each one as if counting them. Then with a suddenness that made him pinch the side of his tongue between his teeth so as not to gasp, she gripped his rod firmly through the cloth.
He concluded his story, which by now bore no resemblance to anything that his friends in the Thespian Club would recognize, and everyone laughed. Mother and Aunt Pigeon started applauding, and Harry could have screamed because if they all did, Rheda would have to as well, which would mean she'd need to take her hand away, and he didn't want her to do that, not ever! Unless it was only to replace it with something else, with her fabulously pouting mouth, perhaps.
But she didn't, and the applause died off quickly as Drefan passed out the last of the cards and the focus returned to the game.
Harry picked up his cards and tried not to let his hands tremble. He looked blankly at them, unable to tell the suits apart, conscious only of her fondling him, slowly and somehow thoughtfully, as if she was attempting to measure the length and girth and shape of him by touch alone.
Then, agonizingly, damnably, it was her turn to bet. She let go of him and went on with the game. Harry lost quite badly that round.
