The Invasion Year

chamber, giggling at their daring ’til locked in… and Lewrie’s fondest wish had been realised.

Lydia was very slim, as slim as Tess the Irish lass in “Mother Batson’s” brothel in Panton Street, as girlish-slim as his late wife had been when they’d first wed, her flesh firm but so silkily soft, as if he ran his fingertips through fine-milled talcum powder. Their un-dressing had been slow and tentative, despite Lewrie’s urgent and fierce wants after two years of celibacy since his return from Paris; he didn’t wish to frighten her off at the last moment. On Lydia’s part, she had shown a shyness that Lewrie wouldn’t have expected in a woman so out-spoken, or one with an allegedly scandalous past. There had been just the one small, dim candle to light them under the covers, with Lewrie’s back turned as she’d slipped beneath them, and her head partially averted as he did so; she hadn’t come to his side ’til the sheet was pulled up to their chins, and he had slid a light hand over her taut but tantalisingly soft belly.

Might be just the once, so make the most of it, he’d cautioned himself, savouring every moment as if it was the very last they would share, that he would have with any woman, slowly sliding down her body to worship her graceful neck, her ears, her breasts, and her stomach, at last to the tops of her slim thighs, her belly, and her fine corn-silk blond fluff, then even further down…

Hoping against hope, Lewrie had brought along four of his Half-Moon Street sheep-gut cundums; there was an awkward moment to don one and return, but by then Lydia had been more than eager, her bottom lip almost trembling as she drew him down to her with a kitteny mew. Again, despite the brute lust roaring in his head, he’d begun slow, pausing a time or two to contain himself… before Lydia had begun to urge him on to a canter, to a gallop, with breathless wee cries of, “Yes, oh yes!”

Too much wine, too late at night, Lewrie couldn’t fathom how, but the world had evaporated from his senses. The mattress and sheets might as well have been a cloud, and the only things that existed were their bodies and their joinings, and then Lydia had been grasping and raking his back, clinging with upraised thighs, crying out as guardedly as she could to avoid waking the house staff, and Lewrie could let go, groaning like the timbers of a storm-wracked ship, and wishing he could roar like a lion in triumph and mind-frying pleasure!

“What’s the time?” Lydia asked in a whisper, breaking off from kissing his mouth, his shoulder, and rolling off him a bit to peer at a mantel clock, with her hair mussed most prettily, and some longer strands dangling over her face.

“Uhm… a bit after four,” Lewrie told her after a squint of his own. “Should I be going, before the house wakes?” He felt like crossing his fingers to hear her answer, for he certainly didn’t wish to go!

“Not quite yet,” Lydia said, swiping her hair back in place and bestowing upon him a sly, impish, and teasing look as she settled back half atop him and resumed her kissing. “We’re the idle class, Alan. We take cocoa and toast at ten, and don’t stir out ’til after noon, do you know. At least Percy has his regiment, his clubs, coffee houses, and a seat in Lords, when he bothers to attend. The servants don’t stir ’til half past five. Or so our butler tells us.”

“No sleep-walkers on staff, are there?” Lewrie japed.

“All sound sleepers, for all I know of them,” Lydia told him, chuckling. “There’s still time… for us. If you wish, that is? If you find me pleasing?” Oddly, that struck Lewrie’s ear as a plea to be found pleasing, and pretty.

“Aye, by God I do… and there’s no other place I’d rather be right now for a… for a bloody knighthood!” he told her, which caused them both to laugh, almost loud enough to wake the house for a bit, ’til he drew her down to him and held her close, and their lips met in sweet, light brushings, curled with glee at first.

“Make love to me, Alan,” Lydia whispered, urgently, but sounding shy, as if amazed at her own daring to even ask.

“Make love to me, Lydia,” Lewrie whispered back, his own voice grave and earnest, peering intently into her eyes and wondering why he had ever thought her less than hellish-handsome. With her hair down, and her bored and arch expression blown to far horizons, she was very lovely… to him, at least; which was all that mattered, wasn’t it? Here, this moment, she even seemed vulnerable. Not a stiff member of the aristocracy, but an ordinary woman with wants and needs.

And so she did, and he did, make love one more time before he had to go, more hungrily this time, more fiercely, thrashing and panting to an almost simultaneous bliss. Then lay entwined and cuddling and kissing and gently stroking ’til the mantel clock reached 5.

* * *

“Where did we leave our shoes?” Lewrie muttered, his head well fuddled by then, as he peered about the parlour; they hadn’t been in the bed-chamber.

“We left them by the settee,” Lydia whispered back, giggling. “How remiss of us.”

“How embarrassing that could’ve been,” Lewrie said as he found his and sat to slip them on.

“Oh, I am loath to let you go, though I must!” Lydia declared as he got to his feet again, and she came to embrace him, dressed only in a silk robe, almost as soft as her flesh, and warmed by her warmth. Lewrie slowly ran his hands up and down her slim back, down to her narrow hips and wee bottom, purring in her ear. “I must. You must, else… it’s almost half past five.”

“ ‘Parting is such sweet sorrow’…,” Lewrie said, chuckling.

“… ‘that I should say goodnight ’til it be morrow,’ yes! And all that, but…!” she insisted, laughing again and breaking away to lead him by the hand to the foyer, and the front door. “I’ll not send you out into lawless London un-protected, Alan. Here.”

“Well, hullo!” Lewrie said; she had handed him a wee one-barrel pocket pistol to shove into his uniform coat.

“Even here in the West End, there’s foot-pads aplenty, and I’d not wish any harm to come to you,” Lydia assured him. “Mind, now… I expect you to return it!” she teased, her eyes alight.

“Let’s set a time for that,” Lewrie said with a grin. “Supper tonight? There’s a grand chop-house I know in Savoy Street. Hellish-fine wine cellar, and emigre French chefs, t’boot. Eight-ish? And no clubs after. As few of your host of admirers as possible.”

“Sir, I would be delighted to accept your kind invitation,” she said, dipping him a graceful curtsy, grinning back. “But, you must go at once!” Lydia insisted, play-shoving him to the door.

There was just one wee problem with his leaving; the door was locked tight, and though several bolts could be withdrawn, there was no key in sight!

“Un emmerdement, as the Frogs’d say,” Lewrie whispered. “Don’t think askin’ yer butler’d do much good, would it?”

“Oh, God!” Lydia breathed, opening every drawer in the massive oak side-board table where the mail, page- delivered notes, and calling cards ended in a large silver tray. “Here’s one!”

“Too small… that’s surely for one of the drawers. Let me look,” Lewrie offered, infected by Lydia’s urgency. “Aha!” Far back in the lowest drawer there was a huge housekey, strung with a hank of ribbon and a pasteboard tag. “This’un’s big enough for the Bank of England.” He inserted it, gave it a turn, and let out a happy sigh as the main lock clanked open.

Thank God for efficient house-keepers! Lewrie thought as the door yawned open to the front stoop and the street with nary a creak; the hinges had been well-oiled!

“You’re off to your Madeira Club?” Lydia asked as he stepped out to the stoop, clutching her robe about her more tightly. “I will send round a note.”

“Hmm?” Lewrie asked, wondering why a note was necessary, if he had set the time when he would coach to collect her.

“My treat… a surprise,” she told him, smiling inscrutably. “Here… your lodgings? Neither is suitable, are they, Alan?”

“Damme, but you’re a grand girl, Lydia!”

“Now shoo, scat! Begone! And thank God it isn’t raining!” she urged, swinging the door shut yet blowing him a kiss just before it closed completely.

Damme if she ain’t a grand woman! Lewrie told himself as he plodded east down Grosvenor Street, looking for a carriage, beaming and whistling “The Bowld Soldier Boy,” the