Free In Service to the Senses by Demelza Hart

Chapter One
     
     
     
    Yorkshire, August 1910
     
    The kitchen of Foresham Hall, furnishings, pots and all, seemed itself to be drooping in the incessant heat. With preparations underway for lunch and the August sun shining in, even if only through the narrow windows, it was almost unbearable. Mrs Brodie, normally so in control of her kitchen, was in a state of considerable agitation about the jellies not setting, her dimpled arms glistening with sweat as she flapped about. The kitchen maid sat dejectedly, fanning herself madly with the London Illustrated News, the lettuce she was supposed to be washing left to wilt before her. Mr Brewer, butler, had given them no respite from their tasks, despite the torpor that pervaded their limbs in this weather. Even little Billy, bubbliest of them all, frowned with discomfort as he polished his boots.
    Edward alone was still and silent. The silver hairbrush placed before him was in need of a good polish, but he sat with one long, strong leg crossed over the other, leaning back in his chair, his mind elsewhere.
    Edward Marham, valet to Lord Reginald Fortescue, sixth Earl of Atherton, was distracted for reasons other than the heat. He’d missed an engagement the previous night. His Lordship had made him busy without warning, keeping him up starching his bloody shirts. It had been a fucking inconvenience. The person he was supposed to meet would have given him welcome relief from what had been a mind-numbing day below stairs. With a sigh, Edward picked up the cloth and scrubbed half-heartedly at a stubborn mark on the brush. It wasn’t shifting—needed a good seeing-to.
    She needed a bloody good seeing-to. Always did. Fuck, he wanted her now. He pictured her gorgeous round breasts swaying as he pounded her, her lips open as she gasped in air, her legs spread wide, the inside of her thighs wet with lust. She was always wet for him, wet and fucking tight. With that vision in mind, he now went at the silver with determination, his muscled arms straining under the white cotton shirt—he’d stripped off the rest of his suit in the heat. He spat onto the silver to try to shift the mark, and his thick black hair fell over his eyes. Edward tossed it back.
    “My lady!” Cook’s startled squeal roused him.
    Standing in the doorway was Lady Isabella Fortescue, Countess of Atherton, mistress of Foresham Hall.
    She glanced dismissively at the damp little group, her nose wrinkling in distaste. Lady Atherton was, amongst friends and those who wished to be friends, regarded as a cool, distinguished beauty. Amongst those not her friends, she was considered an arrogant, disdainful bitch. She had married the earl in her early twenties, and now, four years later, it was clear that the marriage was hardly the stuff of fairy tales. But that was unimportant. Lady Atherton was immeasurably beautiful, a good hostess, and would soon produce an heir, one assumed. What else was marriage for?
    It was not usual for the lady of the house to appear without warning in the kitchen. But here she now stood in her burgundy day dress, all exotic silks and laces, staring at them as if they were objects in a specimen cage. Her staff waited for her words. They eventually came tightly.
    “It is a warm day. You all need some fresh air. Go outside and take some. Do not return until midday.”
    Despite her startling appearance in the kitchen and her bizarre request, the staff knew better than to argue with Lady Atherton. With a surreptitious glance at each other, they rose rapidly to their feet, bobbed quickly, muttered ‘My lady’ in rushed breaths and hurried out. All except one.
    Edward didn’t move. He remained seated as he had been, legs crossed, posture reclining, staring up at the lady of the house with a coolness bordering on arrogance.
    Lady Atherton did not enquire as to why he had not left with the others, but instead stared down at him, her tight disdain now gone, replaced by a flush on the smooth cheeks. She