Page 5 of Monsters in Love

Another deep, scraping moan came from the partially closed door of the study, and she realized that something might be wrong. He could be hurt! He could be lying on the floor bleeding from his head, and here you worried about him finding the dirty books you pulled off his own shelves. She would face the consequences of her carelessness in the morning, Lillie accepted with a swallow. For now, she needed to do her duty to the household and assist her potentially injured employer, and push all of her fantasies involving him into the tiny locked box in the corner of her mind, where they belonged.

From the narrow vantage point of the cracked open doorway, she could see Lord Ellingboe’s broad back. His head tipped back against his chair, and the wavering glow from the candelabra and the oil lamp made his dark, salt-and-pepper hair sheen. A grunt, low and forceful, and a bit of movement from the corner of her vantage that she couldn’t quite place, carefully stepping to the side until she could see his Lordship’s arm, the odd flapping motion he was making reminding her of a duck, at least until he groaned again.

Fire flooded her cheeks and her core simultaneously. It was not a groan of pain at all, but one of pleasure. Lillie pressed her hand over her mouth to keep from making any sort of noise, not even wanting to breathe too loud as she watched Lord Ellingboe pleasure himself. She was unable to see the thick staff of his manhood as he gripped it, stroking it with a rhythmic intensity that surprised her. She didn’t know why she assumed it would be a leisurely event, but from the movement of his arm and the sound she was now able to pick out, she could tell he was wringing his cock with a frantic furiousness that made his ardour seem a bit like a horse race, one he was determined to win.

The thought of the books on the edge of the desk made her squeeze her thighs together, suddenly desperate to get back to her own chambers downstairs where she belonged, so that she might quench the fire between her thighs that his Lordship had reignited. She wondered if he had noticed the book. If he’d opened it and seen what it contained. Perhaps the illustrations contained therein had piqued his lust. Perhaps he was even using the book’s content with which to masturbate, finding it as titillating as she herself did.

Lillie never received an answer, for as she pressed her hand to her mouth at the edge of the cracked-open doorway, Lord Ellingboe moaned. She could tell from his jerking movement in the chair that he had reached his peak and that, as she watched, his cock was erupting in his hand. Her own hand curved as if to feel its phantom weight. She wondered if he thickened, if he pulsed, if he would jerk within her grip like a wild animal as he spilled his seed. She wanted to know how much seed he produced, its consistency, its taste. If he would enjoy the sight of her on her knees in front of him, letting him spend himself directly into her mouth. She wondered how on earth she was going to be able to clean this study again without wondering what had been the receptacle of the evidence of his pleasure.

Too late to do anything about the books now, too late to do anything at all but back away slowly as his chair squeaked, avoiding the squeaky fleur-de-lis to her left and the bouquet of lilies in the embroidery to her right, hopping back up the hallway like a silent rabbit. Back into the darkness, around the corner to the servant’s staircase. Back downstairs, where she belonged.

Chapter 3

Three days later, she had convinced herself she had imagined the entire affair. Lord Ellingboe had been busy, and so had she.

He had left the following morning unexpectedly, and Mr. Phip had grumbled as he brought the same bag back down the staircase and into the waiting carriage as he had the previous evening in reverse. The earl had already been up and dressed, surprising her when she came through the stairwell doorway shortly before sunrise, waving off her stammer that she would prepare a quick breakfast for him, scarcely making eye contact with her before swooping out the front door, disappearing into the carriage. He’d only been gone the day and night, and his eyes had been soft when she had seen him the following afternoon, shortly after he’d arrived home.

She’d found the smaller of the two books on the shelf behind the desk, slid into a loose row without thought. A cursory scan of the shelves for the second book yielded nothing, and she realized he could have shoved it in anywhere, presuming he hadn’t flipped it open. You would already have been sacked in that case. The past three days have been entirely fueled by your overactive imagination and too many of Dorcas’s cream puffs. You need to put away these ridiculous daydreams and start cutting back on your sweets. Lord Ellingboe is busy, and he doesn’t need you mooning around in the way. What would Gerrold think? Try as she might, there was no evidence of the second of the illicit books upon the shelves to be had, and eventually, she had given up, accepting that whatever punishment came to her would be most deserved for her carelessness.

It was with renewed purpose and a bounce in her step that she rose from the bed that morning, a shade earlier than even Gerrold had advised. She would ensure that his Lordship didn’t need her assistance in dressing, that his tea was piping hot, his papers and correspondence neatly bundled, and she—professional and serene, at his service, and nothing more. Her new lease on life lasted all the way to the front hall as she collected the correspondence from Mr. Phip.

The gilt-edged invitation should have hardly surprised her. The bright sheen of it stood out just as the High Tea had, and she remembered the earl’s remarks about his acquaintance, the Viscount of Casselon. It seemed too great a coincidence to her that the news of his friend seeking remarriage and his own invitation arriving were unrelated. His Lordship remarrying.

Lord Ellingboe was a handsome orc. There was no denying that. He possessed both the towering height and mountainous build one expected from an orc, with a barrel-like chest and thick arms, heavy with muscle, despite his age. All of his Lordship’s clothing was of a modest, conservative cut, and he filled out his suits well, each stitch reinforced to ensure the fabric did not split around his thick thighs and broad back. His once dark hair was now liberally salted in snowy white, matching his thick eyebrows. From a distance, it gave the impression of him being an elderly gentleman, and she had witnessed more than one visitor to the house gaping in surprise to find that the earl was no older than sixty, still fit and vigorous, and entirely marriageable.

Lillie had no doubt that if he were to attend the Monsters Ball, he would have no problem finding a new wife, one that might bear him another three sons or the daughter he so desired, for there was no doubt in her mind his Lordship was adequately virile to do so. Heat suffused her cheeks at the mere thought. She should not be allowing herself to devolve to such inappropriate flights of fancy again, but once the image was there—his Lordship on his knees between the spread open legs of whatever mystery lady he might deem worthy enough at the ball, dark green skin against her creamy, well-bred skin, stretched over her—it was nigh impossible to put out.

His rounded backside flexed behind her eyes as he thrust mightily, pumping into the lucky recipient of his cock, which was no doubt as robust as the rest of him. Small hands scrabbled at his back in her imagination, vainly seeking a handhold against the vast expanse of his mossy green skin, but he did not slow. In her mind, his legs were spread enough that she was able to see the swing and slap of his bollocks, heavy and full, a percussive backdrop to the small noises coming from the woman beneath him. His back would curl as he reached his completion, spending himself inside the new Countess Ellingboe with a grunt, shuddering through his peak as his cock expelled the contents of that pendulous sac, and that would be that. A new lady of the manor, a new order to the ways things were done, and an end to those soft eyes and saturnine smiles. An end to her comfortable life of relatively enjoyable employment and rich fantasies.

So vivid was the thought that Lillie found it quite hard to not hold it against him when she pushed open the door to his chambers that morning. Lowell Ellingboe was still abed. She stared open-mouthed at the great lump of him beneath his bedclothes, pulse quickening. She ought to be mortified. She ought to back out as quickly as she could, ought to rush back to her chambers to tender her resignation on the spot, or else come up with the most effusive apology her limited vocabulary could conjure. Instead, she thought of the twitch of his lips and the low rumble of his occasional laughter, and the spasmodic contractions of his peak, his low groan of contentment as he erupted into the new countess, the one he would meet at that ball. The thought of the gilt-edged invitation on the tea tray in the hallway made her see red, and she pushed into the room.

“Will his Lordship be taking his tea in bed this morning?” she asked with a slight edge of sharpness. The shape beneath the coverlet stirred, pushing up to his elbows in confusion, and Lillie flushed. Flushed, but did not back down. “Or would he care to get dressed this morning? I can have the tea cart brought to your study if you would like.”

What are you doing, you silly cow?! It’s like you want to be sacked! She wasn’t sure if Lord Ellingboe heard the challenge in her tone, but for his part, he decided to meet it.

“I was unaware of the schedule shift, Miss Prichard. How unobservant of me. I’ll take my tea in the sitting room here.”

She kept her head held high as she turned out the door with a nod, crumpling the instant she was around the corner, wanting to scream at herself. Her hands clenched around the wooden handle of the tea cart, focusing on her breathing and counting to one hundred before she opened her eyes, pushing her tongue into the roof of her mouth and pulling the tea cart back slowly.

The earl was on his feet by then, and she wondered if he would assume she suffered from some sort of skin condition for as often as she appeared before him with flaming red cheeks. The unbleached linen shirt made his green skin glow, complemented—quite seductively, she thought—by the deep Bordeaux color of the banyan he’d donned. Forced into his underthings because the housekeeper has a bee in her bonnet over something that doesn’t concern her at all.

“Does his Lordship have a preference for his wardrobe today? You’ll be meeting with—”

“Hindbrin, yes. That bloody fool. How is that there isn’t a back-up valet? What happened to that ginger chap with the dodgy eye?”

She pursed her lips, refusing to break her composure. “He’s been gone for months, my Lord. Moved to the coast to help his brother. Last bit of news we heard was that he got a fish hook in the other eye, the good one. And a thousand apologies, my Lord, for not being as good of a manservant option as the chap with the dodgy eye.”

A sharp bark of laughter, like iron striking flint. “Lillie, if you’re to be this sharp-tongued every morning, I can think of no way I’d prefer to start the day. The French blue coat, buff waistcoat, I think, with the nankeen trousers.”

Lillie kept her eyes downcast and focused on her task, listening to the clink of his cup against the saucer and the rifling of papers. She tried to pick out the moment when he came to the invitation, attempted to discern if there was an intake of breath or a slight murmur at the sight of it, but there was none. The earl said nothing. When she arrived back in the room, after removing the tea tray, she was surprised to find him already stepped into his trousers. The ivory fabric was not yet buttoned, gaping around his waist, and she realized how enormously inappropriate her continued presence in his quarters was. For the first time since she had woken him so rudely that morning, Lord Ellingboe gave her a scowl.

“Miss Prichard, I don’t know what Gerrold has told you, but I’m not as enfeebled as he clearly made it sound. I’m quite capable of dressing myself; I’ve been doing it for many years.”

“I can see that, my Lord. It’s honestly a relief. But I do think you might need my assistance doing up those buttons.”

She thought he blew out a hard breath when she sank her knees at his feet, but she kept her eyes trained down once more, starting at the small brass buttons above his well-formed ankle. It seemed to her to be an image plucked directly from the illustrations contained in An Evening In Gwinnifrith’s Garden. A towering orc, handsome and broad, with an attendant at his feet, ready and willing to serve his every need. Enjoy this moment while you can because once he remarries, you’ll be replaced by some old crone who was his new wife’s wetnurse.

The new countess would be young, young and beautiful, no doubt. She couldn’t imagine high society marriage market balls being populated with women like her —utterly ordinary, hair like rust, all soft, rounded edges, in her thirty-third year. His Lordship would return from the countryside soiree with a lithe sylvan on his arm, or perhaps a woman like one of the elves from the book. She tried to picture who her next employer might be, where she might go once the earl had remarried, for she couldn’t fathom staying to watch him in the arms of another woman, but her imagination, for the very first time, came up woefully short.

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