Page 3 of A Very Surrey SFS Christmas

Amelia made a choking sound, then hurled herself at Fairfield and wrapped him in a tight hug.

The duke spluttered. “Miss Tilton. Miss Tilton. Remember yourself. Not at all seemly…you’ll wrinkle my cravat…here, now, no sniffles for him. Not when you have Miss Irving…ah, I hear horses. Your carriage is here.”

“Not quite,” said Beatrice with a wicked grin.

Fairfield scowled at her as he awkwardly patted Amelia’s shoulder. “Off you go, gel. Before the roads ice over, the carriage gets trapped, and badgers appear with cutlery and jugs of cream sauce.”

Amelia let him go and stepped back, her eyes overbright, her smile like sunshine. “We’ll see you for supper then, Your Grace. Sans badgers.”

“Quite. Good day, Miss Tilton. Miss Irving,” he replied, before retreating from the entrance hall at great pace and disappearing into the ground floor library.

Beatrice did giggle then. “Poor Fairfield. First the nickname Faffy, then Mittens despoils his shoes, now a cravat-wrinkling hug. He’ll need more than a few bottles of brandy to soothe his ducal sensibilities…oh look, our carriage has actually pulled up. Let’s be on our way to Guildford, and that lovely haberdashery in High Street.”

And with that, they linked arms and descended down the front steps to the carriage.

* * *

Their driver was being admirably cautious as he navigated the frost and icy mud on the road to Guildford, which allowed Amelia ample opportunity for her very favorite indulgence: gazing upon Beatrice.

After an unhappy childhood, and an even worse marriage compounded by the inability to conceive, she’d not thought happiness would be possible. Yet now…happiness positively bubbled up and overflowed from her every day. She had learned so much about herself thanks to Beatrice’s loving care. A woman with whom she could talk and laugh herself hoarse, share all her hopes, dreams, and sorrows, pleasure for hours in bed…

Despite the winter chill, a hot blush raced across her cheekbones. Occasionally in the past she had held back, fearing her intense need for physical touch, the embraces and hand-holding, the kissing and stroking, would be too much. But Beatrice had coaxed her forward, welcoming both her affection and passion, celebrating the differences in their shape and size, and encouraging her to voice desires and dislikes.

It was heady indeed to feel both safe and free. And gracious, how she looked forward to bedtime.

“I know what you are thinking about, you naughty little minx,” said Beatrice, her lips twitching as she lounged her tall, willowy frame against the opposite leather squab and played with the sash of her deep rose gown.

“Ribbons,” Amelia lied demurely. “I’m thinking of ribbons.”

“And I’m the Queen of England.”

“Oh, good day, Majesty. How may I serve you?”

Beatrice’s eyes grew heavy lidded. “I can think of several ways, but Guildford rapidly approaches. Once we have all we need for the wreathes, however…”

“Why, Miss Irving,” said Amelia, feigning shock, even as she squirmed in delight at the thought of afternoon pleasure. “Are you suggesting we fuck in this carriage? How scandalous.”

“Not a suggestion, dearest. On the way home I am going to spread your thighs and feast on that sweet little pussy. I find I simply cannot wait until bedtime.”

She whimpered. “I cannot wait for the return journey.”

“You shall have to. Carriage wickedness is best done on country roads, town is too busy and even a kiss would cause mass swooning. Instead, you may take my arm as we stroll and imagine all the lovely things to come.”

A quarter hour later, their driver found a place to stop just around the corner from the top of High Street. An enterprising young couple had set up a pie cart near Abbots Hospital, and when their driver and the two footmen glanced longingly at the meat pasties, Amelia laughingly nodded permission. After all, they only needed ribbon, and the haberdashery was less than fifty feet away on the cobbled street.

As soon as they entered the red brick shop, the proprietor Mr. Johnston hurried forward. He was a darling, a middle-aged black man who possessed more style than Brummell and had a kind word for all.

“Ah, Miss Tilton and Miss Irving! What a lovely surprise. How fares Lady Portia? We are all so excited for the ball. Such an unexpected treat.”

Amelia grinned. Lady Portia had invited her favorite merchants and town clerks, as well as the retired soldiers living at Denham’s barracks, and every spinster or widow she could think of to join the local gentry and nobility at the upcoming masked ball. It was their fond hope Mr. Johnston would finally ask a certain widowed modiste to dance. They had been making calf eyes at each other long enough. “She is well, sir. Very busy with preparations. It is for this we visit you today; more red and white ribbon is required for the decorations, the same wide band if you have it. Several yards of each.”

“Of course, of course! One moment, please.”

As he bustled away to fetch the ribbon, Amelia glanced around the shop and sighed. This was a place she could spend a small fortune. Trimmings were a guilty pleasure, and as she no longer had her father’s deep pockets at her disposal, extremely important in refreshing older gowns to look new. It was quite astonishing the difference a pretty sash or some lace at the bodice or hem could make to a gown, and as she’d always been skilled at embroidery, the process was not burdensome.

“You may look but not touch, Miss Tilton,” joked Beatrice. “Resist the siren’s call of the display cases.”

Amelia sighed again. “Those cards of Irish lace. And braiding. And beads…”