Chapter Seventy-Five
Ross delivers dinner cooked to his usual high standard. The beef bourguignon is excellent, and he’s chosen rather a good Merlot to go with it. “Will there be anything else, Mrs Haswell?”
“No, that’s fine, Ross. I’ll fetch dessert. You go enjoy the rest of your evening.” He glances toward my Master where, silent, he pokes at his food. I eye-point Ross to the door.
After some minutes of silence, “You're very quiet,” I say.
He smiles, but the smile is strained. “Am I? My apologies, Elizabeth. I'm rather tired. It's been a long day.” He forks a carrot over his plate, pushing it through rich wine sauce and creamy mash. It slides first one way, then the other, but never actually finishes the journey to his mouth.
I chew a morsel of beef, well-browned and savoury, succulent with long cooking, fragrant with herbs. “Ross is a marvellous cook, isn’t he?”
He stares at his plate, still stirring the carrot through what is becoming a mere mush of gravy and potato.
“Master, what’s wrong?”
A touch of impatience tugs at his words. “Nothing’s wrong. As I said, I'm tired.”
He does look tired. The smile is fake, the corners of his mouth turned down. His eyes too. Perhaps he is tired, but this is more.
“It’s not… I’ve… not done anything to upset you?”
He jolts upright, a touch of apology there. “No, my Love. You haven’t.” He shoehorns his smile back into place. “I’m simply not very hungry.”
“The fire’s burning in the lounge,” I say. “Why don’t you go put your feet up? I’ll bring you a coffee. Or would you prefer a drink?”
His lids droop. “Thank you, Elizabeth. And yes. I’d enjoy a brandy.”
Leaving his dinner uneaten, he trudges through to the lounge, none of the usual spring in his step. Of course, my Master is older than I am, by decades. Nonetheless, normally he is vigorous and energetic. Tonight, his energy is simply not there. As I trot through to the kitchen, loading dirty pots into the dishwasher, my stomach curdles.
Everything is not alright.
Is he upset that I sacked his housekeeper?
No. Of course not. We were in full agreement.
It was that phone call.
Douglas?
Douglas who?
Douglas Johnson? His head of accounts?
But what could he say that would bring such an outburst?
If it were some financial issue, my Master would simply deal with it, come up with a solution as he always does, then move on.
That’s what he does.
That explosion Ross and I heard sounded emotional…
My stomach curdles…
Wouldn’t mind a drink myself…
Picking out a matching pair of cut-glass brandy bells that were a wedding present from someone-or-other, I pour two generous measures. I sip at one to calm my butterflies then, when the butterflies keep fluttering, top up both glasses by a bit. Then a bit more.
But when I go through to the lounge, my Master’s not there, and the lounge is in darkness save for the flicker from the hearth.
Instead, a beam of light slants into the hall from the door of his office. Padding through, I find him crouched over his desk, reading a file.
“Master? I brought your brandy.”
“Thank you, Elizabeth.” He smiles, accepting the glass, but then, “Why don’t you go to bed? There’s some work I must do.”
“So late?”
“While it’s quiet and I won’t be disturbed.”
*****
I wake to the subdued light of my bedside lamp. The book I was reading has fallen open on my chest. Beside me, the bed is empty and cold, the blankets untouched.
What’s he doing?
Barefoot, I slip downstairs to see a long sliver of light spilling from the door of my Master’s office. Quiet as I can, I ease the door open, peering inside.
Sitting at his desk, his cheek propped on a fist, he’s reading some document in a manila folder. Beside him, the laptop screen casts light over a thick wedge of files and a notepad, scrawled with handwritten notes and figures. Many of the figures are crossed out in red, new figures appended by them.
As I watch, he puts down his pen and takes off his glasses, rubbing at his forehead. Then, heaving air, he replaces the glasses and continues reading.
“Aren’t you coming to bed, Master?”
He flicks a startled glance my way. “I’ll join you in a while, my Love. Don’t let me stop you from getting your sleep. You go back to bed. I still have some things to do before I’m finished.”
I stoop to lay a hand on his cheek, kiss his forehead. “You shouldn’t work so late. You need your sleep too.”
He takes my hand, kisses the fingers. “I won’t. You go up now.”
I climb the stairs fighting down my temper. He's trying to hide it, but my Master is upset.
Not just angry, but upset.
What’s this about?
*****
Tossing and turning in bed, I give up the fight for sleep.
Beside me, the clock ticks, the time…
Far too late.
And still, he’s not come to bed.
This is ridiculous…
He can’t keep working these hours…
Still, I know a never-fails way to attract my Master’s attention.
And to put his smile back where it belongs.
If he’s going to lose his sleep, it should at least be for the right reasons. Throwing back the covers, I clamber out of bed.
*****
First of all, make-up.
Brushing shadow into the crease of my eyes, I run a mental inventory of my collection of appropriate lingerie.
It takes a while…
Being blessed with a husband for whom money is no object, but an active love life is, my collection of sexy-wear is extensive… And ever-increasing...
How convenient…
Suppressing a smile, I ponder my options, peering close into my reflection, then apply a layer of mascara.
Then another.
One of the downsides to being a redhead. My vitamin-deficient lashes are all but invisible without help…
Still, as I add a third coat, they’ve thickened up nicely, emphasising my eyes and bringing out the colour.
Maybe I should dye them?
Hmmm…
Lips?
Subtle and classy?
Or something more obvious?
I brush on a fleshy shade, then in the mirror, consider the result.
Nope…
Not looking for subtlety here…
Picking out a shade of fuck-me red, I re-paint my lips, then darken my eyes further to balance. Brushing over my cheekbones with blusher shapes up my face and next…
… get dressed.
Or to be exact, get dressed to be undressed.
Now…
What to wear?
I’m not aiming for muted and classy. The bottom line is, I want to hit my Master’s libido like a brick on the forehead.
Black then, with the red trim and laces.
Corset… Black leather and lace. Edged scarlet.
Stockings… Very sheer, in charcoal, with a Parisian-style line up the back, and lacy tops.
The corset, I fit tight, drawing in the buckled straps a hole tighter than I normally would, wasping my waist and setting my breasts to ready to overflow. I’ll have to move carefully. If I lean forward, I’ll spill out. And I want my Master to be able to be in charge of what happens there.
Another quick check in the mirror…
The chrome of the buckles is a nice counterpoint to the black of the corset.
Pussy purrs, unfurling, beginning to flow…
Red panties or black?
I'm already wet for him…
Let him see it…
So… Red…
The sliver of lace that passes for panties reveals, if not my All, then ninety-nine per cent of it.
Around my neck, I clip on a small piece I bought to surprise my Master with. Black leather, studded silver, and with small dangling chains that tinkle with my movement, it's a good match with the corset. Not exactly a necklace, and while it's not exactly a collar either, the suggestion is there.
Hair?
Up or down?
Tumbled over my shoulders, the copper-red makes a good contrast against the black of the corset.
On the other hand…
In the mirror, experimentally, double-handed, I bunch it up high.
Looks good…
And he enjoys letting it down…
Decision made, I pile up long tresses in plaits and coils, fixing in a battery of pins, clips and combs to keep it under control.
That will do nicely…
Topping off the lot with a negligee in filmy black silk, I rummage through my Master's ‘collection’, clipping cuffs to dangle from the bedposts. After a moment's thought, I add a coil of the silky rope he likes.