Portsmouth, January 1793

The unexpected arrival of any sort of luminary was unlikely to ruffle the rather jaded landlord at The George. On no more than two hours notice, he had once summarily displaced a baronet and his lady from their rooms in the middle of the night in order to make them ready for Admiral Lord Hood. He had not given it a second thought. The entreaties of some florid-faced squire were nothing to him; the naval service were his bread and butter, and trust Mr. William Tuckey to know what side his bread was buttered on. Oh, yes. Yes, indeed.

Just now even shabby rooms were likely to be at a premium, for Portsmouth was a veritable madhouse, a beehive, nay a vespiary of naval activity. War had been declared not a week hence and in spite of the snowy weather the dockyard was running at full tilt, torches blazing into the night, officers and men to-ing and fro-ing continually. Mr. Tuckey, a patriot to the core (never mind an eye to the main chance), broke out the red, white and blue bunting, kept his taproom open ‘round the clock, turned a deaf ear to booted feet pounding up and down the stairs at all hours, and smiled happily to himself whenever he had a free moment to count his growing piles of pound notes.

He paused barely a moment to glance at a message sent ahead from Petersfield to bespeak his best rooms for two ladies as well as the concomitant accommodations for maid, coachman, footman, stabling for coach and horses, etc., etc. Best rooms indeed, as if such were not needed for high-ranking officers of the Royal Navy, perhaps one or more lords of the Admiralty themselves.

However, when a trim but mud-spattered coach pulled up at the door, and a vision in silver furs was handed out by the footman, followed by a strawberry-blonde whirlwind wielding both considerable charm and a considerable purse, he folded like a gate-legged table. He, Mr. William Tuckey. It made him shake his head to think on it, his fingers playing over yet another stack of heavy gold coin.

Thus it was that Miss Trent and Mrs. Trent came to occupy a very fine set of rooms each at Portsmouth’s most celebrated inn. Cornelia had not only placed a weighty purse into Tuckey’s out-stretched hand; she had also managed to convince him that it was nothing less than his sovereign duty to provide them not one, but two well-appointed chambers. After all, the rooms were not actually needed now, were they? They would be staying but two or three nights. And how else, the green-eyed lady had asked, her boldness tempered by the discretion of her tone, would she and her companion be able to perform *their* patriotic duty of raising the spirits of two of His Majesty’s finest naval officers (lowly lieutenants though they may be) about to sail bravely forth in defense of Crown and Country? Lydia, pink and mortified at this brazen performance, just managed not to cover her face with her silver fox muff and dash back into the carriage.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Not four hours later the green-eyed lady found herself enraptured by the attentions of a tall, sardonic naval lieutenant whose ardor had apparently not diminished over the course of a sporadic but rather…interesting…ten-month correspondence.

“Oh!” Cornelia cried as Chadd pushed aside her chemise and began pressing a trail of hot kisses from her collarbone to her cu….  “Oh, Lord!”

It was sheer delight to be in his arms again (for she adored him more than she was ever likely to admit), almost as agreeable as knowing that the moon and stars were in perfect alignment with all of her plans.

The legal maneuverings with respect to Lydia’s funds, the headlong coach trip from London, these splendid private rooms--all her doing.  Schemes came as naturally as breathing to Cornelia, but in the end all depended upon the hoped-for but none-too-likely news from *Indefatigable* that its first lieutenant could be spared ashore for a few hours. And for that she had depended solely upon Providence.

Providentially, Lieutenant Eccleston had arrived breathless and unbelieving, unexpectedly accompanied by a highly amused and unbelieving Lieutenant Chadd. They met in the over-heated little parlor, in a flurry of bows and curtseys and greatcoats that smelled of cold and snow. Eccleston would not let go of Lydia’s hand, Lydia was blushing and speechless, and Cornelia was trying to tell everybody everything at once. It was Chadd who called for the potman, ordered food and drink, and bustled everyone straight upstairs, stopping on the landing only long enough to ascertain which room was whose and then yanking Cornelia into hers and firmly shutting the door.

Tossing his hat in the general direction of a chair, he ended her yelps of protest by seizing her waist with both hands to pull her into his forceful embrace.

“Cornelia!”

“What?”

“Do be quiet, won’t you?”

She was about to scold him when he stopped her mouth with a hearty kiss. His lips were cold from the journey in from Spithead but his tongue was warm and tasted of brandy. He kissed awfully well, she remembered. But God, he was presumptuous.

She pulled her head away, peering up at him in the soft glow of the paneled chamber. Her eyes glinted green and yellow, her lips curving up at the corners.

“Sir, you are most presumptuous.”

“Am I?” Chadd asked, looking down his long nose at her with an irritating grin. “Are you not the young lady who has written me a series of very warm letters over the last several months? Are you not the lady who visited me in my….”

“Perhaps I am, no need to boast about it,” she countered.

“I believe your stepmama and Eccleston might like to have a little time alone. Do you not agree?”

“Of course,” said Cornelia impatiently. “I only wanted to explain how we got here, you know, and *why* we are here, what has happened--“

“All in good time, my dear. Let them greet each other properly first.”

“But they have done, they -- oh, I see what you mean.” Cornelia was not given to blushing. She was a woman of the world, or of London at any rate. She understood perfectly well that Francis and Lydia would not wish to tarry long before reuniting in a rather direct sense of the word. It was only that there was so much *news* and no one seemed to want to hear it.

Chadd took a step backward and each took a long look at the other. He was as ever, taut and slim as a blade, wrought finer it seemed by the knowledge he would soon sail to war. Did he find her older, she wondered, for she was a little older than he. It was not usually the sort of thing she fretted about, though she had chosen her dark green gown specially.

He found her very much in looks, as it happened, with her bright hair escaping its broad green riband and her intelligent, feline eyes full of laughter and challenge. It struck him of a sudden that forest green was particularly his favorite color, at least for a gown that set off his paramour’s slender figure so enchantingly yet paradoxically increased his desire to see her out of it before very long.

Cornelia started at a sudden rap on the door and a plump maid, flushed and huffing, hustled in with a tray full of meat pies, cheese, fruit and ale. Once it was on a table by the fire, Chadd grinned apologetically as he began leering--at the food.

“Famished,” he pronounced himself. “Besides, a chap’s got to keep up his strength for battle.” He winked at her.

She looked about for something to throw at him, cheeky fellow that he was, but in the end could not help laughing. She sat down before the fire to eat an apple. For the moment, she felt herself extremely content with the warmth and the prospect of recounting the success of her campaign to secure Lydia’s happiness.

“It was something Lord Rutledge said in passing,” she told him, beginning more or less in the middle of the story as she liked to do.

His lordship had said something in his wife’s hearing about the market value of a life estate. And though it did not strike Sarah Rutledge at the time exactly why this intelligence was important, she nevertheless found herself mentioning it to Cornelia over tea.

Dawn had broken over both ladies at the same time, Cornelia barely able to restrain herself from crying, “Eureka!” For the one asset that Lydia had significant control over was a life interest in her London house.

“Why ever did we not think of it before?” Cornelia asked.

Sarah leaned forward eagerly, and whispered, “Do you think we should consult a lawyer?”

“Melchior!” her companioned breathed in reply. “The very man. Why are we whispering?”

Mr. Absalom Melchior (*rhymes with ‘Excelsior!’* was the phrase that always ran through Cornelia’s head whenever she thought of him), in spite of his ridiculous name, was a solicitor of great repute, learned in the ways of wills, trusts, estates and all matters of chancery. And very conveniently, it turned out, he was well-acquainted with Mr. Crispin Summerhays, one of the Trent trustees.

“Good God, Cornelia,” said Chadd, sounding just a trifle testy. “I’m going to be snoring in a moment if you go on like this, and I assure you I had quite a different activity in mind when I walked in the door.”

“Very well, sir. I shall condense.” She turned her head away and pushed a stray wisp of red-gold hair behind her ear, trying to hide the little shiver that ran through her at the thought of engaging with Mr. Chadd in that “other activity.”

Yes, the life interest in the London house was of considerable value, Melchior had advised, in no small part because of Lydia’s youth and health. No doubt a tenant could be found. The trustees would have to be consulted and give approval, but since the trust would not be diminished by the lease, this should be a mere formality. He would be glad to see to the matter.

Mr. Melchior was as good as his word. The value of the lease was many thousands of pounds, an eager tenant was waiting, the trustees could think of no reason to object (not even Jeremy), and he would put all in motion immediately if that was what Mrs. Trent wanted.

Cornelia was mightily encouraged by Mr. Melchior’s report, but all was not yet done. Lydia would be a woman of means, but how would that put things right between her and Francis? As Chadd had once said, Eccleston would no doubt be too proud to live off his wife’s wealth even if it meant they would not have to wait to marry.

That was a poser, Cornelia had to admit and she planned to consult Chadd further in a letter. But then, *then*, those French ruffians had killed their king and war was declared, and Francis wrote urgently that he had been transferred to a new ship, a fine fast frigate that was about to put to sea to engage the enemy. *’Tis an ill wind that blows no body any good* thought Cornelia with grim satisfaction upon hearing this news and, right there in Lady Rutledge’s sitting room, she put it to Lydia that they must leave for Portsmouth at once.

Persuading Lydia to such a rash course of action was the proverbial horse of a different color. Cornelia was particularly annoyed that she would not agree out of hand even though Sarah Rutledge and Cornelia herself explained everything *very patiently* innumerable times. As they left the Rutledges and drove toward Golden Square, Lydia insisted she should consult Lord Rutledge and Melchior herself regarding the financial details.

*Bollocks,* said Cornelia to herself. “Lydia,” she said aloud. “ What you are going to do this minute is have Bess pack your trunk, for we are leaving in the morning.”

Lydia was pretty well scandalized, but her undeniable longing at least to see Francis before he sailed finally overcame her objections.  Breathing freely at last, Cornelia bundled her into the coach at first light and they set off for the South Coast at a swift clip.

“So you do see, don’t you, Chadd?” Cornelia said briskly from her perch next to the hearth. “Mr. Eccleston can certainly propose now, can he not? He must!”

Chadd put down his tankard of ale and regarded her seriously. “What has changed to make it so? I see that Mrs. Trent has realized some capital and is perhaps less dependent upon her trustees, but--“

He shook his head doubtfully. “I’ve explained this before, Cornelia. A fellow has his pride, after all. War or no war.”

“Yes, yes, I do see that. But you are missing something. It’s his *prospects* that have changed. Why yours as well, no doubt. A frigate, and not just any frigate, but *Indefatigable.* There is sure to be every opportunity for promotion, for prizes, for--“

“Glory?”  Chadd smiled his sardonic smile, but the expression in his blue eyes was grave.  “I do not think war is everything it is made out to be in the Gazette.”

“No,” she answered softly, too much of a realist to deny what he had said. “But that’s what Francis believes. And if he also believes Lydia is willing and able to give him the answer he wishes to hear, then perhaps….”

“And you want me to make that suggestion?” He raised a quizzical eyebrow and cocked his head.

“Oh, would you?” she cried. Her joy was unfeigned and she sprang up to throw her arms around his neck. “They will be so happy, I know!” He pulled her into his lap and cupped her face with one hand.

“I don’t know if you are right, my love,” he said gently. “But I do know that no one could have a more loyal friend than you.”

Cornelia smiled up at him happily, stretching cat-like in his arms. “And I like to reward my friends,” she pronounced.

“Do you indeed?”

“Oh, yes.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The George was pleased to provide a bed quite large enough for the occasion and it was not long before the not-quite-innocent maids were rolling their eyes and grinning at each other on the stairs. The thumps, squeals and laughter emanating from the room occupied by the darker of the two officers and the fairer of the ladies were quite unmistakable. “Those two must make a frolicsome pair,” one of the maids confided to Mr. Tuckey with a suggestive wink later that evening.

Indeed, Cornelia enjoyed provoking a chase, if only ’round the bedchamber, flouncing just out of Chadd’s grasp with a provocative glance over her shoulder, while it was his pleasure to overcome, snatching her once again by the waist and pulling her roughly up against him, stiff with anticipation at more mock struggle to come.

“If I did not know better, I should think that you missed me,” she said, deliberately suppressing her urge to grin at him idiotically. He was so devilish good-looking and now that he had his jacket and waistcoat off and her fingers were tangled in his neckcloth, his distinctive masculine odor of wool, linen, cold briny air and macassar not only filled her senses, but seemed to have the effect of weakening her knees considerably.

Well, never mind, because Chadd was more than happy to steady her, one large hand stroking her waist and the other wandering shamelessly over her backside.

“I suppose I must have,” he drawled. “There is a noticeable lack of feminine company on board a man-o-war, you know.”

She had but opened her mouth to return this sally when he put one finger on her lips to quiet her. His blue eyes, darkened now with unmistakable desire, searched her face.

“Hush now, Cornelia,” he whispered. “Let us waste no more time. To bed, yes?”

Not that he had any intention of waiting for her answer. He whirled her ‘round to face the bed and had her out of that dark green gown in a trice, its elaborate fastenings no match for his determined fingers. She still wore the boots she had traveled in, but he boosted her onto the bed and tugged at the laces, ridding her of those as well before stepping back and pulling his shirt over his head.

God, but she was a lovely thing, lying there all rosy and eager on the counterpane. He might have deemed any other woman a lightskirt in such circumstances, but he admired Cornelia for her natural candor and lack of pretense. Their banter was for fun; she was supremely honest about what she wanted and she gave herself with the same open-hearted generosity of spirit that marked all that she did. She touched his heart more than he cared to acknowledge.

“Oh!” she squealed as he pushed aside her chemise and began pressing a trail of hot kisses from her neckline all the way down to the feathery little nest of blonde hair that barely covered the tender mound between her thighs. “Oh, Lord!”

He lifted his head, his smile knowing and rapacious, for he had planned on performing her this particular service for quite some time.  Indeed, he had passed quite some time in his cot dwelling on all of its delightful aspects, and was now pleased to set about it with great relish and assurance. Cornelia, propped on her elbows, stared down at his dark head and his lean yet powerful shoulders, her eyes growing wider by the moment.

Now he had a pillow under her bottom, her hips ideally tilted for his purpose. When he parted her delicate cunny with one hand and slowly lowered his mouth to taste her, she closed her eyes and threw her head back with an involuntary moan.

“Ah!” She cried out convulsively as his tongue slipped into that plump nest and slid with lubricious friction across the quivering, fragile bead hidden just inside. Each of her delicious sighs, each exhortation excited him extremely, driving him on. Though he was hard as iron and longed to plunge himself deeply into her soft, damp depths, he continued his current employment, determined to please her.

He was enveloped by her spicy fragrance and the briny freshness of the moisture that welled from her. Cupping her round little arse with one hand, he pushed her thighs further apart with the other, shouldering them upward until she was completely open for him.

Flushed and nearly senseless with pleasure, Cornelia felt the swollen, heavy pulsing in her quim growing more pronounced with each lave of his seeking tongue. By turns, he licked her slowly and wickedly, nipped her playfully, stroked her with his fingers, and then flicked so rapidly and forcefully at very center of her being that when at last she came, she screamed his name to the rafters, her eyes open again and staring, her heart beating so fast she feared it would burst.

Chadd of course remained aflame, his rock-hard affair bulging prominently within his half-unbuttoned breeches. He gave her only the time it took to divest himself of them as well as his shoes and stockings in which to catch her breath.

“Liked that, did you?” he asked her, grinning, as he climbed back upon the bed. Despite her weakened state and the arresting sight of his lean and aroused body, she was sorely tempted to clobber him with the pewter water jug standing just beyond her reach (the answer to his query being incontestable).

That notion flew quickly out of her head, however, as he unceremoniously flipped her onto her belly and pulled her up onto her hands and knees in front of his own sinewy frame. She gasped as he knelt behind her and his rampant cock, which she knew to be beautifully long and heavily veined, pressed hard against her thigh.

Appreciatively, Chadd took in the sight of her shapely back and her tousled hair falling around her white shoulders, not to mention the feel of her satiny bottom against his burning loins. But perhaps the moment he savored most was right before he entered her, just as he positioned himself and steadied her for his advance. He shook in anticipation of the delicious and overwhelming sensations ahead.

For Cornelia, just to be pierced again so soon, when so tender, was nearly to die in ecstasy. She could not help but gasp once more as he filled her, pushing his heavy cock slowly into her moist depths. She caught her breath yet again when he reached beneath her to stroke her breasts.

“Too small,” she had once announced to him while she dressed to leave his rooms in London. “Not in the least fashionable.”

“Fashioned be damned,” he had said emphatically, and meant it. “They are perfect. A perfect handful each. I worship them.”

And worship them he did. Whether with his lips or with his clever hands and fingers he would brush and tease her nipples until they throbbed. He rubbed them lightly now even as he pushed himself firmly into her silky depths.

As he began to move within her, she felt her hot, swollen little pussy growing tighter, heavier, desperate for release. He was huge inside her, filling her so completely that each time he withdrew, she yearned for him to enter again. Yet each time he pushed into her, she yearned for the exquisite sensations of his withdrawal.

The tension left her poised on a knife edge, wanting him to go on forever while at the same time waiting for him to spend. She prayed that she would not faint first, but how could she stand this unresolved pleasure any longer? She had never realized that she could climax more than once in a single bout, but suddenly it seemed inevitable that she would.

“Sweet Jesus!” she heard Chadd cry, his hands grasping her hips as he penetrated her to the hilt. His seed spurted into her and she found herself overtaken by joy and surprise, tumbling into a convulsive and more blissful release than she would have believed possible.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Chadd came awake with a start. Coals glowed and guttered in the fireplace but the room was otherwise in darkness. He was curled up behind the sticky sweetness of Cornelia’s body.

“Cornelia?” he asked softly. “Are you awake?”

“No,” she answered, though she had not closed her eyes. “Go to sleep, Chadd. You have matchmaking to do in the morning.” She sounded as rakish as ever.

“Do you mean me and you?” he said facetiously.

“Don’t be absurd. I fear your good first lieutenant may need what is kindly known as a push in the right direction.”

Chadd nuzzled her neck. “I am as ever at your service,” he said smugly.  Unable to locate the water jug, Cornelia hit him with a pillow.

“Go to sleep,” she repeated. Whereupon, he did.

tbc