RH part 8
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Ophelia stood above her love, Lord Hamilton, delicate hands clasped to her mouth in horror. She had indeed risen from her bed: in her restless sleep, she had dreamed of his voice, wrung through with deep excitement, throbbing with passion, dripping into the shell-pink coracle of her ear. When she awoke, breathless, she discovered that it was not a dream, as his voice rose to an unearthly moan.
Immediately she flung back her quilts and touched her cat-like feet to the frigid stone floor. But suddenly paused as the stern proprietary voices of her brother and father came to her.
"You just know he's only after a quick shag!" Larry had said, pleadingly, as he held her close. "He will never love you as I do. His lust will soon be sated, and his love...is fleeting." Larry gazed miserably into the distance as he spoke.
"Your brother speaks well," her father added. "Lord Hamilton will not be interested for long in a spring flower such as yourself. You are too green, daughter. Don't let him lave your pink flesh. It would be...a grievous mistake." He, too, looked desperately off to the horizon. Ophelia laughed mirthlessly.
"You dirty, unscrupulous men! I'm not some crazed fool, you know; I am quite aware of the status of your relationships with my lord Hamilton! He loves me in the most honourable fashion, dear father, dear brother. I am not concerned."
"Say what you will, daughter. But I do not trust the man, nor do I trust him to keep his large, though delightfully silky member in his tights. I forbid you to see Lord Hamilton, as your father!"
Ophelia had huffed mightily and flounced her dress, stamping her tiny foot prettily. Her father remained unmoved. Well, indeed she would not see Lord Hamilton as her father; she would see him as her lover. Her dear demented father's incorrect syntax would be his downfall, tra la la!
"Very well, father. I will obey," Ophelia had finally twittered serenely.
As she hesitated at her bedside, she considered the whereabouts of her father. On last sight, he had been in a corner of the dining hall, one hand firmly grasping a cup of wine, the other gripping equally firmly the capacious breast of her ladyship the Duchess of Dunsandel. She tossed her tousled head and strode daintily to the door, thrusting delicately against it. There crouched her beloved Lord Hamilton, groaning with the exhaustion of spent lust. She spoke, her voice unheeded: he lay at length on the flagstones and closed his eyes. Little Lord Hamilton twitched tiredly beneath the hem of his shirt.
Ophelia fled the room, horrified and dismayed. She came on Horatio, who was watching a maid polish his knob outside his rooms, and clung to his arm. The maid looked up at her and cocked an eyebrow invitingly. Ophelia steadfastly ignored her and looked imploringly at Horatio, who was looking imploringly at nothing in particular.
"Horatio, you must come!"
"I know, my dear, but I'm in no hurry."
"Lord Hamilton is prostrate on the stones, and I fear he has seen an apparition!"
"Oh yes, darling, as did I. I said I'm coming, pigeon. Just...a few...seconds...there. All right, what's the story?"
