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Our Entries:

(the following entries can be found on the first page)
Deb Meister's Desperate Hunger
Rachel Potter's Irish Eyes
Kyla Arden's A Waltz at Almacks!
Marianne Stillings' Love's Savage Gamble
Heidi Lyn's' Love at First Blight

(the following entries can be found on this page)
Kathryn Lewison's The Missing Item
Blythe Barnhill's The Humanitarian Hero
Marianne Stillings' Parody in Death
Marcelle McCoy's Lord Leonard's Folly (Scene I)

(the following entries can be found on the third page)
Anne Marble's Lady Jane and the Elusive Tome
Andrea Geist's The Introduction
Marcelle McCoy's Heavens Baby!
Doozie MacFloozie's Kitty's Illegitimate Baby Cowboy Twins, One With Amnesia
Violet Rupcich's Honey and Muffins
Andrea Geist's Brothers: The Cowboy

(the following entries can be found on the fourth page)
Susan Brewster's Olovia OR The Woman who Loved Men who Loved a Woman who Loved Men
Nancy Lepano's Murder in Mississippi
Anna C. Bowling's Too Stupid to Live
Victoria McManus' Pure Love

(the following entries can be found on the fifth page)
Lady Pen's Dear Romance Readers & Writers

Purple Prose as written by Kathryn Lewison:

The Missing Item

Lucy stuck her head around the corner. Nobody was there. Excellent. She slowly got down onto her hands and knees and started crawling on the hallway floor. Along the way, she looked under tables, behind chairs, and even in the occasional potted plant. No luck.

Sighing, she stood up again and rubbed the back of her neck in that age-old sign of weariness. Lady Sara’s wedding was in one hour, and Lucy still couldn’t find the missing item for Lady Sara’s dowry.She fervently hoped that everything would go well with the wedding. Lord knew enough had happened over the last day and this morning.

It all began when Lord Adrian returned home three months ago wounded, yet a hero, from the war. Upon hearing that his good friend and neighbor’s son was home again, and with such renown, the Marquess of Glensfield had immediately insisted on looking the “lad” over. Of course, the son of the Duke of Arlesborough could hardly be found lacking, so Glensfield and Arlesborough immediately started conspiring to match their two lovely children up. The two old cronies were delighted by the prospect of being related through marriage, and more importantly, having two old and valuable pieces of land joined together through the children.

Returning home from their nefarious plotting, Glensfield had affected the drooping stature of a man beyond hope three feet from the house. When fussed over worriedly by his daughter, he confessed to a gambling debt of gigantic proportions to none other than the Duke of Arlesborough. Lifting a weak hand to Sara, he told her that the only way to appease His Grace was that if Lady Sara would marry his younger, not-the-heir-but-certainly-not-impoverished, somewhat-rather-good-looking, who-rides-and-shoots-well, son, Lord Adrian. Within three months. Sara, being the proud yet familial, beautiful yet pitiful, spirited yet obedient sort immediately agreed.

Meanwhile back at Arlesborough, the grand old Duke was excercising a similar ploy on young Adrian. Adrian, being in possession of a good fortune, was of course in want of a wife. And also being the familial sort, he agreed to help his father out. After all, he vaguely recalled the Lady Sara in her pigtails and pinafore days, and noted she couldn’t altogether that bad.

After being carefully warned by both parents not to let on about how the wedding was to come about, the courtship began.

Lucy remembered the first time she saw Lord Adrian. It was two months, twenty-nine days, six hours, nine minutes, and fifty eight seconds ago. He was paying a call on Lady Sara. The next day (two months, twenty-eight days, six hours, nine minutes, and fifty-nine seconds ago [note from the Editor: In the time that it has taken to you to read the previous sentence, a second has passed] ) they were engaged. No one was really sure how, it just happened.

Well, there was no doubt about. Lucy was smitten with Lord Adrian. And he with her, after he helped rescue her kitten, Paris, from a tree. (Which, unfortunately was two days after the engagement was announced.) How he managed to do this without aggravating his wound, she did not know. In fact nobody knew. That was the Secret of the Wound. It rather reminded her of the Secret of the Hound, in which nobody could find the Hound of Basker’s Ville. That dog had torn through the entire grounds of Glenfield, and worst of all had trampled Lady Glenfield’s favorite magnolia. (1) It had upset the entire household. Lady Glenfield was in tears for the entire day. Of course, that upset Lady Sara, which in turn upset Lucy, which in turn upset Paris, which was really upsetting. And that reminded her of the time when Reeves the butler was just upset in general. It could have been the housekeeper’s fault (It couldn’t really be the butler, since it was the butler who was upset), but it might just have been the different smell in Lady Sara’s handkerchief’s lace’s threads. Oh, and remember that incident when Henry……

[Ed. Note: And now, back to our normally scheduled program.]

Anyway, Lucy thought, the happiest day of her life (yesterday) was when her beloved Adrian had declared his love for her. However, they both new there duty and were deteremined to do the correct thing, which was, of course, two let go of there knew love and sacrifice for the betterment of the plot. (Did the course of true love ever run smooth?) Lucy knew she would never forget the way Adrian’s lips had moved when he sadly looked at her and said, “Well Lucy, we’ll always have Paris. I won’t forgot, and niether will you.” (2)

But that really didn’t compare to this morning when: Lucy found Lady Sara crying in her room and sent Adrian to look after her. Sara’s red hair promptly manifested itself and she declared that she couldn’t marry Adrian that afternoon because she had fallen in love with Adrian’s man-of-affairs-slash-valet John. (John? What kind of name is that?) {“It is a far, far better thing I do, Adrian, to break it to you now than leave you at the alter.} Adrian was delighted and confessed to Lady Sara his love for Lucy. Which was all well and good until the two papas stormed in. The two heretofore-unseen-mamas (ha! You thought they were more motherless, damaged-youth heros and heroines, didn’t you?) came in afterwards. While the papas were understandably upset over the loss of a marriage connection, it was later revealed that the mamas (who had not seen each other before for unexplainable reasons) were long lost twins separated at birth. Fraternal. So the connection was back, but Sara and John and Lucy and Adrian were not allowed to marry because of Lucy and John’s social status. However, it was later revealed that Lucy was the impoverished daughter of a Duke and that John was granted a peerage for his service in the war. (He was just waiting for the proper time to tell Adrian. Good help is so hard to find.) That made everything just fine and dandy, and double engagements were set for that afternoon. To make everything just fantastic, it was revealed by John (who was working for the War Office-secret spy division) that Adrian was really NOT wounded in the war. He was a hero, of course, but the supposed wound was just a result of the amnesia he briefly experienced while abroad. (Details to be told in the sequel.)

Lucy sighed happily in reminiscence. Moreover, she finally found the missing item to Sara’s dowry in the kitchen. She found the sink.

(1) Ed. Note: The magnolia is a white flower that actually comes from a tree. Obviously, our author is mistaken as to the magnolia’s origins. She also never really specified the setting. We presume this is Regency England, but it is really anybody’s guess.

(2) Ed. Note: Our copy editor was working during this paragraph. We apologize for the inconvenience.

Purple Prose as written by AAR Managing Editor Blythe Barnhill:

The Humanitarian Hero
Sequel to her entry from last year

Lt. Ted Grubowski, US Navy SEAL, surveyed the Almacks assembly room proudly. Everything was going according to plan. People were dancing, laughing, and enjoying the refreshments. They were even loosening up a bit, sometimes dancing two and three times with the same partner. The patronesses didn't seem to care; indeed, they were having a great time too. The only thing missing was her - Shelby Mackenzie. They had met last year in Scotland, and he had had the best mind-blowing sex of his life. It wasn't just that, though; they'd talked too. She was perfect, but he'd blown it. Intimidated by their growing intimacy, he had retreated inside his tough Navy SEAL persona. After all, who would want to marry a SEAL? Like Ted, or "Sparky," as his teammates on team eleven's illustrious alphabits squad called him, most SEALS had silly nicknames, and were liable to leave for long trips to dangerous places with little notice. No one would want to be married to anyone like that. Sure, everyone else from Alphabits squad was marrying left and right and having the most wonderful relationships in the world, but he was different, and he knew it would never work out for him. So he had invented an emergency top-secret mission to the fictional "Koalastan." Even to his own ears, the lie had sounded a little lame.

So when the SEALs had perfected their time travel technology, he had signed up for a week of humanitarian outreach work in the Regency period. So far things were going well. His mission seemed to be a success, and his rock-hard body seemed to be attractive to women of any era. Then he saw her, and he nearly dropped his sexy quizzing glass! Heavens. To. Betsey. This was...well, it was mind-blowing. What was Shelby doing in regency England?

Of course, he approached her. Maybe she wouldn't recognize him in his fawn colored skin tight breeches, maroon striped vest and bottle green waistcoat, and cravat tied in the elaborate "kama sutra" style. He'd see if he could keep his cover first.

"Good evening, Miss -"

"Sh-Charlotte Mackenzie," she replied.

"Would you do me the honor of dancing the next with me?"

"Of course, Sir."

As he led her to the floor, he introduced himself. "My name's Theodore Sextant, Earl of Dysdale. That makes me Lord Sextant, but most people call me Lord Sex." He winked rakishly.

Shelby/Charlotte looked puzzled. "Why would they call you Lord Sex?"

"You know - Sex! Because I, uh, get a lot of it!" This was going badly.

"Well, Lord Sex right now, in 1815, there is no 'having sex.' The term refers to your gender, you idiot. And anyway, you would be Lord Dysdale, not Lord Sextant. But let's just cut the crap, Ted. Why don't you tell me why you're ruining my fantasy again? Things were going great until you got here. I'm here on a special mission, and I was looking for a real member of the nobility this time. I'm not paring up with a mere Mister unless his last name is Darcy."

"Geez! Sorry, Shelby! I think we've already established that my author is a little better with contemporaries. And I'm sorry about last time too. All during our long separation and Big Misunderstanding, I was only able to think of you." He gave her his saddest puppy-dog face, hoping she would at least be impressed by his waltzing ability.

Shelby sighed and continued to glare at him. "Ted, we didn't have a Big Misunderstanding, unless you are referring to your stupid story. Couldn't you come up with something better than 'Koalastan'?"

"Look, I'm sorry, Shelby. I just got scared. You're everything I dreamed of, and I threw it all away. But I've changed, and there is this..."

He pulled her close and gave her the most mind-blowing soul kiss she had ever experienced. Golly. Gee. Willikers.

"Oh, I don't care who you are - Ted , Tavish , Lord Sex. All is forgiven." He kissed her again, and she could feel his hard body, honed by a jillion daily push-ups, twenty mile runs, and that mysterious ritual knows as BUD/S training. Oh. My. Stars. "Even if you aren't the fantasy I started out looking for, you're all the man I need. And with the success of my mission, I just couldn't be happier."

Ted eyed her quizzically. "What mission?"

"Well," she said conspirationally, "You know how everybody always hates Almacks? Well, I fixed it!" She smiled proudly.

"You fixed it?"

"Yes! Right before I traveled back in time, I stopped at the 7-11 for five bags of ice. I put it right in the lemonade. It's cold, Ted! Cold, icy lemonade at Almacks! Just look at how happy everyone is!"

"Yeah. Mrs. Diamond-Barrel is singing and dancing in the card room," Ted supplied.

"Drummond-Burrell, honey. And it's all thanks to me."

"Well, the SEALs pitched in a little too, baby."

"Oh!" Shelby brightened further. "Did you add ice too?"

"Something like that," Ted equivocated. "But enough about these people. Shelby, we are our own fantasy - our own story! We've gotten past the separation and my stupid lie, and we can go straight on to the mushy part. It's all written, honey, and the author even has her advance copy. Here it is, but don't look at the - "

Shelby grabbed the book, and let out a screech that could be heard all the way to Cheapside.

"Cover," Ted finished dispiritedly.

"Oh. Holy. Mike. Ted, I look fine, but you look like -"

"Chris Farley. I know. Fortunately, in real life people call me 'Navy Stud'."

"Well, thank God! Listen, Ted, let's leave and find somewhere more private. They have these great little booths at Covent Garden, and if they are all taken there's bound to be an abandoned hunting lodge lying around somewhere."

Ted smiled a wicked, fox-like grin. "You read my mind, baby. Listen, I've got one more thing I need to do. Just get your cloak and meet me at the door." He gave her another mind-blowing, soul-searing kiss then headed for the refreshments.

As soon as her back was turned, he stealthily approached the lemonade, pulled out a bottle secreted under the table, and poured in another quart of Scotland's finest.

Suzanne Brockmann had this to say about Blythe's parody:
"You know you've made it big when...
  • someone writes a parody based on your books
  • you're stalked.
"Thank you so very much for not stalking me.
"I find the parody significantly more amusing."

Purple Prose as written by AAR Reviewer Marianne Stillings:
(Marianne's earlier parody for this year can be linked to here...and click here for her epilogue parody as part of AAR's tenth anniversary online)

Parody in Death

The year is 2058. The city is New York. Lt. Ivy Duluth is a cop. A damn good cop. An excellent cop. Hell, cops just don't get any better than Ivy Duluth.

Ivy Duluth. Abused and abandoned as a child, she was found wandering the streets, starving, alone. They called her Ivy for the floral print on the ragged dress she wore, and then for the Minnesota city in which they found her. Ivy Duluth. Every day she thanked God they hadn't found her wandering the streets of Fresno or Peoria or Yonkers.

As a homicide detective, Ivy stands for the dead because, well, they can't stand for themselves. I mean, how can they? They're dead. Sometimes she sits for the dead, but that's only if she's really, really tired.

"What the hell is it, Beanbody?" Ivy growled over the rim of the old cup that held Cop Central's crappiest coffee. Officer Feelya Beanbody stood in Ivy's doorway looking cool and efficient, her ruthlessly straight bangs nearly as perfect as her ruthlessly polished uniform shoes. Everything Feelya did was done with a ruthless eye on detail.

Ivy suppressed a smile ... ruthlessly. She loved the young cop like the sister she'd never had. But Ivy couldn't tell her. Lt. Ivy Duluth of the NYPDPMS didn't "do" love.

"Got another one, Duluth," Beanbody said, thinking her boss sure was in a bad mood. Probably needed a good lay. But like, who didn't?

Ivy's head snapped up. "Another one? Like before? Shot, stabbed, beaten, dragged behind a car, hanged, cut up into tiny pieces and burnt to a crisp on a Hibachi?"

Beanbody swallowed nervously. "Yeah. Got it all on tape. Gosh," Beanbody murmured. "How'd we ever solve crimes before everybody taped everything for us to look at and find all the clues? Oh, and our old pal, secondary character and computer whiz McAroon says he thinks our guy's violence is escalating."

Ivy ignored Beanbody's sarcasm. "Escalating? What makes him think so?"

"Well, this time the perp added teriyaki sauce and onions."

"Oh, my God." Duluth sat back, running her fingers through her short, brown hair. Ivy looked down at her outfit: boots, jeans, t-shirt, thread-bare jacket, gun, knife, machete, rifle, shoulder holster, bullet belt, ice pick ... God she loved this job.

Beanbody swallowed again. Nervously. "McAroon traced the Hibachi. It was manufactured by Doarke Industries. The teriyaki sauce and onions were purchased at an International wholesale foods multi-plex, also owned by Doarke Industries. The apartment where they found the body - well, body kabobs - is owned by Doarke Industries, too. The roofing materials and plumbing ..."

Ivy grimaced. Doarke again. Doarke. The richest man in the Universe. Oh, she'd met him once. Impossibly tall. Handsome. Eyes as blue as ... as something really, really blue. A mouth carved and sculpted and molded and turned. A mouth to die for. Her tongue began to quiver at the thought.

He owned everything on Earth and bits and pieces of Mars and Uranus. She'd been to Uranus; what a hole.

Females threw themselves at Doarke; it was said he'd slept with every woman on planet and off. Every woman, except Ivy Duluth. Because, Ivy was a cop. A damned good cop. Yeah, pal. An excellent cop. She stood for the dead, and spoke for the dead, and wrote for the dead, and sometimes she even danced for the dead, but that was only when she was really drunk. Nevertheless, she did not get involved with a suspect. And Doarke was a suspect. Doarke, damn his handsome hide, was always a suspect.

She pushed herself away from her battered desk. It was time to confront Mr. Doarke, Ivy thought with a frown on her face and a heat beginning to rise from her innards.

Doarke's secretary showed Ivy in. He sat sprawled behind a desk the size of Rhode Island. He looked handsome as ever. Impossibly handsome. Ruthlessly handsome. Especially that mouth. That perfect, hot mouth. Ivy licked her dry lips and swallowed. Ruthlessly, nervously. Oh, God, she was beginning to read like Beanbody -

Doarke rose from his desk and came around to stand in front of Ivy. "Nice to see you again, Lieutenant. Eh?" he murmured looking deeply into her compost-brown eyes. A hint of his native Canada rolled so easily off his tongue. His tongue. Ivy groaned.

She looked around his fabulously appointed office. "So, how'd you make your money, Doarke?"

Doarke smiled and Ivy felt her temperature rise and her pulse quicken. She was tall, yet he towered over her, all heat and masculinity. He smelled good, too. Like coffee and whiskey, like soap and leather, like eggs and Canadian bacon; sautéed mushrooms with a hint of garlic over a tornado of beef accompanied by an insolent little wine sauce ... Ivy's stomach growled. She really had to learn to stop for lunch once in a while.

"I killed a man when I was two years old," he began, the Canadian lilt in his voice growing stronger as he spoke. "I took the money from his pockets and set up a lemonade stand, eh. It did very, very well." He smiled down into her eyes, and Ivy's heart leaped so hard, she cracked a rib. She hated hospitals, so she'd just have to ignore the pain. "I took my profits and ran some numbers, cheated my investors, knocked off a few banks, picked a few pockets, bought a few politicians ... but that was a long time ago," he grinned. "Now, I'm legitimate."

Ivy took a breath. "Well," she said, "just as long as you came by it legally."

Suddenly, he reached for her. "Sleep with me, Lieutenant," he growled, his palms warm on her shoulders. "I've never met another woman like you, so rangy, such beautiful eyes, and that haircut ... What in the hell did you use, a can opener?"

"Yeah, pal," she murmured, pressing her breasts against his rock-hard wall of chest. "I don't like to fuss, so I just hack it off when it starts to get too long. Dr. Mirror says it's just my little way of emasculating every man I find attractive, but she's so full of sh..."

"Ah, Lieutenant," Doarke interrupted. "I don't give a damn what you hair looks like! It's your body I'm after." He grinned like the cat who just bought the canary. All the canaries. All the canaries everywhere in the world. "I want you, eh. I want you now." Lowering his head, he kissed her. More, he devoured her, using his lips, his teeth, his tongue to let her know how much he wanted her. She resisted, so once more he used his tongue, his lips, his teeth, but when she resisted still, he used his tips, his leeth, his pongue ...

"This isn't going to happen!" Ivy gasped as she squirmed out of her blouse, undid her bra and whipped off her belt.

"The hell it isn't!" Doarke growled as he cupped her small yet perfect breasts in his warm palms. Unbuttoning her fly, he thrust one hand down the front of her pants, running his fingers through the thick, springy, bouncy thatch of fur at the apex of her thighs. Ah, that reminded him. He made a mental note to have the carpets in the den at home replaced.

"Doarke, oh Doarke -" Ivy sighed against his wonderful mouth. "After what happened to me as a child, I can't believe I can have sex this easily with any man, let alone one who is so strong and domineering."

As Doarke released his enormous rooster from his pants, he pressed himself into her throbbing heat and whispered against her ear, "Come with me, Lieutenant." As Ivy fell to the floor, him on top of her, she bumped her head on the corner of the desk. Rolling off Ivy, Doarke slammed his leg into the water cooler, slicing his thigh open on the sharp edge of the stand. He pushed Ivy back down onto the floor and heard her spine crack in three places.

In the outer office, Doarke's secretary heard the muttered oaths: ouch!, damn!, eek!, oompfh!, yeow!, ugh! ... and realized her boss was in love. Never had he treated a woman with the gentleness and care, the tenderness he was showing Lt. Ivy Duluth.

Running his fingers up her naked hip, Doarke found the center of her desire and rubbed until she cried out in ecstasy. Immediately, she relaxed against him like a dead limpet, body sated, energy sapped. "Again," he murmured as he covered her breast with his hot mouth and sucked hard.

Ivy shoved him off. "Hey!" she snarled. "Don't you know anything about women? Give me a minute, will you?"

"But, Lieutenant Duluth, darling!" he snapped, clearly ready to go at it again, perplexed that she would stop him. "My lips, my teeth, my tongue ..."

Ivy encircled his powerful neck with her arms. Laying her head against his chest, she said, "Okay, pal, you win. But let's catch our breath first." She smiled up at him. Maybe she could learn about this love business. Maybe he would be the one to teach her. Perhaps he could throw in a little course in accounting or auto mechanics while he was at it.

As he lifted her in his strong arms, her stomach burbled. "I'm hungry, Doarke," she said. "You wouldn't happen to have a Hibachi around here anywhere, would you?"

J.D. Robb/Nora Roberts had this to say about Marianne's parody:
"It's great! I absolutely loved it. A complete hoot."

Purple Prose as written by Marcelle McCoy:
(Marcelle has written a second parody, which you can link to here)

Lord Leonard's Folly (Scene I)

"What a good wife gives my dear fellow, is the impression of a solid unit, a team." Sebastian flicked his cuffs, allowing the gleam of the chandelier to bounce off the gold. "The marriage contract is looked upon favourably by both the ton and the business affairs world Leonard." Sebastian gave Lord Leonard an arch look, raising one eyebrow so high, his quizzing glass popped out. "At thirty-nine, you're not getting any younger you know."

Lord Leonard let out a gusty sigh and looked across the sweeping expanse of the glittering ballroom. That old busybody Lady Poopenheimer III certainly had outdone herself this evening.

He glanced over to a group of young pups vying for the attentions of a chit with ample bosom. "You see that Sebastian, old chum? Fops and dandy's at play," Leonard sneered. "Barking and sniffing around that slip of a girl's slip's as if she had a meaty bone hidden in her undergarments."

Sebastian sniffed inelegantly and mopped at his brow with his monogrammed kerfchief.

Lord Leonard turned his attentions to the dance floor as the orchestra struck up a melodious waltz that had many a beautiful and refined young lady twirling and swirling around the perimeter of the ballroom like pretty little butterflies.

Except for one.

Lady Elizabeth Blackbush-Harcourt-Rutherford. Clad in a ghastly brown gown, she looked more moth that butterfly.

Was she here for the Poopenheimer pearls too?

"I say Leonard dear chap," Sebastian peered earnestly through his quizzing glass. "Wasn't that that gadawful Blackbush-Harcourt-Rutherford woman?"

At the sound of her name Leonard felt a hot rush of desire pool in his crotch, as his already too tight breeches became unbearably uncomfortable giving him a bad case of britch itch that was not unlike the mild case of clap he had picked up on the continent the year before last. He scratched indelicately at the source of his irritation, drawing gasps of delight and swoons of ecstasy from nearby pre-pubescent chits and sex starved spinsters alike.

He rubbed and he tickled, he poked and he prodded.

Incredibly, his pantaloons appeared to burst their seams as his member threatened to break loose as he stroked and caressed it's hot, rigid length. Lady Poopenheimer III looked on lasciviously as he panted and groaned to the strains of "The Winchester Waltz."

Stroke, slide, grasp. "Aaahh."

"Confound it Leonard! What in the blazes do you think you're doing man? Put your manroot away this instance. Gad! I've told you before man, not in polite society."

Leonard flushed and looked down. His turgid tumescent tip was gleaming with unshed pearly drops of manseed. A whirling flash of mission brown skirts disappeared at the top of the wide, sweeping staircase.

Pearly drops. Pearls. Poopenheimer pearls!

"I must dash after the bluestokinged belle," Leonard said above the tinkle of fine crystal glasses.

"Wait man!" Sebastian boomed as he clasped his hand around Leonard's firm and tightly corded muscly forearm. "Ar'nt you forgetting something Leonard?" Sebastian looked down pointedly at the turgid beast of carnality rising forth from the thick black thatch.

"Unhand me Sebastian," Leonard glared down impatiently at his friend. "I must find Lady Blackbush-Harcourt-Rutherford."

"I think you are the one who has unhanded yourself my good man."

"Ah yes," Leonard slid his gloved hand slowly down his thick shaft before tucking the offending member back in his breeches. "A trifling matter, old chap."

"Egads man," exclaimed Sebastian. "Your manroot is quite obvious under your pantaloons Leonard. I fear it's rigidity may hamper you somewhat in your pursuit of the Blackbush-Harcourt-Rutherford personage."

"Don't worry Sebastian, I'll be fine," Leonard said over his shoulder as he strode awkwardly through the crowd. Wincing inwardly, he shuffled and limped past buxom society matrons trying to push their overly bright and gaudy daughter's on him, and took the stairs one at a time.

Lady Elizabeth Blackbush-Harcourt-Rutherford made her way stealthily down the dimly lit passage. The cold, hard chisel she had wedged inside her underthings was causing delicious frissons of excitement in her nether regions. She paused briefly at the door to Lady Poopenheimer III's chamber and wondered not for the first time in her seventy-five years what these strange, yet pleasant feelings in her most private woman's part's could be. The sound of uneven footfalls on the staircase made her heart gallop. A cripple? She wondered. Dash it! The Poopenheimer pearls would have to wait. It must be Lord Leonard, London's foremost rake and pursuer of ugly old maids! She entered the hostesses chamber and spotting a large wardrobe, climbed inside, pulling the door shut.

Pausing briefly at the top of the staircase, Leonard saw a flurry of brown skirts and heard a door closing at the end of the passageway. He hastened along the passageway as best he could, clutching and pulling at his breeches. This way and that way. I can't wait to get these gadawful breeches off and give my manroot a good scratch, he thought as he entered Lady Poopenheimer III's chamber. In the dimness he found the bed, sank down, and hurriedly pulled off his pantaloons. The sound of someone outside the door had him scurrying for a hiding place. Looking around the large chamber, he spied a large wardrobe and clasping his clothing to his generous chest, he hurried over and climbed inside.

Inside the wardrobe Lady Elizabeth tensed as she heard the door open and then shut. Hastily she lifted her skirts and groped around for the chisel. Got it! Lady Elizabeth thought to herself as her gloved hand closed around the warm object and tugged and pulled. Dash it! The chisel was stuck fast, she thought frantically as she tightened her grasp and pulled hard.

"Ah! Confound it woman. My appendage!"

"Appendage?" Lady Elizabeth frowned. "Lord Leonard!" She gasped.

"My manroot Lady Blackbush-Harcourt-Rutherford." Leonard smiled in the darkness. "Lady Elizabeth, I'm glad we find ourselves alone under such uh, stimulating circumstances. But I must confess I cannot erase you from my mind, my heart." Slowly he trailed his strong hand up Lady Elizabeth's soft, buttery thighs drawing a long low moan from her lips. She lowered her hand and cupped him.

"What do you call these?" she enquired innocently.

"They are my ah, my love sac's, my sweet." Lord Leonard groaned mightily. "Mmmm." He continued, "the big one I call mama, and aahhh, the little one I call baby," he rasped unevenly.

His questing fingers found their way home amidst her dewy moist petals, allowing the bud to bloom under his expert ministrations.

"Oh, Lord Leonard you make me feel strange things in my untouched parts."

"Prepare yourself my untried one, I can wait no more!" he cried as he entered her in one powerful thrust, sheathing himself to the hilt. Thrust after thrust brought forth rapturous cries of ecstasy and surprise from Lady Elizabeth. Hastily he reached down between them and stroked her nubbin until he felt her tense and shudder. Shortly after he cried out as he found his own earth shattering release.

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