Date: Tue, 18 Apr 2017 22:47:05 +0000
From: Henry Hilliard <h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com>
Subject: Noblesse Oblige Book 4 (Revision) Chapter 14

From Henry Hilliard and Pete Bruno h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com This work fully
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Noblesse Oblige
by Henry H. Hilliard
with Pete Bruno
Book 4
The Hall of Mirrors
Chapter 14
A Hole in One

"There is an invitation for you, Martin, from Lady Colfax; it's a luncheon
next Tuesday," said Myles.

"That'll be the one to meet George Bernard Shaw and Toscanini-- The Plunger
told me about it.  I can't go."

"And Stephen has received one for the same day from Lady Cunard to meet
George Moore and The Queen of Romania."

"Well, tell him he'll have to refuse," said Martin.  "We must stay here and
push the golf links through; it's already February."

It was true.  The opening day was fixed for the 25th of March.  There had
already been a loss of a week due to freezing weather and Martin and
Stephen had taken that week to travel to Antibes with The Plunger and
Donald Selby-Keam.  It was warmer than in England, but by no means hot and
they had to stay quite rugged up in their fishermen's jerseys when they
took Stephen's little blue craft, L'espoir, out onto the Mediterranean.
There was no one they knew at the Hotel du Cap-- the Murphys having moved
on and Stephen was rather glad of a quiet time with just his friends.

Stephen's shares in the Carlton Hotel in Cannes had done rather well and
the dividend would pay for some alterations to his little house, with
Hélias engaged to create another bedroom in the roof.  It was to
have two tiny dormer windows covered in the local orange tiles and be
reached by a steep set of stairs from the landing.  This extra space would
be handy for their coming summer sojourn when they anticipated being joined
by Bunny and Dwight, their American friends, who had been persuaded to come
to Europe at long last.

There was another American visitor at Croome: Mr Atkins was the librarian
at Harvard University in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and he had come over to
collect the book that Martin had promised to lend to that esteemed
institution back in 1917.

"You see, Lord Branksome, we've had to do a lot of fund raising.  There was
the insurance on such a valuable volume, and we have had a specially
designed cabinet constructed in which to display it.  It is made of
Birmabright steel and Vita glass and the whole thing can have the air
exhausted, you see, to eliminate deterioration of the paper in the air."

"I see," said Martin who was rudely practicing his short game on the
Aubusson rug.  "We'd better find the Chaucer then or would you rather wait
until after dinner?"

"Oh now please, your lordship.  It was all I could think of on the
crossing.  It was very rough, but the thought of what was at the end of the
perilous voyage kept me from despair."

"Chilvers, where's that book we talked about some time ago?"

"You mean Man and Maid by Miss Elinor Glynn, your lordship?"

"No, I don't read rubbish like that; the old one-- The Canterbury Tales by
Godfrey Chaucer?"

"Geoffrey."

"Oh thank you, Mr Atkins, I meant Geoffrey."  Chilvers was unable to help
further.

They went into the great library with its rows of gilt-wired galleries
rising many feet to the Gothic ceiling.  There were so many venerable
bindings that Mr Atkins could hardly contain himself, but when Martin went
to the spot where he thought this particular volume was, he could not find
it, in fact there was a gap where it should have been.

"Oh blast!  It was here, Mr Atkins.  In fact I read it in bed only last
year-- just the Prologue as it gets a bit tiring after that and I
distinctly remember putting it back in here when I got down a book on
ancient breeds of cows.  Have you seen some of the illustrations from a
century ago, Mr Atkins?  They'd make you laugh; they were huge beasts--
pigs too..."  Mr Atkins had started to turn pale and tremble.  "Oh, it will
be here, don't fret."  Martin sat at the table and tried to concentrate.
"Ah, now I have it!"  He lifted up the velvet plush-and-fringed cloth and
bent down.  He extracted a book from under a wobbly leg.  "The damned table
was crooked and my pen kept rolling..."  When he looked up, Mr Atkins was
nowhere to be seen.  He had in fact fainted and was stretched out on the
floor.





*****



It was at one of the dinners at Croome-- possibly the one for which Mr
Atkins had been revived with Sal Volatile-- that Martin called to Chilvers.
"I say Chilvers, this is very pretty china; what happened to the Sevres
service-- the maroon-and-blue one with all the gilding that looks like
frozen meringue?"

"That has been locked away your lordship," replied Chilvers to Martin who
was at present using his fish knife to reveal the image of a country
cottage--rather like Miss Tadrew's-- with a hay wain parked before it for
some obscure purpose and a garden overflowing with a profusion of flowers
including, rather anomalously, primroses and hollyhocks.  "These are from
Messrs Woolworth, your lordship."

Scarcely had the name of that convenient establishment left his lips when
there was a crash; Lance had been trying to balance the sauceboat on its
saucer when it tumbled to the floor.  Chilvers indicated the presence of
the silver crumb tray and brush with his eyes and the lad was soon bent
over trying to clean up the worst of it.  "Sorry, Mr Stephen," he said from
beneath the tablecloth, banging his head in the process and making the
cutlery jump.





*****



Martin and Stephen spent long days up at Lesser Branksome.  They were long
days even though the winter days were short, for electric lights had been
rigged so that the tradesmen might work in the dark hours now that they
were on to the interiors.  It was frustratingly slow and even Stephen's
attempts to reorganise the worksite and the delivery of materials did not
seem to speed matters greatly.

Nevertheless, the building with its five white gables looked quite handsome
in its rather bleak setting and its blue roof of Welsh slates seemed to
match the winter skies.  On the links themselves there was still a great
deal of excavation taking place.  The greens had to be turfed and rolled as
there was no growth at this time of year.  Martin lent ten extra men from
the estate to the workforce and the overtime would add many pounds to the
cost.  Sir Bernard Bonnington was quite excited however.  He would often
drive over and his tweedy figure could be seen directing the workmen or
talking to the boys.  "Yes, the extra pace is expensive, Martin," he said,
"but the news that the Prince of Wales will open the links has been the
most wonderful publicity, and we have had nearly two hundred membership
applications already and seventy-five for `associates'."

"That's incredible, Sir Bernard," said Stephen.  "Why has it been so
popular, I mean it's not as magnificent as Broadstone, and it has only nine
holes?"

"Well, some people can't get in to Broadstone--Tatchell for example--and
here is a course owned by his lordship, the Marquess of Branksome, and
patronised by royalty.  What's more, the clubhouse will be finer than
Broadstone's and people know there will eventually be a back nine and that
the planting will soon establish itself.  There is also the convenience of
the railway line."

"Sir Bernard," said Martin after a pause, "I insist that you and some of
the better players must make up the foursome with His Royal Highness;
Stephen and I would only be an embarrassment."  Stephen nodded in
agreement.

"Very well," said Sir Bernard, beaming.  "I can remember when I first
started to play, and I wished I could go around without anyone else seeing
me at all.  But you will get better if you play regularly."

"Oh we will.  We've decided on once a week during the good weather," said
Stephen.

"Golfers are well-known for playing even in bad weather," chuckled Sir
Bernard, "I'll wager you'll both be doing the same when the bug bites you."



Martin and Stephen drove around to the western side of the links where
villa allotments had been carved out along a lane that straggled beyond
Lesser Branksome and ended, some distance later, at a farm gate.  There
were a dozen large trees that Martin had insisted be spared and so the
allotments varied in dimensions, but they all had a view of the second or
third holes and a few had views of the distant sea on fine days.  Martin
had bitten the bullet and allowed for two-dozen allotments.  The biggest
ones were of two acres and the four smallest were about a quarter of an
acre.  Most had already been sold--or rather leased for ninety-nine
years--and Martin was now thinking that there was room for more housing
lower down where there was a view over Pendleton but not over the links.
However he kept this opinion to himself.  Building had not yet started, but
some blocks had signs erected indicating that it would begin soon.

They pulled up underneath one of the spared oaks--it was a bare skeleton at
present--and Stephen produced a Thermos flask and a tin of sandwiches.
They discussed the proposed housing scheme and what it would mean for the
estate.  "I know one purchaser is a palaeontologist, and another is a
retired actuary, said Martin, "The actuary loves golf, and the fossil man
wanted a small country house near the Dorset coast where he can work.  He
has a wife and family." Martin paused then continued: "Derby, I've been
worried about the choice of tiles for the clubroom.  Do you think we should
go for the Spanish design, or will that look inappropriate in Dorset?  I've
been worried, and a decision has to be made by tomorrow."

"Is that why you didn't sleep last night, Mala?  You'll have to stop
worrying."

"And you will have to stop worrying too.  I heard you get up in the night
and rustle those plans."

"I was just checking on the drainage.  I don't want it to flood around the
kitchen door where it's lower than the surrounds."

"Well, I can think of something that will stop both of us from worrying,
and it's something we missed last night.  Fold these seat backs, Derbs, I
don't think anyone will see us."

"They might, Mala."

"Then that will make it even more exciting."

Martin undid Stephen's tweed trousers and took off his own coat and then
Stephen's too.  Stephen's cock, unencumbered by drawers, sprang out with
the kind of lazy insouciance of a balloon being inflated.  It wasn't enough
for Martin; he wanted Stephen's trousers right off.  Stephen lifted his
hips and the rough material slid over his magnificent marbled
buttocks--that is, marble, should it have been warm and dusted with hair.
"Shoes and hose, Derbs."  Stephen removed these too and his trousers slid
right off.  Martin then opened Stephen's shirt. The cold air nipped at his
nipples.  Martin nursed on one, then the other, to restore circulation.

"I don't want you to touch your cock.  Leave it to me."  Stephen knew a
rule when he heard one and complied.  Martin held just the blunt tip of
Stephen's member between the fingers of two hands and lathed at it with his
tongue.  The head emerged from under its sheath of velvety skin, and Martin
licked all around it and into the folds.  Stephen squirmed with pleasure
and wanted Martin to take him all, but Martin stood firm and did not
comply, instead concentrating all his attention on his use of just lips and
tongue on the very tip of Stephen's penis.  The sensation was almost
unbearable, but Martin made him suffer.  Martin himself was being rewarded
by a constant flow of clear juices, which he eagerly lapped up.  He only
had to probe the sensitive slit with his tongue to precipitate the flow.
Once he stopped and kissed Stephen that he might taste this nectar, but he
then quickly returned to this sublime torture that had Stephen thrashing
about.  Martin wouldn't let him go, nor would he stroke the shaft.  Stephen
had to do something with his hands, so he fumbled for Martin's cock through
his flies and began to masturbate him.  Martin was now rotating his tongue
around Stephen's head, with frequent sweeps over the slit.  Stephen could
scarcely stand it.  A moan let Martin know he was close and he redoubled
his efforts.  All of a sudden Stephen spilled into his mouth.  Martin
swallowed rapidly and continued to suck and probe the slit until Stephen
pulled off in pain.

"Oh Mala!  That was wonderful, but I'm so sore!"

Martin smiled with his mouth still full, and Stephen pushed him down and
dived on his cock and sucked at it with fury.  Martin grabbed Stephen's
beautiful hair and forced him down, at the same time thrusting up with his
hips.  Stephen gagged but kept on sucking until, at last, Martin too
spilled.

They kissed and then hot breath on Stephen's naked buttocks made him turn
around in alarm.  There was a pair of pretty brown eyes staring at him.  It
was a Jersey cow from a neighbouring farm and, with a piece of fruitcake
from their picnic, her discretion was purchased.



 *****



The other arrangements that became equally taxing were those for the
reception for His Royal Highness and other dignitaries.  Myles had sent out
invitations to all the great and good in the county as well as to the
shareholders.  A letter from St James Palace said that His Royal Highness,
Prince George, would also be accompanying his brother and they would be
arriving in the early afternoon following Prince George's engagement
opening the new road to Southend.  "That means they should start to play at
2 o'clock following speeches and they should be finished by 5 o'clock for
tea in the club lounge-- if the room is finished." said Martin, who had
written it all down on a chart.

"What about tea and cocktails?"

"Good idea, Derbs.  Then there will be dinner here followed by the ball.
I'm terribly excited, Derbs, and I have engaged an American dance orchestra
that is coming to take up a position at the Kit Kat Club.  They will come
to us first.  Have you heard of Vincent Lopez?"  Stephen hadn't.  "Well,
they're very good, and I've got a cabaret dancer who performs with her
brother.  It will be quite like the Café de Paris-- at least I hope
so.  We have to find enough bedrooms for everybody, including the band."

There were more sleepless nights and a good deal of expenditure, but Martin
kept thinking of the success of the golf links and how, with a bit of luck,
this would bring money into the estate in the future.

It was now only four weeks away to the opening and Martin was fully
occupied with the furnishing of the clubroom and the hotel.  It was now
also quite clear that none of the bedrooms or bathrooms would be finished
upstairs, nor would the terrace even be levelled.  Martin therefore decided
that the tradesmen must concentrate on the public rooms and, if possible,
the two flats; the bedrooms could wait.  He also directed a team of estate
workers to clear the terrace of builders' rubbish so it wouldn't look so
dreadful.

Meanwhile Stephen was on another mission.  He had taken Miss Tadrew up to
London to buy her a gown for the dinner and the ball to be honoured by the
presence of the two princes.  Miss Tadrew had been made secretary of the
Associates under the presidency of Prudence Plainsong.  Stephen had walked
over the course with Miss Plainsong only the previous day.  She had been in
a despondent mood.

"Stephen--I may call you Stephen after all these years?"

"Of course Prudence, it's been 14 years since we first sat next to each
other in the dining room at Croome.  I was so nervous, I didn't dare to
speak and I had to watch you carefully to see how to drink my soup."

"I remember the occasion well and you didn't seem nervous to me at all; you
just smiled at whatever I said and talked about cricket.  It doesn't take
much to impress a girl."  She walked on a few paces and then turned around
to look at Stephen.

"I feel that I'm a nothing in this village, Stephen, even less now that
father is no longer the Member.  I used to help him when mother became ill,
but now I'm not needed--not in that way."  She bit her lower lip.  Mr
Plainsong had not contested the last election and had been replaced by
Noakes of whom, it was said, Stanley Baldwin had his eye on for higher
office.

"I'm now 30 and I feel that life is slipping through my fingers like sand.
Besides, there are few eligible young men down here-- present company...et
cetera, and I have horrible nightmares that I will end up simply inheriting
my mother's charities and devoting my days to looking after Father and
Mother as they get older.  I hope that doesn't sound selfish; I'm only
trying to be realistic, but I think life should offer something more than
that, even for an unmarried daughter, don't you think?"

"Well, why don't you go up to London?"

"What, by myself and live in a bed-sit with a gas ring on the landing?"

"Why not take a flat with another girl or two even?  That way would be more
fun, even if it wasn't very grand.  There's plenty of jollies to be had in
London, and every second Londoner is a man."

She laughed.  "And how would I support myself?  I can't see my father even
allowing it, let alone financing it."

"You could get a job--it has been done before, look at Dick Wittington."

"But what can I do?  I can't typewrite or make clothes."

"You could always learn, or you could seek work in a posh dress shop, or I
know of some girls who have set themselves up in a little shop doing
interior decoration-- it's mainly making their own lampshades and cushions
and they have a few bits and pieces in their window--all a bit bogus
really, but they seem to be doing well, and you have got good taste."

"Have I?" she asked disingenuously, at the same time as wiggling her hips
in her modishly clinging tubular dress.

"You'll have to think about what you could do, what you'd be good at--and
that's not always easy, but you'll find London fun, and Martin and I could
introduce you to people and I'm sure you must know plenty of people
already." He paused in thought for a moment.  "Don't mention all that to
your father, though."

"I won't mention that aspect, but it does sound rather promising and
there's nothing down here."

"Don't be so sure, Prudence, if you are a working girl you won't be able to
dine at the Ritz every night, but you'll find that it will be an advantage
to have a house in the country for weekends.  People in London will like
that."

"I have got a pair of old aunts in Bayswater, but it might be better to
have a place with some other girls.  You know, I was good at helping my
father; there might be something I could do along those lines-- especially
if I learn to typewrite."

They continued their walk around the links, now arm in arm, and Prudence
felt happy for the first time in ages.





*****



Miss Tadrew was in London and indeed already in a dress shop with Aunt
Maude and Stephen.  Stephen was frightfully bored but sat on a small gilded
chair with his legs crossed and holding his hat, umbrella, and gloves,
trying to look like a man about town.  He dutifully said that every dress
looked lovely and smiled radiantly at the young ladies who modelled the
dresses, despite wanting to go to the Saville Club and drink beer.

Eventually Miss Tadrew chose a very becoming outfit that was not a dress at
all.  She had been very daring indeed and had chosen a pair of wide heavy
satin evening trousers in a deep heliotrope colour and these were matched
with a mantle of the same material with a trim of black net.  She would be
the only woman in the room wearing trousers and Aunt Maude was trying not
to be shocked as she admired the way the material moved.

Aunt Maude was emboldened to suggest that Miss Tadrew attend an
establishment in Bond Street that was a ladies' hairdresser and patronized
by some of her friends who did not have their maids do their hair.  This
was too much for Stephen who did go off to the Club and agreed to meet them
at Lyons Corner House afterwards.

"I never paid more than sixpence for this sort of haircut and this one
charged me four shillings and called it a shingle bob," giggled Miss
Tadrew.  Nevertheless she did look smart with her cropped grey hair now
more neatly shaped into the mode of the day-- fashion had at last caught up
with her, and Stephen told her so on the ride to Waterloo.



*****



The 25th of March arrived at last, as usual following the 24th, and indeed
many other March days on which Martin had worked tirelessly.  Prayers were
offered up to Providence as the morning rain had cleared by 9 o'clock and
for the umpteenth time Martin paced around the unfinished building.
Fortunately the main hotel lounge, which was thrown open to the club
lounge, was completed, even if dustsheets and judiciously placed banks of
flowers masked the entrance to parts not yet finished.  The lounge had a
beamed ceiling with stencilling on it.  Martin dared not touch the brown
beams for fear that they were only made of plaster, however the room looked
smart and there were some gaudy Spanish tiles in place of the usual
skirting boards and a little wrought ironwork, but the whole could equally
be `Norman Farmhouse' rather than `Spanish' and it was, in fact, wholly
`Modern English'.  The Belling radiators were operating, but Martin
directed that a fire be lit in the wide fireplace with its medieval breast
in the hope it would dispel the pervading odour of paint.

Back at Croome, the servants were franticly allocating visitors to rooms
and preparing for the great dinner in the evening.  The staff had been
supplemented by several servants from London, including M. Lefaux, whom
Cook diplomatically allowed to take charge following the promise of an
extra week's holiday in August.

The band members had just arrived and their instruments, still in their
cases, were lying about the Great Hall.  They were to sleep two to a room
in a distant wing, but their bright and cheery American voices lifted
Martin's spirits.  He went upstairs to inspect, yet again, the Chinese
Room, which was reserved for the Prince of Wales.  There they found Jenny,
a maid, noisily nosing a vacuum cleaner over the carpet.  "It beats as it
sweeps as it cleans, your lordship," she shouted over the din.  Just at
that moment Chilvers came in with a carafe of water and a tin of biscuits,
which he set on a red lacquer table by the oriental bed.

"His Royal Highness will be most comfortable in here and Prince George I've
put in the Celadon Room across the passage, your lordship." Martin nodded.
Chilvers then went over the guest list with Martin for a final time.  All
was in readiness.

It was an unusual crowd who met the Princes at the tiny railway
station--just a platform really--next to a ploughed field.  The villagers
had all turned out in their Sunday best, while the official party was in
its golfing clothes, Martin sporting a new pair of plus fours with Argyle
stockings worn with brogues.  The two men stepped from the train.  They too
were dressed for the occasion.  The brass band from Mr Tachell's factory
struck up the National Anthem and the Prince of Wales put out his cigarette
and stood rigidly with the rest of them.  Then there were greetings, and
the Princes moved to chat with the people who were kept back behind a
cordon.

"I say, Poole, I like your tie," said The Prince of Wales.  It was a nice
tie in a subdued tweed with the Poole coronet surmounting a brassie with
two golf balls.  To some it might look quite risqué in a certain
light.

"It's the Club tie, sir.  Allow me to present you with one."  In fact two
ties were produced by Sir Bernard Bonnington and the Princes changed their
ties there and then.  Martin was relieved to note that Prince George was
not wearing lipstick on this occasion.

At 2 o'clock, after he had said a few words and unveiled a bronze plaque,
the heir to the throne teed off.  It was a fine shot that went whizzing
down the first fairway.  There was a ripple of applause.  Prince George
sliced his ball slightly, but the patriotic crowd applauded anyway. Then
Sir Bernard and Major Tilson completed the four but the villagers did not
feel moved to clap their efforts.

"Why, it's young Tommy!" exclaimed Martin.

"Hullo, your lordship, I'm your caddy; Sir Bernard assigned me to you."
Tom Hughes was the formerly infant son of Hughes, Miss Tadrew's servant.
He was now fifteen and a cheerful lad with a crop of pimples.

"Do you know much about golf, Tommy?"

"Well, Sir Bernard said you'd be good for half a crown at the end of the
day and I've played a few times.  Not that one, your lordship; that's the
putter."

"Oh yes, so it is; the handles all look the same.  Well, Mr Knight-Poole
and I have just started to take it up, so I would appreciate your help--
especially in front of this crowd."  Martin placed his ball on the tee and
took up his stance.

"Stand further back," said Tommy through his teeth.  Martin moved back a
pace. "More even on ya' feet-- ya weight is on the left one too much,"
hissed Tommy without opening is mouth.  Martin wanted to thank him, but
instead gave a cheerful smile to the crowd watching from behind him.

He struck the ball with a satisfactory sound and it took flight, slicing a
little like Prince George's stroke.  Martin breathed a sigh of relief and
found he had been sweating.  Stephen teed off, as did the Plunger, and
finally came Alisdair Napier, a Scottish tenant farmer and president of the
local Burns Society.

With a wave to the crowd they set off after their balls and Martin never
played another stroke as good as he did that first one.  Two following
foursomes played through and after the fifth hole Martin asked to be
excused as he said he had to prepare `things' for their Royal Highnesses.
Napier disapproved of such poor form, but could say little as his lease was
up for renewal but would make sure he collected the five shillings if he
won.

After just nine holes the golfers filed back to the new building.  There
was much laughter and The Prince of Wales signed his card, which was
souvenired by Sir Bernard for the archives.  The Prince had beaten his
brother and the other two.  There was tea and beyond a cordon was a place
where cocktails were to be served to the important guests.  Martin was
particularly charming to Mr Tatchell who, as a major shareholder, had been
invited to Croome for the dinner and ball.  "I don't like him, Derby, but
it is something I have to do for the greater good.  Without his thousands
of pounds in investment, none of this would have happened.  Besides he
seems to be supporting Noakes now that the Liberals are siding with us
against Labour."

The two princes were good conversationalists and the dinner went off
splendidly.  Chilvers and Mathew served their Royal Highnesses while Lance
was banished below the salt and given only robust silver dishes to operate.
Apart from a drip of Consommé a la Colbert on the dress of Mrs
Tatchell, for which he could hardly have been held responsible as that lady
had been leaning aggressively forward in an attempt to engage the Prince of
Wales further up the table just as Lance came to her left elbow, there were
no disasters.

Miss Tadrew had been placed close to the Windsors and Stephen was much
pleased when some remarks about ladies' golf were addressed to her.  Prince
George saw there was some connection between Stephen and the elderly lady
and made a further effort when they both found they had a love of South
America where Miss Tadrew had once gone with her brother who had been in
the Navy like Prince George.

Prince George eagerly turned to Stephen who said: "Miss Tadrew is
responsible for my one or two good qualities, sir, as she helped bring me
up after my mother died."

"Nonsense, Stephen, it is you who brought out the best in me.  He's the
best human being in all of Dorset, sir."

"Well, Miss Tadrew, he is certainly athletic and carries a damned useful
clean handkerchief."

"Well, I'll take the credit for the handkerchief, your Royal Highness, but
I was never able to get him to wear..."

"Miss Tadrew!" interrupted Stephen in alarm.

"I was only going to say I could never get you to wear a muffler even in
the snow," said Miss Tadrew and then continued in a stage whisper: "I
wasn't going to mention your not wearing drawers."



The Prince heard this of course and giggled but then became engaged in the
topic of flying and the recent exploits of Mr Alan Cobham while Stephen
found himself talking to Lady Bonnington about the destruction of Madame
Tussaud's by fire.

It was shortly after that when Stephen felt a foot rubbing his leg.  It was
clear to Stephen it was the Prince's--even more so when he managed somehow
to slip his pumps off.  To the others, however, it merely seemed that both
their Royal Highnesses were sharing reminiscences about their late
grandmother, Queen Alexandra, who had died in the previous November.
Perhaps it was encouraged by some memory of her late Majesty or indeed of
King Edward himself, but Prince George had now started to massage Stephen's
cock with his toes.  Stephen was reminded of his bunk companion out in
Australia and was feeling concerned at where this might be leading.

These pedal attentions ceased when the ladies withdrew and there was a
certain amount of rearranging of chairs for the port.  The sound of
Señor Lopez's orchestra tuning up brought matters to a close and the
ladies were gathered up for the dancing.

This part of the evening was even more successful than the dinner.  More
guests arrived and there were plenty of young ladies--both married and
unmarried--for the Princes.  The Prince of Wales dutifully partnered Lady
Bonnington for the first dance while Prince George stood up with Prudence
Plainsong.  There was a swapping of partners and while The Prince of Wales
was dancing with Prudence, Prince George was seen asking Miss Tadrew who
tried to refuse, but good manners prevailed, and she did a neat little
waltz in her trousers with the royal personage who looked over her shoulder
to make sure that Stephen was watching.

The dancing became more generalised and Stephen found he didn't have a
moment to himself.  He saw Martin dancing on the other side of the room
and, not for the first time, liked the way his tailcoat flowed over his
narrow hips and pert buttocks.

Before supper, the floor was cleared for the cabaret.  The two dancers, who
appeared in glamorous evening clothes, were the most marvellous Stephen had
ever seen.  They executed complicated and balletic routines, apparently
choreographed by the brother, and they whirled around the floor more like
swooping birds than human beings with feet of clay, each never much more
than a fingertip from the other and all the while conscious of the other's
steps and their position without the need of their eyes at all.  It all
seemed to be silkily spontaneous, but obviously it was the result of much
hard work and practice and all was suffused in an aura of effortless grace.

"Mala," said Stephen quietly to Martin when he found himself beside him as
they applauded the exit of the pair, "Prince George is getting a bit frisky
with me.  What should I do?"

"Do?  Do what you want to do, Derbs," said Martin just as the dancers
returned for an encore.

"But I don't want to do anything with him, Mala.  I want you tonight."
There was more applause.  "I don't really fancy him but you can't refuse
royalty."

"Yes you can, Derbs," said Martin now looking at him, realising that he
really was troubled.  "But it might be politic not to disappoint him too
much-- not with all the good they have done for us and the golf links."

"What about what we did for him, getting him out of Lady Austin's?"

"That's true," admitted Martin.

"I mean, Mala, I have always done things with whom I've liked, not against
my will.  I don't want to be bought and sold and shown off just because I'm
working class... and for the mere... the accident of my body."

"You don't think I've bought you, do you Derbs?" asked Martin in alarm.

"No, of course not, despite the differences in our stations."

"That sounds awfully old fashioned.  Derby, I'm the lucky one, you chose me
when you could have had any boy or girl you wanted."

"I don't know about that, Mala."

"Don't you enjoy being the village stud, Derby?"

"Not if that's all I am."

"I love you because of who you are, Stephen, inside.  Just to be with you
is a thrill.  You know that."  Stephen smiled.  "But it is certainly
convenient that you have..." Stephen's smile transformed to a frown, but he
realised that Martin was teasing.  "I mean boys think differently to girls
about such things, don't they, Derbs?" he continued.

"I suppose you're right.  It's not like I'm being asked to give up my
virginity or anything.  But I want you to know I don't particularly like
being used-- it offends my morals, if you want it put grandly.  I suppose
the King's son is alright enough, but I am the village stud after all and
I'm not just here at anyone's beck and call and I do love you, Martin.  You
know that."

"I know you do, Derbs.  Think of it as an emergency."



It was no surprise then that, later in the evening, Prince George got
Stephen alone in the gentlemen's retiring room off the large and rather
baroque hall (believed to have been designed by Nicholas Hawksmoor
according to the guide book which could be purchased from Mrs Capstick for
6d.) that served as the ballroom.  He motioned to his equerry to stand at
the entrance.

"I feel that I should thank you for Lady Austin's, Stephen," he said.

"That's alright, sir.  Your coming here is more than enough."

"Mrs Allen said that she was quite sure that you'd be `one almighty fuck'
to use her expression and you are devastatingly good looking."

"Well, I don't know how Mrs Allen could know that, sir, as I'd never met
her before that evening, and I suppose I have regular features," said
Stephen, thinking honesty was a good start.

"One feature seems far from regular.  May I?" The Prince put his hand on
Stephen's evening trousers and felt his length and girth.  "What's that?"

"I'm wearing a leather strap, sir.  It forms a tight ring and stretches
one's person, your Royal Highness, at least this type does, and I like the
feel."

"May I see?"

"No sir, I'd rather not," said Stephen looking around in alarm.

"Well may I kiss you-- to say thank you?"

Before Stephen could answer, Prince George knelt down and, finding the end
of Stephen's engorged penis in his trousers, kissed the blunt end through
the material.  It was a lingering endearment and left a large damp patch on
the cloth, which Stephen hoped would not be noticeable, although he
wouldn't have cared had he done the same to Martin, he reflected.

"I hope I will find you in your room next to Lord Branksome's later
tonight.  I think we have more to discuss."  With that he combed his hair
in the glass and departed for the dancing.

The rest of the evening was rather dampened for Stephen who had visions of
the Tower of London or worse, but he tried not to spoil it for Martin who
was dancing and laughing.  He suddenly thought of the barmaid, Elsie, who
was one of the finest bad girls he had ever known, and who was, even now,
in the parched wilds of Woolloomooloo.

At half-past one the two American dancers came out and danced with the rest
of the guests, the sister partnering Martin and the brother partnering Miss
Tadrew.  It was a conjurer's trick because they did all the fancy steps but
left their partners looking like professional cabaret performers.

It was late the next morning when Stephen came into Martin's bedroom and
woke him.  "Oh Derby, I don't feel too good; it must have been all that
rich food and champagne because I kept dreaming that we were playing golf
and I couldn't make the ball stay in the hole-- it would jump out and
there'd be more and more of them on the green and I had to...Oh what
happened with the Prince?"

"Well he came at about three-- he knocked softly but came straight in,"
began Stephen standing there.  "I hadn't been asleep because I can't sleep
when you're not there.  Anyway, I sat up and he kept looking at me and
rubbing his hand over my chest." Martin could well imagine.  "I told him
who I really was-- just a boy from the village--I didn't mention the
half-third cousin part --but he didn't seem put off.  I also told him that
you were my boyfriend.  Should I have put that the other way around?  And I
said that he and I were merely un passade.  Was that all right?  I wanted
to be diplomatic but didn't want to end up as the Royal Favourite."

"And was there any danger in that?"

"Oh yes," Stephen sniggered, "he won't forget the rogering that I gave him
in a hurry-- that is, after I got some terrible cotton pyjamas off him
first-- they were like those ones you wore at school.  Don't you think
royalty would have expensive ones like The Plunger wears?"

"Perhaps his nanny still buys them.  I hope you don't feel too ill-used,
Derbs.  I'd rather the golf links fail than that."

"No, I was just being overly sensitive.  It was all good practice, and the
one you miss had is the one you never have."  And with that piece of
wisdom, Stephen jumped on the bed and got under the blankets, fully
dressed, with his Mala who was very rosy pink and warm.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=WY2RkGT5-qo



To be continued. Thank you for reading.  If you have any comments or
questions, Pete and I would really love to hear from you.  Just send them
to h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com and please put NOB Nifty in the subject line.