1. Miss Gresham's honour lost.


    Date: 9/1/2015, Categories: Fiction, Coercion, First Time, Male/Teen Female, Romance, Virginity, Author: abroadsword, Rating: 84.1, Source: sexstories.com

    Annabel. In 1879 in a county house north of London I meet my nemesis. The manicured lawns of Lord Marchington’s mansion stretched away into the middle distance. The lake shimmered in the afternoon light. Lord Marchington’s daughter Annabel stood on the terrace below me staring out across the grounds as a young gardener or groundsman tended to the lawn edges. “A fine view Miss Gresham,” I called for the family name was Gresham not Marchington. “Oh, Mr Thompsett, I did not see you,” she replied as she turned and looked up at me as I looked down from my bedroom window, attired for the moment in shirt sleeves as I paused while dressing. A poor artless thing, plain, unattractive, her dark hair cropped mannishly, she would make some impoverished nobleman a truly miserable bride, though her dowry would doubtless make the whole miserable exercise bearable. “Indeed it is quite remarkable,” she added. “Remarkable,” I agreed. “Quite remarkable,” she repeated absent-mindedly as she stared at me for longer than strictly necessary before she returned to staring at the grounds. I pitied her as I pitied her father, two sad aristocrats trapped by their very affluence, inheriting huge but decreasing wealth so needing to marry for wealth and position instead of love. The father needed people such as myself, business people, fifty years before I should not have been allowed in the front door but today with the railways criss-crossing the country I was welcomed with open arms and though aged only ...
    twenty seven years I was seemingly treated as an equal though with exquisitely concealed contempt. I stepped away from the window pulled on my tie and waistcoat and checked my appearance in the mirror. His Lordship had summoned us to his study for a business meeting before the serious business of dinner and cards. We sat around the long table in the green room, Blatchford, Lord Marchington’s appointee to the board and de facto chairman opened proceedings, “Gentlemen, I have the last quarter’s accounts,” he announced, “Trading conditions remain difficult,” he said. Difficult? how could they be difficult? I wondered, “But with careful management we have managed to stabilise the position.” “Stabilise?” Cornard queried, “Good god man, we should be struggling to spend the proceeds not talking about stability!” “We were seriously under capitalised for the present,” Blatchford continued, I smelled a rat, something was very wrong, “But after rationalisation and disposal of certain assets, the barque ‘Cullombine’ and the steamer ‘Princess Alice’ we.” “You sold the Princess Alice?” Brompton gasped, “For gods sake why?” “And who to?” I queried, “For how much?” Blatchford blushed redder than a ripe Tomato, “Why, to a broker, Allenby’s,” he said. “So why does she still sail with the Marchington colours,” I queried. “Maybe the new owners?” Blatchington queried. “Maybe you sold her to another or Marchington’s lines?” Grant queried, “I detect skulduggery.” My heart pounded, we had been well ...
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