The Sore Winner
Stung by defeat on the tennis court, spirited Saffron engineers a wicked prank against her prim cousin Lily. Little does Lily know that her mortifying naked dash across the ornamental lawns will land her not to safety, but across the firm lap of Lady Camelia Armstrong... for a very thorough spanking! The Sore Winner is a tale of rivalry, revenge, and spectacular comeuppance.
Act 1 – Advantage Lily
Saffron Armstrong was sulking. It wasn't an unusual state of affairs for the precocious débutante, but this bout did have an extra sting to it. The catalyst, as was so often the case, had been her cousin, Lily Lipton. A shy and bookish young woman, whose saintly achievements were forever being held up as reproach to Saffron’s lacklustre efforts.
In her mother’s eyes, Lily could do no wrong. Admittedly, it was much easier to avoid controversy if one never attempted anything daring.
She was sweet, innocent, and always making an exhibition of her exemplary moral character. Whether it was winning first prize in a poetry contest, or receiving laurels for village fête flower arrangements, Lady Camellia Armstrong would cite Lily's triumphs as barbed encouragement for Saffron to strive toward similar heights.
It might not have been so intolerable if her cousin was a plain and retiring bookworm. But, by the unfairness of Nature at her most spiteful, a rose-cheeked blossoming beauty accompanied Lily’s academic and social graces. She was tall and demure, and blessed with the sort of voluptuous curves normally confined to illicit French postcards.
Their rivalry had simmered for years, and today it threatened to reach the boil, after what was supposed to have been a friendly game of tennis.
Lady Armstrong, who believed stiff competition instils character, raised the stakes by announcing she had a spare ticket for Wimbledon Centre Court tomorrow, and would invite the winner to accompany her.
In the final game, Saffron had been vocal in disputing the set point, but her mother, adopting the combined roles of line-judge and umpire, had already made her decision. She had sided, of course, with Lily.
“Well played, Lily! I shall present you with the ticket at our afternoon tea,” Lady Armstrong proclaimed. “Let us make a proper ceremony of it. And don't be late, or perhaps I'll favour another guest with the spare ticket!”
Uncertain whether she wanted any tea at all, Saffron now sat glowering on the bench to the shady side of the tennis pavilion, listening to the sound of Lily in the shower. With the blithe unconsciousness of the truly pious, she was singing a cheery rendition of 'Onward Christian Soldiers'. Under the circumstances, this choice of music struck Saffron as a calculated act of provocation.
And yet, while she sulked, her mind was far from idle. The devious plan that had been taking shape would require both speed and stealth.
Circling around the pavilion, reassured by the continued singing, which had now shifted to 'All Things Bright and Beautiful', Saffron stole inside with silent, catlike nimbleness. From the wooden bench outside the door of the shower cubicle, she spied her objective.
Squeezing her lips tight shut to avoid betraying her presence with a giggle, she scooped up Lily's dress, underthings, towel, and even her socks! Scanning the changing room to ensure nothing that could offer a hint of coverage had been left behind, she scurried back to the house, the ill-gotten bundle tucked beneath her arm.
The pavilion remained occupied only by one damp and, as yet, blissfully oblivious débutante, and a pair of white rubber tennis plimsolls.
Act 2 – Faults and Blushes
When she emerged from the shower, Lily, who had once nearly fainted after a gust of wind caught her skirts, revealing nothing more than the briefest flash of a silk garter, stood dripping, trembling in panic. Her shriek of alarm carried all the way to the rear patio. Having already stashed her cousin's belongings at the foot of her bed, well beyond reach, Saffron settled into a discreet observation post beside the conservatory, partly concealed by a weeping willow.
Her eyes lit up with glee as she caught sight of poor, shy, cousin Lily, sneaking from the pavilion. She was clad in her birthday-suit, her feet absurdly accessorised with white plimsolls. Her hands and arms clutched at the more delicate regions of her person in a futile attempt to preserve some semblance of mystery and dignity.
Saffron watched as her cousin alternately crouched and sprinted, making furtive dashes between the cover of hedges and flower beds. Her cheeks were so aflame with blushes it seemed her glowing humiliation might be the very thing that gave away her location.
“Oh heavens,” Lily muttered, “if anyone sees me, I shall never, ever live this down!”
From her higher vantage point, and to her intense delight, Saffron could already see a second figure converging. She covered her mouth with both hands to suppress her laughter, lest her hiding place should become as uncovered as her cousin.
It was Great Aunt Hyacinth. Their elderly relative was thankfully very short-sighted, but this seemed to be a spectacle not even she could miss.
Lily spotted her in the nick of time, strolling towards the ornamental fountain, with its pair of lifelike water nymph statues.
In a moment of inspired desperation, Lily overcame her usual inhibitions. Stepping into the shallow fountain, she struck a statuesque pose beside her nymph companions. Planting a foot upon the central pedestal, she mimicked their graceful form. Raising one arm, she tousled her damp hair, her breasts proudly thrust forward. To help maintain balance, her other hand came to a cheeky rest upon the adjacent nymph's shapely derrière.
Great Aunt Hyacinth froze, much like Lily, who was already beginning to feel the icy chill of the fountain. She hardly dared to breathe, praying her performance would be convincing.
“That's very odd,” came the short-sighted Aunt's puzzled remark. “I could have sworn there were only two statues here yesterday!”
She leaned forward, squinting, but failed to notice the improvised statue's rosy blushing cheeks. Looking the figure up and down, she gave a disapproving frown at a fuzzy, unmistakable dark triangle in the most intimate of locations. The anatomical realism was impressive, more in keeping with a biology textbook than a work of art. The statue even appeared to create the illusion that it was shivering in the misty spray.
“Well, really!” Aunt Hyacinth exclaimed in scandalised tones. “One expects an allegorical nymph to be lithe and slender, quite unlike this shapely creature. The artist might have added a fig-leaf too, for some merciful discretion, and it's a very strange choice of footwear. I don't think Venus De Milo would have been caught wearing plimsolls... though one never knows with the French.”
Muttering and shaking her head, Great Aunt Hyacinth continued her stroll.
Lily risked a discreet sidelong glance to ensure the way was clear, and then clambered from the fountain, her teeth beginning to chatter.
“Strange footwear indeed,” she mused. “So far as I know, Venus never had to scamper across an English country garden in the buff!”
She was soaked afresh, just as she had been beginning to dry from her sunny dash. Clad in only her warm blushes and soggy plimsolls, she shivered and squelched her way to the rose border, hiding behind a neatly trimmed privet bush.
The waist-high box hedging provided the final opportunity for cover while she tried to confirm her route to the house was clear. Reduced to her natural finery, she was showing more bloom than the rose garden, and couldn't risk an encounter with a servant or visitor.
Up on the terrace, Saffron could barely contain herself, but the sound of a polite cough at her elbow brought her back to the immediate moment. The Reverend Basil Thorne's eyesight was untroubled, though his judgement was often clouded by optimistic innocence.
“Miss Saffron,” he chirped. “Are you taking an interest in bird watching? You must have caught sight of something very lively. I believe I saw that privet bush trembling.”
Reverend Thorne beamed, delighted the young lady actually appeared to be taking an interest in a healthy outdoor hobby.
“I had my eye on one specimen in particular,” Saffron replied, “although I'm afraid I didn't notice too much plumage.”
With practised innocence, Saffron rose and smoothed her tennis dress, flashing enough thigh to make the handsome young vicar's cheeks flush a delicate shade of pink. A sudden warmth of perspiration necessitated some hasty adjustments to his cravat.
“If you have a moment, Reverend, I'd be delighted to show you the newest addition to mother's rose garden.”
Torn between politeness, and a mistrust of Saffron's intentions, Reverend Thorne acquiesced. Even so, he decided to plant a pre-emptive excuse, just in case his resolve should weaken any further.
“Perhaps a brief look. Then, I really must be getting back.”
Linking arms in a manner that boded danger, she led him straight to the front hedge, behind which Lily was on her knees, crouching low in abject horror.
“This one is 'Crimson Surprise',” Saffron announced, gesturing towards a vividly coloured rose in the manner of a garden tour-guide. “And, not too far away, I believe we have a very fine example of a 'Blushing English Beauty.'”
With only a trimmed bush between herself and an inglorious revelation, Lily shivered. If the vicar were to discover her in this state of undress, she would feel more ashamed than Eve in the Garden. Saffron, it seemed, could outdo the temptations of a serpent!
“Ah— yes,” the reverend agreed, though he was increasingly of the opinion that Saffron might be a flirtatious pagan temptress, sent to strain his clerical propriety to its very limits.
“And, I'm almost certain,” Saffron continued sweetly, “that if you were to accompany me around this hedge, you might be lucky enough to witness a delightful 'Nude Pink Blush'!”
If a doctor had been on hand to measure the heart rates of Lily and the anxious Reverend, it would have been a close fought contest for whose panic might have triumphed. Both their pulses were approaching the level of a medical emergency, and Lily's lips had begun to quiver in shame, as warm tears welled in her eyes. Only the Reverend's natural reticence saved her from a horrifying exposure — but that salvation was certainly no thanks to Saffron's efforts.
From her hiding place behind the hedge, Lily could hear him say, “It's getting a little late. I think... maybe some other time!”
Escaping Saffron's arm, the Reverend Thorne made a hasty dash for the gate. He hoped a prayer in the chapel, followed by a cold shower, might be sufficient to restore him to the path of righteousness.
Meanwhile, humming her own ironically triumphant rendition of 'All Things Bright and Beautiful', Saffron made her unhurried way back to the house. She pretended not to hear Lily's muffled assertion of, “I'll get you for this,” that was emerging through the leafy hedge. The impassioned warning was wasted on the wicked débutante, who preferred to consider her cousin’s threats as background accompaniment to a victory march.
She headed upstairs to the cushioned bay-window seat, tucked behind its heavy velvet curtain. From there she enjoyed a perfectly hidden view of the staircase where Lily would shortly attempt her ignominious retreat.
Sensing the recklessness of hiding so close to the house, Lily sprinted to the back of the conservatory, stooping double, like an escaped convict trying to avoid detection.
She planned to slip inside through the dining room's patio door. It was always deserted in the afternoon, and from there it was a short dash to the staircase. She remembered to remove her plimsolls, both for quiet discretion, and to avoid leaving an incriminating trail of wet footprints.
With the cold and sodden tennis-shoes now clutched to her bosom, she listened at the hallway door.
Footsteps. Then the faint swish of skirts, and the voice of a maid. Then... silence.
Holding her breath, and with almost infinite care, she cracked open the door. To her delight, the maid had deposited a heap of towels on the hall console.
It was a joyful sight to Lily's eyes. A lifeline of cover in an ocean of shame. With a sigh of relief at the prospect of a swift return to modesty, Lily stepped into the hall and prepared to reach for a towel.
Inevitably, it was at that very moment that she heard the laundry room door creak. She leapt behind the staircase, the wood panelling feeling cold as she pressed her naked form up tight against it. The last hopes of this short-lived, towelling-wrapped salvation evaporated as she peeked between the banisters and saw the maid disappear with the pile of bathroom laundry.
But, she had reached the grand staircase undetected. That, at least, was something.
With a final glance, she darted up the stairs, two at a time, moving too quickly to even glance across the upper landing. The merciful sanctuary of her bedroom was only a few more steps away, her hand already reaching for the doorknob, and then...
“You there!” came a booming, heart-stopping cry. “Miss Lipton. What on earth is the meaning of this disgraceful display?”
Act 3 – Justice is Served
The voice of Lady Armstrong rang out like a warning shot fired across her bare shoulders. She froze, a mortified grimace upon her face, wishing the ground would open up and swallow her.
Lady Armstrong stepped close, hands on hips, and a look of disbelief on her face.
“Earlier this morning I sang your praises to the vicar, telling him I'd found you to be the very soul of modesty. And now, heavens above, I find you parading your assets through the house like indecent trophies for all to admire. To think, I wanted Saffron to try to emulate your behaviour. I suppose we can be grateful she isn't here to witness this!”
Peeking from behind the curtain, Saffron bit her lip, squirming in gleeful delight at the sight of Lily's red-faced undoing.
Her cousin's protest did not progress beyond a doleful, “But, Auntie Camelia...” before she was silenced by the stern lady.
“At times like this,” Lady Armstrong told her, “I've found the recourse must be swift, and decisive. It's convenient that you appear to be holding the precise instrument that I require!”
Lily's jaw dropped as she felt the wet plimsolls taken from her. She was nineteen years old, and the remedy that her aunt appeared to be proposing was utterly unthinkable. The heavy rubber sole of her tennis-shoe seemed as though it would be far more accustomed to a strict Victorian finishing school, than to a refined English manor. Before she could gather any sense of composure, Lady Armstrong seated herself on the top step of the grand staircase and steered her across her well-proportioned lap.
The tweed skirt rasped under Lily's bare, silken thighs and hips, but that inconsequential discomfort was soon to be the least of her worries. Lady Armstrong selected one of the plimsolls and, ensuring her left arm was locked into a firm embrace of her niece's waist, raised it high above her shoulder. A single drop of water fell from the soggy laces, portending the teardrops that would follow.
And then, the plimsoll came crashing down!
The startled yelp of surprise at the penetrating sting echoed up and down the grand staircase. It was the sort of undignified noise that no poetry prize, or flower-fête laurel, could ever erase. If only there was a Rosette awarded for redness, her posterior would be a shoo-in for first place.
“Please Auntie! It's not fair to scold me for a lack of modesty while I'm over your knee and you're spanking me on my bare bottom!”
“You may be quite uncovered at the moment, Miss Lipton,” her aunt retorted, “but that will make the coverage I intend to provide all the more effective!”
As the naked débutante writhed upon her Aunt's lap, the flexible rubber sole continued to deliver its uncompromising message. Its slaps upon Lily's quivering, dampened flesh were relentless, though the forcefulness of the smarting impacts felt anything but dampened.
From her hiding place, Saffron could bear witness to the transition of her cousin's bottom cheeks from pink to scarlet, reflecting the fiery sting that was blossoming with every lively spank. It was clear that the softness of the curves currently presented across Lady Armstrong's lap would not soften her resolve.
Recalling the earlier conversation with Reverend Thorne, Saffron reflected that the colour of Lily's rear could inspire a whole new wave of rose cultivation. 'Crimson Torment', 'Rueful Rouge', or perhaps a prickly variety of 'Scarlet Regret'. Despite relishing every moment of her cousin's descent into mortification, she couldn't help but wince at some of the firmer spanks.
The memory of an unfortunate boarding-school episode with her PE mistress came back to Saffron. Three stinging swats of a well-worn plimsoll across the seat of her gym shorts. Her mother had already surpassed that ten times over, and poor Lily lacked even the scant protection of shorts. Worse still, Lady Armstrong’s right arm showed no sign of tiring from its exertions.
While wondering whether this bare-bottomed blistering might reach the fabled century mark, Saffron’s attention was caught by a movement along the landing. From her own bedroom door emerged a maid, carrying laundry — topped with a distinctive, incriminating bundle.
Without pausing to think through the inevitable consequences, Saffron darted from her hiding place on a beeline to intercept her. A breathless silence followed, broken only by a despondent wail from the staircase.
“Wait! Those are my clothes!” Lily cried, her cheeks damp with tears, though a sudden look of determination was showing through the distress.
The plimsoll fell silent, hovering mid-air, the drips from its soggy uppers now slowing, like an unexpected respite during a sustained downpour.
“Saffron Armstrong,” her mother demanded. “Is there anything you would like to say?”
Saffron froze, thinking fast.
“Well— you are always telling me to tidy up my laundry, Mother. I thought Lily, being such a paragon of tidiness, wouldn't wish anyone to think she’d left her garments in disarray. It seemed only charitable for me to intervene and help her tidy up.”
Lady Armstrong's frown of disbelief would not have been out of place on any high court judge in the land, although the sentences she preferred to pass were swifter, and less open to appeal. It soon became clear that this opening argument was unlikely to gain traction.
“It's an ingenious defence, my dear, but one that wilts under the faintest scrutiny. However, since you have seen fit to intervene on Lily’s behalf, I shall see fit to intervene on yours.”
Feeling her aunt's grip upon her hips begin to release, Lily rose awkwardly to her feet. She hadn't forgotten the shame of her nakedness, far from it, but the urgent need to soothe her throbbing, smarting bottom took precedence. The determined look on Lady Armstrong's face suggested that, very soon, Lily would not be the only one enduring this particular form of discomfort.
“Martha,” Lady Armstrong commanded, “take those things to the laundry room, and since Miss Saffron has become so concerned with linens all of a sudden, she can give you her clothing too.”
Saffron gasped. “Mother! No, please. Not here!”
But her mother overruled the objection with a singular lack of maternal concern.
“Symmetry, my dear, is the bedrock of British justice. You were willing to deprive Lily of her attire, so I shall see to it that you share that plight... and the lesson.”
Lily resolved that her own modesty could wait. What she longed for now was to see her cousin’s modesty stripped away. She hovered, still rubbing and squeezing her well-spanked behind, a disharmony of blushes and vengeance upon her face. She meant to savour every moment of her tormentor’s fall from grace.
Under her mother's unwavering gaze, Saffron's fingers trembled as she removed every last stitch of clothing. Her fingers, usually so nimble while up to no good, now fumbled, as if the buttons were resisting her discomfiture. Disgraced and humiliated, she found herself unable to look Martha in the eye as she handed them over.
“Good,” Lady Armstrong said. “And now, Martha, take these down to the laundry room and return here. At once. And... bring me the carpet-beater!”
Saffron's eyes widened. The dreaded rattan carpet beater was a legendary item of manor house disciplinary folklore. Often threatened as the ultimate deterrent, it was rarely tested. Saffron had an uneasy feeling that it was about to see a return to active duty.
“Come, Saffron, to your bedroom. There is a grievous matter which needs to be settled right now. Miss Lipton will accompany us, since the least you can do is repay your debt in her company.”
Martha returned, just in time to witness the two sullen, bare and blushing débutantes disappearing through the bedroom door. Even from behind, they were recognisable. One pale-pink posterior, one scarlet seat! She knew that distinction would soon be erased, and could barely suppress a smile as she handed over the carpet-beater to her mistress.
Always hung on the wall above the wash-stand, the steamy atmosphere of the laundry room ensured the rattan remained conditioned and pliant. Martha felt sure the heavy instrument, with its ornate cane loops, was going to sting like the blazes. Lady Armstrong's brand of discipline was nothing if not thorough, and Saffron was about to discover precisely how thorough.
“We'll begin,” Lady Camelia Armstrong announced, “by getting you properly positioned. If justice is to be served, your rear will need to be on the line to net the full benefit of my forehand.”
She spun around the upright wooden chair at the writing desk, giving its leather-padded seat a gentle tap with the tip of the fearsome implement.
“On your knees, bottom out, and no wriggling. If you squirm, I’ll call 'let' and I'll simply serve again. In our first set, we shall address the matter of your cruel prank upon your cousin.”
“Did you just say... in our first set?” Saffron gasped, the tremble in her voice laying her anxiety bare.
“Of course, dear. Three sets, and I intend to make an emphatic six points in every one! Be thankful this is not a Gentleman's game of five.”
Lily, far less conscious of her own lack of modesty now they were behind closed doors, watched in fascination. It was Saffron's turn to blush, her cheeks rosy, her jaw set in a tense grimace.
Allowing her gaze to drift downwards, Lily took in the cascade of brunette curls that tumbled over Saffron's toned shoulders. Slender arms outstretched, hands gripping the top of the chair's backrest, her knuckles tipped with white. Her exposed back, slightly arched at the delicate waist.
As Lily's eyes came to rest, there was the incongruous sight of the hard, whippy rattan loops, clover-like in form, resting, and occasionally lightly tapping, taking aim, upon her cousin's bare bottom. The contrast was jarring. Dark strands of meticulously crafted cane, against the soft, yielding curves of her cousin's flesh. It was a sight Lily had never imagined witnessing, and one she was certain Saffron had never imagined providing.
“Brace yourself, young lady,” her mother warned. “I fear this is going to make quite an impression! Perhaps you will think twice before pulling pranks like this in future?”
Saffron nodded, her reply blurring into a faint whimper.
The sound, when it came, was a heavy whoosh, terminated by a crackling thwack as the multiple loops met their defenceless target. There was a palpable moment of silence before Saffron let out a howl that Martha might have heard from the laundry room.
Her thighs quivered, and her toes curled, in response to the fiery jolt of the whippy impact.
“No! Please, Mother. I don't deserve this!” she pleaded, her fingers tightening around the chair.
But the faultless volley that followed insisted, with every stinging stroke, that the remedy was richly deserved. Saffron arched and twisted, hips bucking, yearning to escape the vicious rattan loops that felt as though they were branding her skin. Lily noted the curved and reddened tramlines forming upon her cousin's behind, and the blossoming hue that was spreading fast.
The whoosh-thwack, whoosh-thwack rhythm filled the bedroom, a cruel disciplinary rally that left Saffron's rear ablaze.
“Advantage to me, I do declare,” Lady Armstrong said. “And now, we shall address your voyeuristic silence. Your sly enjoyment at witnessing a punishment you knew that your cousin did not deserve. We'll play our second set, and the serve remains with me.”
The racket of six whooshes and thwacks began again. Saffron’s sore behind returned only the throbbing sting of every well-placed stroke.
Even Lily, watching from the sidelines, was beginning to feel a little sorry for Saffron. Her angry red posterior had to bear the brunt of those awful stinging rods, quivering under their merciless onslaught. Saffron's yelps had risen first to frantic pleas, then dwindled into sobs.
Lady Armstrong paused for a moment, inspecting the head of the rattan instrument like a tennis pro. It was altogether indifferent to its improvised disciplinary role.
“And finally,” she continued, “our closing set will address your impudent backchat. Trying to make excuses when you should have come clean and owned up to your disgraceful behaviour.”
Lily silently counted off the final six, noting that her Aunt Camelia aced each stroke, landing every whack perfectly in-bounds.
The carpet beater played out its fearsome finale, accompanied by Saffron's chorus of gasps and yelps. Resistance was draining from her as swiftly as the tears welled in her eyes. The implement had dusted innumerable rugs in its time, and its effectiveness against a poised seat was now beyond doubt.
“Six-Love, in straight sets,” Lady Armstrong stated, as she surveyed the results of her forehand handiwork. “Stand up, and I shall leave you now to apologise to your cousin.”
As she departed, Lady Camelia turned to Lily and gestured with the carpet beater. “Keep this instrument in mind should you feel any temptation to orchestrate a revenge prank. I will not hesitate to play a rematch if that should ever be required!”
Alone at last, the dishevelled débutantes embraced. Tearful and contrite, Saffron spoke first.
“Lily, I really am very sorry. I should never have acted so pettily over a game.”
Lily relented, hugging her warmly, giving her shoulders an affectionate squeeze.
“I have to concede that it was quite the prank, and I suppose you've paid the price. Your sit-upon looks like the aftermath of a fireworks display!”
Saffron turned against her dressing-table mirror. The carpet beater had transformed her posterior into a tangle of red welts and bruised stripes, positively aglow with smarting heat and energy. She winced at the very sight, vowing to take afternoon tea standing up.
Having already observed the condition of Lily's scarlet behind, it was clear that, in this tournament of plimsoll and cane, they had each been thoroughly beaten. Saffron's single prank transformed, by Lady Armstrong, into an unscheduled doubles match.
Lily, with a final careful reconnaissance to ensure the landing was clear, tiptoed back to her bedroom. Her journey this time was, thankfully, unwitnessed.
In the safety of her bedroom, she permitted herself a wry smile. Surviving such an ordeal, she reflected, might be almost enough to cure her shyness altogether.
“If I can get through that, I can get through anything,” she chuckled. “But I suppose we have to concede: that's game, set and match... to Aunt Camelia!”
Epilogue
At evensong the cousins sat together, under Lady Armstrong's knowing gaze. As if to put the afternoon's memories behind them, the girls wore their finest summer frocks, though the hard wooden pews were sorely incompatible with their tender seats. Unfortunately, they had no option but to endure the discomfort, their polite stoicism betrayed only by the occasional pained wriggle.
The Reverend Basil Thorne delivered a timely sermon on modesty and the perils of worldly temptations, trying not to let his eye drift towards Miss Saffron Armstrong. Of all the congregation, this beautiful young woman seemed to possess the most distractingly radiant pair of rosy cheeks. For the sake of his fragile composure, it was fortunate that he did not know the full extent of those blushes!
After the service, the Reverend greeted them at the door. “I hope you ladies found today's sermon edifying. It is always a comfort to know that a firm lesson has struck home.”
The cousins' faces coloured, for reasons that remained unknown to him. Mistaking their blushes for piety, the Reverend smiled with satisfaction.
“Would you care to join me for afternoon tea tomorrow, Reverend?” Saffron asked. “Mother and Lily will be at the tennis, but I promise I'll try my best to be perfectly modest.”
She fluttered her eyelashes in a manner that suggested little in the way of modesty, though the gesture conveyed other, far more tantalising qualities. The Reverend found himself at a loss for words. This mischievous parishioner had a gift for inspiring him with thoughts that strayed far from piety.
Lily did not linger to hear his reply. Instead, she slipped away towards the lychgate. Saffron, she reflected, might not be bound for Centre Court tomorrow, but she was certainly bound to remain at the centre of attention...
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