Mission Churchill by Alex Abella

Author:Alex Abella [Abella, Alex]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Adler Entertainment Trust LLC
Published: 2024-01-30T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Lady Clementine Churchill was dreaming about sex, dreaming about it in a way that she never allowed herself to think about during her waking hours. In fact, even in her dream she was carrying over some of the same restraints and inhibitions she suffered under when awake.

She would not let the handsome young hussar in his shining armor touch her sex, even after he had rescued her from the sightless monster in the crystal greenhouse with the wild profusion of orchids. She only allowed him to caress her budding breasts under her nightgown—for in her dream she had become fourteen again.

Although time and again the hussar ran his hands down her thighs, which quivered with pent-up lust, time and again she pushed them away. Yet he would not give up, his hands wandering to her crotch, and each time she’d push them aside with less enthusiasm, feeling her whole body swept up in a pulsating fever of desire, until finally she let him touch her and he drew out his long shiny sword from his scabbard.

She trembled on seeing how long it was, and then he stabbed her with the sword, plunging it deep into her entrails, and she writhed in painful pleasure and gasped as the hilt bumped into her while bombs boomed in the far distance and the glass panels of the greenhouse shattered and . . .

Lady Churchill awoke to find herself in her bed at Chequers. She groped the pillow next to her, hoping to find her pug sleeping soundly, but then remembered Winston was in London for a meeting—and that she still had not forgiven him.

Née Hozier, Lady Clementine had been born of a noble but impoverished family. Before her marriage she had suffered the indignity—for a woman of her class—of having to teach French part time to put food on the table. Her horror of penury now was heightened by her husband’s aristocratic disregard for the cost of living. As he always reminded her, he was like Oscar Wilde, easily satisfied with the very best.

Winston seemed to accumulate charges as he did extra pounds with the sheer extravagance of his daily living. Silk underwear because he had a “delicate cuticle,” custom-made shoes because he had trouble walking, bespoke shirts and suits to properly dress as a politician, an unending forest of cigars, a flood of liquor and champagne. And to make matters worse, his gambling!

You would think that with the war and all, the creditors trying to collect his debts at the casinos of Montecarlo and Biarritz would have had the decency of staying their collection efforts until the war ended, she thought. But as she reminded herself, money has a life of its own and cares nothing about men’s armed conflicts.

The casinos had sold their debt to a Swiss banker—probably backed by the Nazis—who was pressing the case in Chancery Court. Twenty thousand pounds, now where was one to obtain such a fortune! True, Winston’s books were selling, but the sheer expense

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