The Secret Diary of Lady Catherine Bexley (2 page)

‘Are you able to receive me?’ he asked. The door of my room creaked as he pushed it open.

He was, as ever, dressed only in a night gown, lightly tied at his waist. He’d bathed and his hair was damp, brushed back from his high proud forehead.

‘I am,’ I replied, unable to hold his gaze.

I lay back on the bed, as he strode towards the bedside table and the pot of olive oil.

I watched his long fingers dip into the green-gold fluid, whilst the other worked at the belt of his gown.

‘You won’t need that,’ I said softly, hoping I wouldn’t offend. This night, my state of dissatisfaction was intensified — for reasons unfathomable to myself. I could feel the slickness between my legs.

The look my husband gave me could have frozen Hell itself. ‘Will I not?’

I hesitated, ‘No’.

Still, my husband allowed the gown to fall open, as he greased the swelling length of his staff, regardless of my words.

‘You are a gentle woman, Catherine, I would rather not cause you pain. This oil ensures that any discomfort caused by my needs will be minimised,’ he explained.

‘Your needs don’t cause …’ I began, but he cut me off.

‘Shhh.’

His staff glistened in the candlelight and I could smell the slight sweetness of the oil. I felt my stomach tighten with that peculiar longing.

I fell quiet and began to remove my nightdress. It was his preference that I merely lift it to my waist. However, I longed to feel his skin against mine, for once unimpeded by scratching lace.

I threw the wretched thing on the floor, where it landed in a heap.

My husband stared at the discarded cloth. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked, averting his eyes from my naked body.

‘I am taking off my nightdress,’ I replied. ‘It seems to me that you have no clothes on, and perhaps it may be better if I had none as well?’

Lord Joseph Bexley’s throat contracted visibly in the candlelight, and his hand lingered over the head of his staff.

‘Catherine,’ he began, finally allowing his eyes to crawl over my body. Where they lingered, my skin seemed to burn. I held my breath, my sex was sopping with anticipation — to feel him truly against me.

‘Return to your nightdress, at once.’

I hesitated, confused.
Why? Did he now think me wanton?

‘At once!’ he barked again.

Hurrying to do his bidding I grasped my discarded garment and clothed myself once more. The lace scratched against my swollen bosom, and my cheeks were aflame with shame.

‘But why?’ I asked.

‘Your body is perfection. It could drive a man to indecency. I am an honourable man, and you are my lady wife — and I will treat you as such.’

‘I see,’ I replied, but I didn’t. I couldn’t see what was indecent about a naked man and naked wife performing conjugal rights within the marriage bed — and I wanted to say so. Yet the dark gaze in my husband’s eyes silenced me.

‘Lift your skirts,’ he growled. I did.

Without further word he crawled atop.

I closed my eyes, waiting for him. I could feel him nudging there at the opening of my moist sex.

‘Catherine,’ he groaned and plunged forward. With the oil and my own water, he entered with greater ease than ever before; and I couldn’t help but release a slight moan.

He began to move within me, fierce plunges always in time with the mantle clock. As he moved, so slickly, so firmly, I felt that heat, that ache, grow. I raised my arms and wrapped them around my husband, trying to draw him closer, to fill that heat, to sate that terrible need.

Yet, he shrugged me away, and I felt his rejection as acutely as the growing heat in my womb. He looked down on me, perching above me on his corded muscular arms and continued his fierce, well-timed thrusting. When he plunged his last and shuddered above me, I fear I sobbed aloud in pure frustration.

Suffice to say dear diary, he left me before I could say more, or shame myself further. On the morrow, he rides to London on business, so it will be a week or more until I see him again. I can only hope that my sinful longings will leave with him.

Postscript:
They have not.

My husband Joseph returned last night, and came upon me in my rooms. I confess here and now I was eager for him, but again he has left me dissatisfied and frustrated. This eve, I tried to coax him to stay abed with me after the act — so that perhaps he may touch me once more, but he shrugged me away and swiftly left.

If I were a woman of loose tongue I perhaps would have sworn at him for leaving.

I have come to realise that I must face the truth. My husband is a purist, so for his pleasure, I shall try to live as the honest, God-fearing woman he clearly wishes me to be. It is, I confess, the most dismal circumstance. However, I shall try to behave like the lady of good-breeding I am. I must ignore this heightened state of dissatisfaction and go about my business. I will put aside my desires, throw myself upon God’s mercy and plead his forgiveness. I will not give in to my wicked thoughts, and will not seek release by my own hand, or by keeping a paramour. And next, when my good husband comes upon me, I will be his dutiful wife, and accept my conjugal duty with grace and humility.

It has been some days since I have written. My course of action has failed, and I am bereft; but allow me to elaborate.

Sometimes one sees something that lingers long in one’s memory. Today, I witnessed that thing.

Today was to be an auspicious occasion, the birthday celebration of one Lord William Stanton. My lord and I were pleased to attend.

The day was unseasonably warm, even for summer. Hetty took extra care with my dress and hair, for any party at the Stanton’s is of great import. The dress was my green satin with fine embroidery around the bodice. But the wretched thing clung to my body like dew in this heat, and I could feel my stays beneath chafe and ride. I felt suffocated, and struggled to sit still as Hetty completed my hair. I knew my fidgets would displease my husband. Things such as this usually did.

When my toilette was complete and my hair expertly coiffed, I stepped downstairs. Hetty held up the train of the dress — it would not do to soil it before the party.

His eyes met mine, and my heart missed a beat. My husband waited at the base of the stairwell. It must be said, despite his puritanical tendencies, my Lord Joseph Bexley is handsome in face and form — particularly when dressed for entertainment.

We’ve been wed a month, and he is still yet to show me so much as a glimmer of true affection.

I have, however, digressed.

It is this heavy restlessness that I again wish to write of, particularly now as it has been inflamed. Inflamed by something shocking I saw at Lord Stanton’s party this very day. I fear my plan to be the pure and dutiful wife will never be achievable after today.

Lord Stanton is a married man — a mere boy in comparison to my husband; the party was held to celebrate his birthday of five-and-thirty years, though his lady wife is in confinement again with his fifth child.

As I have mentioned, the day was hot. The party was out in Stanton Hall’s picturesque gardens. His gardeners have produced a scene to be proud of. As I gazed about the grounds and the neatly trimmed hedges, my husband stood beside me. He was speaking at length to Sir Harding about hunting, a subject that repulses rather than endears him to me. I excused myself to mingle with some of the other ladies whom I had not seen since my own wedding. Alas, as I took a turn around the grounds, I found only Jane Fielding and Lidia Swinton, neither of whom had I any affection for. I decided at once to escape their tedium by taking myself on a tour around Stanton Hall. Perhaps it was improper to do so, but I cared not. It was better than talking about babies and wet nurses with Jane Fielding or listening to conversation about hunting.

I supposed that, as I had not been to Stanton Hall for many years — since I was a girl — I should very much like to see Lord Stanton’s improvements on the building. His lord and ladyship had been busy improving the character of house; it was less grim and severe than I recalled.

The carpets were new, with bright blue and gold designs, and there were more windows than I remembered.

I walked up the stairwell to the first landing, where a maid rushed past me with a querying look. I dismissed her — after all I was a guest and had every right to take a turn about the hall.

I knew that on this floor, Lady Stanton had hung a new portrait of herself and her four children. She had commissioned it from a fine Scottish artist. I wished to see the work and perhaps commission one of myself as a gift for my ever-glowering husband. However, as I walked down the hallway, admiring the works from generations past, I heard something. It sounded like the smack of hand on flesh. The unusual sound was followed by a feminine giggle. I stood still and listened.

‘You’ve been a naughty girl, Nancy!’ a male voice growled. The slapping of skin sung out again from the room making my heart leap.

‘My lord!’ came a softer, more urgent, feminine cry.

Was that Lord Stanton in there?
I pondered, turning to face the direction of the sounds. I hadn’t seen him in the gardens for some time.
What was he doing?

I turned to my left, just as the sound of a hand hitting flesh echoed again.

‘You know what happens when my maids break something, don’t you, Nancy?’

I felt a shocked gasp collect in my throat, and I stared at the dark wood door that hid the scene from my eyes.

‘Do you, Nancy?’ Lord Stanton’s voice growled.

‘Yes,’ the woman replied, her voice barely discernible through the door.

‘What do I do to naughty maids who break things?’

I felt another gasp collect in my throat, was he disciplining a recalcitrant maid? Is this how they managed their staff at Stanton Hall?

‘What do I do, Nancy?’ he growled again.

‘You spank them my lord.’ The maid’s voice was tremulous.

Spank?
The word jarred me, it was unfamiliar.

Another high pitched slap sung through the air, followed this time, less by a giggle than by more of a feminine moan, of, was it pleasure? Holding my skirt to stop it from rustling, I ventured towards the closed door, and glanced up and down the corridor. No one was there.

‘You want my cock in you too, Nancy?’ Lord Stanton laughed.

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, but most of all I couldn’t believe what I was feeling. Heat trickled through my body and pooled between my legs, and I felt my skin begin to glow.

May the good Lord forgive me, but I crouched low, and placed my eye to the key hole. It took a moment to focus upon the scene before me. My heart pounded, lest anyone should come and spy me there.

It was indeed Lord Stanton.

Another crack echoed from within the room. ‘Naughty Nancy!’ he chortled.

Lord Stanton’s maid bent over the arm of a Grecian couch. The skirts of her uniform were thrown over her back and her pink round buttocks and the cleft of her sex were clearly visible to me as I peeked through the keyhole.

Lord Stanton stood to her left, his hand raised. He sported a mighty bulge in his breeches. As his hand slapped down on the maids flaming buttocks, his other hand stroked the bulge through the cloth.

The maid writhed after the strike, her blazing cheeks wobbling with the force. Lord Stanton chuckled.

‘I’m beginning to think you’re breaking things on purpose, Nancy.’

‘No milord! Honest I’m not,’ she cried breathlessly, and this time Lord Stanton brought his hand down with a hard smack; but instead of releasing the offending cheek, he kneaded the fleshy mound like our cook does dough. His hand paused, and crawled between the twin mounds, his fingers running the length of the cleft.

As he delved lower my mouth went dry with longing, if only my own husband would touch me so! Lord Stanton’s eyes narrowed as he dipped his forefinger into her sex and twirled it around, as you might a spoon in a tea cup.

The maid moaned in earnest.

‘Rarely do I ever see a cunt as wet as yours.’ He paused in his stirring, removed the finger and licked it. ‘And you do taste so sweet.’ He closed his eyes, evidently relishing the flavour. He lowered the hand and caressed her again, only this time with much more force. He murmured something to her I couldn’t quite hear, but her responding moans were answer enough.

As I watched this scene, I confess I found myself melting under my gown. My own hand longed to stroke between my thighs as Lord Stanton did to his wicked maid.

I bit my lip, I could feel that heavy ache expand within. I squinted hard through the keyhole as Lord Stanton’s other hand unlaced his breeches. I waited, breathless, to see what kind of beast this man hid within his trews.

‘You like this cock, don’t you girl?’ he growled, as it sprung forth from a nest of dark curling hair.

‘Yes,’ the maid replied.

The word ‘cock’ made me blush. Only men from the docks and women of ill-repute use such words, don’t they? Yet, I liked it.

Would you think ill of me, dear diary if I used this word now? For the word, so forbidden and rude makes me feel alive, it makes my body thrum with an eagerness that I barely dare to disclose.

I could hear Lord Stanton’s chuckle, rich and masculine. Using his cock, now in lieu of his hand, the Lord struck the rosy buttock none too lightly, with his hardened staff. The sound that echoed was far less sharp in tone than that of his hand, and the maid giggled in response.

I felt I may faint. Never had I dreamed a man would do such a thing.

The maid giggled once again, but Lord Stanton was having none of it. With his hand once again he struck her and the cheek flamed red anew. ‘Oh Nancy,’ he moaned and ground his erection into her backside.

‘Oh please, not there milord,’ the maid whimpered.

Not where?

I pressed my eye close the keyhole to absorb the scene and commit it to memory.

My breath was shallow. What wickedness had overcome me? Lord Stanton backed away and viewed his maid. I could see her woman’s waters seep from betwixt her thighs. The reddened skin of her buttocks and thighs glistened wet.