The Secret Diary of Lady Catherine Bexley
Read The Secret Diary of Lady Catherine Bexley Online
Authors: Viveka Portman
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Erotica, #Romantic, #Romance, #Historical, #Ancient World, #Medieval, #Viking, #Historical Romance, #Regency
The Secret Diary of Lady Catherine Bexley
Viveka Portman
In the vein of Portia Da Costa and Charlotte Featherstone, Regency England gets just a bit raunchy in this novella about a gently-raised lady who wants to feel like a woman…
“I have never seen fit in my life to divulge my secrets in a diary, yet now, after today’s proceedings, I do…”
Lady Catherine Bexley is new to marriage and the marriage bed, but surely there must be more to it than this? Her husband is proper and perfunctory — treating her with careful respect but leaving her aching for more.
When she witnesses a gentleman disciplining a maid at a house party, the ache explodes into ravenous desire. She finds herself no longer willing to wait for her husband’s stiff and passionless attentions — and soon develops a naughty plan to finally get what she wants.
Viveka Portman is an author of romantic erotic fiction, and has a fascination about times past. With a bachelor degree in anthropology, Viveka weaves historical fact into fiction to create lively, realistic and thrilling tales, sure to titillate and engage the most discerning reader.
Considered an upstanding member of society, Viveka does not make a habit of eavesdropping, gossiping or making vulgar displays of impropriety — except, that is, in writing.
I’d like to acknowledge and thank Escape Publishing for giving Lady Catherine Bexley an opportunity to shine, and also Shona Husk for reading the draft and believing in it.
To all the lovers of regency romance
—
enjoy.
Bestselling Titles by Escape Publishing…
Kent, England
I have never seen fit in my life to divulge my secrets in a diary, yet now, after today’s proceedings, I do. You see, today was my wedding day, and the things that have happened have set a fire within me. I fear I am becoming wanton. It has been hours since my husband has left my rooms, yet still, sleep evades me. Explicit thoughts run merry through my mind and I am in deep need of respite.
It is, therefore, my most fervent hope that in purging my thoughts in this diary, I may at length, find the path to purity of thought once again.
Allow me to explain. Tonight, unsurprisingly, was the first time my husband has come upon me — yet even recalling the act causes an ache deep betwixt my thighs; and despite bathing, a dampness still soaks through my undergarments. Am I craven? Am I cursed with unchaste thoughts? I fear so.
Earlier this eve, I lay waiting in my bed, excitement and fear running through me. At nineteen, I have seen what a male dog does to a bitch, and once happened upon a stallion and mare. To my shame, I enjoy watching the mating. A filthy habit, but a habit none the less. On our first marital ride from Saint Mary’s Church to Bexley’s Hall, I glimpsed a dog with its bitch. The dog was pale yellow and shaggy haired, the other black and lean. In the full glory of sunlight, that male dog pummelled wildly into the bitch, and I stared as it did. A pleasing, but unsettling sensation grew between my legs. I realised then that my husband was watching me. Those cool eyes flickered from me to the dogs. I couldn’t help but wonder, would my Lord husband take me like a dog takes a bitch? Forgive me, but I hoped so, as it did look thrilling.
It was late this eve, when all formalities were done, the door to my rooms creaked open and my husband finally entered to take his conjugal rights.
As ever, he remained aloof and distant. ‘Good evening, my lady,’ he spoke.
‘Good evening, my lord,’ I whispered back, my breath catching in my chest. I wore only the white silk slip given to me by my mother for this very purpose. I sat up, allowing the blanket to fall and expose its neckline low upon my breast. Yet my lord did not gaze on me as I had expected.
I feel I must clarify: I had not met my husband prior to our wedding. My father had organised our union some months prior. Marriage is a duty, I realise, and one can only hope that affection and mutual understanding will develop in time. I do, however, know of my husband’s impressive reputation. He is the very model of masculine propriety, and though many years my senior, he is a handsome and honourable man.
‘Do you know what will happen within the marriage bed?’ he asked, his voice still soft.
My breath caught again, and I couldn’t answer.
He continued, ‘We shall consummate our marriage this night.’ His tone was solemn. ‘In this act I shall plant my seed within your womb and by the grace of God, sire a son upon you.’
‘Yes,’ I breathed. Sweat began to bead between the mounds of my bosom. I would discover the secrets of the marriage bed. The notion thrilled me and scared me in equal measure.
Whether my husband took my deep inhalation for fear, I can only suppose, as his voice became even gentler, and he began to instruct me as a governess may instruct a simple child.
‘Remove the blanket and lift your skirts,’ he said, still standing before my bed.
With a hand that trembled only slightly I pulled back the covers. My nightdress had already ridden up over my knees and I wrestled with it a little higher then stopped, believing it to be sufficient.
‘I’ll need it higher than that,’ he said gently. His hand loosened the knot in the belt of his dressing gown and it fell open. He was naked. I had never seen a naked man until that moment. My husband’s body was truly fine of form, well kept for his age of forty-eight. My gaze slunk lower down the plains of his chest, smattered with dark hair, down his stomach to the
thing
that jutted eagerly from betwixt his thighs. Such a thing I have never seen. It seemed eager for me, frighteningly so. The dogs I had seen had small pink things, nothing like what my husband possessed in his breeches. His was thick and rigid. Was he was going to put it in me? I confess I felt great fear then. My hands froze on my nightdress.
‘Pull up your skirt above your waist,’ he repeated, his tone a little less gentle and significantly more embarrassed. I hurried to obey. His hand stroked his own length and I heard him suck the air through his teeth and throw back his head.
My skirt was now wrenched high over my waist, leaving me naked as a babe on the bed. My husband shrugged off his dressing gown and it pooled on the floor, the flickering candles making the fabric look alive as it fell.
I shivered.
He stared at me with his flat dark eyes, then stalked over to my dresser, where a pot of olive oil had been placed. I’d heard what uses this oil had and I watched with trepidation as my new husband dipped his hand into the pot and slid the glossy oil down his shaft. Such a wicked thing I’d never seen.
Within a moment, my husband was beside my bed and he surveyed me much as a farmer would a prize mare. The only indication of his passion, I realise now, was the stiffness of his member.
Without further preamble, he crawled atop me, crushing the air from my chest, before balancing above me on his forearms.
‘Spread your legs, Catherine,’ he growled. I realised it was the first time he had ever spoken my name. ‘Wider.’
I did as he bid, though I was confused. Would he take me from the top, not as a dog takes its bitch?
I had little time to wonder, I felt something large and hot nudge at the apex of my thighs. He hovered above me, his body suspended by his powerfully corded and muscled arms.
His eyes held mine and he slipped that glistening oiled thing into me.
I thought I might die.
Pain such as I have never felt burned between my thighs. I was torn open as his thick member ruptured my maidenhood and split my sex asunder. I had hoped to be brave, excited and eager to please, but alas, the pain made me weep.
‘Quiet,’ my husband soothed, and then he began to move with slick, sharp but strangely smooth, motions. Forward, backward, forward, backward. Each thrust sent a bright burst of pain through my tortured sex.
I sobbed, but my husband was relentless in his duty. He seemed to pace himself with the rhythm of the French clock that ticked on the mantle. His thrusts were systematic and dispassionate but each one forced the breath from me.
After a time, the pain did subside, and I opened my eyes to observe his face. He looked down upon me with intense concentration. As his member continued to lunge rhythmically between my thighs, perspiration glowed on his forehead. Then without warning, my husband lunged deep. For a moment he froze, groaned and shuddered above me, and gave a last powerful thrust. His heat poured into me, and for the briefest of moments I thought that some apoplexy had struck him. His whole body stiffened, then fell still.
‘Are you well?’ I asked him, worried. His member throbbed and pulsed, still deeply embedded in my sex. He did not speak for a long time.
‘I am well,’ he replied eventually, his tone dry.
He leaned into the bed and pulled his body from mine with a shocking wet sound.
Was that all?
I wondered.
He rose from the bed, his manhood still swollen and slick with oil and other things.
The scent of his skin lingered damp and earthy, where his body did not. ‘Where are you going?’ I asked, feeling suddenly empty and strangely unfulfilled. He did not answer but spoke to me brusquely.
‘I will call Hetty to help you wash,’ he replied, bending down to pick up his discarded dressing gown, his buttocks glistening with perspiration in the candlelight. He surveyed me again, and leant above me placing a hand over my beaten sex, and dipped a swift finger inside me. I gasped, but he withdrew and examined his fingertip. I could see my virginal blood glistening in the flickering light. He gave me a brief, apologetic smile, turned and left my rooms.
Soon after his departure, Hetty came in and fussed over my bloodied thighs and the ruin of my sheets. She had the servants draw a bath for me, and for a time I soaked. As I did, I pondered the slow grinding sense of dissatisfaction that my husband’s first conjugal visit has inspired.
So, dear diary, my wedding night is over, and I have lain awake for hours, listening to the wretched ticking of the mantle clock, a frustrating reminder of my husband’s acts.
My days have been filled with such activity that I scarce have time to breathe. However, it is not those activities of which I wish to write. It is this damnable ache, the sheer longing I feel. It has not abated since my wedding night and indeed, if anything, it is inflamed.
What has happened to me? I wonder. Does every wife feel this heat? Does my husband suffer so? If he does, he masks it so well I cannot tell.
Like most married men, I suppose, he takes to his carnal duties well enough, but regrettably it is passionless, perfunctory. Yet, those brief, harsh and intimate occasions leave me with an ache so fierce I scarce know what to do. I’ve heard whispers in the sitting room of other ladies speaking of taking their ease by their own hand, but I scarce know what to do, and fear what my husband should do if ever I was caught. I also hear gossip of other ladies taking a paramour. Again, I think my Lord Joseph might slay me in my sleep if such an indiscretion was ever discovered.
Since our wedding night, he has visited my rooms often. The pain of that first time lessened on the second, and all but vanished by the third. Yet as the pain has diminished my dissatisfaction has grown. Now, when he leaves me, I have a heavy sensation that lingers between my thighs, and restlessness that cannot be accounted for.
Not long ago, my moons came, along with my husband’s great disappointment. I stayed in confinement for seven days, and last night he came to me again.
