The Diary of Cozette

by Amanda McIntyre

  It was long after midnight and I’d changed into a simple frock, in order to wash my uniform as I finished scrubbing the linens from the evening’s repast. My mistress has specific instructions about how her linens are to be laundered. It is my duty to see her wishes carried out. A noise from the kitchen garnered my attention.

  Lord Deavereux staggered into the kitchen looking as though he’d stumbled in from a long ride. His heavy boots scraped across the brick floor and given my observation of many a man under the influence, I speculated this was the case.

  I stood for a moment, battling my instincts to offer my help or return to my work. My heart stood still, for he was a most breathtaking man. He was regally handsome, tall, with broad shoulders and a supremely wicked smile. His dark, wavy hair, groomed before, now fell over his shoulders in rebellious disarray. It appeared he’d tossed his shirt on in haste as it hung loose from his breeches.

  His unbuttoned shirt framed a muscular chest, sprinkled with a few dark curls that gave way to the washboard plane of his lean waist. I would not permit my gaze to travel lower for I did not want him to think me a loose woman.

  He did not speak, only glanced up at me briefly and offered a subtle nod acknowledging my presence. That is the way of things and though I know it is not socially acceptable to speak to those of lower classes, I find the behavior rude, if not altogether ridiculous.

  He rummaged through the bowls left from the evening meal and tore off a hunk of bread, chewing slowly, savoring its taste. My breasts tightened in speculation of what his lips would taste like as my gaze clung to his mouth.

  Finding it wiser, I stepped down into the small washroom, set to finish my task and leave Lord Deavereux to his midnight feast.

  A moment later, a deep sigh caused my gaze to snap up and there he stood at the washroom door, his arm braced on the door frame, all but undressing me with his eyes. Though it made me blush crimson then, now it gives me only pleasure to remember his gentle care and attentions.

  Outside, the rain tapped against the small windowpane of the room. It was secluded, made private from the world outside by a hedge, and the scent of wet grass clung to the humid air. The dusky illumination of a single candle flickered enough to spark the imagination of our secret tryst.

  I was not naive to the evidence of this man’s desire. I’d seen how he looked at me while I served his meal, his hungry gaze never straying far from my breasts.

  For what reason I chose him to be my first, I cannot say. Perhaps it was a matter of timing, two strangers in need of comfort. Nothing more than a few stolen moments when nothing else but pleasure matters. Or perchance, I was drawn to the glint of challenge in his eye, his stallionlike tendencies waiting to be tamed at my hand.

  Whatever the case, I brazenly tempted him each time I came to his side to serve him, teasing his senses as I leaned close to entice him with the full measure of what I could offer.

  “More, milord?” I would smile demurely and hold the platter close to my bosom.

  At first, his gaze was but a glance, but I sensed his attraction grow each time I walked into the dining hall. His dark eyes, fired with lust, held mine, causing my virgin womanhood to weep with desire. He was a magnificent specimen, bold and virile, broad-shouldered and swaggeringly handsome. Moreover, he is free of commitments, or so I am given to believe. While I know the type of women that captured his interest, I took perverse delight in seeing the passion flash in his eyes.

  Still, it would be many hours yet before I would see my bed and be able to ease the ache betwixt my legs. It was true that in my swirled state of emotions, I hated him at that moment, for putting me through such torment.

  At dinner, his smile when given showed straight, white, even teeth and a deep crevice along his sturdy jaw. A shadow of a beard played along his cheek and I confess it toyed with my musings to wonder what it might feel like purring against my bare skin like an amorous kitten. His hair, dark and thick, was held in place by a leather thong that gave him the look of a renegade pirate. He would wink as I served each course as though we shared the secret of our longing. To my young and fertile imagination, he was my notorious pirate and I his lusty wench. Nevertheless, as I suspected upon our meeting several months before, I am quite sure Lord Deavereux is fully aware of his handsome features and does not waste a moment in using them to his advantage.

  I could not speak for I was both fearful and aroused at the same time. If what I sensed was true, there was hope that this night could change my life forever.

  With that thought in mind, my breathing nearly stopped when he smiled at me. I turned back to my duties, focusing on the wash.

  Without a word, he approached from behind and pressed his rugged body against my back.

  “I saw how you looked at me, the desire in your eyes. Tell me now to stop and I will be crushed.”

  He pressed his thighs against mine, pinning my legs between him and the wooden washtub.

  A small whimper escaped my lips as his arms came around my waist, his chin resting on the sensitive curve of my shoulder.

  “Do not be afraid, I would sooner die than hurt you, mademoiselle.”

  He nuzzled the corkscrew curls at my temple, his hands gently roving along the slope of my neck, easing my inhibitions, releasing me from my fear.

  His skin, warm from the sudden humidity of the rain, intensified his musky, male scent, further arousing my state of desire. In my solitude of laundering, my imagination had already gathered a bounty of fruitful musings about the handsome lord.

  I wanted something, something wickedly decadent, and yet with a man of his stature and the thought of my position at the manor, I was reticent to continue, though my body yearned with an ache that I did not completely understand. Nevertheless, oh, how I wanted to.

  He reached around me and cupped his hands, lowering them into the tepid, sudsy water, lifting the shimmering pool in his palms to the level of our collective gaze. With sweet sensuality he tipped his hands, deliberately allowing the water to trickle slow over the bare flesh of my chest and disappear down the smocking of my dress. I closed my eyes to the exquisite sensation of the water cool against my heated skin.

  The sound of his labored breathing was precious music to my ear as he continued this playful exercise until through the sodden fabric of my dress, my young unencumbered breasts molded round and firm to the naked eye.

  His breath hot against my neck filled me with wonder that I could have such a powerful effect on a man. He seemed rather to enjoy the game, taking his time, wanting to please me as much as himself, calming my concerns that he might otherwise be the type of man to take me quick as I’d seen some impatient men do at the brothel.

  Graceful, unhurried in his pace, as though knowing my virgin state, he caressed and squeezed my breasts as though testing ripe, plump pears. I laid my head against his shoulder and watched through hooded lids, succumbing to his masterful touch. With my fists clenched at my sides, I fought the need to ease the chaos of need curling deep between my legs.

  When he was no longer satisfied to battle—nor was I for that matter, for my body was alive with need—the barrier of the dress, a simple tug of the lacings at my back served to allow the bodice to fall open, freeing my bare, aching breasts. Oh, the pure delight of his rough beard as he rubbed my cheek, leaving a trail of warm, wet kisses along my naked shoulders.

  I pushed against his hands, offering the need growing inside me to have him take each pert nipple in his sumptuous mouth and tease them to taut perfection. I wanted to beg him, but I held my tongue fearing he would be offended and leave.

  As though aware of the thoughts of need consuming me, he rolled each sensitive brown tip between his thumb and forefinger, twirling them gently, fanning the smoke curling deep in my belly.

  “I can see you like this, sweet girl. I so delight in giving you pleasure,” he whispered near my ear.

  Such perceptions were new to me and yet, the dew forming between my thighs gave connection to sensation
s old as time itself.

  His breath against the bare flesh of my shoulder grew ragged, yet he had not even touched my mouth. With the tip of his tongue, he drew circles at the base of my neck, making me squirm with utter delight. I shuddered when he nipped at my earlobe.

  The sheer euphoria of his foreplay caused my knees to weaken and more than once I wobbled unsteady, but his strong arm caught me about the waist, holding me upright.

  His touch was exquisite, seeming to know how to please a woman. But of course he would. A man of his wealth and stature surely had women of pedigree lined up waiting for a chance to experience him. How many before me? Had he been with Betsy? The questions barely settled long enough in my mind, before I waved them away. No matter the number or experience, he was slow and gentle with me, instructing me in ways he must have known were new to me.

  The juncture between my thighs was warm and damp, and I was glad that I had chosen not to wear my drawers that evening. Happenstance, dreaming, or perhaps fate? I smiled with pleasure, watching our intimate shadows play against the rough-hewn stone wall. They say for a lady to have such lustful musings is purely of the devil’s own making and yet for men it is a way of life. They have need of a woman and so take her, with little pretext, even in the marriage bed. And what of the woman’s pleasure? With newfound boldness, I ran my hands down his muscular thighs with knowledge of the magnificence that lay between them, and I felt no shame in the longing of my own flesh.

  Though straining against the confines of his breeches, François chuckled as he rubbed his great cock against my backside, knowing quite well the sensual torture it gave me.

  My heart raced as my body writhed against his, driven toward an erotic abyss. One of unfulfilled and wicked desires, I wanted this pleasure to last forever. My head was spinning, my mouth uttered soft moans urging him to continue.

  With palms flat, he slid his hands roughshod over my breasts and down my stomach, hooking my skirt between my legs. He drew the cloth firm against the apex of my legs, sliding his fingers across my wet womanhood, stroking my sensitive nub through the coarse fabric. Over and over until I thought I would cry out, he repeated the sweet torture, my body burning for release.

  It is with no shame that I admit I had no thought to any sort of future with the handsome Lord Deavereux. A woman of standards, of course, would surely demand commitment, at least in her mind, if not in her heart. I have no such demand, nor the desire to shackle this man or any other for that matter. Good heavens, no! Indeed, I know well his attention is temporary and most likely under influence of strong drink. Still, words left unspoken had no bearing on this momentary passion; neither of us had desire to muddle this stolen rapture, with false promises or sweet lies.

  He removed his hands but for a moment, I suspect to free himself from his breeches. I would have done as much, had I been asked, as in this, I am practiced in the art of watching a man unravel before my eyes to the stroke of my hand.

  “Exquisitely young, ripe for my instruction,” he whispered near my ear.

  With slow and steady deliberation, his hands drifted over my hips, lifting my skirts as he left hot kisses against my neck.

  He bent me forward, forcing me to brace myself on the sides of the tub, and bunched my skirt over my hips. His rough, callused hands smoothed over my bare bottom and his thumbs brushed my moist heat, bringing me to my toes with shuddered delight.

  I grasped the wet wood, my fingers digging into its sides. My breath grew labored as I watched my bare breasts dangle before me quivering with anticipation. To please him, I spread my legs wide as I’d observed at the brothel to accommodate his entry. Of course, I had reasoned that for a man of his height and strength, that his cock too, would be formidable. I glanced over my shoulder to catch a glimpse, but he placed a teasing kiss on my bare bottom and pointed for me to turn around. Would he be a disappointment after all of his exquisite foreplay?

  François teased first, no doubt a gentleman’s protocol in order for my body to accept his engorged rod. He brushed his fingers gently through my damp curls, pressing the tips of his fingers inside my dewy folds. My body shuddered with release when his fingers entered me deep and I gasped with glorious delight, holding my urge to scream out in pleasure so as not to wake the rest of the house.

  He straightened and held my hips, swaying them ever so slightly as he tickled my drenched slit with his cock. Deeper and deeper he pushed, an inch at a time, and I savored his patience, my nails splintering small notches in the wet wood from the intense pleasure and the momentary pain.

  His deep sigh eased the sting, for I craved more, needing the pleasure beyond the incidental pain.

  He held my hips and started slow, letting my body become accustomed to his size. However, in a short time, he was driving into me with such abandon that I uttered a silent cry when I felt my body clench around him once again. I enjoyed the sound of his slow, guttural moans as his thrusts grew more determined. The sound was rich and deep, earthy as the man himself, and I wondered what his laugh must sound like. It was a moment that both delighted and saddened me at the same time, realizing that I may never hear it, as I was sure our passion was fated for this one night.

  I accepted his time and seed would soon be spent. Moreover, I knew that he would leave and I would never hear from him again. Yet in this one night, in these few stolen moments of primal pleasure, he had given me the freedom to be the woman that I am, and for me to have experienced this moment with a man of patience and passion. For this, I will remember him as my first with genuine fondness.

  My skirts he clenched tight in his hands, pressing against my hips as he drove into me once, twice, and yet once more, before I felt his body tense. With a final groan, he backed away, allowing his seed to spill over the back of my leg. I squeezed my eyes tight, fearing I’d not pleased him.

  “You are sweet, milady, yet not ready to risk the burden a child would bring to you at this time,” he whispered as he took a nearby cloth and like a nursemaid, cleaned the results of our secret. He lowered my skirts, and as quiet and discreet as his arrival, placed a soft kiss upon the damp curls of my neck, and left. I never saw his face in the throes of passion, though I imagined a million such faces from the memories of my upbringing at the brothel.

  It was true that François had taken my virginity, but has left me with a new sense of wonder and adventure. He opened my eyes to the pleasure of passion, to living life to its exquisite fullness. And he gave me hope, that somewhere out there may yet be a man who will challenge and satisfy me in as many ways as there are sides to me. I breathed deep, pulling my thoughts back to reality.

  “Pardon, milady, I saw the lights burning still in the kitchen, and came to ask if you would mind if I took a bit of bread for my supper. The stable cleaning went longer than anticipated and I am famished. If you look the other way, I promise not to tell of our little secret.”

  Startled, I glanced up to look into the face of the stable groomsman, Mr. Coven, as I adjusted my apron over my sodden frock.

  His voice drew my gaze to his, and I watched it rake over me without preamble.

  “I am nearly finished with the laundry,” I offered curtly as I returned to the washtub and scooted the towel beneath the table holding the tub.

  He was beautiful in an unrefined way. His strength was evident in the sinewy flesh of his forearms, and the haphazard way his shirt barely covered his broad chest. That too was sleek, chiseled like granite, shining still from the toil of the day. His skin, dark from his labors outdoors, made my flesh appear sickly. I could not restrain my curious gaze so as to note how his breeches encased his firm muscular thighs, fitting like a second skin over his hips, leaving nothing to wonder of his attributes. I spied a small tear on his left inner thigh and considered offering my mending services.

  Despite his cocksure manner, he was every bit as sleek and powerful, I would speculate, as the horses he prized. That thought alone was cause for a shiver to tease my breasts.

  I scold
ed myself for my wayward thoughts even as my lips still burned from François. I reeled them in and raised my chin directing him toward the kitchen. “There’s fresh milk and you’ll find a bit of bread under the large wooden bowl on the worktable. Help yourself, and when you’re finished, please see to it that the back door is secure behind you. There was discussion this evening of vagrants wandering the back roads, searching for country homes with unlocked doors and windows.”

  “Good heavens, one misses a great deal while mucking the stable.”

  I held his gaze, seeing the mocking gleam in his astute eye. Its sparkle admittedly made me think of Ernest, and the mischief that would dance in his beautiful eyes. The memory caused my heart to skip. Nevertheless, Mr. Coven’s opinion of me since I arrived has been anything but cordial. “There seems to be a chill in the air, Mr. Coven,” I replied in kind. “Perhaps you have need of another blanket? Or do your horses keep you quite warm at night?”

  His brow rose, and a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

  “I see the late hour has not tired your tongue, Miss Cozette.”

  “Indeed sir, every one of my senses is fully awake.” I yanked an extra blanket from the cupboard behind me and faced him, holding it at the tip of my fingers. Something about him caused me to be ill at ease, but I could not place the reason.

  “How very fortunate you are alert, in the event of vagrants passing by of course.”

  His grin preceded him as he stepped from the shadow of the doorway and reached for the extra blanket I offered. My gaze flitted over the beginning of a deep scar that started at the corner of his lip, following his cheek until it disappeared beneath the patch. He must have noticed my rudeness in staring as he averted his gaze even as our fingers touched beneath the blanket.

  “I am in your debt, milady, both for the food and your concern.”

  He bowed slightly and hesitated on the step up into the kitchen, slanting me a devilish grin. His smile was warm, jarring my memory once more of Ernest. The look in his eye sparkled with wisdom far beyond his years.