The Diary of Cozette

by Amanda McIntyre

  “Perhaps, you will find time to come visit the horses? Master Archibald owns some of the finest studs in all of England.”

  He was a unique man and I wondered what manner of woman had surely captured him. However, if he slept in the stables, was there a chance there was no woman waiting for him somewhere?

  “I cannot say, sir. Perhaps, but with only Miss Farrington and me, our time is not our own.”

  He nodded in agreement. “It’s plain that your duties keep you up all hours of the night. However, it may interest you to know that Willow Manor boasts of its fine stables. Its reputation is highly prized by those who understand such things.”

  Meaning of course, that I did not. It puzzled me greatly, despite his subtle chiding, his insistence that I pay him a visit. I tried not to think of what else he might be interested in showing me. Appealing as the thought, it was his high-brow view of me that put me off.

  “Thank you, I will do my best to visit when I am able.”

  “I sincerely hope you do, madam, it is an experience I’m quite sure you would not forget.”

  My cheeks warmed and despite the secret liaison with François, this infuriating man had managed—and it came as a shock indeed—to create a dull throbbing between my legs with his subtleties.

  What manner of woman was I to find such excitement in the thought of experiencing another man so soon after a tryst? Had I fallen prey to the wanton practices of those I’d been employed with? Had their lives, adventuresome as they were yet riddled with uncertainty, brushed off on me without my knowledge?

  These vague possibilities ran through my head until at last one shone brighter than the rest.

  Perhaps this was my liberation? To truly write the path of my own journey, loving whom I would, taking what I want and crossing the lines where it suits me. The very idea instilled a new life inside me that I found most agreeable.

  “It would not be suitable for me to visit without an escort, Mr. Coven. I will be at the mercy of Miss Farrington until her schedule allows her to accompany me.” I curtsied. He frowned, then bowed obligingly.

  “We do not stand on London protocol here, madam. You may rest assured that your virtue is entirely safe with me.”

  He tipped his head, giving me a sly grin that caused my toes to tingle. “However, it might be well of me to ask Jensen, my coachman, to stay near my stables out of concern for my virtue.”

  “You have a quick wit, sir.” I dropped the table linen into the water with more enthusiasm than was needed, causing the water to splash over the sides. How this man had managed to make my heart flutter and inspire murder in the span of a few minutes was a great mystery. Neither of us needed to mention his unplanned appearance as I bathed my first night. Nevertheless, the tension of it remained between us, hanging thick like the humidity in the air.

  His smile was sure and steady, reflecting the clear certainty of the man himself.

  My brow rose. “Indeed…your stable?”

  There was a moment’s pause as he had the decency to glance at the ground, I dared think in possible humility, and still I could not be sure.

  “There is no one in ten counties that possesses the skills I do, kind woman.”

  That question, at least, was yet unanswered.

  “Master Archibald chose very well in appointing me his groomsmen. Make no mistake. You shall see firsthand if you choose why few others have the master’s touch that I do.”

  I brazenly held his gaze. “You’re speaking of course about your skill with horses, sir?” I knew I was flirting, wicked girl that I am, but I wanted to see if his boasting was simply that. Still, I had to admit, the bulge in his pants was most impressive, leading me to believe that we were no longer discussing horses.

  A flicker of lust sparked in his eye and I held his gaze in challenge.

  “You come by, and we shall see if everything that I have stated does not prove true and to your satisfaction.”

  Oh, my.

  “Perhaps, I will, good sir. Perhaps I will.”

  “Good night, milady, sweet dreams.”

  He bowed briefly.

  I curtsied in return. I watched him leave in silence, leaving me with my insatiable curiosity to follow.

  However, I did not. Twice this very night I was called a lady. Not a term I shall likely see ever in my lifetime, but if only for the muse of my pen, I shall sign with great flourish—

  ~Lady Cozette

  October 18, 1873

  There isn’t a soul awake at this hour. I have made sure of that as I sneak out of the kitchen door into the pitch black of night.

  The sharp night breeze swirls around my ankles, skittering up my skirt, teasing me with anticipation. François, upon his afternoon visit to my master, left me a note to meet him this night in the gazebo in the flower garden. The cold grass tickles my legs as I lift my skirts to hurry along, stepping onto the gravel path at the back of the house.

  The sound of a plaintive owl echoes in the deep woods, raising the hair on my nape. I am stricken with instant panic at the potential danger lurking in the shadows. What would I do should I encounter a wild boar, hungry wolf or some other nocturnal creature of the wood?

  A hunter’s moon peeks between the dark fingers of clouds hiding its yellow face. For the span of a frosty breath, I can see the entire landscape before me, bright as midday.

  The tall cupola of the gazebo rises over the top of the boxwood hedge surrounding the garden and I say a silent prayer that François awaits me there as he promised. My instinct warns this game of wit and pleasure I play with Lord Deavereux may have no future, indeed, other than my earliest dismissal, should my master discover our trysts.

  It is not the master that concerns me however, nor perhaps the risk of being turned out by him, but moreover the view of my character in my mistress’s eyes. From the moment she placed her arm about me at the marketplace, I sensed I was more than simply a servant. Yet joined to my unyielding loyalty to my mistress, Lord Deavereux’s (my François, in the privacy of my journal) attentions have been most flattering, if not entirely satisfying and for me, a true education of the senses.

  I do not hold dear the notion of romantic lovers as are found in poetry and prose of the idyllic authors of the day. Romance I set aside as nothing more than a youthful fancy.

  However, the passion my François offers is intensely bright and I fear I am no better off than a moth to a flame.

  My heart stood still as I rounded the hedge, my simple lantern in hand. I found him there, by his great, dark steed. His look of wicked lust made my peach weep with desire.

  My gaze darted into the inky darkness, afraid that Mr. Coven may yet be wandering the grounds as he often does. “Pardon, milord, but are you quite certain we won’t be found out?” I knew clearly that it was against regulation, but the thought of his hands on me, drove my concerns to the limit.

  “I have made every arrangement, mademoiselle. Come, let’s not waste any time.” He held out his hand to me and I took it, allowing him to draw me to his powerful chest.

  “Where do you plan to take me, milord?” I whispered, tracing my finger boldly down the front of his shirt, stopping with a demure look at the waistband of his breeches.

  His grin grew wide. “To the height of ecstatic pleasure, my sweet flower.”

  He grabbed me about the waist, pulling me firm against him as his lips bore down on mine with a rough kiss. He was not a gentle man, but my desire easily matched his. When at last he ended the kiss, I drew in a deep breath, on the verge of extraordinary arousal. “Please tell me we need not travel far, milord. You can see most plainly that I have missed you.”

  “Indeed, milady, as I have missed your soft body beneath mine.”

  He lifted me to his waiting horse and followed readily, reaching around my waist to pull tight the reins. “Where are we off to, milord?”

  “Ah, I have something very special for us tonight, Cozette.”

  He slid his hand along my rib cage, setting my br
easts to tingle, my nipples to harden. His cock moved against my backside and I sensed it grow firm with each bounce of the horse. He nestled his head, placing hungry kisses against my neck as we rode through the darkness.

  I had no expectations, only a sense of adventure as the wind rushed over my face. In the distance, I saw the lights of a house burn bright. Unable to wait, I turned my head to meet François’s mouth. He kissed me hard, and I stretched to meet him, shifting in the saddle as I grasped his leg for balance. At that moment, I wondered what it would be like to turn and straddle him, riding his massive member through the night chill, until we were both exhausted.

  He yanked back the reins as we came to the front of the large stone house. It was indeed not the manor, nor was it, I suspect, François’s home. “Where are we?” I smiled, thinking decadent thoughts as he grabbed my hand and tugged me to the arched wooden door, stopping once or twice to kiss me fully and pinch my bottom. He was most amorous this evening and I must say it did much to increase my arousal.

  “Come, poppet, see how I have a warm fire for us.” He drew me inside, and I let my gaze travel in wonder around the interior. The walls were hewn wood, a soft yellow, and a great stone fireplace ablaze with warmth was the only light provided in the massive room. On every wall, as my gaze traveled upward, were the heads of exotic beasts, their heads secured by some fashion to wooden plaques.

  “These are my trophies, milady. I’ve captured every one of them in my great hunts.”

  “Most impressive, milord.” However, I was truly not the least bit interested in hearing of his hunting conquests. I let my shawl slip brazenly, glancing at him over my shoulder. In the flickering firelight, he appeared all the more like some character from a novel. His face, regal with his square jaw, and aristocratic nose and those dark glittering orbs washed over me with pure lust.

  He removed his jacket, dropping it to the floor, and untied the strap holding his hair in place. Dark and thick it fell over his shoulders as his predatory gaze held mine.

  “Shall I be your conquest this night, milord?” I teased, moving backward behind a chair ready to partake most willingly in the game he played.

  His grin was enough to show he agreed. I giggled while darting from my position, and hurried to the stairs.

  His hand caught my ankle and as I turned to face him, I landed with a resounding thump on the step. My gaze was level to the formidable package now firming in his breeches and I smiled as he drew his shirt out of his waistband and tossed it over his head.

  “Do you take me for a wicked woman, milord?” I asked.

  There was a measure of freedom in being away from the manor. Alone with François, my desire for him was unbridled, but I knew with a man of his position, I could not be too forthright with my regard of him. In due time, I would speak my feelings plainly. Our emotions were far too excessive to reason for the moment; I needed him inside of me.

  I spread my legs, watching his gaze darken with carnal hunger as I lifted my skirts higher on my hips. “What are you hunting today, milord?”

  His glittering intense gaze met mine.

  “As much as it would do my sword good to take you first on the stair, I promised you something special, did I not?”

  His breath hot on my cheek, he scooped me into his arms and carried me with utter ease the rest of the flight. I tightened my legs around his lean waist, purposely rubbing my quiver against his bare flesh.

  He gave a low growl as he paused at the top of the stair and pressed me against the wall, grinding his arousal betwixt my legs, our kisses raw and passionate, like animals in heat.

  His mouth seducing mine, he kicked open the door and I had only a moment to determine that we were in his bedroom. It was just as I thought it might look for a man of his position. Over the paned windows hung thick red velvet drapes. The walls were smooth gray stone, like those found in an ancient castle. There was little furniture, except a wardrobe and dressing stand. The greatest piece, a massive bed with intricately carved posts of polished dark wood sat in the middle of the room, draped with sheer curtains, so the bed itself was shadowed.

  It was by far, the most exotic room I had ever been privileged to view and I could hardly wait to see how soft was the mattress.

  He slid me down his body, my feet touching the floor, and a flicker of disappointment crossed my mind, hoping he would have ravaged me in his bed.

  “Take off your clothes, milady.”

  He stepped back and eyed me, his chest rising and lowering in practiced patience with his arousal, his hands twitching at his sides. “Would not it please you more, milord, to perform the task yourself?”

  His brow arched, but he spoke not a word.

  With quiet resignation, I complied, adding a bit of what I’d seen Betsy do on stage, hoping to add to his enjoyment.

  “Do you like what you see, milord?” I loosened the ties at the front of my dress, and peeled back the material, freeing my breasts and touching their tips. I glanced at him through hooded lids.

  “You are an exquisite creature, mademoiselle.” His eyes drank me in, his hands brushing over his thighs holding back his participation.

  I let the dress fall to the floor and stood before him aroused by the wicked way he stared at me. Being the object of desire has its rewards, if only temporal.

  I lifted my hair from the back of my neck and let it slide over my arms, settling on my naked shoulders as I held his gaze. Would being married to such a man afford an eternity of nights of exquisite passion such as this? I waited with a small sigh, matching his patience, for what would come next in this lusty game.

  He turned and with a candle lit a thin stub of paper, its tip fired with an orange glow. He drew the smoke into his mouth as he glanced at me, letting the smoke curl slowly from his naughty grin. I could not be sure but believed it might be opium. I’d heard rumors from Miss Farrington of such places, most dens located in the city. I knew not of its potential harm, but François was a man of great intellect and reason. I was sure he would only use it to heighten his pleasure.

  He held out the smallish cigarette to me.

  “No, thank you, milord, shall I turn down your covers?” I reached behind me, my hand ready on the coverlet.

  “Not just yet.”

  His voice was low, graveled with smoke.

  I perched on the bed and waited as he strode to a dressing screen positioned in the center of the room. He drew away the screen and behind it sat a large curved chair. Crafted well, it was made of dark, polished wood and topped with a thick cushion of gold brocade. It was quite surprisingly a beautiful piece—whatever its purpose.

  I glanced at his muscular back, leaning over to stroke the curved plane of the piece, in the same awe that one would touch a new carriage or horse. “What is it, milord?” Curious, I padded to his side and stared down at it. It had no arms, but it was as wide as a chair, yet much lower to the ground. As I inspected it, I was aware of him unfastening his breeches and letting them drop to the floor.

  “Is this not the finest bit of craftsmanship you’ve ever seen?” he asked, not withholding the tone of awe in his voice.

  “Yes, but what is it used for?” I queried as I trailed my hand from the low rise, into the valley of the chair and upward to the higher curved end. He came from behind and curled his arms around my waist, pressing his face into the warmth of my neck. The sensation was delicious.

  “It pleases me no end that you are curious, milady. Would you like me to show how it works?”

  I moved my bottom against his rigid cock, content to be in his strong arms. “Indeed,” I said, turning into his arms. He cupped my face and kissed me slowly and thoroughly, heightening my arousal with his tantalizing mouth. It crossed my mind to set free these tangled emotions inside and tell him without delay of my deep regard for him.

  He sat down in the curve of the chair, and offered his hand for me to step over his torso. Spread before him, his face level to my mons, I admit a shiver of wickedness made my q
uiver weep.

  “Let your back rest on the curve,” he whispered, his voice thick with arousal.

  I braced myself, doing as he bid and found the position quite comfortable, though it forced my legs into the air.

  François placed my legs over his shoulders, holding my hips in place as his wicked tongue blazed a trail up my inner thigh. I clutched the smooth sides of the chair as his mouth closed over my quiver, lavishing my rose.

  His fingers caressing my thighs and his mouth tormenting my peach, drew my body tighter into a heightened state. “Does this chair have a name?” I asked, breathless at his ministrations to my moist folds. His hands slid over my torso, giving attention to my breasts even as his tongue performed exquisitely.

  He glanced at me between my legs with a lazy smile. “Not yet, it is still being tested. I was most fortunate to know by another acquaintance, its designer. It took a great deal of money to persuade him to let me bring it here in order to test it for him. Come see for yourself the mastery of its design.”

  He leaned back, drawing me to him as he settled against the high curved back. In a euphoric haze of lust and affection, I impaled myself on him, taking him in fully. Pleasure, pure and freeing, caused me to lift my arms over my head. The sensation was unspeakably glorious. François lifted his hips, pushing deeper inside with a low groan, his hands covering my breasts.

  Indeed, the sensation proved divine and I pressed into his hands as I rode him slow and easy, my body reaching a dizzying state of bliss. From the corner of my eye, I thought I saw movement in the shadows, but quickly dismissed it in favor of the pleasure of François’s mouth upon my breast.

  “Good lord, such exquisite pleasure,” he muttered, pulling my hips to meet his steady thrusts.

  Lost in the rocking motion, flames of passion made my body slick. Coiled tight, I matched his fervor, my breath coming in short gasps. In the throes of my lust-filled delirium, I spied a movement once again and my eyes trained to the spot, yet I could not—did not want to stop the cresting wave of my body coming to completion with François.