The Secret Diary of Lady Catherine Bexley
www.escapepublishing.com.au
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.
About the Author
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.
Acknowledgements
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.
Contents
About the Author
Acknowledgements
Thursday 24 June 1813
Friday 9 July 1813
Thursday 15 July 1813
Saturday 24 July 1813
Sunday 25 July 1813
Tuesday 27 July 1813
Wednesday 28 July 1813
Thursday 29 July 1813
Sunday 23 August, 1813
Bestselling Titles by Escape Publishing…
Thursday 24 June 1813
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 t
highs. 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.
Friday 9 July 1813
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.
‘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 lo
oked 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.
Thursday 15 July 1813
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.
Saturday 24 July 1813
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.
Viveka Portman Page 1
