Viveka Portman

by The Secret Diary of Lady Catherine Bexley

  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.

  ‘Do you want my cock in your cunt then, Nancy?’ he grunted, slapping her flesh again.

  ‘Oh yes!’ the maid simpered.

  Without further preamble Lord Stanton slipped his cock into her soaking quim. The maid cried out loudly, in pleasure or pain, I had no idea. Then Lord Stanton began to buck like the stallion, as I often wished my husband would. He took her from behind, with the sound of his thighs beating against her as he plunged with ruthless abandon.

  Dear diary, whether it was the tightness of my stays, my prolonged crouch against the door, or the sheer excitement of what I had seen, I felt my head whirl, and I was fit to faint. I reached to my purse to take my smelling salts, but it was too late. I struggled to stand, felt myself stumble and fell to my knees.

  I simply could not faint here and forever be labelled in the eyes of Lord Stanton as a fainting peeping Tom.

  Alas, as I made to stand my nerve left me, and I crumpled a little further. It was then I heard my name being called.

  ‘Catherine?’ It was my husband.

  I looked up. I could feel my face pale as he strode towards me with wide, concerned steps. ‘What ails you?’ he asked softly, extending his hand and lifting me to my feet.

  I mouthed something wordlessly at him, my shame made me mute.

  The sounds of Lord Stanton and his maid continued.

  I watched my husband’s face, as the slap of flesh on flesh carried through the closed door, and the maid’s whimpers reached his ears.

  ‘What is going on?’ he asked, his tone turning curt.

  I wouldn’t reply. I simply couldn’t.

  It was then Lord Stanton gave a loud final guttural cry as he took his release. My Lord husband’s face reddened.

  ‘This is not something a lady of your breeding should have to endure. We’re leaving,’ he snapped.

  Without care, he pulled me by the arm, away from the door and down the stairs to the entrance hall where we were met by Lord Stanton’s butler.

  ‘Give Lord and Lady Stanton our regrets, and call our carriage,’ my husband growled, and with a polite nod, the butler immediately did as he was bid.

  As we waited for the carriage to arrive, my husband’s grip tightened on my arm. ‘Why were you up there?’ he asked, his voice still gruff.

  ‘I …’ The paleness and fainting fit over, I felt my cheeks bloom with heat. ‘You know how I detest talk of hunting, so I went for a walk, I wanted to see the commissioned portrait on the second landing, and …’

  My husband silenced me with a glare as our carriage rolled into view. The footmen helped me up, and shortly I was enclosed in the carriage with only my husband as comfort.

  ‘A lady such as yourself should not have to overhear things such as that …’ he began, his face grave.

  What if a lady such as myself wants to overhear things such as that? I asked silently. Does it make me wanton? A whore in lady’s clothing? The thought shocked me.

  ‘You are an innocent, Catherine. It is true testament to your gentle breeding that overhearing such actions sent you to into a fainting fit.’

  I said nothing for a moment, as I reflected on what I had seen. My husband clasped my hand with his in a surprising gesture of reassurance.

  ‘My lord ...’ I said. ‘Joseph.’ I looked up into his dark eyes. His lips curled in a smile as I spoke his name.

  ‘Yes, Catherine?’ he replied, his hand holding mine a little tighter.

  ‘I didn’t just hear what happened. I saw some of it too.’

  Would my confession shock him? Would it change his opinion of me? I had to know.

  I could see the lump in Joseph’s throat bob, and he hesitated a while before deigning to respond.

  ‘What did you see?’

  Now I felt myself gulp, and I held his gaze a little longer. He was a handsome man, my Lord Joseph Bexley, and my drawers were soaked with the moisture that relations with my husband usually left behind.

  ‘I … I saw Lord Stanton and his maid …’

  Joseph was silent, completely silent. ‘It does not do, Catherine, to belittle oneself by indulging in gossip.’ His rebuke was swift.

  I looked away, and fondled a bead on the bust of my dress; sweat trickled between my bosom and I wrenched the window of the carriage open.

  ‘I am not indulging gossip, husband,’ I replied, as mildly as I could. ‘I saw things, I don’t understand and …’ I faded off. I liked it.

  ‘How was it that you saw, when the door was clearly closed?’ His voice was hardening.

  I had the grace to blush. ‘I heard strange sounds as I perused the landing. It sounded like someone being hurt. I went to the door …’ I paused, ‘and I looked through the keyhole.’

  ‘And what you saw made you faint?’

  ‘It appears so,’ I agreed, though not for the reasons my husband expected.

  ‘You are a bedded wife, Catherine,’ Joseph’s voice was stiff, ‘not a maid. You know what acts take place within the marriage bed.’

  I gazed up at him, my body tightening with the tension that never seemed to leave me. ‘Yes, of course I do, but Lord Stanton and the maid …’

  My husband rubbed his chin with his long fingers. ‘If that was indeed Lord Stanton and his maid in the room, he has committed an unforgivable act in the eyes of God, a breach of vows to his wife and a shame upon his household.’

  I nodded solemnly, ‘I understand that,’ I spoke softly, ‘It’s just that …’

  My husband’s eyes narrowed, and the breeze through the window ruffled his black and grey hair. ‘Yes?’

  ‘The conjugal act that we partake in …’ I began with a heated blush. ‘Was not the act I witnessed at Stanton Hall.’

  My husband’s jaw opened, and snapped closed. ‘Was it not?’ he asked, and rubbed his jaw again. He looked away and exhaled loudly. ‘Really, Catherine, this is an unseemly discussion to be having.’

  I looked at my husband; he was clearly uncomfortable. I understood that, but the deep ache and longing between my legs made me bold.

  ‘I know, but I’m confused about what I saw.’ I pleaded ignorance. My husband surely would not deny his young wife answers.

  He sighed, ‘Then just this once, be free with me and speak your mind.’

  I smiled at him then, how easily he could be persuaded.

  ‘Thank you, husband.’

  ‘You are nineteen; I was a curious youngster once too.’ He smiled in return. This was all the encouragement I needed.

  ‘Well, Lord Stanton had his maid leaning over the couch and her skirts about her head. He smacked her bare rump as if she were a lazy donkey, except he called it spanking.’ My loins tightened at the memory.

  I could hear Joseph gulp, his hand released mine. He moved in his seat, and drew his coat tails over his lap. Was he concealing a stiffening in his breeches?

  ‘Indeed?’ he replied, his voice sounding tight.

  ‘Yes, and then,’ my pulse raced a little faster, ‘he struck her with his member before mounting her like dog does a bitch,’ I finished breathlessly. My breasts were heaving beneath my tight bodice and I began to feel flustered. I could feel my husband’s eyes linger on my bosom for the briefest of moments. I reached over and rested my hand lightly on my husband’s thigh. His eyes flashed, and a muscle in his jaw leapt.

  Dear diary, don’t think ill of me — but I wanted nothing more at that moment for my husband to lean over a
nd kiss me, pull me over his lap and spank my bottom pink, before passionately mounting me and easing this wretched ache between my legs.

  Yet he did no such thing. The silence in the carriage was deafening. He moved awkwardly again in his seat, and I hoped with all my heart that he may feel at least a little wretched as I did. I inched closer towards him and waited for him to say something, to do something.

  I gazed upon his face, eagerly, I suppose, as his lips curled to form the words, or kisses I hoped for.

  ‘I do not think this topic bears talking about,’ he said, to my grave disappointment.

  So there you have it, dear diary, the event I witnessed today has put me in a spin. I wait now, to see if my lord deigns to enter my rooms tonight. Is he disgusted? Does he think me a voyeur? I do not know, for he has not spoken to me since our carriage ride home.

  I have but only one consolation, dear diary. When he exited the carriage after our discussion, though his expression was dark, and his mood even darker, he was sporting a very hard cock in his breeches.

  Sunday 25 July 1813

  It is with a heavy heart and even heavier loins I write that my husband failed to come to my rooms last evening.

  I had Hetty draw me a bath early and waited for several hours, but as my mantle clock chimed midnight, I realised he would not come. I cannot describe the frustrations that ride me; I want to feel my husband between my thighs so desperately there is scarce else I can think about.

  As I lay in my empty bed, the images from Lord Stanton’s party raced through my head — the rosy buttocks and soaking quim of the maid, Lord Stanton’s raging staff. I found my own hand slipping betwixt my thighs. I knew I should not, but my fingers found that hot, moist place and the never-ending pulsing. I let my fingers roam and explore. I was wet down there, as I am so frequently these days. My hand glided through the tight curls that dressed my mons, and my fingers slipped between the wet mouth that hid beneath. I shuddered.

  I was disappointed, however — at that precise moment a sound outside my rooms came to my attention. It was that of hushed voices.

  Desperate to make sure no one came upon me shaming myself, I withdrew my hand quickly and dried it on sheets — then waited. The sound of voices continued. Who would be up at this hour? I wondered.