by Eliza Lloyd
As a lover, though, Mark was vastly superior. She could honestly say she was happy his mourning period wouldn’t end for months.
* * * * *
The double doors leading to the second-floor balcony were open and the curtains waved as a gentle breeze wafted in, filling the room with the scent of rain drenched earth, wild flowers that grew near the river and the reek of male goats. A rooster crowed somewhere nearby, though Katrina hadn’t seen a chicken coop on the property.
Other than the oddities that went on here, she really loved this house and its peaceful surrounds. Every smell in the country was pure and strong, the sounds like wind chimes; even now the wind in the trees caused the leaves to rustle in song.
Was it possible to peacefully wake to such surroundings when one had three boys? Or lived in London? She missed the sound of their voices and their occasional morning outbursts, but had a moment of joy thinking of them enjoying the same sort of day in Surrey.
She stretched clear to her toes, the ache a stark reminded of yesterday’s activities, and then rolled toward the warmth next to her, curling in behind Mark. She draped her hand over his waist, the light bed sheet between her forearm and his skin.
There was so much she’d loved about being married. Being a wife.
Waking up next to a man was one of them. It was certainly better than waking up alone, with the spot next to her cold and empty. And there were the smells of a man. She pressed her nose near his skin; light perspiration and some cologne scent leftover from his last shave teased at her senses.
A man one could be proud of, she thought. And that knowing the person next to you belonged to you. That he was all yours.
And there was the bit of self-importance in having a husband known in the ton.
She had felt that with Samuel. She had respected him and he’d done all he could to provide for the family.
But with Mark, everything was more intense. Magnetic. Captivating.
Oh, it was a beautiful, reflective morning and she felt a certain peace too.
The scent of bacon or ham wafted up the stairs, along with the yeasty fullness of fresh bread. She drew close and whispered in his ear, “I’m starving. I’ll be downstairs.”
He muttered something and hugged a pillow closer.
Katrina eased from the bed, moving as if her grandmother had taken possession of her body. Sore and stiff, she worked her arms and legs and bottom. Bruises had formed on her thighs. She twisted to see her backside, only to groan at the effort. It was easier to see the outline of Mark’s palm prints from the vantage of a cheval mirror.
She worried at her lip. The episode was full of strange pleasure and odd embarrassment.
“Breakfast,” she said softly, needing to be alone with her thoughts for a while. She slipped into a rail and robe then departed the room, glancing to see Mark’s head buried beneath a pillow and a blanket covering him from his feet to his bellybutton.
In a small room, wrapped with windows and a peaceful view of the backs, Katrina found the sideboard, laden with the aromatic meats she’d sniffed earlier. It was far too much food and she hoped Mark was hungry.
There was only one servant in the room, who remained quiet while she filled her plate. She spooned eggs, ham, steamed tomatoes and potato hash along with two thick slices of warm bread and slabs of butter.
The footman was there to help with her chair as she sat at the table. She smiled tremulously, aware those in the house knew why she and Mark were in residence.
Their activities weren’t so private after all.
Temporarily blinded by the search for pleasure, she was now faced with a moment of reality. This sort of liaison could ruin her.
She reached for the samovar, amazed to see such unique Eastern-ware on Lord Le Carre’s table. Katrina poured a cup of tea and then saw the Russian makers-mark from Tula. Mark said Lord Le Carre traveled extensively, so it should be no surprise.
In the recesses of her memory, she could hear her father say, “traveling to Tula with my own samovar,” with his heavy Russian accent. She chuckled. In Tula, samovars were everywhere.
Should she be surprised to hear a moral authority from her past? Papa was so careful of his reputation, and by extension his family. There was no one to stop her from enjoying this affair, other than her own conscience and, this morning, it was screaming to be heard.
If only she didn’t have three sons to watch over. If only she knew this secret affair guaranteed a happy ending.
Well, whatever she was feeling now, she’d made the original decision with a clear mind. And she meant to go on as she’d started.
The breakfast complete, she filled another cup of tea and headed to the kitchen. Mark had not joined her and she didn’t mind the time to herself, but right now, she needed some liniment.
She peeked inside the kitchen to see a single servant. Katrina wagged her finger and the girl hurried toward her.
The girl bobbed a curtsy, “Ma’am?”
Katrina explained what she needed; the girl smiled.
“Oh, certainly.” There was a cabinet on one side of the room. Inside were jars with stoppers and small tins with handmade potions. The girl dug around, rattling the medicine containers until she found what she was looking for and also plucked out a folded flannel square. Handing it over, she said, “Camphor and Florence oil. It will relieve any painful ailment.”
Katrina held back the embarrassment. She hadn’t said it was for pain, though it was. Goodness! What went on in this household?
Back in the room, she found Mark turned to his side, his legs drawn up, and facing the double doors with the full window. She eased the door shut.
“I’m awake,” he said, then glanced over his shoulder at her. “You already had breakfast?” He rolled to his back, stretched his legs beneath the sheet and punched the pillow behind his head.
“Yes, and there’s nothing left, I was so hungry.”
“What’s that?” He pointed his chin toward the container she carried.
“Relief,” she said. She shed her layers of robe then sat on the bed naked.
Mark sat up. “Lord. I am a cruel bastard.” He touched her hip, drawing his fingers lightly across her bruises. “They look worse today.”
“But they don’t hurt—”
“Yes, they do, or you wouldn’t have a salve to provide that relief you were talking about.” He pulled his sheet-covered knees up and rested his arms. “Hand it to me.” He wiggled his fingers. With the other hand, he made a pass across his face and into his hair.
“I can do it,” she said.
“But I’ll enjoy it. Come, now. Lay down.”
She stretched out beside him, on her stomach, and closed her eyes. He twisted the lid. Camphor wafted in the air. “Ew,” she said.
“The cure is worse than the ill?”
“Use the cloth. I don’t want you to smell like camphor for the next week.”
“Are you sure you are all right, Katrina?” He touched her lightly.
“We escaped London to be free, didn’t we? Unbridled passion? Naked frolicking?”
He ignored the cloth and dipped his fingers in the sticky oil. He applied it to her thigh first and worked toward her left buttock, rubbing in slow circles. “It was more than that. I have my doubts about what we’ve done here. What I did.”
She sighed. “Me too. Mm, that feels good.” She elbowed up. “Mark, I do not feel much guilt in my life because I haven’t really done anything. I have been the proper wife and mother. You have given me an opportunity for something new. So yes, I feel awkward—maybe even a little embarrassed—but we agreed to this.”
“We didn’t agree to abuse.”
“Is that what you think happened?” His hand made long passes up and down her back, with just the right amount of pressure. She lowered herself to the bed again. “I would love this every day,” she said.
“We still have a few days left.”
“I was hoping for many more.”
He worked the liniment over every sore muscle and then went back over her skin again, drawing lazy circles here and there. She sighed, enjoying the pure bliss. When he finished, he wiped his hand with the flannel cloth and closed the tin.
He settled beside her, bracing his head in his hand. She could feel his erection against her thigh, but he didn’t seem interested in pursuing sexual activity. “Have I told you that you are the most beautiful woman I know?”
“You’ve never said a word. Am I?”
He used one finger and brushed strands of her hair behind her ear. She shivered at the small intimacy. He might think he was imperfect, but Katrina was a bit blinded by his appeal, his manliness.
“Well, you are.”
She smiled. “What shall we do today?”
“I think it’s going to rain.”
“That would be a shame.”
“It would, wouldn’t it.”
* * * * *
Their last two days together at Le Carre’s large home at Henley-on-Thames was a short but idyll time for them.
Katrina, ensconced on a plush couch under the gazebo near the river, read one of Le Carre’s graphic stories. “I particularly like this version of Robin Hood,” she said. “Le Carre really does have an active imagination. Maybe I will get to meet him someday.” She licked her finger and turned another page.
Mark squatted in front of the outdoor hearth, striking a flint into the pile of tender. The day was typically English, some sprinkles in the morning and a cool breeze this afternoon, especially so near the river.
“Maybe that camphor would start the fire with more ease,” she suggested.
Mark laughed. “Or I could burn that book.”
“Oh, no! The writing is just so humorous. Do you think he will be in London any time soon?”
“You might start a correspondence with him. He’s very private otherwise, except in trusted circles.”
“It is probably a bad idea. Correspondence has a way of being found. I’m just curious where he gets his ideas.”
“His group of friends might better be called a group of degenerates. One doesn’t need to look hard for inspiration when one is sitting at the dinner table, conversing about an individual’s peccadillos.” Mark turned a little, planting one knee on the rock floor. “This house is full of little oddities, if you haven’t noticed.”
“We’ve been here for the last two days doing very little. Why didn’t you say something?”
“Because I was enjoying our time together and I didn’t want him to interfere. You haven’t heard the expression ‘curiosity killed the cat’?”
“Hm, not in Russian, or at least that I know of. You know something you’re not telling me.” She closed the book and sat up. “Tell me!”
“It’s more like something I’m not showing you.” He glanced up at the sky.
“We are leaving tomorrow. Please, Mark. It is the last chance I’ll have to see anything remotely improper.”
Mark braced his hands against his thighs. “If you insist. Since you own several diletto, maybe you won’t be so shocked after all.”
She pouted. “Do you think I am an immoral woman?”
He stood and held out his hand. “Hardly a word I would use to describe you. However, you are my mistress and some would call that immoral.”
With a quick tug, she was on her feet, one hand to his chest.
“Besides, if you are immoral, does not that make me immoral also?” he asked.
They took the short rock steps to the grass then headed for the house.
“You know how the ton judges its women, while supposed gentlemen are allowed to brush off any indiscretion,” she said.
“I can only answer for myself. I do not think less of you for your inquisitiveness, for your generosity or for your wickedness,” he said with a lowered voice and a one-sided smile.
She nudged him with her shoulder. “Thanks. I think.”
Inside the house, they returned to the library, and Katrina was a bit disappointed. “But we’ve seen everything in this room.”
“Not everything.” He walked to one of the bookshelves and reached behind a neat row of Debrett’s volumes with matching spines and polished leather.
“Ah, here we are,” he said.
She heard the latch give and watched as Mark pushed the shelf, which turned on some sort of pivot. Katrina crossed her arms over her chest. “I just got shivers. A secret room?”
He laughed but took her hand and led her through the short passageway. There was a fresh scent of polish; the room had been recently cleaned. Where did a man find such loyal servants? Required to keep such wicked secrets and walk about with submissive gaze and unquestioning devotion, as if they were ignorant of all activities.
“Not a secret room,” he said. “A sex room.”
“Oh, I have seen everything now.”
“That, my dear, remains to be seen.”
“Whips?” she said, approaching a display. She walked by, running her hand along the table edge but not touching the implements. And, blushing, recalled how one certain leather implement had been applied to her bottom. She felt the sting anew and clenched against an imaginary lash.
“Before you ask, I must tell you I have no idea what some of these are for.” He stood just inside the door and watched her.
Katrina stared at everything, as if she walked through the British Museum of Erotica. Except there were no markers to name the tools or toys or whatever they were. No guide stationed nearby to answer her questions. Her imagination had stopped cold, unable to travel farther down the dark paths of sexual exploration.
After nearly a full turn about the room, she said. “I am a naïve fool, aren’t I?” She stopped at a swing, connected to the ceiling with two large iron hooks.
“No, Katrina. Some prefer to live in darkness, others only want to glance at it from time to time. Others want to pretend it doesn’t exist. But I know one thing—I don’t want to be trapped in it, as some are.”
“Like Le Carre?” she asked. He nodded. “Why did you bring me here then?”
“For the same reason you wanted to come. Because I found in you someone who could walk with me along the edge. Explore those things that tickle the imagination.”
“But what have we found?” She fiddled with the odd accouterments and the rope that connected to the swing seat. And watched him. He spoke of darkness and chains; love was the ultimate prison when it was a one-sided affair.
“That we enjoy each other, with or without exploring darkness,” he said.
She must not look at him with such longing. They were friends and lovers. She did not want to spoil that perfection. Add wife to that mix and she would score the ton triad.
“I enjoy my time with you, Mark. I really do. Now, we leave tomorrow and I would have one last little adventure. You’ll have to help me. It’s a bit too high.”
“And you can’t figure out why?”
“Hm.” She hated it when he knew something she didn’t.
“Let me get a candle quick,” he said.
The sun was moving toward the horizon and the windows in the room were too the east. Mark returned with a five-stem candelabra, already lit, and she was no wiser to the use of the swing other than, as well, a swing.
“Still haven’t figured it out?”
“No.”
He stepped close and held the two ropes, showing the movement of the swing in relation to his groin.
“Oh! But what about these?” she asked, touching the leather belts.
“To strap your thighs in.” He made a gesture which was a little obscene but indicated the straps would open her to whoever was assisting with the swinging.
“So, it would be best if I were naked.”
“Everything is best when you are naked.”
Katrina laughed, then wrapped her arms about his neck and kissed him quickly. “This is a fabulous secret we share. Ten years from now, when I see you across a crowded ballroom—you with your new wife and m
e with my new husband—and our gazes meet—know that I will be thinking about this adventure.”
She reached up and grabbed a rope in each hand. Mark’s hands encircled her waist and he lifted. Wiggling a bit, she hoisted her skirt so that Mark could see her thighs—and the fact she wasn’t wearing underclothes.
“This is not very comfortable.”
“Imagine how it would feel if you were naked.”
“And my legs should be higher? Like this?” She lifted and opened her thighs. “Imagine how you would feel if I were naked,” she teased.
“I don’t need to imagine.”
“So, I should swing a bit? Is it like horseshoes? Or pall-mall? Aiming for the right target?” She kicked off her shoes, then leaned back to rock the swing. She wasn’t getting much leverage, so she placed her stockinged feet against his groin and pushed away gently.
Mark grunted. His lids had half-masted and he reached for the placket of his trousers.
She pushed again, this time against a burgeoning erection.
Katrina leaned back, her hair loose and billowing. She laughed as the swinging motion increased. Mark had to step back, and he placed his hand over his exposed member.
“I think you are defeating the intended purpose of the swing.”
She laughed and leaned back, accelerating the swing. “But it’s fun.”
Another pump and she soared.
The loud noise caused them both to look up. A crack followed, then she screamed.
Katrina flailed, Mark reached for her, but she fell, landing hard against an oak desk. Crumpling to the ground, she grabbed her shoulder, groaned in pain and then burst into tears.
Chapter Eight
Mark stared out the window for much of the return trip to London, but his hand cradled hers against his strong thigh. Katrina glanced at him. His jaw clenched with agitation, though when she whispered his name, he turned with a smile.
“The trip was wonderful, Mark. Please don’t berate yourself for my carelessness.”
He brought her hand to his lips and kissed the back of it. “I won’t forgive myself.”
“I will rest for a few days and no one will be the wiser.”
