Chapter Twelve: A New Day

 

 

My guardian is waiting for me as I enter the dining room, although this time the expression on his face is warm and inviting. Dressed in a lavish-looking coat, dress shirt, complete with cravat, and royal blue breeches, he stands as I approach. The ensemble is completed with a pair of fine-looking riding boots. My breath catches a little as I appraise him. He is so tall, so dark, and so debonair.

“Good morning, My Lady.” He offers me a broad smile, and pauses as I come closer, leaning in to kiss the fingers of my right hand.

I breathe in the smell of him, disconcerted to find it is exactly as I had dreamt. The lingering scent of his cologne makes me feel heady. “Good morning, My Lord,” I reply, all too aware of the tremble in my voice.

He hears it too—I can tell by the small widening of his bright eyes, but he says nothing, instead escorting me to my usual place at his left side. “Are you well?” he begins as he resumes his seat at the head of the table. “I have heard reports that you did not enjoy a good sleep?”

I blanch at these words, wondering how Lucy could have reported this news so soon. Shifting uncomfortably on my chair, I am reminded of my spanking yesterday, a thought which does little to quell my anxiety. I look up to find his green orbs drilling into me. I know he will accept nothing less than the truth, and I know the likely consequences if I do not offer it. My eyes look quickly around, noticing Carson at the far side of the room, pretending not to listen to our conversation. The prospect of disappointing His Lordship, and finding myself over his knee here—in front of the staff—propels the words from my lips.

“It is true I had a lurid dream, My Lord.” I regret my choice of words in an instant. Lurid? Why say lurid? I had merely only meant to intimate that it was not a nightmare. “It was quite startling, but rest assured, I am well now.”

His expression changes as I conclude, and as he puts down his teacup I can feel the tension rising inside of me. “Lurid?” he repeats. I feel the anxious butterflies within me stir. “How very disturbing. I wonder what could have brought about this event?”

There is a look in his eye which tells me that he very well knows what has caused it, but I choose to remain silent on the subject. Instead I pick up my knife and watch as the light from the window behind me catches the edges of the metal.

“Is this a matter which needs to be discussed in private, My Lady?”

I freeze, understanding his tone immediately. I look from him to Carson, my options reeling through my head. Should I tell him the truth as he has instructed, and face up to the implications of such a confession. Or worse still—should I tell yet another untruth, which I feel certain he is sure to uncover. I put down the knife as I answer him. “Perhaps, yes, My Lord,” I say. “Although, it feels indulgent to trouble you with such frivolous matters as the contents of my dreams!”

The remark is supposed to be jovial, and yet the tension within me resurfaces as I absorb the look on his face.

“Matters concerning your health and welfare are not frivolous to me, Lydia. They are now, in fact, my primary concern.”

I clench at the authority in his voice, wondering if my head is not still full of the dream. “As you wish then, My Lord,” I respond.

Satisfied for the time being, he returns his attention to his plate. We finish breakfast, breaking silence with polite conversations about his plans and expectations.

“You must write to your aunt, My Lady,” he says at one point, shifting his weight to impress upon me the gravity at which I should absorb the instruction. “Let her know of your safe arrival, and—I hope—of your intention to stay here at Markham.”

I swallow down the tea in my mouth, looking up to meet his eye. He still wants me to stay? The thought is somehow warming. “I shall do so, My Lord.”

He smiles. “Feel free to use my desk in the drawing room. There is good natural light there, and I find the gardens to be a constant source of inspiration.”

I flush, recalling my dream and its location with the grounds of the hall.

“Carson can show you once you have finished your breakfast.”

 

* * *

 

And so it is the drawing room in which I find myself some time later. Carson, having led the way and shown me where the quills and ink are kept, has retired for the time being, allowing me to finally be on my own with my thoughts. I sit at Lord Markham’s ornate writing desk. It is made of some dark red wood, and positioned next to the large bay window, the sunlight illuminates the scarlet hue. Collecting the ink from the edge of the desk, I take a deep breath, turning my attention to the long, impressive-looking quill at my right hand. I begin to compose my letter, telling my aunt about my journey, and assuring her of my plans to stay—in the short term at least. I write about two thirds of a page, asking questions which she will expect to hear. I enquire about the townhouse, her health, and her plans for the coming winter.

Putting down the quill, I glance left toward the window. The lawns sweep west to the right of my view, and behind me to the left is the edge of what looks like a deep, dark wooded area I have yet to explore. My eyes scan the various colours of the scene. The light green of the neatly cut lawns is contrasted to the deeper green of the ancient-looking trees. The view is innately relaxing, and resting the quill back in its place, I lean back in the hard-backed chair.

All at once my attention is captured by a figure heading into view from the trees. The tall, lithe form strides across the lawns, finding the path and then heading back toward the house. Before he turns, I know instinctively that it is him, Lord Markham—the man in charge of my life, who also appears to be haunting my dreams.

I watch him, peering closer to the window. As I do I feel my heart thrumming loudly inside my chest, its pace increasing with each long step His Lordship takes. It is clear that his attention is taken from the front of the house, and I see him meander casually in that direction. I move toward the window, straining my neck to the right to see what has garnered his interest. At the entrance of the hall, I see a carriage waiting, and then another person comes into view. It is a woman I do not recognise, and she approaches His Lordship with confidence. I appraise her mature looks. She is a lady much older than I, and based on the exquisite pale blue gown and bonnet she wears, she is wealthy. Her sudden presence is startling, and I draw back from the window, nearly tumbling over the leg of the chair behind me.

Reseating myself, I catch my breath, but my thoughts are irrevocably drawn to the scene playing out in front of the house. Who is it that His Lordship greets there, and what will it mean for me, his new ward? I take a deep breath, uncertain about what I have seen, but I feel sure that the identity of this lady will be discovered soon enough. Seizing the quill once more, I scribble the address of my old residence and my aunt’s full name, before rising from the desk with the papers in my hands. I will find one of the staff and arrange for the letter to be sent immediately. Making my way to the door, I find it opening of its own accord and it is Mr. Gregory who greets me. His round face forms into an insincere smile as I approach. “Excuse the interruption, My Lady. Lord Markham has asked me to invite you to the library.”

I still in an instant, my thoughts automatically returning to what I had witnessed transpire in the library the day before last. “Of course,” I reply, “and Mr. Gregory, do you think you can arrange for this correspondence to be sent to my aunt in London? I have included her address here…” I wave the top sheet of paper at him theatrically, indicating my intention.

His expression doesn’t change one iota. “It will be my pleasure, My Lady,” he answers, bowing low as he opens the door and allows me to pass into the hallway.

We walk the distance to the library together in silence. Two days at Markham Hall have not been sufficient for me to have grown used to the sheer size and finery of the place, and as we pass, the sight leaves me breathless. We approach the library, and Gregory knocks on the wooden door, waiting for His Lordship’s response. I recall how I had stood in that very position myself during Lucy’s spanking, and then that it had been Gregory himself who had seen me, and passed the information to Lord Markham. I flush a little at the notion that he could have any idea of the likely consequences Lord Markham handed out to me. Finally, after several long moments, my guardian’s voice calls out for us to enter, and Gregory falls back, gesturing for me to do so alone.

Irritated by the effect the butler has had on me, I move forward without so much as a sideways glance at Gregory, pushing back the door and entering, for the first time, the library at Markham Hall. I arrive to find a much lighter and airier room than I had recalled in the candlelit darkness of the night. A huge window sits proudly to my right, taking up most of the space where a wall should have been, and allowing the space within to be filled with sunlight. As I look around I notice that every other wall is lined ceiling to floor with books. The numbers here must be vast, and I make a mental note to ask permission to indulge myself in this room another time. The only wall not completely dominated by books is the one opposite the window, where a magnificent fireplace sits. Above this is a large mirror, which helps the light to bounce around the room.

Standing by the side of the hearth is my guardian, his long right arm supporting his weight against it. He smiles as I enter, his eyes gesturing quickly to the woman I had seen earlier, who is seated in one of the several oversized chairs placed by the fire. I meet her eyes briefly, finding a cold, steely grey stare my reward.

“Lady Franklin,” begins His Lordship, taking a small step away from the hearth. “Thank you for coming to join us.”

“You’re welcome, Lord Markham,” I reply, sensing the need to imitate his formality.

“I would like to take this opportunity to introduce you to my mother, the Countess of Markham.” He waves a hand in the direction of the seated woman, who forces her pursed lips into a small smile. “Mama, please let me introduce my ward, Lady Lydia Franklin.”

There is an awkward pause as the countess scrutinises every inch of my presence. Disconcerted, but not outdone, I move forward slightly as I speak. “It is an honour to meet you, Countess.”

I feel the weight of Lord Markham’s gaze upon me, and I have the strongest desire to turn and look at him. However, given the context and the current company, I dare not, instead forcing my eyes upon the lady seated before me.

“So, this is the young Lady Franklin, is it?”

The countess’ enquiry sounds almost sardonic, and is loaded with an unspoken resentment at my presence here, with her son.

“Yes, Mama,” interjects His Lordship as though he too senses the friction of the moment. “Lady Lydia is Earl Franklin’s only child. As you know he sadly passed away, and she is, therefore, now my responsibility.”

His comments are met with a loud laugh from the countess. “You know my feelings on this subject, Thomas!” She looks to him as she continues. “We spoke of them only the day before last—you are far too young for this burden. You should be looking for a wife of your own, not a ward!”

Her tone is unexpectedly cutting, and I recoil a little from her harsh analysis.

“That is enough, Mama!” Lord Markham’s voice is low, but firm, reminding me of how he had spoken to me just yesterday. “This has been discussed and I have made my decision.”

The countess looks visibly stung by his words. “Mark my words, Thomas. You will come to regret this decision of yours!”

Within two strides His Lordship is standing right between the two of us. “I said enough, Mother! Lady Franklin is part of our family, and will reside here at Markham for as long as I deem fit. If you cannot be civil then I shall ask Gregory to call the carriage back for you.”

I turn to the left and see his face, superficially calm, and yet simmering with silent rage beneath the surface.

The countess says nothing further on the subject, pressing her mouth into a hard line as though she is biting back her response. After a moment, she finally replies. “You would not dare to have spoken to me this way if Count Markham had been alive.”

“I would have never had the need,” comes his retort. “I am the Lord of Markham now, and my word is law in this house.”

I clench in an almost reflexive way at his tone, my tanned bottom understanding his meaning all too well.

Tears have formed in the countess’ eyes, and I notice her son’s face soften a little as he regards her. “Come now,” he says, coaxing her from her seat. “I will arrange for tea to be served in the drawing room. You must be worn out from your journey?”

She nods, and takes his arm as she rises from her chair. They move past me, her eyes never once acknowledging my presence. His Lordship however, stills and looks to me.

“Wait here, please, My Lady,” he commands softly. “We have much to discuss.” There is a twinkle in his eye as he speaks and all at once I remember our conversation at breakfast, and how I had alluded to my dream last night.

“Yes, My Lord,” I answer respectfully.

I watch them leave from the same door I had entered; the tall lord of the house escorting his much smaller mother.

Chapter Thirteen: A Frank Discussion

 

 

Time is so easily occupied in a library. I have barely assessed the books on the first shelf before His Lordship is back in the doorway. Once more I feel the intensity of his eyes on me, and I stop and look toward him.

“Is the countess quite well?” I ask him as he moves inside the room and closes the door behind him. My instinct tells me that this woman could prove to be poisonous in the burgeoning relationship between my guardian and me, and yet, as his mother she does deserve respect.

He sighs as he approaches me. “She is quite well—and full of vigour as you have seen.”

I cannot decide if his tone is meant to be sardonic, and so I choose to ignore it. “She does not approve of my presence here?”

It is more of a statement than a question in light of recent events, and yet I feel compelled to understand the reasoning for it. Why would His Lordship’s mother be so averse to me? I come from a good, respectable family; part of her own by distant marriage. Is the prospect of me at Markham Hall truly so terrible? He comes toward me, standing by the window. His face is now lit by the late morning light, illustrating the contrast of his dark hair and those striking green eyes.

“Her approval is not required.” His tone is clipped, and I wonder if I have somehow offended him again. The thought makes my heart pound a little faster.

“Of course not,” I reply, feeling flustered. “I meant only to say that I did not mean to offend the countess.”

His features soften as he smiles. “You have not, My Lady. She is very set in her ways, and has specific ideas about what her only son should be attending to. Apparently I manage only to disappoint her…”

His jaw tightens as he speaks, the tension remaining there as he muses on his own consideration. I feel it permeate through the air around us, all of a sudden unable to find the words for this moment. He lets out a long sigh, and I see him visibly relax as he turns his attention back to me. “So, My Lady. We need to have a discussion, as I recall?”

The soft, smooth tone is back again, sending the strangest sensations rushing from my mind to my core. “Yes, My Lord, I…”

I cannot say why I pause. Perhaps it is the look in his eye, the sheer intensity of the gaze. Certainly I feel the now all-too familiar flush spread over me as the reason for our discussion floods back to me. Can I really confess the true contents of my dream? Why has the whole idea of him spanking me filled my mind with such interest and excitement anyway?

He straightens in front of me, expectant. “Lady Lydia?”

The sound of my name on his lips makes me feel lightheaded, the heat of my body building into an intolerable burning. “My Lord, I am sorry, but… I think I need to be seated.”

There is immediate concern on his face as he assesses me. “You do seem pale, My Lady, perhaps you should sit…”

I hear his voice and am aware of the light streaming in from the glass beside us, but beyond that everything else begins to fade. The heat within me seems to peak, and all at once it is hard to breathe.

“My Lady?” His Lordship’s voice is alarmed, yet demanding. “My Lady, you must sit!”

My legs seem to give way underneath me, but in a heartbeat he is beside me, collecting me into his arms and carrying me with apparent ease to one of the larger chairs by the fireplace. He places me gently into the seat and crouches down in front of me. My eyes want to focus on him; on the strong and increasingly handsome face that hovers in my eye-line, but there is a compelling need to close them. Despite all of my best efforts, my heavy lids win the battle and he slides from my view. I hear his voice though, coaxing over me.

“My Lady, just relax.” There is anxiety laced into his voice, and yet I am frustratingly unable to abate it.

 

* * *

 

My eyes flick open, the crackling sounds coming from the fire easing me back into reality. All at once the events which have previously unfolded come flooding back to me, and I rise from the chair, certain that I must find Lord Markham and explain myself.

“Stay seated, My Lady, please…”

The voice comes from behind me, and gripping the arm of the chair, I turn to see him by the window. He moves toward me, those long legs cutting the distance in a few seconds. Deciding that now is not the time to protest, I do as he instructs, and slide back into the warm chair. By the time I am settled, Lord Markham has pulled one of the smaller seats from its place against the wall and come to rest before me. I swallow hard as I recall it was a seat just like this that he had been sat on when I had witnessed Lucy’s punishment the first night.

“You gave me quite a fright!” His tone admonishes me, although one look at his face tells me that only concern has caused it.

“I apologise, My Lord,” I reply. “I do not know what came over me.”

“Nor I,” he says, smiling. “You seemed well until I pressed the point about your dream?”

He gazes at me for a moment, pondering in silence. I feel my face flushing and I know he will have noticed. “Yes, I…” I pause, the correct words for this situation completely lost to me.

He takes a deep breath and straightens his body on the seat. “May I share a confession with you?”

I blink at him, certain that I could not possibly have heard him correctly. “A confession, Lord Markham?”

His eyes dance at my response, and I notice that he moves his left leg toward me just a fraction. “Yes, My Lady. In truth I ought not to share it, but if we are to be friends, as well as guardian and ward—which I very much hope we are—then I feel I would like to do so.”

I swallow hard, surprised and now intrigued by this strange turn in the conversation. “Please share it, My Lord.”

He stills, as though readying himself. “When I heard of the sad passing of the earl, I recalled at once the commitment I had made to him. Although I never expected his loss so soon, I knew that it would mean a request to take you as my ward.” He looks to me, those green eyes intense and serious. “I am not a young man, Lydia, but I have no dependents, and I was used to enjoying a certain lifestyle in the absence of any. I cannot expect you to understand, and I do not want to trouble you with details, but my point is this—becoming your guardian has changed me. It has changed everything. For the first time in my life I have more to think about then where to go hunting, or which ball to attend. My Lady, you have given me purpose!”

I watch him closely, seeing his responses as he speaks, and I am relieved to see a broad smile on his face as he concludes.

“Thank you, My Lord,” I respond. “I am truly grateful that you have taken this responsibility upon you.”

He nods, leaning in toward me and gently collecting my right hand into his large left palm. “I know, and I believe that we can make this work—you and I. I will have lots to learn about governing such an intelligent and beautiful young woman as yourself, and you, My Lady, you will need to learn to live by my rules.”

My breath catches reflexively at his last comment, and I find myself shifting in my chair. “I will try…” I promise, lowering my eyes to avoid the intensity of his gaze.

“As will I,” he assures me, squeezing my hand a little. “The truth is I did not know if I was ready for this task. I once considered that Mama’s opinion on your presence here may be correct. I wondered if I was too selfish, and if perhaps I should focus my attention on finding a suitable wife.” He waves his right hand dismissively as he recalls whatever conversations were had on the subject. “But now—now I know I have made the right choice.”

“Thank you,” I whisper, a little overawed by his admission. “I do not think that anyone has wanted to take such good care of me before, My Lord.”

He looks at me knowingly, and fleetingly I long to know what he is thinking. “For our relationship to thrive, My Lady, there must be ground rules. We touched upon a few yesterday, I think?” He pauses, his eyes scanning my face as it colours an even deeper hue.

“Yes, My Lord,” I say, feeling ridiculously heated as I remember my correction the day before.

“Can you recall one of my expectations?” he asks, one dark brow raising just slightly.

I suppress the panic which fills me at the unexpected question, and allow myself to be transported back to his study, to the things he had told me before I had gone unsteadily over his lap. The memories make me feel giddy, and I find my left hand once again gripping the arm of the chair.

“You expect respect, My Lord?” I say, presenting it as a question, although I know it to be truth.

“Yes, very good,” he remarks, as he pulls away from me slightly. “And what else?”

I am sure I tremble as the next word rolls from my lips. “Obedience?”

Even as I say it, the notion sounds ridiculous to me. Obedience implies I am no better than a spaniel, and I want to despise its negative connotations, and yet for some absurd reason the thought also sends a wave of excitement slamming through me. His face breaks into an unexpected smile at my quandary. “Yes, Lydia, obedience! You will obey me to ensure your development and safety. I will expect your obedience in all things… And I think there was one more thing we discussed?”

I take a deep breath, trying to calm my near-laboured gasps. “You asked for honesty,” I say.

He nods. “You are quite correct, My Lady, and thank you for listening to the things I told you yesterday. Honesty is essential, and that is why I feel so compelled to admit my initial concerns about our new arrangement.”

I think I am beginning to understand. Lord Markham wants to be honest with me; to share personal thoughts and feelings about the decisions he has taken, and in return, he expects me to do the same.

“I understand, My Lord,” I say, wishing to reaffirm my intention to at least try to behave as he wishes me to.

“Good,” he answers. “And do you agree that honesty between us is to be encouraged?”

I nod my consent, already fearing where this may be leading. “I do, Lord Markham.”

“Then we are of the same opinion on this, which pleases me, My Lady. Now, with all of this in mind, I implore you to tell me what troubles you, Lydia. Of what did you dream last night?”

I have all of his attention now. Every sinew of the gentleman is highly attuned to my responses. I draw in a deep breath, trying to imagine how this conversation will go. “It is somewhat delicate, My Lord,” I begin.

“Delicate?” he repeats, his interest clearly piqued. “How so?”

“I fear it is not a subject that a young lady should be dreaming about; even less so one of which she should speak about.” I know I am blushing again. I feel the warmth as it spreads across my neck and face. “And yet you have asked for honesty, Lord Markham, and so I am compelled to manage this rather inappropriate subject.”

If I had hope that my warning would rescind his invitation to share the contents of my dream, then I can see by his face that it is dashed. He sits, now on the very edge of the chair, visibly hanging on my every word. “Whilst I do not advance the idea that you speak of such things in company, Lydia, I do ask that all things be appropriate between us in private.”

So that is it then. I am undone. I must give up the secret longing portrayed in my dream. “I dreamt of your punishment, My Lord.” I force the words out in one long rush of breath, not daring to meet his eye.

“My punishment?” he says, yet again repeating my words back to me. “Do you mean, you dreamt of the spanking which I gave you yesterday?”

Hearing His Lordship say the words out loud sends a shiver through me. “No, My Lord,” I reply, my voice low. “I dreamt an entirely new scene, although I am sure that your actions yesterday were the cause.” I flush furiously, ashamed at my admission. “I swear I have never had such uninhibited dreams before now!”

He reaches forward and takes both of my hands into his large palms as he replies. “There is no need to be embarrassed, Lydia. It seems my taking you in hand has inspired new feelings in you? A sign perhaps that you did not altogether abhor being punished after all?”

I look to him, seeing the warmth in his eyes, and yet I can offer none of my own. What is he suggesting? That I actually enjoyed being treated that way? Like a naughty servant, caught stealing copper from the fireplace? Seeing the emotion in my eyes, he continues. “We discussed yesterday some reasons why one may desire such a punishment. Do you recall?”

Trying to catch my breath, I feel my heart threatening to burst with shame and indignation. I nod to confirm that I do indeed recall this, before a wave of tears fills my eyes. Seeing my upset, he places my hands between his own, gently caressing them with his top digits. His expression is warm, softening the hard lines of his handsome face.

“This is not easy for you, My Lady,” he says soothingly. “I have no wish to cause you distress. I desire only for you to understand your own responses.”

I compose myself as best I can without the use of my hands, drawing in a deep breath as I sit up straight in my seat. “I am sorry,” I whisper. “I did not expect to feel this way. I have never felt so before this.”

He nods his understanding. “I appreciate this, so please, let me continue. Yesterday you asked about release, and I tried to explain how receiving such a punishment can elicit certain release in some people.” He halts, and looks to me, as though he is trying to see if I understand.

Under the heady weight of his gaze I can barely catch my breath. Indeed, I do remember the conversation—in some detail actually. After the humiliation and shame of my punishment, it is this which has stayed with me the most. The idea that there could be some type of release after the spanking had intrigued me in the most unexpected way. For whatever reason, it seems I can understand the concept far better than I would have liked.

I risk a glance at his face, waiting for me patiently. “I do recollect such an explanation, My Lord,” I manage to say.

His lips curl into a small smile at my reply. “Perhaps it is this which you seek in your dreams, Lydia?”

The question hangs in the air, perfectly encapsulating my wonder on the subject, and articulating it in a way which sounds downright improper.

“My Lord!” There is shock in my voice, although in truth I feel none. The words are neither a question nor a demand—more an expression of the feelings I am hopelessly unable to express.

He presses his lips together as he watches me, biding his time. “Yes, My Lady?”

“I… I do not know how to respond,” I admit cautiously.

“Yes, you do,” he answers, flashing me a ravishing smile. “You are well aware of my expectations, having just discussed them with me yourself. We both agree that honesty is essential, and so, I ask for nothing more than this, Lydia.”

I hear his words and yet can barely process them. Surely he pushes me too far? He expects too much from me? How can I confess such a desire to anyone, least of all the gentleman to whom I am now a ward?

“Tell me, My Lady!” I can hear in his voice that his patience is beginning to run thin. “To the best of your knowledge, is this what you seek? There is no shame in admitting such things to me.”

I mean to reply, and yet a small sob escapes my lips instead. Shocked and appalled with myself for my own scandalous reactions to his treatment, I do not know what else to do. I must tell him the truth. “Yes, I fear so, My Lord.”

All of a sudden the emotion consumes me, and my tears fall hard and fast. Lord Markham pulls me toward him into a standing embrace. He holds me against his chest as I sob, lost to everything but the weight of the fear and shame I feel about my confession. I feel his fingers against my hairline as I cry, comforting me with his wordless caresses. Just when I think they may never stop, the tears finally dry, but still we stand together, his arms around me protectively.

Eventually I draw away, just enough to take in a long breath. I know I must look a terrible state, and regret that he must see me this way, yet more than that I deeply regret my decision to confess my secret longing.

“What must you think of me, Lord Markham?” I ask, hearing my voice racked with emotion.

Towering over me, he smiles, sweeping some rogue strands of hair away from my face as he answers. “I think that you are learning about yourself, My Lady—almost as much as I am. I know that I respect your honesty, and will cherish the trust you have placed in me this day. Know that no one else at Markham Hall will need ever know of this; it is but between you and me.”

I nod my approval, pressing myself against his shirt. “Thank you,” I whisper hoarsely. “But, My Lord—are you not ashamed to have such a wanton ward?”

To my surprise, he chuckles gently at my enquiry. “No, My Lady Lydia. I do not feel any shame on the subject. On the contrary, what I feel is good fortune.”

Chapter Fourteen: A Walk in the Rain

 

 

The words of my guardian ring in my ears long after the conversation has concluded. Stunned by his answer, I did not dare query him further, but remained comforted by his presence for some time further before His Lordship departed the library. Shortly afterward Lucy arrived, with instructions to provide me with tea and draw me a hot bath. I must admit that both served to put me in a much brighter state of mind by early afternoon, and yet—even now—I am astounded by what has transpired between us.

“No, My Lady Lydia. I do not feel any shame on the subject. On the contrary, what I feel is good fortune.”

What could this mean? How can he feel fortunate to have responsibility for a woman like me? I can barely process my own admission, let alone be prepared for his. Sitting at my dressing table whilst Lucy tidies my hair, I feel nauseous with shame. How can I have been such a fool? However I may feel, I should never have expressed it to my guardian. How can we move forward from this? Clearly the countess had been right all along, I am too much of a burden for His Lordship.

“I thought I might explore some more of the grounds this afternoon, Lucy?” I say, primarily in order to distract my reeling mind.

“Very good, My Lady,” says Lucy. “They are most beautiful here at Markham Hall.” I watch her in the tall mirror as she twists a curl of my golden hair and pins it against my head. “Shall I see if His Lordship is able to escort you?”

I flinch at the suggestion, wanting to delay the inevitable awkwardness I will feel when I do again face Lord Markham. “No, thank you!” I reply, perhaps a little too abruptly. “I do not wish to trouble His Lordship. Might there be anyone else who could accompany me?”

She hesitates, halting her pin-work momentarily. “Perhaps Mr. Gregory will consent that I do so? Most of my early duties are complete.”

I watch her reflection in the mirror with interest. She is a slim, pretty thing, and it is easy to see how she catches the eye of the gentlemen around her. That said, she is good at her work, appearing to be a loyal and efficient maid. With everything which has transpired in the last few days here, I must admit that I have grown fond of Lucy since our initial meeting on the steps of Markham Hall.

“My Lady?”

I realise that Lucy is peering at me, watching my blank expression, waiting for me to respond. “I would like that very much, Lucy. I shall speak to Mr. Gregory myself and see that you are given leave to join me.”

She smiles, and her fingers resume with the pins in my hair. I can see that she is pleased, but she resists the urge to say so. “Very good, My Lady,” she answers, concluding the final curl, before finding my bonnet and securing it in place.

Less than an hour later, having located and spoken to Gregory, Lucy and I find ourselves crossing the main lawns outside the entrance at Markham Hall. Mr. Gregory had initially been unimpressed with my suggestion, but eventually concurred that it would be inappropriate for me to go exploring beyond the lawns on my own.

We walk slowly, heading past the rows of ornate-looking flowerbeds and toward the trees. Overhead the sky has turned downcast, a wave of heavy cloud threatening an autumnal shower. For this reason, I close my parasol, holding it in my left hand as we move on. I glance right to see Lucy beside me, happily taking in the fresh air around us. The thought occurs that this may be quite a treat for a maid, who is after all, usually bound within the realms of the great house.

“Thank you for accompanying me, Lucy,” I say, garnering her attention. “It would certainly have been tiresome walking on my own again.”

She smiles, excited blue eyes meeting me. “You are welcome, Lady Franklin,” she answers. “It is an honour and a privilege to be able to escort you.”

I smile, exchanging pleasantries for a few moments. I have rarely spoken to staff at any length, and find myself genuinely interested in the replies of this young woman, who is not so different from me in age.

“Are you happy in service, Lucy?” I ask her.

She turns, my question clearly having caught her off guard. “Yes, My Lady,” she says, peering at me with wide eyes. “It is hard work, but I enjoy it.”

“And Lord Markham? Do you enjoy working for him?”

The question is rather more direct than I had intended it to be, but she doesn’t hesitate. “Yes, My Lady. It is an absolute honour to work here at Markham Hall.”

I smile, observing how well she dodged the original query. We walk on, stopping to examine some dying summer blooms. I listen as Lucy imparts some basic botanical knowledge she has acquired, nodding to encourage her to continue. All the while though, my mind is set on returning to my question. What is Lucy’s view of Lord Markham? Of course, she will know better than to voice an opinion of her master, but perhaps she will give more away in her intonation than her words.

We turn left, skirting the edge of the wooded area.

“Should we return to the house, My Lady?” Lucy enquires. “The weather looks set to shower and you have only your shawl for protection.”

I sigh, agreeing in principle with her statement, yet still wanting to gather more from our outing. “Perhaps we should,” I answer. “But I would like to complete a circuit of the house and see the back lawns.”

“Of course, My Lady,” she says, leading us back toward the bay window which I had been seated at earlier in the day.

“Lucy, you are aware of my circumstance. I am new to Markham Hall, and know little of His Lordship.”

“Yes, My Lady,” she answers warily.

“Perhaps you can enlighten me with some information about him? As staff, you will have witnessed many more of his moods than I. Tell me, is Lord Markham a fair gentleman?”

From the corner of my eye I notice her head rise at the query. “Yes, My Lady. I have found him to be fair.”

I swallow hard, wondering how to broach the next question. “That is good to hear,” I say. “I understand though that he is a strict master. Would you agree?”

We pass around the side of the house, suddenly dwarfed by its massive scale.

“He can be strict,” she concurs. “But I have never had reason to complain, My Lady… Not that I would!”

She pauses, unexpectedly turning to look at me. “It is not my place to say such things, but I rather think that His Lordship enjoys your company, My Lady.”

I glance at her small frame, watching how the growing wind collects the strands of hair aside her bonnet. “What makes you say so?” I ask.

She blanches, a small coy smile at her lips. “I have seen him looking happier in the last couple of days than I have in the last couple of years, My Lady…”

At this moment, the heavens seem to open and the clouds above us empty their cold October rain everywhere. We stand, shocked for a moment, before she grabs my arm and pulls me back toward the main entrance behind us. “Come, My Lady!” she calls, as we pick up the pace to a run. “You will catch your death of cold out here!”

We mount the steps of the grand entrance in record time, out of breath, and yet still thoroughly drenched though. Despite the wet and the cold, I feel exhilarated and cannot help but laugh as one of the footmen opens the doors for us.

“Lady Franklin? Lucy?” he cries, clearly not expecting to see the sight which now befalls him.

Making our way inside, we are met by a gentleman I had been introduced to as Lord Markham’s valet, Buckton. He takes the wet shawl and parasol from me, shaking his head as he takes the items away.

“Let me fetch you a dry shawl, My Lady,” says Lucy, looking full of guilt at having allowed us to stay out with the shower approaching. “Perhaps I should draw you another bath, as well?”

I nod in agreement, still smiling at our predicament as I watch her wet feet skip away up the staircase, leaving me standing in a puddle of my own. “Fetch me it soon, Lucy!” I call out after her. “I shall die of cold here!”

“That would be most unfortunate…”

The voice comes from behind me, and I know instinctively that it is His Lordship. I turn at once to find him standing in the study doorway, watching me with a solemn look on his face. I notice how dashing he is standing there, one hand on his hip, and I am instantly regretful of how I must look.

“I am sorry, My Lord,” I begin, trying to explain my current attire. “Lucy and I went exploring your wonderful grounds, and we were unfortunately caught in a shower.”

“That I can see,” he says, leaving the doorway and walking toward me.

As he approaches I become all too aware of my body, cold and tight under my wet gown.

“You cannot stay in those wet clothes, My Lady,” he says seriously.

I pause, catching my breath as his eyes take me in. They wander from my sodden bonnet, and seem absorbed in my exposed neckline and the tight buds of my breasts.

I force the air out and then back into my lungs before I reply. “I agree, My Lord. Lucy has gone to fetch a shawl and draw me a hot bath.”

“Ahh,” declares Lord Markham as his inquisitive brow rises once again. “As I recall, that was the last instruction I gave her this morning, after our… conversation?”

My throat dries of its own accord. I am unsure if it’s the cold, or the sudden sensual edge to my guardian’s voice. “Yes, I…” I hesitate, uncertain what to say to placate him. “You are correct.”

He steps toward me. “Let me remove this at least,” he says matter-of-factly, as he reaches for the ribbons of my bonnet. I do not move, feeling him tug the fabric, before stripping it from my hair.

“Thank you, My Lord,” I whisper, aware suddenly of his close proximity.

“Come and wait by the fire,” he commands softly, taking my right arm and turning me back toward the library. “At least you will be warmer there.”

“But, My Lord,” I begin, turning back toward the grand stairwell. “Lucy will be expecting me…”

“She will find you,” he counters, my feet already well on route to where he leads.

He opens the door to the library, his other hand still linked into the wet fabric covering my right arm. Moving inside, I am met by the smell and heat of the fire, and am instantly grateful for the offer. I walk toward the dancing flames, followed closely by His Lordship, who seats himself in the chair behind me. I turn, watching his strong jaw half lit by the firelight.

“Thank you,” I say again. “This is much nicer.”

He nods, gesturing for me to take a seat. “Of course, Lydia. Did I not tell you that it was my role to take care of you now?”

I smile, but as I turn to find a seat I pause. My gown is soaked through—the seat of wherever I sit now will likely be ruined by the garment. “I do not wish to spoil your furniture, Lord Markham,” I say, catching his eye briefly. “Perhaps it is better that I stand?”

“As you wish, Lydia,” he replies.

I swallow again, hearing that deep, rich quality in his voice.

“What an unexpected pleasure it is to spend time with you once more. There I was, working through many a boring paper which requires my attention, when all of a sudden the sounds of two laughing girls quite caught my attention!”

I flush, unsure if he is flattering me or admonishing my behaviour. “I did not intend to disturb your work, My Lord,” I answer quickly.

“Of that I am certain,” he laughs, “but a welcome relief it is nonetheless!”

I exhale, relieved that he does not appear upset, although there is an edge to his voice as he continues. “Perhaps though, you can tell me why you were wandering the grounds in this weather?”

I still, aware of how treacherous the route of this discussion has now become. “It was not raining when we left, My Lord.” I explain.

“No,” he agrees from his seat by the fire. “But it was overcast, no? It seemed a shower was likely? Did Lucy not advise you to cut your walk short when the clouds grew heavy?”

His tone is light, but I can hear the admonishing quality beneath it. For some reason, the sound makes my heart quicken. “She did, My Lord!” I answer, wanting to defend the maid who has proven to be so good to me. “It was my suggestion to continue.”

“Was it?” he says, his right brow rising with the enquiry. “Does that seem wise to you?”

I inhale slowly. “My Lord?” I ask, as though I do not comprehend his meaning, which of course I do.

Once again, I am aware of the weight of his stare on me. I feel certain that he could sear through me with such a gaze. “Did I not tell you earlier that I am now responsible for your safety and welfare?”

His question is loaded, and I nod as he speaks. “Yes, Lord Markham,” I admit, wringing my hands in front of me like a schoolgirl.

“Hmmm,” he says. “So you can imagine it does not please me to see you this way? You will become quite ill if this is to become a regular occurrence, My Lady.”

I flinch at his tone. “I am sorry, My Lord,” I say, genuinely rueful to have displeased him with such a trivial err.

“Are you?” he asks, standing without warning. He begins a small circuit of me. “You know, this little performance,” he pauses, and I turn to see his hand gesturing toward my wet gown, “arriving here in this condition, makes me wonder if you are not trying to land yourself back over my knee, My Lady?”

Once more his change of tack is startling, and I am left reeling. I hear him moving behind me, before he finally comes back into sight as he completes his circle. My breath quickens at the sight of him, his question pooling arousal at my core.

“Is it true, Lydia? Are you trying to provoke a reaction in me? Do you need to take another trip over my lap to remind you of my rules?” His voice is low and steely as he goes on, “Is that why you have disobeyed me, and allowed yourself to get into this state?”

“My Lord, I…” My throat dries as I try to speak, a low panic rising in me. The strangest thing is that I wonder if he may be right. Had I deliberately pushed the boundaries in the hope of seeking his punishment? I look to him wildly, unable to respond. I cannot deny that I am utterly overawed by this gentleman, and yet, I am also all too aware of the passion stirring inside of me, pooling in desire at the apex of my thighs. He is the first man who has ever stood up to me, and for better or worse, my body has been totally enraptured by the experience. Perhaps there is a part of me which craves another spanking? Had I not admitted as much to him in this very room earlier?

“I-I…” I stammer. “It was not my intention, My Lord!”

The corners of his mouth curl at my reply, as though he does not believe a word. I clench my intimate muscles at his response, half wishing that he would just turn me over his breeches right here and now, yet the other half fearful of being found by Lucy.

As though he can somehow read my mind, he smiles, visibly relaxing. “Now is not the time, Lydia,” he says, almost to himself. “But there will be a time, My Lady—do you understand?”

I understand very well. My inability to catch my breath is a testament to exactly how I feel on the subject. “Yes, Lord Markham.”

He smiles, once again moving to within an inch of me as his right hand rises slowly to my face. I feel the warmth of his palm at my cheek, and then the weight of his thumb as it caresses the soft, moist skin there. “I think, at this moment, that I should very much like for you to call me by my first name, Lydia.”

I gaze up at him, watching the contours of his face as they are lit by the fire. I can say nothing, feeling the loud thrumming of my heart within the walls of chest, my desire mixed with fear, awe, and uncertainty.

“Do you understand?” he asks patiently. “Do you know the name to which I speak?”

I nod, leaning in toward his gentle caress. “Yes… thank you, Thomas.”

The word sounds so unfamiliar to my lips, and yet it draws a sincere smile from his face. “I like the way you make that sound,” he says, leaning over me.

I blink upward, unable to take another breath. His eyes convey a meaning which I can barely decipher. The hand at my cheek falls south to my neck, before moving around to my hair. I feel the weight of his long digits as they bury themselves against the pins there, his hand holding me in place as they hold my tresses.

“You are my ward, Lydia, and yet I find I am inexplicably drawn to you.”

I do not intend to speak, but a small moan escapes my lips as his face comes closer.

“I have decided upon something…” He pauses, his face just inches from my own open lips.

I gape at him, willing him to continue, desperate to know which decision he has made. His expression is hot and intense, and I wonder if he really feels the same lure toward me as I do to him. “Please, Thomas,” I implore him. “Tell me what you have decided?”

There is a moment of silence, when only the sounds of the fire jumping beside us fill the room. And still, through all of this, he holds me there, leaning so near—and yet so far—from my needy body. Finally, he tips his head to one side slightly as he speaks. “I have decided that soon I will turn you over my knee to spank you for pleasure.”

Chapter Fifteen: The Countess

 

 

I emerge from my rooms with Lucy in tow. It is some hours later, and having been warmed by a deep, hot bath, redressed, and readied for supper, I am now on route to meet Lord Markham and his mother, the countess. I have chosen one of my more expensive and fine-looking gowns for the occasion, feeling the need to showcase myself for the evening’s audience. Nonetheless, I am unsettled and unprepared for what lies ahead.

There is a knot of anxiety in my belly about the whole affair. The prospect of dinner with the countess is daunting enough, without the backdrop of my last encounter with His Lordship lingering in my mind. I shiver reflexively as I recall the way he had held me by the fireplace. I remember the searing look in his eyes, and how I had trembled inside when he had requested I call him Thomas. Moreover, I recall how I had felt; the way he had made my body come to life with every word and each touch. I also remember his promise to me; that soon I will be spanked for pleasure, and not for punishment.

My head whirs with the idea, and I pause, reaching for a nearby dresser to steady me.

“Are you quite well, My Lady?” I hear the concern in Lucy’s voice, from beside me.

Turning, I smile to reassure her. “Yes, thank you, Lucy,” I reply.

She arrived just moments after Lord Markham announced his decision, finding me resting by the fire, as His Lordship read in a nearby chair. Of course, she mentioned nothing about the energy in the room, or the strained silence which met her, but somehow I am certain she was privy to it. After all, how could she not? Although His Lordship is my guardian, it is still highly irregular to find a young woman alone with a gentleman, and Lucy, I am certain, is well aware of this.

“You look pale, My Lady,” continues Lucy. “After your turn this morning, perhaps you should rest? I can give word to His Lordship?”

For one moment I consider her words. Feigning illness does present the perfect opportunity to avoid supper with the countess altogether; an idea which is unsurprisingly enticing. She has already made it evident how she feels about her son’s new ward, and I am certain to expect more of the same this evening. However, whatever her view, His Lordship has made his position clear, and my absence may only serve to increase her fervent objections. I weigh the arguments in my head, as Lucy stands by, watching me. An odd pang of guilt fills me at the prospect of deceiving Lord Markham; I know now what his expectations are, and the idea of displeasing him is strangely disturbing.

“No, I feel I am well enough to attend,” I tell her. “Thank you, Lucy.”

We make our way through the upper corridors to the head of the stairwell, before she makes her excuses and continues on to the servants’ quarters. I realise for the first time that I am beginning to navigate my own way around the maze of hallways; a thought which is remarkably pleasant to me. I head down the stairs slowly, drawing in a deep breath as I make my way left to the dining room.

Mr. Gregory stands waiting in the open doorway. He smiles as I approach. “Good evening, Lady Franklin.”

“Good evening, Mr. Gregory,” I respond politely.

“How elegant you look this evening,” he replies.

The compliment is unexpected, but helps to bolster my confidence. I nod to him, acknowledging his words without further comment as I pass next to him into the waiting dining room.

I enter the room, my head deliberately held high as I make my way to His Lordship’s preferred end of the long table. He rises immediately at my presence. The first thing I notice are his long coattails dragging across the seat of the dining chair. My eyes appraise him, rising up the length of his body to the strong jaw of his face. He looks astonishingly handsome in his evening attire, the garments serving only to elongate his already tall and powerful body. I catch the smile on his lips as he assesses me.

“Good evening, Lady Franklin,” he says. That voice… The sound of it washes over me, and just for one moment I want to pause and shut my eyes to enjoy it. I am momentarily transported back to the library, and to the intimacy we had shared. I picture his face in my mind, the memory of him just a few inches from me suddenly overwhelming. His lips move toward me, his hot breath upon my flesh as his mouth grazes mine. Yet, all at once the wanton image disperses and I am forced to compose myself, taking a deep breath before answering His Lordship.

“Good evening, My Lord,” I reply.

It’s then that I notice something else. The countess is already in place at the table. She is seated in the chair which has recently become my own—the one to the left side of Lord Markham. For some odd reason, the idea that she is at the place I consider to be ‘my own’ disgruntles me more than it should. For a second I freeze, my eyes landing on the lady across the table from me.

“Good evening to you, Countess Markham,” I say, intentionally sounding more upbeat than I feel.

Her eyes flash over me, as cold and grey as I had remembered them. “Lady Franklin…” Her reply is curt and uninviting.

Seemingly aware of the growing tension in the room, Lord Markham intervenes at once. “Please, sit by my right side, My Lady,” he remarks, gesturing to the chair he means.

Gregory appears, taking hold of the seat in question and pulling it back from the table. “My Lady?” he asks, offering me the place.

Smiling, I regain my composure as I seat myself. “Thank you, Mr. Gregory.”

I settle, permitting the butler to help me with my napkin, and he moves to the decanter sat between the three diners.

“May I offer you a glass of wine, My Lady?” he asks, turning his gaze on me.

I pause, my eyes quickly assessing the already full glasses at His Lordship’s and the countess’ places. I recall my first evening here at Markham Hall—just a few days prior—when Lord Markham had expressly forbidden me to take a glass. Since then we had both taken water with our evening meals. I look to him for a moment, then turn to Gregory to reply. “No, thank you, Mr. Gregory. Water will be fine for me, please.”

From my peripheral vision I see Lord Markham smile. I wonder if he is proud of me? Obscurely the thought that he might be is warming, and I turn, repaying his smile.

“So, how long is it that you intend to stay with my son, Lady Franklin?”

The sound of the countess’ voice slices through the comforting feeling. Her tone is clipped, somehow reinforcing my status as a burden on His Lordship. I sigh, a small sound that only Lord Markham’s ears will be able to discern.

“Lord Markham has kindly offered to make Markham Hall my home, My Lady,” I reply as congenially as I know how.

The lady across the table snorts, causing both myself and Lord Markham to look in her direction. “Surely you cannot be considering taking permanent residence?”

The discussion is interrupted by a number of staff, who enter the room carrying our first course. I feel my face colour at the countess’ tone, gripping my napkin at my lap between my fingers.

“This has been discussed already, Mama.” It is the sound of my guardian’s voice which breaks the silence around the table. “Lady Franklin is welcome to stay here for as long as we are both agreeable to the notion.”

The countess shakes her head, scoffing at her son’s proclamation. “Thomas, you cannot mean to say that Lady Franklin can reside here when you choose to take a wife?” She pauses, taking a sip of her wine. “That would never do!”

I watch Lord Markham’s face redden at her words. His irritability is clearly visible. “I am not prepared to have this conversation again, Mother.”

A plate of sliced meats is presented in front of me, just as the words leave His Lordship’s lips. I almost miss the look which passes between the two of them.

“Thank you,” I murmur to the young man who has delivered it as he passes behind my chair to attend to Lord Markham. Once we are all served, the servants leave the room, except for Gregory, who—upon filling my glass with water—falls back to the entrance.

“Do not be irritable, Thomas,” says the countess, her tone lighter than before. “I am thinking only of your future—your happiness.”

“I know full well what you are thinking about,” snaps Lord Markham. “Let us eat, now, before our meal grows cold.”

I glance up at the two of them from under my eyelashes, sizing up the tension between the mother and the son. I had always had a fairly good relationship with my father, yet with hindsight I can see that I was royally spoilt by him. As for my mother, she died when I was so young, I can scarcely recall her. As such, I am intrigued by the dynamic between my guardian and his mother. I watch, rather captivated, as the discourse continues.

“Of course,” says the countess, slicing a piece of beef with her knife and fork. “You must do as you will, Thomas.”

I hear Lord Markham inhale sharply at the comment. “I must, and I will, Mother. Lady Franklin is my ward, and she will stay here—with me—at Markham Hall.”

The authority in his voice rings around the room, causing my muscles to clench beneath my napkin-covered gown.

“As you wish,” replies the countess, clearly not wishing to rile her son any further on the matter. “What will you do with your time here, Lady Franklin?”

I am not expecting this question to be directed at me, and for a moment I simply watch her, considering my answer. “I like to embroider and to play, My Lady,” I reply between mouthfuls.

“What do you play, My Lady?” asks His Lordship, from my left.

I turn to him as I reply. “The piano, My Lord.”

“Good Lord!” he says, smiling. “A pianist! How fabulous. Perhaps you can play for us? There’s a grand-looking piano in the ballroom which rarely gets use.”

“A ballroom, My Lord?” I answer, genuinely bemused. “I have not yet found such a room on my journeys.”

“What a travesty, My Lady,” he beams. “We shall have to ensure that this is rectified at the earliest convenience.”

“Thank you,” I say, taking a drink. “I would very much appreciate it.”

“Aside from such frivolous activities though,” continues the countess, “how will you fill the hours here at Markham?”

“I do not know yet, My Lady,” I say truthfully. “I confess I do not know this part of England well.”

“You will soon be old enough to find a husband of your own, as I understand it?” she asks in a fashion which makes me believe that she already knows the answer. “There will be balls and dances to attend. Thomas, perhaps you should think about hosting one here, at Markham?”

“Perhaps,” agrees my guardian. “I will endeavour to do whatever I can to support Lady Franklin.”

I look in his direction as he makes this comment, but he does not return my gaze. “Perhaps there is some charity work I can assist with?” I remark, meaning to change the direction of the dialogue away from my courtship.

“Charity?” I hear the scorn in Her Ladyship’s voice. I glance at her across the table. Her face is lit by the flaming candelabra, and provides a striking contrast with the darkening view from the window behind. It is a mature visage, and the lines hide a severe-looking expression. She peers at me, clearly expecting an answer.

“Yes, My Lady,” I reply. “Aunt Jane and I would sometimes produce some needlework for local charities in London. They would help to raise funds for those who are less fortunate.”

This is both true and a lie of course. My aunt had indeed made contributions to such organisations, although I myself had rarely been so engaged.

“Why offer assistance to those who are weak and slothful, Lady Franklin?” she asks me disdainfully. “The poor are deserving of their position, as are we all. I have no interest in supporting them in their endeavours.”

I put down my glass, assessing the old lady with interest. “I cannot say I agree entirely,” I begin. “I think…”

“There will be time enough for decisions of this nature,” proffers Lord Markham, interrupting me with a smile. “Lady Franklin has just arrived. For now, it is enough for her to become accustomed with her new home.”

He turns to me as he concludes, and I nod at his words, admiring the way he has steered the discussion. Although he has cut my sentence short, I know it is I he seeks to support.

The meal passes with a variety of courses and conversations. The food here is utterly delicious, and I say so to His Lordship, who greets the news with a knowing nod. He speaks mainly to the countess, about family members I do not know, and the marriages of people they have met in society. I smile, making informed comments where I can, but on the whole, feeling a little ostracised from the dialogue. I notice that Her Ladyship leads the conversation, seeming to deliberately speak of people and organisations of which I am not acquainted. I wonder if this is not an intentional technique on her part.

After dessert, the discussions wane, and I mean to excuse myself. As the staff clear the final dishes however, the countess rises from the table opposite me. “I am most exhausted, Thomas,” she says, waving her arms rather dramatically to her left. “I think I would like to retire.”

“Of course, Mama,” says Lord Markham, rising to his feet to join her.

Instinctively I follow his lead, standing to mark her departure. “Good night, Countess,” I call as she walks toward Gregory, waiting at the entrance of the room. She pauses momentarily, but does not turn to meet my gaze. “Good night, Lady Franklin.”

Chapter Sixteen: Truths by the Fireplace

 

 

I am left in the dining room alone, Lord Markham escorting the countess to the staircase, whilst Gregory ushers the remaining staff away. I take a deep breath, relieved to have made it through the first real encounter with Countess Markham. After a moment, I rise, putting down my napkin and leaving the room where the others had departed. I wander into the imposing hallway, taking in the fine portraits once again. I muse that I might visit the library for a while and peruse more of the titles there, and yet just as I mean to do so, I meet Lord Markham at the bottom of the stairwell.

He is rounding the corner, his jacket undone, and his cravat lying loose under his collar. The look in his eyes is intense and devastating, betraying an emotion which he has perhaps been forced to keep locked inside during our meal. “How was supper, My Lady?” he asks.

All at once I am breathless. Whether it is trepidation or anticipation which causes it, I am unsure. “My Lord, your cook is nothing short of a genius.”

“Indeed,” he says, coming close to me. “I am pleased you enjoyed the fare, but I was thinking more of the company, the ambience?”

I still in his presence. He is close, so near to me again, and slowly I raise my eyes to meet his gaze. He is smiling, those full lips pulled into a smirk, as though he already knows what I am thinking. I look around us, aware suddenly that we are still standing in the middle of the entrance hall. “May we go somewhere more private to talk, My Lord?”

The words are out of my lips before I can censor them, but as soon as they leave, I am appalled at my wanton behaviour. A lady should never ask to be alone with a gentleman, and we both know it. “I mean to say, I would rather not speak of such things here…” I hesitate, embarrassed at my disgraceful performance.

He remains visibly unmoved, although the grin on his face grows broader. “If you so desire it, My Lady, I will make it so.”

He throws his right arm outward, gesturing toward the library door. “Shall we sit by the fire?”

There’s a light in his eyes as he asks, as though he too is recalling the intimacy which has already transpired in that location. A wave of emotion begins to build in me. It is a peculiar mixture of feelings. I am aware of the threat he poses; he has after all already promised to spank me again, and I remember all too well the sting of the last punishment at my guardian’s hand. There is also the risk that we may be found. We have already pushed the boundaries of convention with our unchaperoned meetings, and should word get out about our encounters, I know my reputation will be left in tatters. With the countess still resident in the house, I fear that she will be only too happy to help fan the fires of rumours which may tarnish my character if they are to circulate in society.

“I would very much like that,” I finally answer, my voice little more than a whisper.

He moves to my side, offering me his arm. I gaze up at him, and taking hold of his jacket, we move toward the library in silence.

The heat inside the room is dizzying, enveloping me into a sense of comfort and relief almost as soon as we enter. The darkened windows make the fireplace seem all the more alive, and in spite of a number of other candles lit around the space, the hearth provides the vast majority of the light. We are drawn to it out of instinct, Lord Markham walking me to the seat he had earlier occupied, before choosing the one opposite. We are probably only a few feet apart, and yet I wish we were closer.

“May I be frank with you, My Lady?” The sound of Lord Markham’s voice fills the air around me, mingling with the burning ash of the fire.

“Of course, My Lord,” I reply, trying to manage my wrangled nerves.

“My mother is a fine woman, and a lady of impeccable distinction, and by God, I do love her, but…” He pauses, allowing his eyes to devour the look of me. “Whilst she has raised her son to be a good gentleman; to hunt, to use his fine education to run the estate, to attend church once a week, she does not know everything about him.”

The tone of his voice sends the butterflies in my stomach fluttering around for good measure. I imagine we both know to what he implies. “What do you mean, My Lord?”

His lips curl in almost a reflex. I imagine him fighting the urge to control himself. “The countess does not know what drives me, Lydia, what motivates me. You cannot truly understand a man until you know what drives him.”

He stands, the speed of his action taking me quite by surprise. He moves around the chair to a small, freestanding table to my right where a decanter of dark gold liquid sits waiting. Selecting a glass from a number sat next to the decanter, he pours himself a small amount of the liquor inside, rolling it around the tumbler as he moves back toward me. “I have a feeling that you know more of what drives me than the countess…”

I do not know if he chooses his words to be deliberately enticing, but somehow, irrevocably, I cannot find them to be otherwise. I swallow hard, breathless and feeling the growing heat of my body goading me. “Please explain, My Lord,” I implore him nervously. “You are making me uneasy.”

It is both the truth and a lie, but I hope it will inspire Lord Markham to sit once again—his presence when standing is simply too overawing. He sighs, a low breath escaping his full lips, but he does as I had hoped and retreats slowly to his chair. Falling back into its soft confines, he hooks one long leg up over the other.

“My apologies, Lydia,” he says evenly. “That was not my intention, at least, not yet…”

My eyes fly to him as the final words roll from his lips, our gazes meeting in an intense moment of silence. My heart pounds so loudly beneath my gown that it threatens to rise into my throat. He smiles, breaking the tangible tension between us, before taking the tumbler toward his lips.

“Let us not talk of the countess any more, but instead, let us speak about you, Lydia. You have been here only a few days. No time at all, not even a week, and yet in this time you have uncovered things about me—about the way I run my household. Other people do not know these things.”

My throat is dry as I process his words. Can he really be referring to the way he likes to discipline his staff? The way he disciplined me? “I… I am not certain how to respond, My Lord,” I answer honestly.

He laughs, an oddly gentle sound. “Very wise, Lydia,” he says. “Very wise. You never know what might land you back over my lap, do you? But then—that is what you desire, is it not?”

I gasp, a sound I did not intend to make out loud. “Is this what you mean, My Lord? That I have uncovered the way you discipline at Markham Hall?”

“Yes,” he laughs, louder this time. “But you see, Lydia, I do not spank merely to enact discipline.” He pauses, leaning in toward me as he speaks. “I spank for desire—for the release that it brings. It is the same desire, I think, which has so inspired your interest in spanking. Am I correct?”

I can barely breathe, stunned as I am. For all of our eloquent discussions and recent intimacies, I could never have imagined a scene such as this. My guardian, a gentleman of high regard, who until very recently was a sought-after bachelor with no dependents, is disclosing the details of his darkest and most personal desires. I look to him, fascinated by this unexpected honesty. “I think so. Yes, My Lord.” I sound hoarse, my voice a deep and raspy sound I do not recognise.

He waves the glass under his nose, briefly closing his eyes as the liquor moves beneath it. “It is quite the uncommon scenario we find ourselves in, My Lady.” As he looks up at me once again, I notice his large green eyes are dancing. “I am your guardian, the man who likes discipline and order, and finds release in delivering it. And you, Lydia, seem rather accustomed to having your own way, yet you find yourself under my care and protection, and for the first time you begin to crave that same discipline and order. From my own hand, nonetheless?”

I flush at his accurate description of the situation, pressing my hands into my lap. Looking up, I see him considering me thoughtfully, but he rises once again and places the remainder of his drink by the hearth to his right. “I mean not to embarrass you, My Lady,” he says, walking toward me. “My intention is only to be honest. I desire honesty between us in all things.”

He stands beside my chair, blocking my view to the fireplace as he holds out his hand to me. I take it reflexively, looking to him as I stand beside him.

“I appreciate your honesty, My Lord, I really do… And yet the prospect to which you speak is daunting. It frightens me…” I stop, as though I am shocked by the truth coming from my own mouth.

He draws my left hand toward him and against his body. I inhale sharply, eyeing him frantically as my arm brushes the edge of his torso. “I understand, Lydia, believe me. If you can bring yourself to trust in me, then you have nothing to fear. I may discipline you, and I may cause you pain, but I will never inflict real damage upon you. Remember, you are mine—my legal ward and responsibility. In addition, I find that I am starting to grow rather fond of you. Do you understand?”

His eyes bore into me, mining my own for comprehension. I shudder, giddy under the weight of his intensity. He is fond of me? What can that mean? I steel myself to respond. “I… I don’t know, My Lord.”

In an instant his left arm is around me, snaking against my waist and propping me up. At the same time, his right hand comes to rest under my chin. Gently, he tips it upward, ensuring my gaze meets his own. “You trusted me yesterday, to punish you?”

I smell the warm scent of liquor on his breath. It mingles with the heat of the fire behind him, making me feel a little woozy. “I had no choice, My Lord,” I reply, meaning to imply my protestation, although my voice sounds rather more soft than I had intended.

He smiles. “True,” he says, his digits stroking my jawline, “and yet there is always a choice. You could choose to leave Markham Hall this very evening if you so desired to.”

I swallow, accepting his words with a small nod. “I do not desire it,” I whisper.

“I know,” he answers, “and I must confess that I am glad of it.”

I want to smile at the admission, but the butterflies in my belly will not cease. Instead, they fly, exacerbating my anxiety. “My Lord,” I begin breathlessly. “I must confess that being here, being with you, it makes me feel things which I have never felt before.”

He swallows hard, watching me, as his fingers pursue a trail down my neckline. “I know, I think, to what you refer.”

“You do?” I ask, surprised at my boldness and his answer in equal measure. As his fingers reach the top of my gown, I find I am nearly panting at the feeling of his touch against my skin.

“Lydia.” His tone oozes some evocative power. “Of course I do. I am drawn to you in really the most compelling way, and it is quite unexpected. I had assumed being your guardian would involve keeping you safe, and being your moral compass until such time that you are ready to be a wife, but now I find…” He pauses, his eyes suddenly serious. “Now I find that rather than protect your morality, I wish to mould it to my own liking. It is really not befitting of a gentleman, and as such I must apologise.”

As he concludes, his fingers move north to the edge of my shoulder, where my dress meets its sleeve. He slides his thumb just under the hem, caressing the skin underneath casually. I exhale in a rush, aware of the energy his touch creates, as though a thousand small fires have just been lit under the surface of my flesh.

“You speak of punishment, My Lord?” I enquire, trying to get my breathing under control. “You mean that you wish to spank me for reasons other than my correction?”

“Yes,” he purrs, smiling. “I will put you over my knee to discipline you—you can be sure of that—but I want far, far more than this. I want to show you a world you are as yet unaware of. A world of deep, dark pleasure… And yet I know it to be wrong.”

“It is wrong,” I agree in a strained whisper, feeling the journey of his fingers moving down toward my chest. Desire burns within me for the very first time; all feelings before this just a precursor to this new, burgeoning need. It whips around my mind, through my body, culminating between my thighs. “I cannot think it to be anything otherwise.”

He laughs, a dark and dangerous sound. “Your mouth knows the appropriate words, and yet your body betrays your real feelings on the subject, Lydia.”

I sigh, knowing it to be true. “Yes, My Lord.”

His hand ceases its small caresses, rising back to my face in an instant. He plunges his fingers into my hair, causing large sections to fall from their carefully pinned places. “What did I ask you to call me in private, Lydia?”

I gasp at his change of pace and the forcefulness of his hand. “Thomas,” I pant, watching him with wide eyes. “You asked me to call you Thomas, My Lord.”

He draws his body closer to me, the length of his taut thighs brushing the edge of my body. “By God, I want to devour you, Lydia Franklin. I want to redden your backside, and take you to the precipice of ecstasy.” His lips stray toward my face, now surely just an inch from me. “I know I should not, and how it torments me!”

I am frozen to the spot, held fast by his words as much as his hands. “I do not mean to torment you, Thomas…”

“I know, sweet Lydia,” he says seductively. “And yet here you are, your full lips open, your cheeks flushed, your breath warm upon me, and torment me you do…”

Chapter Seventeen: Pleasure

 

 

The knock on the door startles us both, breaking the hypnotic quality of the moment in an instant. Instinctively I jump backward, flattening down my dishevelled locks as best I can without the help of a maid or mirror. My eyes jump to his, imploring him in silence, ‘no one can see us this way!’

He pauses, taking a deep breath, visibly letting the feelings wash over him, before whispering to me, “Sit, Lydia!” He gestures to the chair I had occupied earlier, and I scurry to obey, fussing with the loose strands of hair now flailing around my face.

“Yes!” he calls out, already striding toward the door.

I hear it open, although I dare not look around to face the caller.

“Good evening, My Lord.” It is Gregory’s voice. “Excuse the interruption.”

“It is quite alright, Gregory,” replies Lord Markham. “Is everything as it should be?” His voice is slightly strained, and I wonder if Mr. Gregory will notice.

“Yes, My Lord,” answers the butler, “you can rest assured of that. I merely wanted to let you know that I am going to retire for the evening, unless you require me for something else first?”

The question hangs in the air, and my mind is transported immediately to the night I had seen Lucy spanked.

“Are there issues to which I have not been made aware?” asks His Lordship, deliberately wording his question to take account of my presence.

Gregory pauses knowingly. “Nothing to which I cannot manage, My Lord, if you so wish?”

“I do, thank you, Gregory. The countess has already gone to bed. Her lady’s maid is not in attendance, so please ensure that Lucy is on hand should she require it. I too will soon retire for the night, as will Lady Franklin. Send Lucy to attend to her, but after that, see that neither of us are disturbed.”

I turn my head toward the door for the first time at the sound of my name, seeing Gregory standing in the entrance.

“Very good, My Lord,” replies Gregory. “Good night, My Lord, and you too, Lady Franklin.”

He smiles as he backs out of the door, and instinctively I wonder if he is aware of what has just transpired between me and his master.

As the door closes, Lord Markham spins on his heel to face me. “Rise, Lydia,” he says evenly. “It is time for bed.”

I comply as if in a dream, moving weightlessly from the chair to the doorway, accompanied by my guardian. We cross the main hall, His Lordship acknowledging two footmen who greet us.

Lucy appears from the kitchens, bobbing into a low curtsey. “Good evening, My Lady,” she says, smiling. “May I help you to retire?”

I nod, dazed by the rush of emotions I feel. “Thank you,” I manage to say, and then as we ascend the first step, I turn back to where His Lordship stands. “Good night, My Lord.”

His brow arches at my words, and he smiles. “Good night, Lady Franklin.”

I climb the stairs, travelling back to my room with Lucy in near silence. The whole time my mind is occupied only with thoughts of Thomas and our earlier exchange. Surely I imagined the conversation between us? He could not have meant the things he had said, and frankly, neither could I. I cannot afford to give up my reputation, whatever the strength of the feelings I feel, so why do I choose to dwell on them?

Lucy, sensing that I am deep in thought, is thankfully quiet, instead choosing to help me undress without a passing remark. She is silent even as she unpins my obviously unkempt hair, although I am sure she must query it. Soon enough I am ready for bed. She turns down my covers and moves to the window, drawing the long drapes to shield the room from the outside moonlight.

“Is there anything else I can do for you, My Lady?” she asks attentively.

“No, thank you, Lucy,” I say, even now distracted.

“Then I wish you a good sleep,” she says, bobbing into a small curtsey, before she turns to leave my rooms.

I perch on the edge of the bed, the length of my pale gown skimming the deep fibres of the rug below. I am still utterly engaged by my feelings for my guardian, and the way my body has reacted to him. I sigh deeply, and take a sip of water to my drying throat, feeling the soft whir of the energy inside of me. Never before have I experienced such odd emotional reactions to someone, but then, never before has anyone ever been so bold and honest around me. Lord Markham—Thomas—is most unlike any gentleman I ever met before.

I sit this way for some moments, entranced by my own internal monologue as I replay pieces of the interaction in the library. I recall his proximity, and the intoxicating scent of his hot breath upon my neck. I remember the feeling of his fingers on me; in my hair and trailing down my shoulders. Even now, I feel my nipples budding into hard little knots at the thought of it.

My deliberations are interrupted by a soft knock at my door. It is gentle, and yet I know instinctively that it is not Lucy.

My heart has picked up its own relentless rhythm as I answer. “Yes?”

The handle of the door lowers slowly, and I see it open a small fraction of the way into the room. I jump to my feet, aware that this is definitely not Lucy. No servant would ever enter without introducing themselves. The door opens wider to reveal Lord Markham standing in the doorway. The knot of excitement in my belly twists, sending the air rushing from me.

“My Lord?” I say, hearing the tremble in my voice. “Thomas?”

He smiles knowingly. “Lydia…” He breathes my name, speaking it as though it is the air he needs to live. “May I enter?”

I pause, knowing that I should refuse him. No decent lady should intentionally invite a gentleman into her bedchamber, and yet both of us know that I am about to do so. “Yes, Thomas,” I hear myself say, and I watch, enraptured, as he steps forward, closing the door tightly behind him.

He stands there, the image of handsome, towering over me in just his breeches and dress shirt. “Forgive me, Lydia,” he breathes, already striding over to where I stand waiting. “I know I should not have come here, and yet, I know it is what we both desire.”

His hands find my hair, drawing his digits down its free length and gently pulling my head backward. “Look at you,” he whispers from over me. “You look even more entrancing with your hair this way.”

I close my eyes at the compliment, willing his touch to continue. His fingers hold my head still, whilst his other hand is free to roam the length of the thin fabric against my skin. He moves closer to me, pressing his breeches against me. I am lost utterly to the feelings; the sensation of his warm skin enveloping me, sending out shockwaves through my tightly wound body. He twists his hips inward, and all at once I am privy to the hardness at his groin.

“Lydia…”

The sound of my name draws my eyes open once again, and I find him right there with me. Those green eyes drilling into me.

“Thomas, I…” The words catch in my throat at the sight of him. “I do not know what to do…” I sound pitiful, desperate and I mean to reproach myself.

He smiles at me, his eyes warm, but no less hungry. “You need only obey, Lydia,” he reminds me, the words now nothing short of a carnal threat.

I flush, suddenly panicked at what he intends. “My Lord, I cannot… I mean, I want to, but I must not!” I have heard whispers of the sensual act played out between gentlemen and their wives, but know none of the details. The pulse at the apex of my thighs though gives me an idea of what Lord Markham may have in mind.

“Hush,” he says, using his left hand to spank my behind gently as he speaks. “A cad I may be, but I am not a total fiend, Lydia. I mean not to take you that way, although by God I do desire it.” There is a low, erotic sound to his voice that seems to liquefy my insides.

“Then what, Thomas?” I ask, allowing my hands to explore his back and shoulders for the first time. “What do you intend?”

He smiles. It is sensual yet innately predatory. “I promised you a spanking for pleasure, My Lady, and that is exactly what you will get.”

“For release?” I ask, feeling myself tremble against him. “I have never…”

He halts my words with a second, much firmer swat to my backside. “Yes, release,” he murmurs into my hair. “Sweet, hot release, Lydia. But first you must earn it, and you will do so over my lap.”

He pulls me toward the bed, and I move with him unthinkingly. In a flash he is seated there, and I am standing before him, flushed and panting. “Remove your nightgown, Lydia.”

His voice is almost hypnotic, and yet I hesitate, stunned at the request. “Thomas? I am bare beneath it.”

“I am counting on it,” he smirks, appraising me. “Now, do not keep me waiting, Lydia. Take off the gown.”

I swallow hard, watching him. Is this really what I want? Only maids have seen me bare in the past, and even then only for brief, fleeting moments. Can I manage the ignominy of Thomas Markham doing so now?

“Lydia?” His tone is deeper and clipped, and instinctively it makes me move. I scurry to remove the garment protecting my modesty, fingering the sleeves until the dress drops from my body to a pool at my feet.

I stand nude before him, the man who has become not only my guardian, but the centre of my entire world. I pull the air into my mouth, intoxicated by the way I feel. To be this way with Lord Markham is wrong, and yet it seems we are both compelled by the sensations which have led to this moment. I am anxious, and almost fearful; the most vulnerable I have ever been in my life. At the same time, I am oddly empowered by the experience. I look up, daring to gaze into his eyes, and I see the fire in them, aware that it burns only for me. The thought makes me feel wild and wanton—quite unlike the Lady Franklin I have always been until now.

“I should not be seen this way, My Lord,” I whisper. “Only my husband should see me bare.”

Thomas opens his mouth to reply, and yet for a long moment there is no sound. Eventually, he finds the will to speak. “You are exquisite, Lydia.”

I pant at his words, caught completely in the contradiction of this bizarre occurrence. I must not do this; I should not allow it, and yet I want him to spank me again—of that there is no doubt. I have been consumed with the memories of both the spanking I had witnessed, and the one which I had experienced at his own hand. The idea that I might never feel the weight of his palm against my bare backside is suddenly all too much.

“Come to me,” he says, his voice an ocean of calm in my stormy skies.

I take a step forward, feeling the warmth of the candles away to my left, and my feet against the rug as I go. I swallow as I approach him, now just inches from where he sits.

“You would like for me to spank you, yes?”

I look to him, as though hypnotised by the very idea. “Yes, although I confess, I do not know why I should desire such a thing.”

“No one knows why they desire the things which drive them, and yet drive them they do.” His right hand reaches for me, grabbing my left arm and gently pulling me into the space between his breeches. Even sitting upright he is so tall that his face very nearly meets my own. I stand just a few inches above him, falling into the mesmerising green of his eyes. “Will you trust me, Lydia, to bring you pleasure?”

I gasp, aware all at once of the precipice at which we stand. Should I agree, things can surely never be the same between Lord Markham and me. I wonder, as my nipples tighten into hard knots before him, if things ever could now whatever I say? “I do trust you,” I respond breathlessly.

He smiles, releasing my arm and drawing his hand down the length of my palm until it falls to my hip. I feel giddy at his proximity, painfully aware of how close he is to the summit of my desire. “Fold yourself over my knees,” he says, his voice even and full of quiet authority.

Instinctively I pause, looking to his eyes for the reassurance I need before I yield. He blinks up at me, holding onto his patience as he watches me closely. “Now, Lydia, or I will be tanning your beautiful backside for your very wilful disobedience.”

I move, feeling the energy coursing through my body as I scurry to obey. I skip to his right hand side, so that my back faces the door to my bedroom, and then stretch myself out over his lap. I make use of the bed, resting most of my upper body and my head against my soft covers, whilst leaving my bare bottom upturned and defenceless over his legs. He shifts beneath me, his right hand instantly moving to my vulnerable cheeks and caressing the skin there.

“That’s right,” he soothes from over the top of me, “yet we both know that this is not the correct position for a wilful woman such as yourself, is it, Lydia?”

I freeze at his question, wondering to what he refers. “Thomas?” I ask, my voice trembling.

“Place your head down over my lap, against the rug below should you need to rest it. That is the correct way for a naughty girl like you to be spanked, is it not?” He sounds excited as he instructs me, and the thought spurs me on. Whilst I do not want to leave the safety and comfort of my bed, I do not want to upset him either, so with some reluctance, I shift my weight, slowly moving so that my whole upper body now hangs over His Lordship’s lap as he commanded.

“Good girl,” he says, and I relish how pleased he sounds, despite the discomfort I find in the new position. I feel the warmth of his left hand against the small of my back, and then the other hand moves from its resting place at my backside. I brace, suspecting that the commencement of my spanking may now be imminent. “Tell me what you desire, Lydia?”

I hear his voice from over the top of me. It sounds like such a distance now. I hesitate, unwilling to once again vocalise the crude needs I feel. All at once the weight of his palm is upon me, creating a small wave of air, and then the loud crack as our flesh connects. I cannot help but gasp at the contact, the sharp sting warming my bare cheeks at once.

“Tell me, Lydia!” This is much less a question and more of a command. The intonation resonates within me deeply, especially as I find myself once again over my guardian’s lap.

“To be spanked, My Lord, Thomas,” I reply in a rush. “I desire to be spanked!”

He greets my words with a fresh strike. It connects with my sitting spot perfectly, catching both upturned cheeks and making contact with my most needy place below. The fresh sting rouses me, sending a gush of desire whipping through me.

“Is this what you need?” he asks, spanking me again, this time hitting the left cheek, and then the right.

Below him I squeeze my eyes shut, ready to absorb the sensations his hand offers, and yet somehow unable to process the utter denigration of finding myself completely naked and upturned over his lap. “Yes,” I whimper, almost at the same time that he spanks me again.

“Yes. What?” He punctuates his words with sharp swats to my backside.

“Yes, My Lord!” I reply in a gasp.

Three further spanks land in fast succession, each connecting with my sitting spot, and I suspect rather deliberately catching the throbbing wetness pooling at the summit of my legs.

“Thomas is sufficient for the time being, Lydia,” he replies, striking me again.

This time he connects solely with the wetness, eliciting a low groan from me. I am aware of the warmth, and the heat from the spanking, but also the growing desire I feel there. Each time his hand meets my need, it pushes me a little further from the pain and a little closer toward something far more pleasurable. “Yes, thank you, Thomas,” I just about say before the next spank lands against me.

My spanking continues over His Lordship’s knee. Any urge I had to resist, as weak as it may have been, is now extinguished. I hang over his body limply, my arms and hands resting against the rug next to my head. A new strike lands against my sweet spot, and with each I am moved just a fraction against the hardness of his body.

“Oh, Lydia, how you need this!” His voice purrs from behind me, and I am inclined to agree with the sentiment, although I find no words are willing to do the job.

His hand connects again—four hard swats which are perfectly positioned to further fuel the rising fire within me. “Yes, Lydia. You need this, and so do I. You need to be spanked, and I do so desire to spank you.”

“Yes, Thomas!” I push the words from my lips, my face pressed into the soft fibres below.

Above me my spanking continues. I feel the pressure as his palm connects relentlessly with my bare bottom, feeling myself lost to the sensation. I cannot tell now if it is the pain of the spanking, the ignominy of the position, or the contact with my pooling wetness which most drives me wild, but collectively it seems they all consort to shame me.

At some point he stops spanking the tops of my cheeks at all, and focuses all of his attention between my legs. The feeling this elicits is consuming, drawing my reality from everything except His Lordship’s hand and what is transpiring at my core.

“I am going to pleasure you, Lydia.” His voice sounds some way away, and yet I welcome the tone of the intrusion. “You will not fight me, but will surrender to the pleasure. Do you understand?”

He spanks me again, pushing my throbbing nub once more against his legs. “Yes, Thomas,” I scream, struggling to contain the new and unknown sensations occurring within me.

I feel his hand reconnect with my reddened flesh, welcoming the contact, even as it moves away and strikes me again. Never before, even in my most raucous dreams, have I imagined feelings like this. I am dangling literally on the edge of a very high ledge, hanging there perilously… just waiting to be pushed from the top.

“Yield for me, Lydia,” he orders from somewhere high above. “Yield!”

As his palm comes crashing down against my sitting spot yet again, the most unbelievable sensation overwhelms me. I let go, consciously falling from my ledge, and yet not caring one jot about it! Energy whips around my body. I feel my toes clench and my hands ball, and every single sinew of my body is focused on the pleasure exploding between my legs. A final swat lands, pushing my convulsing body into yet another realm. I know not what I say or do at this time, only that I feel safe and warm in this place, draped over the knee of my guardian.

He gives me leave to settle in silence, acknowledging the miraculous experience he has enabled with only a few soft caresses across my flaming backside. As I slowly recover, I become more aware of these ministrations, feeling his digits extending over my punished cheeks, and sliding gently down into my wet folds below. I tense, knowing instinctively where his fingers are heading, and knowing that I must not allow it.

“Yield, Lydia,” comes the warning from overhead. “You are mine now.”

My lips part and I mean to protest, and yet the sensation between my legs will simply not allow it. I feel one finger rub between my folds, parting me with astonishing ease thanks to the shameful wetness it finds there.

“My Lord?” I say desperately, caught between the disgrace and the exhilaration. “Thomas, please?”

“Hush,” he answers, continuing to explore me in a gentle and unhurried way. “I promise not to ruin you, Lydia, but you must give me leave to explore just a little more?”

I moan out loud at the impeccable caresses between my legs, marvelling at how His Lordship so perfectly creates them. He runs the long, lubricated digit from my trembling folds north toward my reddened buttocks. As he draws closer, he uses one hand to spread one of the cheeks, exposing my darkest place to his eyes.

“My Lord, no!” I say, arching my back at the strangeness of the feeling and trying to rise from over his lap.

My response is met with one hard swat to my already flaming behind.

“That is enough!” he snaps, and I still in an instant. “Have you heard what I have told you? You are mine now, Lydia. Mine legally, mine socially, and now you are mine in this new way. I have shown you pleasure—so much pleasure—and now I intend to explore some more of your body’s reactions. Now will you, or will you not, obey without my binding you to this bed?”

His tone is hard, and I tense at the sound of it. Rueful to have made him cross so soon after he has empowered me with such pleasure, I sink back to the floor, resisting the urge to clench all of my intimate muscles as his exploration continues.

“Better,” he says, rubbing the edge of his right palm against my wet core. The feel of such a thing is nothing short of exquisite, and I am soon gasping for breath again over his knee. “Good girl, Lydia,” he says soothingly. “You have promised to trust me, so do so now.”

He draws his finger north again, pulling my left cheek wide to allow it access as it makes its way to the centre of my warmed bottom. Holding the cheek in place, he pulls more and more lubrication from the pleasured place between my legs, and drags it to the dark one between my cheeks. I pant below him, working hard not to move or protest at these new, foreign feelings. All at once I feel that finger circling my bud, pressing gently against the opening, as though testing it. I clench reflexively, uncertain of what he means to do, but sure that only truly wicked girls should permit such behaviour.

“Thomas, please!” I implore him, but my appeal is short-lived.

“One more word from you, Lydia, and I will have you gagged and bound. Then you will truly be at my mercy!”

I freeze at his words, imagining myself as he describes. The truly awful thing about it is that I swear the idea serves only to add to my lubricated core.

“Is that what you want?” he demands.

I shake my head dramatically, recalling his threat from just a moment ago… ‘One more word…’

“Good!” he says, not unkindly, but with authority, and within a moment I feel the digit back, pressing deeper inside of my behind.

Hanging over him, I am left panting with anxious anticipation. I dare not speak out again, knowing that he will no doubt carry out his threat, and yet I know not how I can bear this latest indignation. The digit delves deeper, pushing inside the most private part of me. At the same time, I feel another finger sweeping down to my swollen folds and pressing against them. He manipulates both digits together, opening me gently in both places, while I lay submissively over him. I say nothing further, but can barely breathe, my initial disgust soon dissolving into a new sweeping arousal. I know that if he so chooses, Thomas can have either or both of these places—there is little I can do to prevent him, and even worse still, I find that I may not even want to.

By the time his fingers cease, I am back to the verge of the ledge once more. He halts his ministrations, and I am filled with an unexpected frustration that I am not permitted to freefall again. A low sob fills the back of my throat, and as he hears the sound, Thomas pulls me up from over his lap, holding me against him.

I curl up into a ball on his lap, welcoming the feeling of his strong arms around my nudity as I bury my head into his shirt. My emotions surge, the arousal peaking and settling into a low thrum around my body. I am both embarrassed and satiated all at once. He holds me there for some time, embracing me tightly as he strokes my hair. No further words are exchanged.

Chapter Eighteen: The Unexpected Journey

 

 

I rouse the next morning, certain that the whole thing has been nothing but a sordid dream. As I roll into a seated position however, I am reminded of my smarting backside and the tenderness between my legs.

I know I am flushing as Lucy enters the room, carrying a large tray. “Good morning, My Lady,” she says brightly.

As she places the tray at the end of the bed, I eye its contents warily. Why is she bringing me breakfast in bed, I wonder?

“Good morning, Lucy,” I reply, watching her as she pulls open the long drapes at my windows. “Why have you brought me a tray this morning?”

I blink sleepily as the light invades the room, and she smiles at my response. “It is His Lordship’s instructions, My Lady,” she explains, making her way to my wardrobes. She opens the doors, surveying the line of garments in front of her. “You are to eat breakfast here, whilst I pack for your travels.”

Travels? My belly clenches at the idea. Is Thomas sending me home after my disgraceful show last night? A well of disappointment forms in me, and I find that I have to take a deep breath to steady myself. “To where am I travelling, Lucy?” I ask, trying to suppress the anxiety in my voice. “Am I to be sent back to London?”

She pauses and turns to me. “London? Why no, My Lady!” she exclaims, “why ever would you think that?”

I shake my head, wondering at the state of my head recently. “I know not,” I reply. “Only that I am not aware of any journey.”

Lucy approaches the bed with an armful of my clothes. She lays them gently on the far side of the blankets, before collecting the breakfast tray and presenting me with it. “I am sure it is nothing to worry about, My Lady,” she smiles, as she settles it over my lap. “All I know is that Lord Markham has some business to attend to in town, and that he has requested that you accompany him.”

My heart skips a beat at these words. He wants me to accompany him? I look down at the tray, surveying the contents. “Thank you, Lucy.”

She smiles again, skipping away to continue her duties. I sip my drink, not hungry in the slightest, and now intrigued by my unexpected journey.

 

* * *

 

A short time later, I am breakfasted and dressed. Carson has been to collect my trunk, which is now complete with an outfit for any scenario which His Lordship might present me with. Lucy is finishing my hair, fussing with pins behind me, when there is a knock on the door. We both jump, anxious butterflies lifting their heads inside of me.

Securing the final pin, she moves toward the door, opening it slowly. “My Lord!” she replies, her voice full of uncertainty.

I jump from my stool, rising to greet my visitor.

“Is Lady Franklin ready?”

I can hear Lord Markham’s voice from beyond the doorframe, the sound making me feel instantly breathless. “I am, My Lord,” I say, rushing toward the entranceway.

He sees me, our eyes connecting over Lucy’s head. “Good morning,” he says, smiling at me. There’s a small smirk on his lips as he speaks, and I wonder nervously if Lucy notices it. “Did you sleep well, My Lady?”

I blanch at his question, swallowing hard before I reply. “I did, My Lord—thank you.”

He nods knowingly, but says nothing further on the subject. “Good, the carriage will be here momentarily, and we need to be ready to leave.” He turns, retreating back to the corridor. “Lucy, you will be accompanying Her Ladyship, with Buckton. Do you have your bags ready?”

“Yes, My Lord,” replies Lucy as all three of us leave my room. “Carson has taken them to the main entrance already.”

“Where are we going, My Lord?” I ask, trying to keep pace with him as he strides down the hallway.

He turns his head to the left, catching sight of me as he speaks. “There will be time to explain once we are on our way,” he says.

I nod, no closer to understanding, but realising that there is little time in pursuing an explanation now.

We make our way down the staircase together, and are greeted by Gregory and various other members of the household staff.

“My Lord, My Lady,” remarks the butler, bowing as we approach. “All is prepared for your journey, and I am pleased to say that your carriage has just arrived.”

Lord Markham nods to acknowledge him. “Good. Thank you, Gregory.”

The door beyond His Lordship is drawn open by a valet I do not recognise, and a sudden burst of autumn air sweeps through the entrance hall.

“Your cape, My Lady?” says Lucy, holding out the length of fabric from behind me.

I smile; she really has thought of everything. “Thank you,” I answer her, permitting her to wrap the length around me.

I follow Lord Markham as he makes his way toward the entrance, finding two carriages on the grounds, waiting. We head for the first, and are met by Buckton.

“Is everything in order?” His Lordship asks him.

He nods. “It is, My Lord. Everything is on board, and Lucy and I will travel in the coach behind you.”

Lord Markham turns to me with a smile. “My Lady, shall we?”

I exhale, trying to shake the image of him consoling me the night before from my mind. “Thank you, My Lord,” I reply, taking his hand with my own gloved fingers.

We make our way to the entrance of the first carriage, where a footman stands waiting. I lift my gown, stepping up and into the interior. Finding my seat, I look up in time to see my guardian enter behind me.

The door is closed with a loud thud, blocking out the sounds of the wind and the horses from outside. All at once there is silence, and just the two of us. Taking the seat opposite my own, His Lordship removes his hat and cape, and surveys me. I risk a direct glance at him, finding the same intensity in those green eyes that I recall so vividly from last evening.

“I expect you have many questions, Lydia?” he asks matter-of-factly.

“My Lord, I do,” I reply.

He smiles again, the movement lighting his face. “Well then, let me explain. I have business which needs my attention in Ripley, and had always intended to travel there today. However, in light of our recent experiences, I decided it might be opportune to bring you with me.”

I clench at his choice of words, shifting awkwardly on my tanned behind. Never before have I noticed how uncomfortable these seats are.

His brow raises at the sight of me, and I see him suppress a smile. “Are you finding it difficult to sit, My Lady?” he asks sardonically.

I flush, embarrassed at the question, and yet I find that I smile as I reply. “A little, My Lord…”

“Then it is as it should be, no?” he enquires thoughtfully, his eyes threatening to penetrate my very essence with their searing gaze.

I swallow hard. “Yes,” I answer, my voice clipped by sudden desire.

He sits back in his own seat, and at that moment the carriage begins to pull away. Glancing out of the window to his right, I take the opportunity to really absorb him in the morning light. He is everything I had recalled from my spanking the night before; tall, lithe, and every inch the Regency gentleman. I watch his right hand press against the glass, and my belly twists. It is that palm which had bestowed so much pleasure upon me…

He turns to face me, following my eyes to where his hand now rests. “Are you pleased that I decided upon your coming with me?”

I answer without hesitation. “Yes, My Lord,” I say. “Thank you. I should have been very lonely without you at Markham Hall.”

He surveys me with interest. “Precisely,” he continues. “After such a gratifying night, it felt wrong to have left without you. I want you to accompany me.”

I meet his gaze, feeling my heart skip at the warmth I find there. “I am glad,” I reply, “but…” I pause, unsure of how to proceed.

“But, what?” he probes.

I look to the window, seeing the trees passing at the side of the road. “But, what will people think?” I say, wondering instantly if it would not have been better to have kept these thoughts to myself. “Is it right for us to travel together?”

He smiles again. “Of course,” he remarks. “Why should it not be? You are my ward, and I want to introduce you to more of my life—what could be more natural than that?”

I nod, understanding him. He is correct of course; there is nothing wrong with the things he describes. It is only the weight of my conscience which causes me concern.

“Lydia.” The tone of his voice captures my attention at once, and I turn my face back to meet his eyes. “Do not misunderstand me. I do not deny the things which have transpired between us these last days. Neither do I retract any of the things I have done or said.”

I feel my breath quicken as he speaks. “My Lord, I…” Yet again I find that I do not have the words.

He chuckles at my response, reaching forward to collect my small gloved hand in his palm. “Lydia…” There’s that voice again, the molten and dangerous one which can so easily enrapture me. “Just keep in mind that no one else need know anything of our private matters. To the outside world, we are Lord Markham and Lady Franklin. I am your guardian, and you are my ward. Do you understand?”

“I do, Thomas,” I say, risking the use of his first name.

He squeezes my hand in response, and for a while we settle into the journey, lost in our own personal thoughts on the many things which have transpired. As the carriage speeds on, I shift again, finding it near impossible to find a position which does not aggravate my spanked bottom. He watches me, appearing amused at my predicament, but fortunately chooses to say nothing further on the matter. It is then that the countess springs into my mind, and I startle. He looks to me at once, his eyes demanding an explanation for my behaviour.

“My Lord!” I exclaim. “I have just remembered the countess! What will she think when she finds us both gone?”

He laughs whimsically at my question, waving his left hand in a gesture of dismissal. “The countess is aware of our plans,” he answers. “She was advised last evening of my intention to travel and take you with me.”

I am surprised at his admission, imagining what his mother’s response to the news must have been. She is already so utterly opposed to my presence at Markham, I can barely conceive her reaction to this latest development.

“Do not concern yourself with the countess,” he says, seeing my response to his words. “I will manage the situation.”

He seems so very calm and in charge, the very picture of authority. I feel rather spellbound by his innate ability to take control of any situation. “Yes, My Lord,” I answer him, feeling that a reply is due.

I shift in my seat yet again, desiring to change the subject. “So what am I to do whilst you are engaged with business, Lord Markham?”

He leans back in his place, stretching his arms out as he considers my question. “Well, I do have a few suggestions, Lydia,” he replies. “My tailor has a shop in Ripley, and I have made an appointment for you to meet a dressmaker there.”

I blanch, unsure whether to be pleased with his explanation or not. “Do you not like my gowns, My Lord?” I ask tentatively.

He shakes his head at me, smiling. “No, My Lady, I do,” he says. “But I would like to indulge you with something new; a gown for a special occasion.”

A special occasion? I wonder to what he speaks. “Is there an event to which you refer, My Lord?”

His eyes smile as he replies. “There is, Lady Franklin,” he says mysteriously. “There most certainly is!”

He laughs once more, and I wonder why he will not readily share his happy news.

“Will you tell me, My Lord?” I implore him.

He shakes his head. “All in good time, Lydia,” he replies. “For now, you are charged with finding the perfect gown for said event.”

I am perplexed. “But, My Lord,” I begin. “How can I know which garment is the right one if I do not know to which event it should be worn?”

“I trust that you will make a good judgement on the matter,” he says, clearly jesting with me.

I sigh, beginning to feel rather maddened by the riddle His Lordship seems intent to set. In London I had free rein to choose my own gowns, and along with my aunt, manage my own social calendar. His choice to withhold the information is absurdly irritating. I muse on the situation, finally hearing the sardonic defiance in me surface. “Are you certain you can trust me with such an important task?” I say mockingly.

I regret my tone and the words even as they leave my lips. They hang in the air of the carriage around us, encircling me as I hold my breath, awaiting Lord Markham’s response. I look to him, trying to read his face and decide if I have overstepped the unspoken line between us. It is a stony silence which meets me, and at once I know I have aggrieved him. “My Lord, I did not mean to offend you, I…”

He raises his right hand, showing me his palm, and the act halts me in an instant. I look back to his face, my wilfulness sliding into trepidation, and am greeted by the all-too familiar brow rising in front of me. “I do trust you, Lydia, yes,” he replies smoothly. “Yet I am less convinced with that mouth of yours.”

I blanch, rueful to have displeased him, and uncertain about what it may now mean. “I apologise,” I say. “I meant only to express my frustration about the secrecy of this special occasion.”

“I know,” he replies quickly. “I understand that. But you will learn to still your tongue and control your tone when you speak to me.” His voice is low and steely, making me uneasy. “I thought I had only recently delivered a lesson in respect, and yet now I find it may need teaching again.”

The knot of excited anxiety in me twists, knowing full well what he means, and yet refusing to acknowledge it. “There is nothing further to learn, My Lord,” I say hopefully. “I meant no offence by it!”

“And yet offence was taken.” he replies, staring at me severely.

“For that I am sorry,” I reply in a little more than a whimper.

He nods, a small smile forming on those lips. “I suspect you will be,” he answers. “Once you have been taken over my knee again.”

My heart is raging inside of me, and threatens to push up into my throat. “My Lord!” I gasp, “you cannot mean to do so here, in the carriage? What if we are seen? What if the driver or the footman hears us?”

The smile on his face grows. “Then I daresay that you, My Lady, will be rather embarrassed?”

My breath is coming in short bursts now, and I am close to panting again. “But, Thomas—what will people think?” I look to the carriage door anxiously, as though escape is even an option available to me.

“Most likely, my dear, they will think you are a naughty young woman in need of correction from her guardian, and they would be right, wouldn’t they?”

I meet his eye, my no doubt panic-stricken expression aligning with his cool composure. He cannot mean to spank me here, I maintain, although his body language already tells me that I am quite wrong on this assumption.

“Come now,” he says smoothly. “Come over my knee and take your punishment. You must learn to speak to me with respect.”

“P-please, Thomas,” I stutter. “Do not do this—not here!”

He glares at me, clearly unimpressed by my hesitation. “I will add another five swats for every minute you keep me waiting.”

I start, moving from my seat, and yet unsure where I should now go. Energy courses around my body, making me feel giddy and panicked all at once.

“Lydia.” Thomas’ voice is calm and warming. “Now, please.”

I move toward him on unsteady feet, ducking low to pass across the carriage to the bench at which he sits. By the time I join him there are tears glistening in my eyes. “Thomas,” I sob. “I did not mean to be disrespectful.”

“I know,” he says tenderly. “But you must learn to think before you speak, Lydia. Your words—like your actions—have consequences.” He pats his lap gently with his left hand. “There are already five additional strikes which your delay has earned; how many more will you have me add?”

I look to his face one last time, considering the idea of protesting further, or outright refusing him. If, though, I have come to know my guardian at all over the last few days, I know that he will have none of it. Better that I concede with some small dignity than make him force me. I slide myself left over his dark breeches, using my left hand to steady myself against the edge of the seat. It is immediately uncomfortable, most of my weight now pressing against my lower chest, but worse is the sheer dishonour of the whole arrangement. Being spanked in his office was humiliating enough, but being punished in such a public way is truly excruciating.

I feel his hand against my behind, and I wonder at how much this spanking will sting, considering the already tanned state of my bottom. He draws back the heavy skirt of my gown, finding my much thinner petticoat and stays beneath it. I still as he considers it for a moment, barely breathing as I wait to see what he will do next. Slowly, he draws this fabric north toward my waist with my skirt, leaving my behind exposed in the cool air. I sob back this newest humiliation, praying desperately that no one will see me in this ignominious position.

“Why are you about to be punished, Lydia?” Lord Markham’s voice is steady and unmoving.

“I was disrespectful, My Lord,” I whimper from over his knee.

He lands the first strike at once, the short, hard slap making me rise up against his legs with a small, mortifying yelp. “I think I have made my feelings on your disrespectful behaviour clear, Lydia,” he says, spanking my bare cheeks again. “But if I have failed in this endeavour, let this spanking make it clear for you. You will, in all things, treat me with the highest respect and regard.”

His palm lands against me again. I manage to control myself this time by squeezing my eyes shut at the impact. “Yes, Thomas,” I cry, keeping my voice as low as I can.

“I was going to spank you ten times for your disrespect, Lydia,” he says, applying strikes four and five in fast succession. “But in light of your delay, I shall now make it fifteen. You will count each of the remaining strikes, please, and then thank me at the end.”

I buck against his words, disdain rising in me at this additional and unnecessary humiliation. Having to acknowledge each individual swat is going to make the whole ordeal even worse, and of course Lord Markham knows this all too well.

“Did you hear me, Lydia?” he asks, his voice severe.

“Yes, My Lord,” I answer quickly, just as the next strike reaches its target.

The carriage rolls on as my spanking continues. I brace for each strike, numbering the blow, my body filled with intensity at the pain and the risk of my exposure. By the tenth swat I am utterly humbled by the experience. It is one thing to be taken in hand by my guardian, but being folded over his knee with my bottom bared in this very public way is all too much. Having to count each strike just exacerbates the ordeal, my voice catching as I name each number. As I call out the number fifteen, the disgrace feels intense, and I wonder if my face is not as coloured as my backside.

I gather myself, still over his knee, as I contemplate how I can resume my seated position with any dignity intact. As I go to move however, Thomas lands another, much harder swat to my bottom.

“Ouch, Thomas!” I yelp, angered to have received yet more punishment.

“What did I ask you to do once we reached fifteen?” he demands from the seat above me.

I swallow, straining my mind to recall his words. It is then that I realise I have forgotten to thank him for my spanking—the idea filling me with yet more derision. “Thank you, My Lord,” I spit out the words, not really meaning them at all. I can tell by his tone that he is unimpressed with my performance.

“Do you wish to receive another five swats, Lydia?” he asks coldly.

“No!” I say quickly, wishing he would just allow me up. “I am sorry, My Lord. Thank you for punishing me!” I cannot believe the words have left my lips, but left them they have.

“Mmmm…” He sounds unconvinced, but after a moment I feel him slide my stays and petticoat back over my punished bottom, followed soon after by the weight of my skirt. “Very well. This is done—for the time being.” He applies pressure with his left hand, moving my body backward. I find my feet again, but given the height of the carriage, I am unable to stand. “Sit with me a moment,” he instructs, shifting his weight left and patting the space next to him with the palm which has just punished me.

Still smarting from the spanking, I obey tentatively. My bottom feels instantly tender against the hard wooden seat.

He looks at me, his face burning with intent. “Know this, Lydia,” he says in an even tone. “I have grown immensely fond of you these last days. I will care for you, look after your needs, and be here for you, but whenever you choose to overstep the line, I will punish you.”

I turn to face him, almost unable to process his words. He has grown fond of me? “You mean that you will spank me, My Lord?” I ask, trying to conceal my burning face.

“Yes, I will spank you,” he replies solemnly. “And if need be, I will take you over my knee in a public place. Not just in our carriage, Lydia, but in company too. A lady should learn her place, but a lady who belongs to me will certainly learn to.”

I gasp at him, my eyes widening.

“Do you understand?” he asks me.

I nod, feeling my eyes watering again at his hard tone. Just half an hour before he had seemed so content with me, and now he has found cause to be upset. Seeing my face crumple, his voice softens. “Do not cry,” he soothes, caressing my heated face with his palm. “I am not such an ogre.”

I nod again, still unable to speak. He reaches for my left hand, and taking it in his large palms, he allows me time to settle before he goes on. “We shall be staying with my cousin, Lord Pembroke. He lives close to town, and will host us this evening.”

My mind reels at this new information. I have heard the name Pembroke before. Rumours of his wild parties are legendary, and word had reached London about his debauched lifestyle the summer before last. I had no idea that Lord Markham and he were acquainted—let alone related.

“Do you mean, Lord William Pembroke?” I ask hesitantly.

He laughs at my response. “So you have heard of William?” he says, feigning surprise.

I nod, encouraging him to continue. “Yes,” I reply. “I have heard tales of his dinner parties.”

Thomas’ laugh deepens. “Of course,” he agrees. “I am hardly shocked that this news has spread as far as the city.”

“Are the rumours true?” I ask, unwilling to risk upsetting him again.

He smiles and nods, winking at me. “Let’s just say, he and I share a similar view of ladies, and of how to find… release.”

My breath catches at his final remark, his words hanging in the air as we travel onward. He and Lord Pembroke share a view on release—could he possibly mean what he seems to imply from that statement? His eyes are on me, watching me closely as I absorb the information but neither of us say anything further on the matter.

We journey on, side by side. My thoughts are preoccupied with everything that has transpired, and I look right out of the window, lost in them. First there is the revelation that Thomas is fond of me, and did not wish for us to be apart. The idea is warming, and I welcome it with too glad a heart. Yet, can it be right for a young lady to feel such affection for her guardian? Worse still are the recollections of our recent intimacies. He himself has confessed to meaning the things he has said and done, and yet, once more I am torn on the matter. Finally, there is the issue of punishment between us. Lord Markham, it seems, is more than eager to administer a spanking whenever he deems it necessary, plus he has also admitted to relishing the act. I, for my part, have found a disturbing tendency to find enjoyment in the spanking as well, although the recent declaration that the punishment may be carried out in public has served only to increase my anxiety on the subject.

Two taps from above us capture our attention, and we hear the footman’s voice from overhead. “We will soon be arriving in Ripley, Lord Markham!”

Thomas acknowledges the message with two taps of his own on the ceiling above us. “Good,” he says out loud, checking his timepiece. “We shall soon arrive. I have an eleven o’clock appointment, but shall see that you and Lucy are settled with the dressmaker first.”

“Thank you, My Lord,” I answer, resisting the temptation to revisit the source of my earlier ire.

Soon after the sights and sounds of the town come into view from the windows. I see buildings from my eye-line, and as we slow, more people become evident. Beside me, Thomas lets go of my hand and collects his hat and cloak, which have been rather unceremoniously pushed to the far end of the seat by my recent spanking. Settling them onto his lap, he turns to face me. “Are you well now, My Lady?” he asks.

I am genuinely taken aback by the question, having settled at his hand some time ago. However, the thought that he felt reason to ask is welcome. “I think so, My Lord,” I reply.

He reaches for my face, stroking my left cheek as he seems to like to do. Reflexively I close my eyes at the contact, not opening them again until the caress has ceased. There is a moment of silence as we acknowledge the passion that is developing between us.

“I want you to know that you can always talk to me, Lydia.” He shifts his weight closer to me as he speaks. “If there is something that you want or need, then please do not be afraid to say so.”

“Thank you,” I reply, astonished at his words.

He smiles, breaking some of the tension in the carriage. “It is after all my job to look after you, now,” he says.

I nod. “I know, and I am glad, My Lord,” I answer. “It is not always acceptable for a lady to ask for what she may want or need…” I pause, considering the right words. “So I am grateful that you should say so.”

He tilts his face toward me, and for one heart-stopping moment I think that our lips may brush. Instead he leans in so close to me that I fear his eyes might just swallow me up. “It may be true that a lady should not ask,” he whispers into my ear, “but you are not just any lady, are you, Lydia Franklin?” He pauses, meeting my eye.

I shake my head, unable to drag my gaze from him. “No, Lord Markham.”

He smiles again, and I swear that I can feel the energy between us. “Whose lady are you, Lydia?” he demands sensually.

“Yours, Thomas,” I reply unthinkingly. “I am your lady.”

Chapter Nineteen: Ripley and Onward

 

 

The time spent in Ripley seems very dull by comparison to my carriage journey. Having disembarked, I am met by Lucy and Buckton, who accompany His Lordship and me to his tailor. Our luggage it seems is to be taken directly to the Pembroke property nearby. After I have been introduced first to Skipton, Lord Markham’s tailor, and then Mrs. Pemberley, the dressmaker, His Lordship and Buckton depart for the meeting which had brought cause for us to come here, leaving Lucy and I to discuss requirements for my new gown. We promise to come to him directly after our own meeting is completed.

I suspect early on that Mrs. Pemberley may have been privy to more information about the special event than I, since she needs little guidance on what I might require. That said, she takes my measurements, and we discuss details such as the colour and cut of the dress, with me ultimately opting for a gold hue and the popular empire silhouette style. The matter takes little time to conclude, and soon after Lucy and I are free to depart the shop, finding ourselves on the high street, heading for the offices in which Lord Markham’s solicitor is situated.

The building it seems is eminently easier to identify than I had feared, sitting proudly at the far end of the street. I, never having actually visited a solicitor’s office before (the earl’s having come to me direct soon after my father’s death), feel quite absurdly intrigued to have reached our destination. Entering the main doorway, I am met by some type of a clerk, who eyes Lucy and me with a mixture of suspicion and trepidation as I approach his desk.

“May I help you?” he enquires over the edge of his steel-rimmed spectacles.

Something about his tone irritates me, and I respond more curtly than I had intended. “I am Lady Franklin, ward of Lord Markham. I believe he is here for a meeting?”

His face changes at my explanation. “Of course, My Lady. Please take a seat, whilst I check on the status of His Lordship’s meeting.” He nods his head deferentially and gestures right to a line of small, uncomfortable-looking seats.

I blanch, recalling how tender my behind now is. “Thank you,” I reply as he scurries away, “but I will stand.”

Lucy and I remain waiting, in near silence, for several long moments. The atmosphere inside the office feels heavy, and I wonder if we might have waited in the fresh air for a while if Thomas was still not ready for us.

Moving close to me, Lucy smiles, her eyes excited. “Your new gown will look wonderful, My Lady,” she says breathlessly.

I return her smile, realising that this must be quite the adventure for my new lady’s maid. I know that most household staff rarely leave the house, and that to travel is considered to be quite an opportunity. I myself have rarely ventured across the country, choosing to remain mainly in the city as a young girl. I peer out of the window onto the sunlit street, wondering of life in the small town of Ripley.

“Your meeting was fast, Lady Franklin?”

It is my guardian’s voice which cuts through my thoughts, sending my daydreams reeling. I turn to behold him, as he approaches from the offices beyond, the clerk and Buckton in tow.

“Yes, My Lord,” I reply.

“It was cordial, I hope?” he asks, that left brow twitching.

I clench reflexively at the sight of it. “Of course, Lord Markham,” I answer. “And fruitful too. Mrs. Pemberley will arrange for the garment to be send to Markham Hall accordingly.”

He smiles at my words. “Good, then our business here is concluded,” he says, turning to speak to the clerk as much as to me.

We make our way from the offices onto the busy street. The people of Ripley move seamlessly up and down the small roads, reminding me of the way the current of a stream moves of its own accord.

“This way, My Lady,” says Lord Markham, guiding me right, toward our waiting carriage.

We embark, amidst the hustle and bustle of the day, and are soon away again, this time on the road to Lord Pembroke’s residence. On route, Lord Markham is quiet, seemingly preoccupied with his own thoughts. I study his face, wondering what it is which causes him such pensiveness. I want to ask him, but do not want to risk unsettling the balance between us once again.

“My Lord?” I ask, my own voice the first to break the silence of the carriage since we left the streets of Ripley.

His face turns from the window, drinking in the look of me, before he answers. “Lydia?”

I want to smile at the warmth in his eyes, but still, I am aware of the steely edge in his voice. It reminds me just who is in charge. “May I ask, how was your meeting?” I remark, trying to keep the question as casual as I can.

“It was convivial,” he answers, looking rather solemn. “Matters are being dealt with, but alas, not as fast as I would have liked.”

I eye him, musing on what a gentleman in his position could have sought from a meeting with a legal man. “I am sorry to hear of your frustration,” I reply.

Smiling, he laughs at my comment. My feathers ruffle immediately, but the warm sting in my bottom prevents me from adding a glib comment on the subject. “Thank you, Lydia,” he says eventually. “I appreciate your concern, but a frustration is all this will be—I will have my own way soon enough.”

I watch his green eyes as they turn back toward the window, wondering if there is ever a time that Lord Markham does not get his own way. But then, it was not so long ago that some in London may have said the same about me.

“So, tell me what you know about Pembroke?” His question comes somewhat out of the blue, and I startle, recalling the many rumours I have heard about the young, eccentric lord.

“I have heard only of his parties, My Lord,” I reply.

“What of them?” probes Lord Markham, watching me thoughtfully.

I flush a little at the question, remembering some of the tales which had been spread between ladies in London. “Only that they could become quite raucous,” I tell him.

He snorts at my description, his expression reminding me briefly of his mother. “That is certainly one way of describing them!” he laughs. Seeing my face, he stills, once again capturing my hands in his large palms. “Do you have any questions about him that you would like to ask me?”

I shake my head at his question, but marvel at the feeling of his fingers against my gloved hand. I watch them as they grasp the edges of my thumbs, before slowly trailing a gentle line toward my fingertips. Our eyes meet as I eventually raise my head, and I find that he is still waiting for my response. “I do not think so, My Lord,” I say. “I do not know much about His Lordship.”

“Would you like for me to tell you about him?” he asks. “Since we will be his guests for this evening at least.”

I consider his words, pleased at least that the conversation seems to have drawn him away from his frustrations in town. “Yes, please,” I answer.

He nods. “Come and sit with me,” he says, patting the space to his right where I had sat earlier. “I prefer not to have to shout such discussions over the noise of the carriage.”

I comply, rising again and joining him on the opposite bench. Once I am seated as comfortably as I can be given the state of my tender behind, I still, shifting my body left to look at my guardian.

“Will and I have been friends for years,” he begins, beaming as he begins to recollect. “Cousins on my mother’s side, we were briefly educated at the same boarding school, and have remained close ever since.”

“Does His Lordship have a large residence, like Markham Hall?” I ask, genuinely interested to find out about the place we are now travelling to.

“Indeed,” comes the reply. “Many would say it is far grander than Markham, the grounds alone covering several more acres.”

I bristle at the news, hardly able to conceive a place grander than Markham Hall. “Surely it cannot be more lovely?” I say, a trace of disbelief laced into my tone.

He smiles at it, squeezing my left hand. “You like your new home, then, Lydia?” he laughs.

My face flushes at the exchange, but I nod in agreement, seeing little point in denying it. “I do, My Lord,” I reply.

He pauses, moving just a fraction closer to me. “I am glad of it,” he says in little more than a whisper.

The unexpected energy that passes between us takes me quite by surprise, and I look away coyly, causing him to chuckle once more. “Your bashful behaviour does you proud, My Lady,” he says almost jovially.

I look up to his face at once, searching his eyes for a clue about his intention. “Are you mocking me, My Lord?” I whisper.

He takes up my challenge, closing the distance between us on the bench. “A little, perhaps,” he answers. “But then I know better about what really drives you, do I not, Lydia?”

I blush then, feeling the heat spreading around my cheeks. “My Lord!” I say in a hushed tone. “Should we speak of such things here?”

His hand leaves my palm, rising slowly up my body until it catches against the underside of my chin. It pauses here, tipping my face north and ensuring I maintain eye contact with him. “Are you not mine, Lydia?” he asks me. “Can I not speak of these things wherever and whenever I choose?”

I shut my eyes at his words, feeling the warmth of his breath against my skin. “Yes, My Lord,” I answer meekly.

Something about my guardian affects me in such an absurd and carnal way. I have never known it before, and wonder what defence there can be against it. I have never been so compliant to a gentleman before, and until this week I would not have thought it possible for me to be so.

“Open your eyes,” he whispers, and I do so without complaint. He is right there next to me, smiling at my expression. “What a most fortunate gentleman I am,” he muses.

I inhale deeply, trying to regain even the most basic control over myself once more. “How so, My Lord?” I ask.

He smiles. “I had no idea, Lydia,” he begins, using his long thumb to stroke my heated left cheek, “when I agreed to be your guardian, that any of this should transpire. Had I known how beautiful you were to be, and how beguiling, I would surely have consented in a heartbeat.”

My own heart pounds at the compliment. “I do not know what to say, My Lord,” I reply honestly. “Is it right for this thing between us to blossom?”

“Lovely Lydia,” he laughs, pulling away from me slightly. “You are always so concerned about what is right!”

I feel myself prickle at his words. “Is that not the correct thing to concern myself with, My Lord?” I ask, trying to suppress the disdain in my voice.

He throws me a warning glance, and instinctively I want to move away, but the hand at my chin moves into my hair, drawing me closer instead. “Until now, perhaps,” he says evenly. “But now you must trust in me to decide what is right—for you and for us. Can you do so?”

The fingers in my hair are not painful, but I imagine the unholy mess they are making of my styled locks nonetheless. “I will try, Thomas,” I answer.

This softens him a little, and his grip relaxes. “I do so enjoy the sound of my name on those lips,” he says, eyeing my mouth intently.

My lips part at the statement, as though his eyes have commanded them to do so. “I am sorry if I sounded disrespectful before,” I tell him, wanting to address the issue before it lands me back over his lap again. “I find that I am most confused by the way I feel though.”

“The way you feel about me?” he demands, those almond-shaped orbs drilling into me.

“Yes, Thomas,” I reply, swallowing hard at the utter intensity of the moment. “I had thought initially that you would be little more than a father figure to me, perhaps not even that…” I continue.

“And now?” he probes, willing me on with his smouldering expression. “And now, what do you think of your guardian?”

All of a sudden I can barely take a breath. “I do not know,” I say breathlessly.

“Come now!” he snaps, the change of tone making me flinch. “I expect your honesty, remember, Lydia? In all things, but especially in these matters. Tell me, what do you think now?”

I still, able only to meet the intensity of his gaze for just a few moments. “Now, I am enthralled,” I say, squeezing my eyes shut at the honesty. “I do not hope to understand it, Thomas, but the way I feel around you is not what I had expected.”

“I concur,” he responds from just beyond me. “The experience is most curious, and yet it is powerfully evocative. Lydia?”

The sound of my name is enough to coax my eyes open, and I find him now just a few inches away from my face. “Yes, Thomas?” My words are barely audible over the sound of my excited heartbeat.

He is so close now; so close that I can smell the heady scent of his cologne and feel the heat of his breath against me. “I know that I should not, and yet I find that I desire to kiss you.”

I gape at him, hearing his words over and over again in my mind. I desire to kiss you. I desire to kiss you. Time seems to stop as we process his words, neither of us daring to speak at this moment for fear of splintering the excited bubble of reality we appear to have slipped into. His hand loosens in my hair, but urges me forward, toward his tall, hard body.

I am pliant, compelled to do as he chooses, and yet secretly yearning for the same. “Well,” I whisper at last. “You must do as you desire, My Lord.”

His eyes darken at my brazen reply, and my own body too betrays the urgency we share. Beneath the confines of my stays, I can feel the buds of my breasts growing hard and aching for Lord Markham’s attention.

His gaze lowers, scanning my shoulders and chest as though he can feel their call. “Not without your consent, Lydia,” he says, his voice almost a painful growl.

I swallow down the desperate need I feel, concentrating solely on his words. He wants my consent… Raising my eyes again, I contemplate his lips, wondering how they will feel against my own. “Please, Thomas,” I implore him. “Kiss me.”

For a moment he says nothing, and I am filled with the deepest dread that I have made a huge mistake, somehow misinterpreting his words. Then all at once, his hand, still buried in my hair, moves my head toward him, at the same time that his own face descends upon mine. My eyes slide closed as our lips collide in the most sensual way, and instinctively I open for him, allowing him to control this most precious moment—as he has done so many others already.

He kisses me with the same urgency which his eyes had betrayed, pressing his full, hungry lips against my own, before his tongue snakes gently inside me. I groan at the intrusion, overawed at the sensations it creates throughout me, culminating at the summit of my thighs. Hearing my response, he moves closer, pressing himself against me. His resting hand moves against my gown, drawing me closer to his own body, as he draws my head back with his right hand, exposing my neck. His lips leave my mouth, moving south toward my nape. I gasp at the exquisite contact, feeling him nip and suck at the sensitive skin, devouring me as though his very soul depended upon the act.

“Thomas!” I groan, hearing the sound of the rasping voice, and yet barely recognising it as my own.

He pushes me south toward the seat below me, twisting my body so that he can lean almost wholly against me, whilst pinioning me against the carriage. The whole time his lips are on me. I feel them trailing soft caresses below my jaw and across my collarbone, until slowly, they rise north to find my mouth again. I open my eyes to find him over me, green orbs searing into me, as he pauses to catch his breath. “I swear I could devour you, Lydia,” he purrs from over me.

My mind swirls with our combined passion, knowing it is wrong for us to act this way, and yet utterly incapable of resisting the desire any longer.

“My Lord,” I begin, unsure how I can ever articulate the things I am feeling at this moment. “I…”

I am stopped short by two hard knocks on the carriage roof above me. Thomas stills at once, panting over me as he contemplates the meaning of the interruption. “Damn it,” he sighs, drawing me up gently from the seat.

“Thomas?” I ask, not immediately understanding his response.

“We are nearly arrived,” he explains, brushing away my untidy hair from my shoulders. “The Pembrokes’ mansion, Cranningford Hall, is upon us.”

Chapter Twenty: Pembroke

 

 

We approach from the west, the long driveway of Cranningford Hall appearing before us. I am giddy, startled at the range of emotions Thomas has awakened in me with our first kiss.

He straightens his cravat, turning to me and smiling. “Are you well, My Lady?”

“Thomas, I do not know…” I answer, reaching for him as we turn the corner and begin the journey down the long driveway.

He catches my gloved hand and steadies me. “All will be well, Lydia,” he says soothingly. “You and I will speak of this again later.”

I nod at his words, still barely able to respond in any proper way, and not knowing what I should say at any rate. There is silence as the carriage arrives, and by the time we are met by the footman, both Lord Markham and I are back in our original places, seemingly unaffected by our journey.

Thomas was right about the mansion. If Markham is grandiose, then Cranningford Hall is nothing short of regal; its exterior architecture is as imposing and lavish as I have ever seen. We disembark the carriage, and are greeted by the butler, who regards Lord Markham fondly.

“Welcome back, My Lord,” he says, his tone deep.

He turns to me, as Thomas steps forward. “Mannington, it’s good to see you!” he says, stepping to one side. “May I introduce my ward, Lady Lydia Franklin.”

I smile, and the butler, Mannington returns it warmly. “Welcome, My Lady! Please do come inside, I know the master is keen to receive you.”

I follow the men inside, glimpsing Lucy’s carriage arriving behind us. The stone steps which lead into the entrance at Cranningford are large and impressive. On either side of the doorway are grim-looking gargoyles, manipulated from the same stonework as the rest of the exterior. I step past them and over the threshold into the home of Lord William Pembroke.

“Thomas, you devil, how good to see you!” The voice penetrates my thoughts, capturing my attention at once. The greeting comes from a gentleman, waiting in the gigantic foyer of the hall. He ogles Thomas, and then me, with wild, excited eyes. As they assess me, I feel absurdly coy, and am certain that he knows of the developing romance between my guardian and me. My face flushes instinctively.

Thomas meets him in two long strides, his right hand outstretched to greet Lord Pembroke. “William!” They draw each other into a masculine embrace. “Thank you so much for hosting us at such short notice.”

Lord Pembroke laughs out loud, and the two men stand side by side, amused at their own private joke. For the first time I have the opportunity to see this new gentleman. William Pembroke is tall, yet a few inches shorter than my guardian. By contrast though, he is much broader than Thomas, but enjoys the same fine fashion as Lord Markham. My eyes scan over him, pausing at his round face. He has laughing blue eyes, and a crop of deep blond hair, which is all the more striking compared to the dark locks of his cousin.

“So tell me, old chap,” he says, turning to face Thomas directly. “Is this the new lady I have heard so much about?”

If my face had been burning before, then I swear it must be crimson by now.

“Come forward, My Lady,” coaxes Thomas from beside him. My feet take small, tentative steps toward the gentlemen, all too aware that I am thoroughly on display to them both. I veer toward Thomas, who thankfully takes the lead as I approach. “William, please let me introduce my ward, the Lady Lydia Franklin.”

I drop my head and fall into a small curtsey as both pairs of eyes drill into me. “Good day, My Lord,” I say to Lord Pembroke.

The man in front of me smiles, revealing his teeth in an almost predatory manner. “Lady Lydia,” he replies, oozing confidence. “You are most welcome to Cranningford! Please, do call me William!”

I glance up at him, trying to read his face. “Thank you, Lord William,” I answer, and he chortles at my response.

“A perfect reply!” laughs Lord Pembroke, speaking I suspect to Thomas to my right. “You must be quite the proud guardian, my old friend?”

Thomas takes a small step forward and joins his cousin in gentle laughter. “I most certainly am,” he says genuinely. I catch his eye and swallow hard at the intensity I find there.

“Is that not the voice of Thomas Markham I can hear?”

It is a woman’s voice which comes calling from somewhere above us, and all three of us turn to see its owner. She travels gracefully across the galleried landing of the first floor, her sleek blue gown and appealing face easily capturing the attention of Lord Markham. She sweeps down the length of the grand stairway, her gloved arms outstretched to greet him, and as he takes a step forward to receive her, I feel a stab of envy at the intimacy they so obviously share.

“Lady Pembroke!” cries Thomas. He takes her right hand in his, raising it to his lips and kissing her blue glove.

She radiates gladness, as well she might, before turning to me. “And who, Thomas, is this pretty young thing?”

With her attention upon me I can see the lady’s face for the first time. She is classically beautiful, with pale English skin, sky-blue eyes, and honey-drenched hair. However, her looks perhaps conceal her experience, and I decide that she must be some years older than I. Taking a deep breath, I steel myself as she approaches.

“Helena, my dear,” says Lord William behind me. “This is Lady Lydia Franklin, my cousin’s new ward.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, My Lady,” I utter as she comes to stand just in front of me.

She smiles, perhaps sensing my true feelings on the subject. “Good day to you, Lady Lydia,” she replies. “Any friend of Thomas is a friend of ours.”

I suppress the jealousy which streaks through me at her comment, instead turning to face Lord Pembroke as she walks to join him.

“Lady Lydia, this is my wife, Lady Helena Pembroke.”

I nod my acknowledgement, feeling Thomas move in behind me. “Thank you both for making us welcome in your home,” he says.

The doors to my left are opened, and Lucy and Buckton arrive with our luggage, led by Mannington and other Cranningford servants. “Excuse the interruption, My Lord,” says the butler. “I will get the staff settled, and then serve you?”

“Yes!” exclaims Lord William, clapping his hands in excitement. “We shall start with tea in the drawing room, Mannington.”

“Very good, My Lord,” comes the reply, and I watch as the staff behind us busy themselves with tidying the sumptuous entranceway.

“Come, Thomas!” calls Lord William. “We have much to catch up on, do we not?”

Thomas smiles beside me at his words. “Indeed we do,” he replies, “but there will be time enough for that. Let me settle Lady Lydia first, and then we shall both join you in the drawing room?”

Lady Helena laughs, a shrill sound which makes me want to shiver. “Settle her?” she teases. “How terribly valiant of you, Thomas!”

I lower my eyes from the scene, certain that she is mocking us and feeling my good manners fast eroding.

“As is my right and responsibility, Lady Helena,” replies Thomas firmly. “In which rooms shall we be staying, William?”

Lord Pembroke grins, hooking his right thumb into the pocket of his riding jacket. “In your usual, old chap?”

“You are most kind,” replies Thomas from next to me. “If you will excuse us, we shall join you shortly. Lady Lydia?”

He prompts me by name, and I look to him, knowing my wide eyes must be full of the questions I am feeling.

“Shall I accompany you, Lord Markham?” asks Mannington from behind us.

“There is no need,” says Thomas, reaching for my right hand and pulling me gently toward the staircase.

“Thomas knows Cranningford like the back of his own hand, Mannington!” laughs Lord William from behind us as we begin our ascent.

I say nothing, feeling overwhelmingly like I have been present, and yet not privy to some private joke that the others seem to know. We turn right at the top of the stairs, and follow the galleried landing from which Her Ladyship had come. Led onward by my guardian’s hand, I risk a glance to the hallway below, and find the smirking face of Lady Helena greeting me. Flushed, I look away immediately, wishing that I had not chosen to look at all, and find that we are now in a well-lit corridor heading away from the landing.

Much like Markham, the hallways at Cranningford resemble a labyrinth, and I am soon utterly disoriented. When at last, Thomas pauses outside a set of doubled rosewood doors, I am largely relieved, but completely unable to retrace our path back to the stairs.

“This will be your room, Lydia,” says Thomas, easing back the right-hand door to reveal a light and spacious room, complete with an antique-looking four-poster bed. I peer inside, assessing the luxurious ambience, before turning back to him. “Where will you sleep, My Lord?”

He smiles, tilting his head as he assesses me. He draws me toward him, turning me slightly so that my back is now to the room I will rest in. “This is me,” he says softly, gesturing to the door directly ahead. I swallow hard, realising with some excitement that his rooms are just across the corridor from my own.

“Thank you,” I whisper, staring up at him.

“Are you content to be here?” His voice is deep and low, and his eyes spear me as he asks the question.

“I do feel a little unsure, My Lord,” I admit.

His face folds into a frown. “Why so?” he asks me, clearly perturbed by my answer.

I want to smile at his response, heartened that he cares enough to react this way, but now wanting only to reassure him. “Only that you and His Lordship obviously have a friendship which has lasted years, and I know virtually nothing of him, or Lady Pembroke. I do not wish to appear ignorant to them.”

He chuckles, drawing me into a small embrace as we stand at the end of the corridor. “Nonsense, Lydia,” he admonishes me lightly. “You are a fine and respectable young lady. You do not need prompts on how to make conversation, I am certain! You will find William and Helena to be generous and hospitable hosts, so do not think upon it.”

I nod, enjoying the physical closeness. “Yes, My Lord. Should I change before I meet you in the drawing room?”

Thomas twists his head left to the large window which dominates the length of the hallway. “I should say there is no need,” he surmises. “You look lovely, and anyway, I do not want to give you reasons to be tardy today, do I? Unless of course, you desire to be taken over my knee in front of our hosts?”

I flush in an instant, my mind capturing the image he describes in my head. I imagine the look on Lord William’s face, and the sheer ignominy I would feel in the circumstances. “No, My Lord!” I whimper, looking to him for mercy.

He chuckles gently. “Come on, then,” he says, arranging a lock of my hair which has come loose. “Let me take you to the drawing room.”

Chapter Twenty-One: Convention

 

 

Tea in the drawing room becomes lunch in the dining room, and soon enough the afternoon at Cranningford Hall is well under way. Thus far both Lord and Lady Pembroke have been nothing but splendid hosts, showering us with refreshments and attention, although I still struggle to feel comfortable in their company. Something about the look in Lord William’s eye makes me feel as though he is mentally undressing me, whilst the shine in his wife’s smiles seems somewhat superficial.

It is late afternoon when, after taking a walk in the warm autumnal sunshine, Lord William suggests that he and Thomas should go shooting.

“Is it not rather late in the day for that, William?” asks Thomas sceptically.

“No matter!” replies his cousin dismissively. “We can take the rifles out, and stretch the hounds’ legs—see what we find?”

My eyes flit between the two of them, and back to Lady Helena, a sudden panic filling me at the thought of being left to make small talk with her for the rest of the afternoon. I hear Thomas sigh as he gives in to William’s pressure. “Perhaps, but just for an hour,” he concurs. “The sun will be looking to set by then, and I do not want to leave Lydia alone for too long.”

My cheeks flame reflexively at the sound of my name on his lips, and I cannot help to risk a glance in his direction.

“Do not fret about Lady Lydia!” Helena’s voice gushes from his right. “I will take good care of her until you return.”

Thomas eyes me for a moment, and I want to tell him not to go and leave me at the whim of this woman. Of course I say nothing, hoping that my eyes will instead convey my feeling on the subject. However, there is little debate on the matter and soon enough, Lords Markham and Pembroke take their leave, making their way to find the appropriate weaponry. I watch Thomas leave as the anxiety within me begins to stir.

All at once, Lady Helena is upon me, linking arms with me as she jostles us back toward the house. “Come now, Lydia,” she giggles, her voice almost playful. “With the gentlemen away, you and I can get to know one another a little better, no?”

I glance left to see her expressive face, and feign a smile as she leads me back inside. Within me however, I have the oddest feeling that Lady Pembroke is a serpent getting ready to strike. Ordering yet more refreshments, Lady Helena leads me into what looks like a music room; a large stately looking space dominated by the grand piano near its centre.

“Do you play, Lydia?” she asks me excitedly. “Oh, say that you do!”

I inhale, wishing already that His Lordship would return. “I do, My Lady,” I answer.

“Oh, please call me Helena,” she insists, guiding me toward the small stool which accompanies the instrument. “Will you play for me—just a few pieces? I do so enjoy the sound, yet swear I never can get a tune from the thing myself!”

I smile at her story, imaging her wringing her long fingers over the ivory keys. “Of course,” I reply, taking a seat as she suggests.

She settles herself in a pink velvet dressed chair away to my left, and I ready myself, shifting awkwardly on the stool as I am once again reminded of my earlier punishment. Finally satisfied with my position, my fingers caress the keys, and I play for Lady Pembroke, needing neither a score nor an audience to lose myself in the notes after a time. It is the entrance of Mannington with the drinks Lady Helena had requested which finally draws me from my music.

“Isn’t she marvellous, Mannington?” enthuses Helena, as he serves her.

“Absolutely, My Lady,” says the butler, turning toward the piano in appreciation.

I colour at the compliment, the keys suddenly falling silent.

“Join me, Lydia,” coos Her Ladyship, gesturing toward a green seat to her right. I sigh, not really wishing to leave the sanctuary of the instrument, yet comply as requested, rising and making my way to where she indicates. Mannington pours me a long drink, and then departs, leaving me alone with Lady Helena.

She turns to me as soon as the door closes. “So, my dear, what do you think of Cranningford Hall?”

My eyes absorb the grandeur of the room around me. “It is splendid, My Lady,” I answer. “Thank you again for hosting us.”

She smiles, seizing her opportunity to speak freely. “Of course,” she says. “William and I have known Thomas for a long time, and we were surprised, yet thrilled when he wrote to tell us about you.”

I look to her, her face lit by the colossal window to her rear. “It has been a change for both His Lordship and for myself,” I answer.

“Indeed,” she replies. “Yet please do not feel that you need be diplomatic around me, dear Lydia.” She laughs at her own cloaked joviality. “It was not so many years ago that I was your age, and I think I can well understand your feelings on the matter?”

My feelings? Her words both pique my curiosity and irritate me. I press my fingers into my lap, thinking about which words I should choose so as not to offend my guardian’s friends. “I am not sure that I know what you mean, My Lady,” I finally reply.

She beams, the smile lighting up her attractive face. “Oh, come now, Lydia,” she says, flinging her arms to the side dramatically. “Let us be truthful, you and I. You are young, beautiful, and eligible. Let us not forget that since the untimely passing of your father, your future husband also stands to inherit all of the earl’s purported wealth.” I feel my muscles tighten as her direct speech continues. “Entering this arena is Thomas, also eligible, and rather rich in his own right. Surely you can see what I mean by this?”

I exhale abruptly, growing tired of her indirect implications. “No, Madam,” I reply, as demurely as I can muster. “Lord Markham has kindly agreed to be my guardian, and there has been no other consideration…”

She rises from her chair, wondering toward the window at the rear of the room. Her laugh, shrill and insincere, passes through me like the winter wind. “Let me be frank, Lydia. You may wish to conceal your true feelings from the rest of the world, and in some ways I can understand why, but you cannot conceal them from me. Your eyes betray your affection, and your youthful looks betray your need.”

I gasp incredulously, turning to look at Lady Helena as she stalks gracefully back toward the piano. “My Lady, I know not what you mean!”

“So be it,” she sighs, coming to rest by the instrument. “Play it this way if you so wish, but permit me to say this.”

I brace myself, wondering what her final remarks may be on this deeply personal subject.

“If I know Thomas Markham—and believe me, I do—then you will not have long to wait.”

“Wait, My Lady?” I ask, trying to quell the rising waves of indignation in me. How dare this stranger probe me about such a private matter!

“Yes,” she laughs, moving toward me. “For a proposal, Lydia! I have never seen Thomas behave the way he does around you. His usual manner toward a lady is cavalier indifference, yet it seems that you have made quite the impression upon him…”

I flinch at the reference to other ladies, and yet there is no denying the way my heart flutters at her other insinuation. Can it really be true? Does Thomas harbour such feelings toward me? Giggling at my response, she moves next to me, standing over where I am seated.

“Do not deny it, Lydia,” she chuckles. “There really seems no point. Assuming you can keep him happy, then the two of you really do seem well-suited.”

My eyes dart to her, surprised. I feel my face flushing as I consider her words. I swear I mean to refute her accusations—to tell her that there is certainly no intention to marry on either of our parts. Yet when I look into her eyes, I see she already assumes the truth, and perhaps she even knows more than that. “How do you mean happy, Lady Helena?” I ask her hesitantly.

For some reason this really makes her laugh, and she takes a moment to compose herself. “Oh, sweet Lydia!” she says, brushing my bare shoulder with her gloved hand. “You must know by now that Thomas—much like my William—is a highly demanding gentleman? He will require a certain kind of behaviour in a wife?”

There’s an edge to her tone which makes me clench the summit at my thighs. Can she really know of Lord Markham’s deepest desires, and if so, how does she know?

“Obedience, you mean?” I answer, startled.

“Obedience, yes,” she muses. “And yet more than that. Thomas will want to govern you, Lydia, and have his wicked way as he sees fit. And if he hasn’t already, then I am certain he will want to turn you over his knee for a sound spanking now and again.”

Chapter Twenty-Two: Revelations

 

 

I can barely believe the words as they reach my ears, and yet I know the red-faced shame I portray will be conveying the truth to Lady Helena in an easy-to-read demonstration.

“Oh!” she exclaims, her eyes alight with delight. “I see he has already done so?”

I rise from my seat dramatically, unable to hear any more from my hostess. “My Lady, please!” I implore her. “I cannot speak of such things; it is not proper for us to do so!”

She smiles, unsurprised at my response. “No matter, my dear,” she says, moving toward me and slipping a gloved hand across my shoulders. “I think you and I both know the truth, so we need say no more about it.”

At that moment the door to the music room opens, and Thomas appears in the entrance. Seeing my flushed complexion, and my inexplicably close proximity to Lady Helena, he looks perplexed, but says nothing as he approaches. Behind him, Lord William also enters, moving to join his wife, who saunters from my side.

“Ladies!” cries Lord William, opening his arms in a sweeping gesture. “What have you two been doing to entertain yourselves in our absence?”

I glance at Thomas, my belly full of anxiety. For some reason I feel as though I have been caught doing something naughty, even though it is not me who was behaving inappropriately. I know he will be able to gauge my feelings the moment he looks into my eyes.

“Lady Lydia has been playing for me, William!” squeals Lady Helena from across the room. “Honestly, you must play again, my dear, after dinner perhaps?”

I glance down at my slippers, wishing to remain cordial, but really not wanting to commit to an after-dinner performance.

“I would love to hear you, Lydia,” says Lord William. “If you are happy to perform?”

Sensing my hesitancy, it is Thomas who answers for me. “Let us wait and see how we feel after supper,” he says politely.

“Indeed,” replies Lord William, guiding his wife from the room. “For now I suggest we prepare for dinner, and meet again at, shall we say, eight o’clock?”

“Of course, and thank you,” answers Thomas, who also gestures for me to lead the way out of the music room.

We move back into the incredible entrance hall, both couples parting way at the bottom of the stairs, and slowly Thomas and I make our way up to our rooms.

He guides me in silence to the length of corridor on which both of our rooms await us. We walk the majority of it side by side, both apparently lost in our own thoughts, until it is his voice which breaks the quiet. “May I come in and speak with you?” he asks.

I look to him, his face serious, and wonder what his intentions are. “Of course, My Lord,” I answer, my voice breathless from the unease whipping through me.

The October light fades through the window as he joins me inside, closing the door behind him. I inhale deeply, feeling the pressure of the silence in the room. “How was the shooting, My Lord?” I enquire, suppressing the disquiet I am feeling.

Turning from the window, I see him watching me, as tall and imposing as ever. There’s a small smile on his lips as he answers.

“Do you really want to know about the game we shot?” he asks, taking a minute step forward. “Or would you prefer to tell me about what transpired between you and Lady Helena.”

I drop my head, for some reason feeling guilty again about the exchange. “My Lord, I…” I hesitate, raising my head to see him closing the distance between us. He waits by the edge of the giant four-poster, choosing to sit, perhaps to quell my rising unease. “It was the most peculiar discussion.”

He nods, apparently understanding. “Mmmm,” he agrees. “I can well conceive it. I have known Her Ladyship for many a year, and I know she can be unconventional.”

“Yes, My Lord,” I concur. “Based upon this experience, it would seem that she loathes convention entirely!” He cocks his head to the side at my words, but says nothing, waiting for me to continue. “Lady Helena enquired about us, My Lord,” I say, finally.

“Us?” he replies, as if unsure, “you and I?”

I nod, inexplicably colouring again at his calm intensity. “Yes, Thomas.”

His head shoots up immediately at the sound of his name. “And, what did Lady Helena want to know?”

“She was implying things about our… relationship,” I answer him, unsure of how I should explain myself.

He stands again, clearly irritated as he strides past me to the window.

“My Lord, I swear, I did nothing to solicit or heighten her interest!” I implore him, all of a sudden filled with concern about where his own thoughts might be leading.

He spins to look at me, the remaining light illuminating his face beautifully. “I am sure, Lydia,” he says reassuringly. “You have no need to be concerned—I am not cross with you.”

Relief rushes through me at his words, and I move toward him slowly.

“Tell me what she said to you,” he says, his tone still clipped.

“She talked of marriage, Thomas,” I answer, stunned at my own unabashed honesty. “And also, she told me you would seek to govern me, and…”

I risk a glance upward at his eyes, seeing his dark brow rise at my message. “And, Lydia?” he probes.

“And spank me…” I say, in little more than a whisper.

A strange expression crosses his face, and I cannot tell if it is resignation or disappointment.

“I am sorry, My Lord,” I say, sounding desperate.

He takes one stride forward and meets me in the middle of the room. His right arm pulls me into an embrace and holds me against his body. Even at this moment I relish the feel of his hard and authoritative body. “Are you telling me the truth, Lydia?” he breathes into my hair.

“Yes, Thomas!” I insist, raising my head to meet his eye. “I swear to you that I am!”

He presses his hot lips onto my forehead, calming me. “Then you have nothing to be sorry for,” he whispers.

“I know,” I reply, inhaling the intoxicating scent of him once again. “Yet I cannot help but feel I have let you down. I should have tried harder to protest, to refute her claims.”

He chuckles from over me and pulls me closer. “You are easy to read, Lydia,” he says. “Helena would have known the truth at any rate.”

I draw back a little and regard him. “Is it true?” I ask him. “Do you wish to govern me?” I stumble over the last words, almost incapable of spitting them out.

He smiles, a dark and delicious look spreading over his handsome face. “Lydia,” he breathes. I gaze up into those deep green eyes, so foreboding, and yet so utterly tempting. “There are a great many things I would like for us. But whatever transpires, it will be our private business, and nobody else’s.”

I nod breathlessly into his chest. “Yes,” I agree, “but please, Thomas. I should like to know more. I would like to understand.”

He takes a small step backward, shifting position so that both of his large palms come to cup my face. “Oh, Lydia,” he begins. “We have known one another such a short time, perhaps bringing you here with me was a mistake?”

My insides twist at his assertion. “No,” I cry out. “It was not, My Lord!”

Smiling, he releases his left hand from my face, and his right hand rises to gently hold my warmed cheek. “Helena was always going to be troublesome. I should have foreseen this,” he replies.

“Please,” I continue. “Thomas, tell me more about her; about the Pembrokes. I think then perhaps I will understand.”

He pulls his timepiece from its chain in his jacket pocket and assesses it. “There is limited time, Lydia, but I can give you a brief telling of the tale. Let us sit…”

He gestures toward the bed, and we make our way there, sitting beneath the two wooden posts at the end of the bed. “William and I have been friends since we were boys. We have always enjoyed each other’s company, and he and I share a rather avant-garde attitude toward life.”

I reason that I know what he is trying to tell me, and yet I want to take this opportunity and be sure of the things I think I know about my guardian. “Avant-garde, My Lord?” I ask, seeking clarification on the point.

He smiles, pulling his lips into a smirk as he answers. “Unconventional, Lydia.”

“Oh,” I say, “like Lady Helena?”

He laughs, gently reaching for my hand. “Exactly,” he confirms. “Once our similar tastes were established, we took every opportunity to indulge our whims. We have both hosted parties at our residences, but undoubtedly the most raucous of those have happened here, at Cranningford.”

I flinch at his words, feeling my breath quicken as I try to decipher them. “What transpired at the parties?” I ask, feeling a fool for even needing to enquire.

The smile which meets me widens, and I blush further, realising full well to what he refers. “I have no wish to embarrass you on the subject, Lydia,” he says softly. “You are yet so innocent… despite my maligning influence.”

Unbelievably, I think I flush further. “You mean things of the sort we have talked about?” My voice is raspy, making me shift all the more uncomfortably on the bed next to him. “Things which transpire between a gentleman and his wife?”

“Yes,” he smiles, “and more.”

I still, almost unable to process the words. Surely I had suspected as much, and yet hearing such brutal honesty from the man who is now my legal guardian is still perturbing.

“I have shocked you,” he says, squeezing my hand gently. “I am sorry. Let us talk no more of it now.”

He rises, intending to stand, but I hold on to his hand, imploring him. “No, please, Thomas!” He pauses, looking down to me. “I confess I am shocked, and yet I would rather know the truth. We are here now—at Cranningford I mean—and I should like to be aware of the facts.”

I see him considering my words, before he slowly reseats himself. “I will continue only in the spirit of what is good for us,” he says. “I have asked for honesty from you, and so you deserve no less from me.”

“Thank you,” I reply, as he resumes the story.

“Once William married, I assumed that the debauchery would have to stop, and yet it seems Lady Helena is rather inclined in the same direction.”

I gasp. “Do you mean that she also entertains such things?” I ask, rather stunned. “Here, at the hall?”

“Yes,” comes the reply. “It would appear that she enjoys meeting the needs of her dominant husband, whilst also wanting to play with other guests. Their marriage is rather curious actually…” He pauses, looking at my gaping face. “Do you wish me to continue?” he asks.

I nod furiously, seemingly unable to articulate my needs.

He smiles again, turning back to the window as he continues. “At any rate, Helena has been most desperate to see me settled with an appropriate lady for some time. Ironically, she is much like the countess in this way! It was only inevitable then, that she would speak of things such as marriage to you.”

Absurdly my heart falls at his final comment. Perhaps Lady Helena was wrong—Thomas has seemingly no desire to marry me. Caught up in the moment of transparency, I decide to be brave. “Do you not wish to marry, My Lord?”

Dismayed at my own candidness, I look to him, feeling more vulnerable than ever. He turns back to face me, shifting his weight so that he is now only inches from me. “I can say honestly, that until recently, I never had.”

The searing intensity of his expression makes me heady, his gaze taking on some otherworldly, hypnotic quality.

“And now, My Lord?” My voice sounds tiny all of a sudden.

“And now,” he says, pressing his body weight against me gently as he leans in toward my lips. I freeze, paralysed with desire for him, and for the things he may promise. Slowly he inches toward me, until his lips graze mine sensually. “Perhaps I am of a different mind-set.”

I blink at him, the pulsing between my legs goading me to return the kiss, and yet fear—or convention—preventing me from doing so. We have already crossed so many lines—this gentleman and I—and yet the temptation to blur another is all too enticing.

Maybe he sees the tension in my eyes, or perhaps his own desire just becomes too heavy a burden, but all at once he swoops, collecting my head into his right hand and pushing me back onto the bed. I gasp, but the sound is swallowed by his mouth, which moves upon me, placing hot kisses against my lips as he manoeuvres us between the posts.

“Thomas!” I pant, as he finally releases my lips.

He leans in over me, pressing his weight onto his elbows aside of my head. “Lydia.” His voice is that low growl again. “The things I want to do to you…”

His words make me swoon, and instinctively I squeeze my eyes shut. He responds by dipping to my neck, planting a frenzy of hot kisses at my nape, until shamelessly I hear myself moan out loud.

“What things?” I ask, opening my eyes to see his own hooded lids rise to my face once more.

He shakes his head at me, as if he means not to say. “Do not tease me, Lydia,” he warns. “Or after I take you over my knee, I will devour you.”

I gaze up at him, filled with desire for this man, and speechless at the sheer force of the feeling. For a moment it seems I cannot take a breath, and then when I do, I realise that I am panting. “I am not!” I say defiantly. “At least, I mean not to be? I have never felt this way before, Thomas. I do not know how to feel.”

He smiles devilishly, and rolls his hips against my middle. The feeling of his hardness astounds me, and sends my eyes darting between us.

“Do you feel what you do to me?” he asks, eyeing me intently.

I nod, a small whimper leaving my lips as I do.

“Hush, Lydia,” he says, kissing me again. “I mean never to hurt you, but I do so want to possess you.”

Looking into his eyes, I know that I too desire the same thing. The pool of wetness at my core is a testament to the fact. His smile returns, and with it the dark urgency on his face slips away. “There will come a day, Lydia,” he whispers into my ear. “And on that day I will have you, but that day is not today. Today, we must behave.”

He rises from me, pushing himself away from the bed, before rearranging his clothes. I watch him, feeling hot and flustered from my vantage against the covers, reeling at the sensations he has ignited within my own body. I shut my eyes, trying to regain composure over myself, and muse on his words in silence. If he is correct, and our day is set to come, I hope that day will not be too long away…

Chapter Twenty-Three: Evening Entertainment

 

 

I sit by the fire in my room, Lucy tending to my hair after my bath, enjoying the sensations of the flames as they warm my skin. I hear her voice in the background, asking me questions about Cranningford, and Lord and Lady Pembroke, and yet I am not really paying attention, my thoughts still lost in replaying the moments Lord Markham and I had shared here earlier.

“My Lady?” Lucy’s voice sounds somewhere between concern and irritation.

“Yes?” I answer, unaware of her enquiry.

She sighs, and a stab of regret fills me. “Should you wear the oyster, or the pink gown?”

I run my fingers over my face, retracing the line his kisses had travelled earlier. Catching my own distant reflection in the looking glass, I stop. “The pink, please,” I answer.

She smiles, clearly in agreement. “Good choice, My Lady,” she says. “The hue does so flatter your complexion.”

I dress quickly, and once she is happy, Lucy retires for the night, leaving me awaiting Lord Markham with nervous butterflies abounding once again. Thankfully, he does not leave me waiting long, and one simple knock at my door is the signal to find him standing in the hallway. He smiles as our eyes meet, his gaze falling to absorb every inch of my body in the chosen gown. He whistles appreciatively, reaching for my hands and pulling me from the doorway into his embrace. I am taken aback by the physicality, wanting to protest in case we are seen, but then I recall we are not at Markham, and we are quite alone, Buckton also having departed.

“Good evening, Lady Franklin,” he whispers from over me. “May I say you look truly delectable tonight?”

I giggle at his words, pressing my palm into his expensive evening coat. The look reminds me of the first night I had met him at Markham Hall. How long ago that night seems now. “Thank you, My Lord,” I reply. “I should also like to compliment you on your handsome looks, if it is not too unladylike of me to say so?”

Now it is his turn to laugh, and he spins me round in the corridor, as though we are dancing. “Oh, I do hope so,” he purrs over me. “I promise that all unladylike behaviour will result in swats over my knee later!”

I glance up into his eyes, feeling the blood rushing to my face yet again. The smile on his face is wicked and gorgeous. “In private, My Lord?” I ask nervously.

He winks at me. “That will depend upon how depraved your behaviour proves to be!” he replies.

I smile at his words, feeling my body respond to them in the usual carnal way. Beneath my gown, my nipples harden, forming into tight buds, which ache beautifully. I let out a sigh as the sensations roll over me.

“Shall we?” he asks, luring me from my own lewd thoughts.

I nod my concurrence, and we begin our journey to supper.

 

* * *

 

The meal is as lavish and indulgent as I had expected it to be. We are met by the lord and lady of the house, in their seemingly trademark and over-tactile way, before making our way to the dining room. We are seated at a table so great, it puts even the one at Markham to shame. We occupy just four spaces—a tiny proportion of the dining table—and I find I have been seated beside Lord William, and opposite Thomas, who is sat with Lady Helena. I do my best to push down the envious feelings which raise their heads when I see the two of them together.

The game course, it transpires, was caught by the two gentleman just this afternoon—a fact which is celebrated widely throughout the meal. I engage in polite discussion with my host, whilst watching my guardian interact with Lady Helena. I decline dessert after the main course, feeling already that I have over-consumed on rich and tasty food. At this point convention usually determines that the ladies retire to another room, leaving the men to smoke and indulge in liquor as they wish, but for some peculiar reason that moment never comes.

Instead, it is Lady Helena who calls for an end to the meal. “Shall we retire to the music room?” Her question is directed broadly at the whole room. “Lydia, will you do us the honour of playing for us?”

They all eye me, waiting for my response. I see Thomas throw me an enquiring look, and instinctively I shift in my seat under his watchful gaze. “I have not played for an audience for some time, My Lady.” I answer; a tactful way of refusing her indelicate offer.

She smiles, waving her arms around fancifully. “Nonsense!” she cries. “Why, you played for me just this afternoon.

She has me on this point, and I lower my eyes. “But My Lady, I am really not so accomplished.”

“Lydia!” she says, draining her wineglass, “you were utterly marvellous!”

I let out a small sigh, feeling beaten on the subject.

“Perhaps a small glass of wine will help?” says Lord William from my right. “Lady Lydia is rightly nervous, and her modesty does her credit.”

Thomas stiffens from opposite me. As always, his unspoken rule about my alcohol consumption means that not a drop has passed my lips this evening, even though the three of them have enjoyed two glasses each.

Seeing his face, I answer. “Lord Markham does not permit me to drink wine, Lord William,” I say into my chest. I feel rather humiliated to admit it, and yet on the other hand, I have no wish to upset my guardian, and even less desire to play for the Pembrokes.

Lord William twists in his seat next to me. “Come now, Thomas!” he cries at his cousin. “Do not be such a killjoy! One glass is not going to corrupt your ward, especially under your watchful tuition?”

He laughs, and Lady Helena joins him, and I am anxious at once, my eyes darting from the man to my right to the one opposite me. Thomas looks superficially relaxed, and yet I sense an undercurrent of something else—something which is likely to result in my bottom being tanned. I squirm reflexively at the thought.

“Would you like a glass of wine, Lydia?” He eyes me intently as he asks the question, those green eyes drilling into me.

I open my mouth to answer, feeling the weight of all three dinner guests upon me. “Perhaps just a small glass, My Lord?” I reply, wondering already if I have said enough to warrant punishment. The prospect taunts me, and I can’t decide if it is fear or arousal I am feeling.

There is silence, as everyone awaits the verdict of my guardian. At last he moves, reaching for his own glass as he speaks. “You have my permission,” he says, a small smile forming on his lips. I wonder if he has just decided in his own mind when and how he will punish me.

“Excellent!” says Lord William, gesturing for the staff to fill my glass. A young footman complies at once.

“Thank you,” I murmur, although I am not sure which of the men I am thanking in the end. I reach for the glass, feeling the weight of the crystal at my fingertips. Raising it steadily to my lips, I pause as the glass presses against the softness of my mouth. The aroma of the wine hits me, and all at once I can feel Thomas watching. He surveys the plum-coloured liquid as it falls past my lips, and as I swallow our eyes connect. The deed is done, his green orbs tell me, you have consumed the wine… I blink back at him, aware of both the threat and the promise those eyes hold for me.

The warmth of the wine fills me, and after a few more sips, the conversation feels suddenly easier. It is at this time that Lord William turns to me and Thomas. “I must apologise for the behaviour of my wife earlier, Lydia,” he says rather matter-of-factly. “She has told me of the confidences you shared in the music room, and I am sure you agree that she has no business pressing you on such private matters.”

My face heats in an instant. Seeing my mortified face, Thomas responds for both of us. “Thank you, William,” he says cheerily. “Lydia also informed me of the discussion. May I say that I was unsurprised?” He turns to Lady Helena as he speaks, and all three of them laugh.

“Ah, well, yes—it is true. You, Thomas, know My Lady, but our new guest here does not.” Lord William turns to me directly as he goes on. “Needless to say Lady Pembroke has been soundly spanked for her insolence.”

I gape at his words, uncertain whether to believe him or not. Do respectable people really speak of such things at the supper table? Seeing my face, it is Lady Helena who intervenes to my rescue. “Look now, William,” she says evenly, “you are embarrassing poor Lydia!”

I take a deep drink of my wine, assessing her face and finding not one iota of shame there at all.

“Oh, I do apologise,” smiles Lord William, his tone genuine. “Enough said on the matter for the time being then.”

As I drain the last of the wine from my glass, I feel ready to play, deciding that at least it will be a distraction from this discomfiting topic of conversation. Politely I offer to perform for them.

“Are you certain, Lydia?” probes Thomas with interest. “You seemed less keen just a short while ago.”

Lord William laughs. “I told you the wine was good, cousin!” He raises his newly refilled glass, as if to offer a toast, and the two men laugh.

“Let us retire then?” says Lady Helena happily. “I do so love music after a meal.”

The four of us rise from the table, Lord William and his wife taking the lead as we pass from the elegant dining area, across the entrance way, and back to where the grand piano waits.

As we walk, Thomas falls alongside me, reaching for my hand. “Are you sure you want to play, Lydia?” he asks me again. “I do not want you to be pressured into this thing.”

I smile back at him, feeling absurdly relaxed after just one drink. “Yes, My Lord. Unless you would rather that I did not?”

He grins at that. “Certainly not!” he replies. “I have long desired to hear your talent.”

We enter the music room, lit beautifully by a number of flaming candelabra. I move immediately to the seat of the piano, taking my place and running my fingers once again over the ivory keys.

“What should I play?” I ask the room, as the lords and lady around me take their places. “Do you have a favourite, Lady Helena?”

“I have a great many,” she smiles in response, “but please, play as you will. Your improvised pieces earlier were a joy to behold.”

Taking a deep breath, I prepare myself, catching Thomas’ eye in my peripheral vision just as my digits stroke the first key. I play a few of my own preferred compositions, the sound of the upbeat music filling the air around us. Seated here, I feel almost free, the effort of producing the sound no real exertion at all. After a while, I switch pace, allowing the music to flow into something more powerful.

“You are an exceptional pianist, Lydia.” I raise my head to find Lord William rising from his chair and smiling at me. “What an incredibly lucky gentleman your guardian is.”

“Indeed I am,” agrees Thomas from my left.

“What is this piece?” asks Lady Helena from behind Lord William.

“It is a contemporary composition, My Lady,” I answer from over the sounds of the beautiful notes. “It is called Moonlight Sonata; do you enjoy it?”

She rises from her seat, placing her glass on a small table nearby as she moves to join Lord William. “It is so entirely compelling,” she answers. “I feel as though I have to move to it. William, hold me…”

She turns to her husband, her eyes smoky with some unspoken need. He wraps her up in his long arms, and they move together slowly in front of the piano. I witness the act of intimacy from my seat, feeling like I am intruding on something private, but glad to have the beautiful instrument and the melody to hide behind. I am so taken with the music that I do not immediately see Thomas moving, but all at once I find that he is behind me. He touches my exposed left shoulder, caressing it with one long finger. I turn my head to find his intense gaze raining down on me as I play.

“You never told me you could play like this,” he says, his voice taking on an almost husky quality.

I smile, pleased that he is enjoying my performance. “I rarely play anymore,” I answer. “At least, not since the earl passed…”

He crouches beside me, watching my fingers run over the ivory keys. “That is a travesty, My Lady,” he says softly.

He leans forward and presses his lips into my shoulder. I shiver at the touch, silently yearning for more of it, and yet all too aware that we are in company. “My Lord,” I gasp, my eyes darting back to the couple still swaying beyond the piano. “We are not alone!”

He chuckles as his eyes follow mine. “I do not think our hosts are concerned. They seem rather preoccupied to me.”

I watch Lord William, his arms encircling Lady Helena, as one hand moves south to her behind. I blush at the scene, having never before seen such intimacy first-hand. “Yes,” I agree, lowering my head to try to conceal my colouring face.

“There is no need to be embarrassed, Lydia,” he says, drawing the stray strands of my hair away from my face. “William and Helena have no qualms about the way they feel. Think of it as a credit to your beautiful playing.”

I smile, feeling the familiar passion growing within me.

“Do you know how ravishing you look?” he asks me. “Sat here, producing this amazing music?”

I glance in his direction, trying to focus intently on the keys, and not the way his words make me feel.

“Lydia?” His voice is like a large cat purring. I swear I feel the vibrations of it as it slides over my collarbone.

“My Lord,” I say breathlessly. “I know not what to say to such things!”

This is not strictly true. I had accepted a good many compliments in London, and yet had never felt stirred by any of them.

“Accept my compliment,” he replies, eyeing me closely.

I turn to look at him again, my fingers pausing at the keys. “Thank you, Thomas,” I answer him.

We gaze at one another, and I feel completely enraptured by him—yet again. How can he make me feel this way with just a few passing sentences?

“You are welcome,” he says, his tone low and rasping.

Instinctively my body responds to him, my breaths coming in short, laboured gasps. I wonder what my eyes portray as we sit here, suspended in time. His almond-shaped eyes tell their own story, showering me with a devotion so intense, it threatens to overwhelm me.

“Is it time we retired to bed?” he asks, his left brow rising, as though he dares me to refuse him.

‘Yes!’ I want to say, ‘take me to bed, Thomas!’ and well I might have done if the room had not also been occupied by Lord and Lady Pembroke. The other couple, still intimately embracing, turn to look at us.

“You have stopped playing?” says Lady Helena, stating the obvious.

“Yes, I…” I hesitate, my words catching in my throat as Thomas stands up beside me.

“It is time for bed,” he answers, his voice full of calm authority.

Lord William, perhaps understanding his tone, releases his grip on Lady Helena and moves toward his cousin. “Then it is bed to which you must go, sir,” he says with a wry grin. “I hope you both get some rest.”

“Thank you,” replies Thomas, and then looking down to me, he says quietly, “Lydia, shall we?”

I nod, rising from the stool to face our hosts. “Thank you so much for a pleasant evening,” I say cordially.

They both return my smile. “Our gratitude to you, Lydia,” replies Lord William, “for showcasing your quite astonishing talent!”

I blush. “It was nothing,” I answer, following Thomas’ lead and moving toward the door.

In no time at all we are back at our rooms. Pausing outside of the double doors, we turn to face each other, and the atmosphere between us shifts. I know we both feel it. What will happen now, I wonder? Will he come to my room? Will he spank me? The way in which I desire both is downright ludicrous, and certainly not becoming, and yet I find I care less and less about my reputation, and more about my enigmatic and dominant guardian.

“Lydia.”

His voice permeates the hallway with one word—my name, neither a question nor a command. I respond almost automatically, my breath once again quickening, and my body filling with passion for him. Blinking up at him, I wait, yearning for him to take the initiative, and suppressing the need to vocalise my own desires.

“Lydia.” The sound is kinder this time, as though he regards me in an almost paternal way. “How are you? You seem a little lightheaded after your suppertime drink?”

The recollection of my earlier glass of wine stirs something in me. I knew unconsciously that this evening would boil down to this choice, even though Thomas had ultimately permitted it. Secretly, I had hoped that he would raise the matter once more…

“I feel well,” I answer. “And thank you for allowing me to indulge.”

“Yes,” he says, smiling, as he towers over me. “I did permit that indulgence, didn’t I?”

I hear the change in his voice, and I blink up at him, full of expectation. “Yes, My Lord.”

“Did you know that your eyes are sparkling, Lydia?” he asks me.

I hesitate, his question taking me quite by surprise. “Are they?” I reply.

“Oh, yes…” he answers, closing the space between us. “They are truly beautiful.”

His latest compliment produces yet another blush, and seeing it, he laughs gently. “Is there something you need, Lydia?”

I look to him, imploring him with my eyes. Then, rising up onto my toes, I whisper to him, “It is not proper for me to say so, My Lord.”

His eyes widen at my response. “Do you mean it would be unladylike of you to tell me?”

I bite impulsively at my lower lip, understanding full well where this conversation is leading. Earlier, in almost this exact spot, he had promised me a spanking for any unladylike behaviour.

“Yes,” I whisper. “I think it may be.”

He grins, nodding as he draws me toward him. We back into the double doors of his room, his shoulders hitting the wall behind us. We both know that I desire a spanking, and yet he knows I will never have the fortitude to ask for it. Instead, we can play this game, where my wild and wanton behaviour can in fact earn me my spanking. I press myself against his body and glare up at him, goading him into action.

“Young lady,” he says mockingly. “This conduct is wholly inappropriate, and will not be tolerated.”

“Yes, My Lord,” I say, barely recognising the woman I have become as I pant with need before him.

“Do you need to be taken over my knee and reprimanded?”

The muscles between my legs clench reflexively at his question, but still I play along. “Oh, no, My Lord. Please, no!”

He eyes me wickedly, perhaps musing on my unlikely performance, and yet his hand travels to release the door handle even as I speak, and sure enough, we are soon moving into the open doorway.

Chapter Twenty-Four: The Summit of Sensation

 

 

The air inside Lord Markham’s room is heavier than mine, filled with the powerful, lingering scent of cigar smoke and his alluring cologne. We move inside, my body still pressed firmly into his as he reaches behind me to close the door. Finally, we part, and my eyes wander over the landscape. I find a room almost identical to my own, except that everything is the other way around—our rooms, it seems, are a reflection of one other. An oil lamp burns dimly by the doorway, and two sets of candleholders are lit either side of the bed.

I look to my guardian, seeing that dark, salacious urgency on his face again. He raises his chin a little, as though he means to compose himself, and then slowly he looks down upon me. “Did you just press yourself against me, Lady Franklin?” he asks, his voice a deliberate and deep tone. “Wantonly flaunting yourself like a common hussy?”

I can feel my heart picking up its pace even as I hear myself reply. “I did, My Lord.”

He smiles, and despite the warmth in his eyes, I cannot shake the feeling that it looks predatory. “Do you deserve rapprochement then?” he asks, “or should you be reprimanded?”

“The judgement is yours, My Lord,” I say, choosing words which are deliberately deferential. “But I fear that only chastisement will help to guide me.” I can hear the tremble in my voice as I answer, though whether its cause is concern or excitement I cannot say.

“My Lady,” he growls, pressing himself against my smaller frame. “Do you know what you ask?”

I inhale deeply. “Yes, Lord Thomas,” I answer. “I want you to punish me. Please, will you spank me?”

With the words said, there is no turning back, and he advances on me in a second. His right hand reaches for my hair, pulling loose the intricate networking of pins and releasing a number of tendrils, which bounce around my face. I gasp at the sudden movement, more perturbed by the speed than the aggression, but still, it leaves me feeling weak and vulnerable; sensations which make my core tighten. Tensing in my golden tresses, his fingers draw me in toward him. “Never let it be said that I am a gentleman who does not address my lady’s needs,” he purrs from over me. There’s just the briefest moment when our eyes connect, his shining with unspoken demands, and then our lips meet.

His mouth crashes into me with enough force to push me backward. Sensing my instability, he turns our bodies, cradling my body with his left arm, and directs us both toward the four-poster bed. I feel the edge of its wood against my calves, and then all at once the weight of his body pushes me back against it. We collapse together, a knot of eager limbs, and I find myself lying flat against Lord Markham’s bed.

He kneels over me, panting slightly as he slowly removes his evening coat. His gaze never leaves me the whole time, his eyes devouring each new curve of my body that they find. Throwing the garment aside, he falls forward and presses himself down against me, collecting my hands and pinning them gently up and over my head. I watch him, compliant and yet breathless with desire. I adore the feeling of his strong and hard body against me, pinning me down and controlling me with such apparent ease.

The strands of his dark hair hang loose from his head as he stares down at me. “So here we are again, My Lady,” he purrs, that wicked look in his eye.

“Yes, My Lord,” I answer excitedly.

“Do you still wish for me to spank you?”

I do not even hesitate as I give my reply. “I must confess that I do,” I whisper, “but I find that…”

His stare holds me in place for a long moment, and I feel as though I am entranced.

“What, Lydia?” he asks breathlessly.

“I find I rather like this too,” I admit, knowing that I should be utterly ashamed of myself, and yet unable to muster the emotion at all.

He grins. “I am so glad,” he says, lacing his long fingers between my own. “Because once you are truly mine, I am going to possess you this way whenever it pleases me.”

I gasp, pressing my torso up to meet his in some unconscious action. My nipples, now tightened into buds, graze against his shirt, sending bolts of desire shooting through me. He chuckles at my response. “Whatever happened to that naïve and spirited young lady from London, who breezed into my dining room last week?”

“She is right here,” I reply, smiling. “She has just been discovering a few things about herself these last few days, thanks in large part to her new, domineering guardian.”

“Oh, really?” he enquires, pinning me with his mocking stare as well as his hands. “Well, yes, I suppose you have had a few lessons to learn in that time, haven’t you?”

My mind flashes back to the times he has spanked me since my arrival at Markham. Lying here beneath him, I struggle to believe that until that time I had never even contemplated such behaviour, and now I find I desire it so badly. “Yes, My Lord,” I reply honestly.

“And, there’s another to learn now, I see?” he probes jovially.

I smile, though I do sense that low creeping anxiety clawing at the insides of my belly. The knowledge of what he will do does nothing to quell me; in fact, quite the opposite—it ignites the passion within me.

He rolls from my body, landing lithely on his back to my left, before assuming an upright position over me. “Come now,” he says, settling his back against the headboard and patting his lap. “Let me give that pretty little behind of yours a spanking before we both tire.”

I scurry from my place on the bed and walk toward where he now sits when his voice stops me.

“Not like that, Lydia!”

I halt, searching his face for an explanation.

“The gown, Lydia,” he says, a mischievous smile growing on his face. “Remove the gown, please.”

His words startle, but by now they do not surprise me. “Must I be bare, Thomas?” I ask.

He nods as I knew he would. “Yes, my sweet thing,” he answers. “And from now on every time you question my instructions, you will earn an additional ten swats, do you understand?”

I fluster at that, nodding, and reaching behind me to unfasten the detail at the back of my gown. He smiles, watching me struggle for a few moments before beckoning me over for him to help. With a firm tug the ties are loosened, and I am able to slide the bodice of the gown from my skin, watching it as it pools around my slippers. I unlace the stays at my waist and turn, now totally nude save for my feet.

He eyes me like a hungry animal. “My, my,” he says as he exhales. “You are flawless.”

I blush again, feeling the heat in my face contrast with the light and tingling sensation that my limbs are experiencing.

“Come to me,” he commands sensually. “You know what is expected.”

I go forward on shaky limbs, moving onto the bed, so that my naked body folds over his lap completely. A veil of calm falls over me. I feel warm, despite my nudity, and safe in the knowledge that this gentleman, who I have grown so fond of, is going to give me exactly what I want, which also happens to be exactly what I need.

His hands are on me, the right one stroking my back tenderly, whilst the other traces a line over my bare behind. I turn my face to the right to catch a glimpse of him, seeing him smile at the task before him.

“What an utterly enticing lady you are, Lydia,” he says. I watch him raise his left hand, before he brings it down against my upturned bottom. Instinctively my eyes close at the impact, relishing the immediate sting that it creates. They open again, in time to see the next swat delivered. The sound of the strikes fills the room. “You can be so self-assured, so certain and contained.”

Smack. The next strike lands on my bottom. This strike is harder, and I wince inwardly at the contact.

“And yet at the same time, you need such correction and guidance.”

He lands the fourth smack and I gasp, the sting catching me right on my sitting spot, still rather tender from my punishments earlier.

“Is that right, Lydia?” he asks, his tone demanding.

“Yes, Thomas,” I say, gathering myself. “Thank you for correcting me.”

Three swats follow in fast succession, and then he pauses, resting his palm right against the line where my bottom meets my legs. “I will always be here to provide correction, Lydia,” he assures me, as he lifts his hand and slams it back down against my flesh. “The pain, and the pleasure, My Lady,” he says warmly.

I press my face, my breasts, and my small palms into the soft bedding, feeling each smack as Thomas delivers them. There is something strangely cathartic about the whole experience; willingly yielding to him seems so brazen and erotic. By the time we reach the twentieth strike, I can feel my hips rising to meet the new spank, and then raining down hard upon his lap, searching for the carnal sensations they hope to find during the spanking.

In the torrent that follows I find the solace I am searching for. Thomas’ hands work together, simultaneously chastising and absolving me. His left hand delivers the penalty, whilst the right one soothes my upper back and shoulders with sensual, soft caresses. I am lost to it, consumed completely with the pain of the sound spanking against my bare bottom, and the way my mind processes it into something wholly wonderful.

At some point the spanking stops, his hand settling against my inflamed behind. I hear him panting over me, and I push myself into the growing hardness at my hip like the wanton woman I have become. He groans—an unconscious, reflexive response to my movement—and the next thing I know his fingers dip between my cheeks. Fleetingly I recall the first time he had explored me this way at Markham Hall. It was only yesterday, and yet I had been reticent to permit the action, despite the enjoyment it gave me. Now however, I find myself eager for him to do so, silently willing his fingers on.

One digit strokes me, heading toward my wet seam and probing gently between the lips there. I gasp, opening my eyes to see him as he plays me like an instrument of his own. His eyes are large and dark, the lids once again low over his green orbs. His face looks like he is caught somewhere between agony and ecstasy.

I mewl as his finger slips a little deeper, amazed at how much moisture he finds there. “Thomas!” I murmur, just about able to spill the word from my mouth.

He turns his head to me, opening his eyes to look upon me. “Did you enjoy your spanking, Lydia?” he asks in an unusually husky tone. “Was it what you needed?”

“Oh, yes!” I cry out, wanting to bite down upon the soft bedding at my lips as a second finger brushes past the pulsing nub underneath me.

“And now, my sweet?” he enquires. “What do you need now?” His tone is mocking, designed to deliberately torture me further by making me state my desire out loud.

“Pleasure?” I ask, knowing I sound like an overindulged little girl.

He smiles. “Ah, yes… pleasure.” At the same time, his top finger slides a little further within me, and the palm of his hand rocks gently against my sex. Instinctively I push back, relishing both sensations at once. My mouth opens, as though some tacit need is there and yet cannot be vocalised. “You may have your pleasure, My Lady,” he growls, “but there is one condition.”

I look to him, my eyes pleading. “What condition?” I gasp.

His smile widens. “I want to see you when you come apart, Lydia,” he replies soothingly. “So keep your face this way, and your eyes open.”

It sounds like such a small request, especially in light of the feelings being stirred within me by his left hand, so I nod my compliance at once. “I will do so,” I say breathlessly.

“Good girl,” he says, using his right hand to draw the unruly tendrils of hair from my face. “Then you may seek your pleasure. I want to feel you explode, right here at my hand.”

My hips push back even as he speaks, bucking against his hand, searching for the friction I know can be found there. He holds his hand still, and I soon find a rhythm, sliding past the finger at my wetness and grinding against the palm beneath me. The sensations are thrilling, and unknowingly my eyelids flit closed.

“Lydia.” His tone is a warning, and my eyes fly open at once, seeking him immediately.

I swallow as I understand my error. “I’m sorry,” I stammer, consumed with the decadence of the feelings.

“Keep. Them. Open,” he says, punctuating each word, as he allows his right hand to leave my back and trail a line down my right side. His fingers reach underneath me, finding my breast pushed against the bedding.

“Give me this sweet bud,” he orders carnally, and I obey out of instinct, raising my right side a fraction to allow him access.

He seizes it between his fingertips at once, pulling and pinching the nipple as my hips roll relentlessly at his left hand. The combined stimulus is effective, and all of a sudden he has me right there again, at the very precipice of pleasure.

“Thomas!” I call, the urgency in my voice making it almost unrecognisable.

“You may climax,” he says sensuously, “but keep your eyes on me.”

I feel my muscles contracting around the finger at my opening even as he speaks, the wave of pleasure ripping through me like a powerful force of nature. A guttural sound leaves my lips, every fibre of my being focused only on one thing—the pursuit and maintenance of this feeling. So consumed am I by the sensations that I quite forget his instructions, my eyelids squeezing shut as my body convulses around him. It is only when his voice slices through my euphoria that I recall what I had been told.

“Oh, Lydia…”

My eyes are open in a flash, immediately repentant. “Oh, My Lord, I am so sorry,” I say, but the dark look in his eyes tells me my apology is not going to be sufficient.

“You had but one instruction.” he replies threateningly, as he removes his left hand from my still shuddering pelvis.

Filled with remorse, I try to reason with him. “But, Thomas, the pleasure was too intense! I did not mean to disobey.”

His lips form into a smirk, and I wonder if he had not known all along that I could never hope to do as he had asked. “Even so, Lydia,” he begins. “You had but one condition for your pleasure, and you did not meet it. What am I to do with you?”

He runs his hand over my reddened bottom, and I shiver reflexively. “Will you punish me?” I ask, my voice trembling.

“Do you deserve to be punished?” he answers, his eyes knowing.

I swallow, trying to decide upon the response. “Yes, but no…” I say, my own voice portraying my confusion.

He chuckles, raising his right knee and urging me up onto my knees next to him. “Then perhaps just a small penalty?” he says calmly. “A little reminder of what happens if you disobey me? What say you, My Lady?”

I flex my toes, nervous energy whipping through me once again. I do not want to be punished again—not severely—particularly after such a satisfying experience, but what can I say? I did fail in the small endeavour he had asked of me. “What will you have me do?” I say in a small voice.

He is smiling as he shifts his weight, helping me to take a step backward as he swings his legs from the bed. “I will have you right here,” he says, coming to stand behind me. “Put your palms flat on the bed, and keep your legs spread.”

He moves my body into position as he speaks, arranging my limbs as though I am a rag doll. I find myself in my most ungainly pose, bent over at the hips, my shins against the bed. Satisfied at last, he moves away to his travelling bag, just right of the doorway. I breathe hard and deeply as I watch him, my mind reeling at what he may have in store next. By the time he turns back to face me, I feel downright afraid. “My Lord?” I ask, my voice trembling.

He moves back through the darkness to reveal something long and thin in his right hand. He passes it to his other palm, showcasing it to me as he comes to stand by my left side. All at once the object comes into view. My belly lurches as I recognise his riding crop, and my eyes fly to him at once. “Thomas!” I exclaim, “you cannot mean to punish me with this thing!”

My voice is etched with the fear and the disdain I feel about the idea. Crops are for animals, horses—not for me! When he does not reply at once I shift my weight, meaning to stand and face him, but he halts me with one word.

“Stay,” he says, and something about the authority in his voice makes me comply. I hang my head shamefully, and see him raise the crop by the left side of me.

I tense and want to cry out, but as I watch I see him lower it slowly over my back. I feel its touch grazing my side and sliding round to tickle my belly. I draw in my stomach reflexively, unprepared for its soft and unusual sensation.

“I am not cruel, Lydia,” he says from next to me. “And I have already told you that I mean never to cause you real harm.”

“But, Thomas,” I say shakily. “The crop?”

He sees the worry in my eyes, and smiles. “The crop looks severe, but it need not be,” he answers. “Take this instance for example, as it trails down your belly to your thighs—does it hurt you?”

“No,” I reply honestly.

He twists the crop at my left thigh, moving to slide it over my inside leg. It is tantalisingly close to my moist lips, and unbelievably I feel the warm tingle at the summit of my thighs again.

“The crop can be quite the tease, Lydia,” he says, chuckling warmly. He draws the implement back, bringing it to rest against my exposed bare behind. “But it can also deliver a message.”

I gasp, tensing at his change of tack.

“I think five light strikes will be sufficient to send this message now,” he says, delivering his verdict to the room.

“Are you ready, Lydia?” His tone has hardened, and I try to steel myself, but feel far from prepared.

“No, My Lord,” I reply, a low sob catching in my throat.

My plea is ignored, and I feel the crop leave my flesh. I eye the space behind me wildly, making out the crop’s length in the air, just a few inches from my bottom, before he brings it back down upon me with a gentle swish. In all honestly the pain is not all that intense, but the sound is downright mortifying, and I jump from my place at that alone.

“One,” he muses out loud, running a line across the point of impact.

I wince, wanting this whole thing to be done already. “Please, Thomas,” I plead. “I will obey next time!”

He is seemingly uninterested in my defence, and the crop is already in the air again as my appeal concludes. This time Thomas lands it with a little more force. The crack it makes as it strikes against my sitting spot seems to fill the air around us, and then the pain of the impact registers and I cry out. He removes it again, leaving the punished area burning as though it were scalded.

“Two, Lydia,” he says, but before I can respond the next strike is upon me.

Despite the fact that I now know what is coming, I seem unable to process the pain, and the new swat is just as punishing as the one before.

“Oww, Thomas!” I cry, straightening up a little, as my right hand moves automatically to console the inflamed area.

He moves behind me in an instant, pressing his clothed body against my punished bottom. “Do you want me to add another five licks with the crop?” he asks me menacingly.

I twist my head left to see his face right there. I know my eyes are filled with tears as I reply. “No, please…” I sob.

“Then get back into position, and stay there!” he hisses into my ear.

I scan his eyes quickly, and I see he means it, so I comply with his demand, hanging my head in front of me miserably.

“That was three, Lydia,” comes his voice from behind me again. “This is a punishment; it is supposed to hurt. Now steel yourself.”

I nod, squeezing my eyes shut as I hear the tell-tale sounds of the crop moving through the air. It lands against me once again, searing a line of soreness into my already reddened bottom. I absorb it as best I can, choking back on the sobs which catch in my throat.

“Good,” he says, clearly more impressed with this most recent effort. “Now, just one more, my sweet.”

The pain lashes across my bare bottom again immediately, taking my breath away. My eyes fly open just in time to see him drop the crop onto the floor at his feet. He moves toward me, holding his arms open. “Come here, Lydia.”

I freeze for the longest moment, desperate on the one hand for the love and reassurance that he offers, and yet horrified that he has seen fit to use his riding crop on me in this way. I stand slowly, my hands reaching for my punished bottom as I turn to face him.

“How are you?” he whispers.

I baulk at the question. “How should I be?” I sneer, my eyes streaming with raw emotion. “I cannot believe that you have used that thing on me!” As I speak I kick the crop, now lying on the floor, with my left foot.

“Only five light swats, Lydia,” he says, calmly, taking a tiny step toward me. “Did you not deserve them?”

“No!” I blurt the word out with vengeance, my emotions seem to be rising to an unexpected crescendo, and all of them are directed at Thomas. He takes one more step and is right next to me again, his arms folding around my naked form. “No!” I cry out again, raising my right hand and beating it hard against his chest. “How dare you do this! You have no right!”

He looks down at me, concern and exasperation etched into his face at my maddened response to his crop. “You consented to the punishment, Lydia,” he says softly, nuzzling into my hair. “In fact as I remember, it was you who asked me to spank you?”

I blink at him, indignation filling me. “Spank me, yes!” I say. “But not beat me!”

“You are hardly beaten, my sweet,” he replies. His eyes drill into me as he continues. “You received a measured punishment for your failure to comply with the terms I had set for your pleasure.”

“Measured!” I snort, trying to pull away from him.

He catches me and holds me firm. “Yes, measured,” he answers simply. “And watch your tone, My Lady, or you will find yourself the recipient of yet more punishment.”

I still, searching his eyes. “You wouldn’t?” I hiss, but even I do not sound sure of this bold assertion.

He looks upon me, his brow cocked as my response. “Do you want to try me, and find out?” he asks quietly.

I shake my head, feeling the strange mixture of emotions wrestling inside of me. I am outraged, and yet I am sated. I am indignant at his treatment of me, and yet even now, I yearn for his approval and protection. Finally, the threatening tears win out again, and I bury my head into his chest as they escape. He responds just as I had hoped he would, scooping me up into his arms gently and placing me on the bed. He sits, leaning against the post, and pulls me soothingly into his lap. I go there gladly, too shamed to show my face as the well of emotion empties. He says nothing, instead just holding me, before pulling the top blanket from his bed and wrapping it around my cooling skin.

“Hush, Lydia,” he says tenderly.

I sob against him, seeking his heat and strength. “I am sorry,” I whimper. “I do not usually act this way…”

He chuckles lightly, caressing the exposed side of my face with his thumb. “I suppose you are not usually punished with a crop for your behaviour?” he offers by means of an explanation.

I raise my head to see him, thinking what an awful state I must seem to be in now. “True,” I reply throatily. “But until you, no gentleman had ever corrected my behaviour at all.”

He presses his forehead into my own. “That is my responsibility now,” he whispers, “and one that I take seriously. But please know—I will never punish you in malice or anger.”

I nod my head to show my understanding.

“I was not being unkind earlier,” he goes on. “I love bringing you pleasure, and I did so want to see you come apart. Your sapphire eyes are beautiful, Lydia, and they unlock a great many of your secrets.”

I sigh, recalling how sweet that pleasure had been. The memory feels almost distant now. “I did my best to keep my eyes open,” I murmur. “I think it is impossible though, to do so? Did you trick me, My Lord?”

He smiles. “Perhaps,” he admits. “Perhaps I just wanted a reason to play with my crop?” He pauses, looking down upon me with intense eyes. “I am not usually so whimsical. I fear it is the effect that you have on me, Lydia…”

“Whimsical?” A soft laugh leaves my lips for the first time in a while. “Thomas, you are the least impulsive person I have ever met!”

“Really?” he asks playfully. “Do you mean that I am cosseted and wilful like yourself, My Lady?”

I want to scowl at him, but the tender warmth we are sharing is simply too good to taint. “Perhaps,” I agree, smiling.

We stay this way for some time. He holds me, soothing me and slowly bringing me back from the brink. At some point, my lids become so heavy that I fade into dreams against his chest, the sound of his heartbeat lulling me into sleep.

Sometime later, I am roused by the sensation of being lifted. I open one eye sleepily, aware of Thomas carrying my soporific body across the corridor and into my own room. His deep, tender voice whispers into my ear. “Come, my sweet Lydia. It will not do for Lucy to find you in my room tomorrow morning.”

He guides me into my own bed, pulling the soft covers over my body, and the last thing I remember is the warmth of the kiss he places against my half-open lips.