Chapter Twenty-Five: A New Letter

 

 

Dim sunshine floods into my room, and I open my eyes. I find Lucy at the large window ahead of me, drawing back the drapes and smiling.

“Good morning, My Lady,” she says cordially.

I smile in response, moving tentatively in the bed, and aware suddenly of my nudity. All at once my thoughts fly back to the previous night. I recall our supper, and how I had played for the Pembrokes after a glass of wine. Then of course, I remember my liaison with Thomas; how he had granted my wish and spanked me for pleasure. My hand flies to my behind gingerly as I then recall the riding crop, and all of my costly emotion. What a state I was in! What must he think of me? I resolve to explain my behaviour as best I can as soon as I can speak to him in private this morning.

“My Lady?”

I twist to the left, seeing Lucy moving toward me.

“My Lady, where is your nightgown?” Her concern is written all over her young face.

I shift into a seated position, pulling the covers with me to protect what little remains of my modesty. I wince as my behind makes contact with the bed, the punished area not wanting to be pressed this way. “I was too warm,” I lie, gesturing dismissively with my free hand. “It is of no concern.”

She looks shocked, but says nothing further on the subject as she arranges clothes for the day.

“Have you seen Lord Markham?” I enquire, as innocuously as I know how. “I do not know what the plans for today are.”

“I have not, My Lady,” she answers from within the wardrobe. “But I have received word from Buckton that he and His Lordship have had to make an urgent return to Markham Hall.”

I freeze at her words, my belly lurching at the unexpected news. “Return?” I ask. “But how can they have returned, without us?”

My voice is laden with panic, and she turns to face me. “Worry not, My Lady,” she says with a smile. “Lord Markham would not have done anything without making provision for you. And look, I have a note from His Lordship here.”

She walks toward me, producing a small piece of paper from her apron. I snatch it from her eagerly, feeling shock and excitement course through me all at once.

“From His Lordship?” I demand. “Why did you not give me this immediately?” My tone is rather more harsh than I had intended, and I regret it at once.

She turns, flushed by my response. “I am sorry, My Lady. I did not want to worry you.”

I say nothing, looking down to the expensive paper in my fingers. It is sealed with Pembroke’s wax seal, suggesting that he wrote the note here, sometime between putting me to bed and leaving. Anxiety clutches my insides, as I pull the edge of the seal, opening its secrets for the first time.

I scan the letter quickly, my eyes digesting the handwritten words:

 

Dearest Lydia,

I received word in the early hours that Mama is unwell, and requires my urgent attention. I am loath to leave you, but have chosen to travel back to Markham Hall at once to assess her condition. Lord William has promised to be a gentleman and look after you until we can be reunited. Be a good girl, and do as you are told. I will send Buckton with news as soon as I can.

Rest assured I will be thinking only of you,

Yours,

Thomas.

 

I read the note three times before finally turning to Lucy, who despite the pretence of being busy, is clearly assessing my own response. “Is all well, My Lady?” she asks, clearly intrigued.

“I am not certain,” I admit, pressing the paper into my left palm. “It seems that the countess is unwell, and His Lordship has returned to Markham Hall to be with her.”

She stills at the news. “I am sad to hear it,” she says. “And what of us, My Lady? Are we to remain here at Cranningford?”

I swallow hard, frustrated and a little nervous that I am unable to clarify things further for either of us. “In truth I do not know,” I reply, sounding rather dazed.

There is silence as we both reflect on the new reality.

“I shall dress and see Lord Pembroke,” I say finally. “Perhaps he will have some further information?”

Our eyes connect, and for a long moment we both consider this. Clearly Lucy has heard something of the rumours which surround our host. Her eyes offer something of a warning, imploring caution. Neither of us says anything further on the matter though. Lucy knows it would be more than impertinent for her to speak against a lord, and I choose to suppress the anxiety I feel. After all, if Thomas has trusted Lord Pembroke with our safety, then I must trust my guardian. I nod my head, resolved in my thinking.

“Very good, My Lady,” agrees Lucy. She walks toward me with my pale robe, and I rise from my bed to meet her.

 

* * *

 

An hour later I enter the dining room, feeling absurdly small without the presence of Lord Markham. I am greeted by Lord Pembroke, who rises from his place at the long table, and comes to meet me. “Here she is!” he exclaims, taking my right hand and planting a gentle kiss on my knuckles. “Lady Franklin, how are you?”

“I am well, thank you, My Lord,” I reply with an insincere smile.

“Good, good,” he says, gesturing for me to take my place at the table.

I move past him, turning toward the sunlit breakfast table. It is then that Lady Pembroke’s smile meets my eyes. “Good morning, Lydia,” she says. “I trust that you slept well?”

There is a twinkle in her eye as she speaks, and I wonder if they know about the intimacy Thomas and I had shared the previous evening. I blush at my own memories, certain that my face will have given them both clues as to what may have transpired.

“Good morning,” I reply as I make my way to the table. “Yes, I am well rested, thank you.”

Lord Pembroke passes behind my chair and resumes his place at the table to my right. “We are so sorry to hear about the countess,” he says, collecting his napkin from the table. “Thomas came to me before dawn to tell me the news, and inform me of his plans to travel back to Markham Hall. Of course I made him take my carriage—it is one of the finest made, and will have ensured his safe arrival by now.”

I nod, as one of the staff appears with my breakfast. “Thank you, Lord William,” I answer. “Pray, how did Lord Markham know of the woeful news?”

“It appears one of his own staff rode most of the night to bring it,” he says, taking a sip of his drink. “They arrived in the early hours, quite exhausted as you can imagine, and were met by one of my own footman.”

I could well imagine. The ride on horseback from Markham Hall would take several long hours in the cold autumn darkness.

“Thomas told me of his plans, and asked that I steward you until he is able to return—or bring news that you should yourself return to Markham.”

I blink at him, aware of the scrutiny of Lady Helena opposite me. “I am most grateful for your hospitality, My Lord,” I reply. “I do not wish to burden you, though. Perhaps it is better that I also return to Markham Hall? It is after all, my home now?”

He smiles, dismissing my comments. “Not at all,” he answers. “It is better that you remain here and do the bidding of your guardian, My Lady.”

I swallow hard, hearing the edge to his tone, and knowing that this last comment was not a request. I sneak a sideways glance at him as he turns to speak to his wife, and take in his own fair complexion. His hair is barely darker than his wife’s honey shade, and is coiffed into a fashionable style. His face, whilst long, is ruggedly handsome, combining his heavy blue eyes with an expressive mouth. He turns, catching me staring, and I drop my eyes to my plate at once.

“Let me be clear, Lydia,” he says. “You are our guest, and whilst you are here, you are afforded every luxury we can offer. If there is anything you need, then please feel free to ask either myself, Lady Helena, or one of the staff.” His voice is low and warm.

“Thank you, My Lord,” I answer bashfully.

His gaze falls upon me, his eyes devouring the cut of my gown and my exposed shoulders. I shift in my seat, my discomfort now not only due to my tender behind. The lusty look in his eyes is intensely disconcerting. “Think nothing of it,” he replies. “Helena and I have seen the way Thomas looks at you, my dear, and whilst it was not Her Ladyship’s place to say so yesterday…” He pauses at this point, throwing Lady Helena a disapproving glance. She giggles at his stare, reminding me of a girl half of her age, and he returns her smile before glancing back to me. “It is my opinion that the two of you will become close, and if I am not mistaken, we will be seeing much more of you here at Cranningford Hall, Lady Lydia.”

Blinking up at him, I absorb his assessment. My belly lurches in response, the loss of my guardian suddenly apparent. “Thank you,” I say in little more than a whisper.

He nods in acknowledgement, draining his cup, before rising once more from the table. “Excuse me, ladies,” he remarks, as he stands. “I must attend to some far less interesting business for an hour or so. Please do continue, and enjoy your breakfast!”

He moves toward Lady Helena, bending to kiss the side of her face, before striding from the room. Without his presence, the room feels instantly colder. Lady Helena, it seems, is far less loquacious than yesterday, and soon I rather miss the company of her husband. I play with the food on my plate, neither hungry nor interested in it as a distraction.

Glancing to the westerly window of the room, I peer out into the large grounds of Cranningford. Outside the sunlight has diminished, and it looks as though the October cloud is winning the battle for the sky. I imagine my guardian, and wonder whether he has indeed arrived at his destination yet. I am inexplicably filled with tension at the idea that something might have happened to Thomas on his journey, and that he may lie somewhere hurt and alone. I push the thought from my mind, certain that all will be well, and yet perturbed that I should have worried about such a thing.

“Are you thinking of him?” Lady Helena’s voice cuts into my thoughts, drawing me back into the gargantuan room.

“Excuse me, My Lady?” I ask, uncertain that I have heard her correctly.

“Lord Markham,” she clarifies. “Is it him that you think of?”

Instinctively, and quite before I can control myself, I blush at her words. Realising that there is little point in denial, I nod in acquiescence. “I was wondering how the countess fares, My Lady,” I remark as formally as possible.

The lady across the table from me laughs, holding her delicate features into the air as she does so. “I feel sure that the countess will be quite well!” she cackles.

I still, confused by her shameless response. “What makes you say so?” I wonder aloud.

“Well,” she explains, “you have had the pleasure, I think? The lady is stronger than an ox in my opinion.”

I gape openly at her words, wondering how she feels able to compare Lord Markham’s mother with a stable animal. I steal a glance around me and see two staff waiting in the corner of the room. The fact that we do not speak in private makes Her Ladyship’s critique all the more startling.

“Even if I am wrong,” she continues, “I feel sure that she will pull through. It often seems to me that the countess relishes attention more than any other lady, Lydia. Perhaps even more so than I!”

She laughs again, chortling at her own words, and I say nothing, knowing not what the appropriate response is. After a time, she pauses, sighing as she takes a sip from her cup. “You have met the countess,” she asks. “Is that correct?”

I nod, relieved to have a sane question to respond to. “Yes, My Lady,” I answer. “She arrived at Markham just a day or so after myself.”

“So you know then, of the qualities to which I refer?” she says, her eyes twinkling at her own naughtiness.

I pick up my cup, watching her over the rim. “She certainly did seem strong,” I concur after a moment.

Lady Helena snorts at my careful wording. “Quite,” she replies. “And let me guess; she did not approve of your presence at Markham?”

I blanch at Lady Pembroke’s accurate assessment of the situation. “It is true,” I reply. “She seemed not to like me.”

“Not you, Lydia,” answers Helena softly. “It is unlikely to be you that she does not like. The countess takes a general dislike to any woman who has contact with Lord Markham. Although she purports to find him a wife, I should not think that any woman in the land will be good enough for her son!”

Understanding her meaning, I peer at her and nod. “It did seem that way,” I agree thoughtfully.

“That said, there was always one lady in particular with whom she did seem to align.”

The peculiar comment draws my attention back to my hostess. “Which lady do you speak about?” I enquire.

Lady Helena flashes me a smile, although there is little warmth in her eyes. “I speak of the Lady Elizabeth Brooks,” she explains. “A young and beautiful woman—much like yourself.”

My mind reels at the unknown identity. “I do not know a Lady Brooks,” I concede.

“I should think not,” she says, nodding. “Lord Markham was once her beau, although it is his mother who seems to be rather taken with her. Thomas, on the other hand, gave their dalliance much less credence.”

I pale at her explanation. The thought of Thomas with any other lady makes me envious and indignant, much less a young and beautiful one. I have many other questions on the subject, but all at once the lady opposite me speaks again.

“At any rate, Lydia,” she says, rising from the table. “I must take my leave of you. Please make yourself at home, and I will come and find you later—perhaps we can indulge in a game of shuttlecock if the weather holds. Do you play?”

“No, My Lady,” I reply, as she makes her way past the end of the long table toward the door. “There is not much leave to do so in London.”

She pauses at the doorway and turns to me. “But my dear, you are no longer in London! It is time that you learnt!”

Chapter Twenty-Six: Lord William

 

 

Time without Thomas in my life seems endless, and I wonder at how I had coped so easily before my arrival at Markham Hall. I spend the hours after breakfast roaming the halls at Cranningford like a ghost, sweeping from one colossal room to the next, finding each to be as vacant as the one before.

After much exploration I find a room which appears to be the library. Its oversized rails of books are overwhelming, dwarfing the impressive wealth of the collection at Markham Hall. I wander inside, seeing that the fire at the far side of the room has been lit, and thinking that this is a place in which I can at least spend a few hours in comfort. I scan the nearest wall of leather-lined editions, finding nothing which piques my interest, and instead find myself a seat by the hearth. Much like everything at Markham, the chairs here are enormous and expensive. I press my palm against the green leather of my chosen place, idly examining its quality, before settling against the hard back and turning toward the fire. The flames are warm and inviting, luring me into daydreams about my guardian, which it seems come all too easily to mind.

My thoughts fly back to the previous night, and the look of Lord Markham as he had approached me with the riding crop in his hands. I swallow hard as I consider the memory; his cravat undone and his shirt half open, revealing strands of dark hair beneath them. His face had been like excited thunder, glowering at me as he had come to exact the required punishment upon my bare behind. I squirm against the leather seat reflexively, and I swear as I do, I can feel each stripe that the crop had given me. Peculiarly the thought makes me smile, and I lean my head against the edge of the leather headrest and toward the dancing flames. At some point my eyes close, the late hour of my sleep the prior night finally catching up with me. Thoughts of Thomas spill into my dreams, as memories of my guardian persist in haunting me. Even in sleep it seems, the presence of the gentleman is never so far away. The dreams are heavy and consuming, and whilst I cannot be sure of their content, it is clear that as I regain consciousness, the little bud at the apex of my thighs has begun to pulse once more.

When I open my eyes again, the light has left much of the room, and the apparent darkness startles me. I have no idea what time it is, and yet I feel certain that some length of time must have passed. Why was I not woken for lunch, I wonder as I stretch out my limbs and wander toward the window ahead of me. The grey light outside does nothing to quell the growing anxiety I feel. The weather, it seems, has turned, and large drops of rain lash against the glass, gladly assisted by the weight of the wind. The door to my right opens, and all at once a rectangle of light is cast into the room.

“My Lady, there you are!” It is Lucy’s voice which fills the space, and I look to her gratefully.

“Lucy!” I say eagerly. “Thank goodness. I fell asleep in here some time ago, although how long I cannot say.”

She moves toward me, the door behind her closing to block out the light again.

“Is there news from Markham Hall?” I ask, my voice rather more hopeful than I would have liked.

She shakes her head. “None that I have heard, My Lady,” she replies. “Although I have taken the liberty of packing your garments, so that we are ready to leave whenever word comes.”

I look to her in the shadows, impressed with her efficiency, and yet rather taken aback by it. “Thank you, Lucy,” I say. “I appreciate your effort, but do not recall asking you to do so?”

Even in the half-light I can see her colour as she blushes. “Apologies, My Lady,” she says in little more than a whisper.

I reach for her arm to reassure her. “It is fine,” I say quietly. “I just wish to understand your motivations.”

She nods, before peering around her self-consciously. “I do not think it is my place to say, My Lady,” she says finally.

“Please, Lucy,” I reply, taking her hand and guiding her back toward the warmth and light of the fire. “We are quite alone, and you may speak candidly.”

She seats herself on one of the oversized chairs at my insistence, and looking absurdly uncomfortable there, she turns to me. “I have heard things, My Lady,” she begins, her voice still a low, deliberate whisper.

“What things?” I ask into her large blue eyes.

“Things about Lord Pembroke,” she answers.

I swallow hard, all at once understanding her trepidation. “Go on,” I coax her. “A lady needs her maid to advise her, Lucy.”

She smiles, clearly warmed by my words. “There has been much talk amongst the lady’s maids, My Lady. I had heard whispers at Markham, but the staff downstairs here seem to reinforce it.”

“What, Lucy?” I implore her. “What do they say?”

She blinks, once again checking that we are alone. “They say that His Lordship is quite the ladies’ man,” she whispers. “They say that he has a reputation of demanding favours from the ladies here at Cranningford…”

Her voice trails away, as though she is too ashamed or afraid to divulge further. I sigh, uneasy at the rumours circulating the staff. “I have heard something of the tales,” I say slowly. “I know that Lord and Lady Pembroke have hosted parties here which I have heard have been labelled as scandalous…”

Lucy’s eyes fly to me at once. “Scandalous, My Lady?” she repeats.

I nod. “Yes, Lord Markham told me of this himself.”

“The maids here say they are more than that, My Lady,” she confesses, clearly nervous at sharing the news. “They say that truly debauched things have occurred!”

I gasp at her words, recalling more of what Thomas had told me of the subject. Closing my eyes, I think of his exact words on the matter, and I flush as all at once I remember he had admitted that undoubtedly the most raucous parties had happened here, at Cranningford.

“Lucy,” I insist, my eyes opening to meet her own. “I can tell that you are uneasy. Please tell me why. Surely you cannot think that there is any sort of threat against us?”

“I know not, My Lady,” she says, shrinking visibly as she speaks. “All I know is that one of the maids here spoke about things which are quite unsuitable for a young lady.” She pauses, clearly torn on how much more information she feels that she can share. “I fear for your reputation, My Lady,” she says eventually. “If we are to stay here at length.”

I grip the left arm of my chair, considering her words. Unlike my maids in London, I have not known Lucy for a long time, and yet during that time I have known her to be nothing but a loyal and dutiful young woman. I believe that her intentions toward me now are honourable. I have known the Pembrokes for considerably less time, and what little shared experiences there have been, had been tempered by the presence of my guardian. Without him I feel adrift and vulnerable, a fact which I am certain will not have been lost on Lord William. “Thank you for sharing this with me,” I say, reaching for her hand and giving it a gentle squeeze.

“You are not cross with me?” she asks, wide-eyed as she awaits my verdict.

“Of course not,” I reply with a smile. “I truly appreciate your honesty on this difficult matter.”

“Thank you, My Lady,” she sighs, a relieved smile lighting her face against the flames of the fireplace. “I do not usually entertain rumours, and I know that Mr. Gregory would not take kindly to such behaviour.”

“I vow never to tell him,” I say warmly, thinking of the likely consequences she would face if I did. I shift a little in my seat as I imagine her upturned over his lap, or even worse, over the lap of my guardian.

All at once the door to the library is thrown open. Both Lucy and I turn at once to identify the perpetrator, finding Lord William standing in the doorway. His eyes sweep the shadows of the room, until they find us sat by the fire. “Lydia!” he booms from across the large space. “We have been looking everywhere for you!”

Lucy rises from her chair in an instant, and comes to stand in front of Lord Pembroke. “Apologies, My Lord,” she says, bobbing into a small curtsey. “I have just found Lady Lydia.”

“So I see,” he smirks, his blond brow rising as though he begs to differ with the young maid. “And yet it seems you have had time to sit with Her Ladyship?” He pauses as he takes a predatory step toward her. “Perhaps Lord Markham needs to train his staff to be more honest?”

Seeing his intent, I jump to my feet. “It is my fault entirely, Lord William,” I say boldly. “Lucy had indeed just found me, yet I confess I had been sleeping right here in my chair. I called her over in the hope that she might be able to tell me the time. I appear to have lost most of the day!”

His face relaxes a fraction as he assesses me. “Indeed you have, my dear,” he agrees, moving toward me. “Lady Helena is most upset that she missed the opportunity to hone your shuttlecock skills, but never mind. There is always another day.”

My belly twists at the notion of being kept at Cranningford yet another day, but I say nothing. “I did not mean to upset Lady Helena,” I reply. “I hope she is not too cross with me?”

The smirk crosses his lips again. “No doubt she will tell you at length, My Lady,” he says, gesturing for me to make my way toward the exit.

We move to the door, followed closely by Lucy, the tension in the air building as we walk.

“Is there any news from Lord Markham?” I ask him, as we pass into the hallway.

“Alas, not,” he replies, feigning distress on the subject. “I do hope that does not mean the worst for the countess.”

“I cannot help but think it must be the case,” I murmur, more to myself than to him. Then, remembering myself, I speak up. “Pray tell me, My Lord, what is the time now?”

Lord William checks his timepiece, tucking it back inside his pocket as he addresses me. “You appear to have slept well through the day, Lydia,” he laughs. “It is late afternoon now, and soon it will be time to change for supper.”

His eyes scan over me as he speaks, as though he is thinking about assisting in the process. I flush at the unwelcome thought, turning at once to Lucy. “Ready a gown for supper,” I tell her.

She stares at me, her eyes laced with concern. “Are you sure, My Lady?”

“Of course,” I say firmly, overplaying my role for the purposes of our audience.

She nods obligingly, turning toward the staircase. As she goes, she throws me one final nervous glance. I offer her a small nod, aware that our host will be watching. He turns to me as soon as she has departed. “Well managed, Lydia,” he smiles. “Often you need to be firm with the staff.”

I prickle at his words, mentally envisaging how he might choose to be firm with them. “I am well used to handling a lady’s maid, My Lord,” I assure him.

“Of course,” he smiles, then shifting his weight, he rounds on me unexpectedly. “Why don’t we retire to the drawing room for a pre-dinner drink.”

I pause, unsettled by his suggestion. Every fibre of my being wants to resist the idea, and yet I am compelled by etiquette not to affront the gentleman who is my host. Even worse, I do not want to cause offence to Thomas, who has left Lord William in charge of me in his absence.

I draw in a breath, resolved to do what is right. “Thank you, Lord William,” I reply, watching as his face lights up at my words.

We cross the wood-panelled hallway, the high ceilings and fine oil paintings capturing my attention as I vie to escape polite small talk with my host. Reaching the drawing room, he opens the door for me and smiles as I pass by him. The room is lit by collections of soft candlelight, the final touches of which are being managed by a tall footman as we enter.

“Can I help you, My Lord?” he asks politely as he sees his master approaching.

“No, thank you, Miller,” replies Lord William. “You may leave us.”

I watch as the footman passes by me to exit the room. As he leaves, my eyes fall onto Lord William, who has collected a decanter of red wine from the dresser. He removes the crystal stopper and pours two full glasses of the liquid, before turning back to me.

“Your drink, My Lady?” His tone is deeper somehow, and more authoritative.

I press one foot in front of the next, hesitantly making my way forward. He holds out the glass, compelling me to come to him in order for me to take it. I do so, our eyes meeting briefly as I thank him.

“Thomas is indeed a lucky fellow,” he breathes, as he smiles at me.

I know he is being polite, and yet deep down I suspect his intentions are far more foreboding than that. I take a step back, the intensity in his eyes forcing me to create space between us. “Well, My Lord,” I say. “I am fortunate indeed that Lord Markham elected to become my guardian.”

“Tell me,” he replies, eyeing me intently from the fireplace. “How is your relationship with my cousin since your arrival at Markham Hall?”

I move toward one of the lounging chairs, uncertain if choosing to sit is a good idea or not. “It is good, I think,” I reply, choosing my words with care as I seat myself in the chair. “Of course, it is not easy for either of us, compelled as we are, into this new arrangement.”

He nods, taking a sip of the wine. I look down into my glass, imagining Thomas’ response if he knew I had been offered wine, and so early in the day.

“I have known Thomas my whole life,” exclaims Lord William, “and it is my opinion that he has taken to this new role as your guardian like a duck to water!”

I smile at his words, pleased at least for a compliment which is not pertaining to my own appeal. “That is good to know, thank you,” I say, looking up to meet his eye for the first time since backing away from the hearth.

“And you, Lydia,” he continues. “How do you find it now being governed by a gentleman who is, shall we say, a complete stranger?”

I glance down at my glass, gripping its neck with my tense fingers. “It has taken some getting used to,” I admit, “but I am grateful for Lord Markham’s time and attention.”

A wry smile forms on Lord William’s lips as though he well understands what sort of attention I may have been garnering. “Indeed,” he replies. “Thomas does have his own exact way of eliciting the correct behaviour from others.”

I know I am blushing as he goes on. I can feel the betrayal of heat crawl across my cheeks.

“How do you find these methods, Lydia?” he asks.

I gasp silently at the directness of his question, knowing now that we are both aware of the methods to which he refers. “I…” I pause, unable to think of a protocol to alleviate this moment. “I would rather not discuss such things with you, Lord William.”

He takes a small step toward me, and the movement gains my attention at once. “You have nothing to fear,” he says, trying to soothe me. “Thomas and I are practically brothers; we have no secrets from each other.”

His smile is full, yet it feels insincere. All at once I want to bolt from the room, my heart galloping wildly inside of my chest. “Then perhaps it is better that you ask Lord Markham,” I reply, doing my best to suppress the indignation which surfaces in my voice.

“Oh, believe me, my dear,” he says, taking another step in my general direction. “I most certainly will…”

Something about his tone makes me shudder. The notion that he and my guardian may be discussing the private intimacies I have shared with Thomas makes me feel quite nauseous, but it is the defiance in Lord William’s voice which really startles me.

All at once I find myself on my feet as he approaches. “Thank you for the drink, My Lord,” I witter, my fingers still clinging to the glass like a safety net. “I think it time I retired, and readied myself for supper.”

I turn to leave, placing my full wineglass on a small table to my left.

“Come now,” says Lord William from just behind me. “You have not even touched your wine, and I thought you enjoyed your glass yesterday evening?”

I twist to face him, feeling torn yet again between my propriety and the growing sense of dread which is building within me. “No, I… I think I have the beginnings of a headache,” I lie, clutching my palm to my heated forehead.

He stares at me, his lips curling slightly at one end. “Do not imagine that you can run from me in my own house, Lydia,” he says slowly.

I eye him with frightened eyes, feeling my feet backing toward the door. “Run, My Lord?” I ask, feigning disbelief. “I am not running.”

He takes two strides toward me, and is upon me before I can even take a breath. “You are quite correct, My Lady,” he purrs over me, forcing me to press myself against the wall to avoid contact with him. “You are not running…”

Gaping at him, I freeze, paralysed by his sudden close proximity. His tone is soft, yet it conceals a threat which intuitively I have feared since Thomas had revealed the nature of the parties they had shared. Everything had seemed well—playful and light-hearted—under the supervision of my guardian, yet without him, I am all too exposed and alone.

“Thomas and I share everything,” says Lord William from next to me, his voice droning as though he means to hypnotise me.

I tense, the energy coursing through my body finally dissolving some of the fear. “My Lord, I know not what you mean,” I hiss at him.

“Oh, but I think you do, Lydia,” he says quietly, the look on his face predatory. “And soon I think you will find that…”

A firm knock on the door to my right startles him, and I take the opportunity to slide away, skipping to the door and twisting the handle before he can halt me. My heart is pounding, threatening to emerge from my mouth at any moment as I pull the large wooden door toward me.

Waiting behind the door is Mannington, who looks rightly stunned to see me upon him. “Lady Franklin?” he says, his tone unable to hide the shock he feels. “Is everything as it should be?”

Relieved at the sudden opportunity to escape, I practically fly into his arms, forcing him to take a step back as I pass in a whirl before him. “Yes, thank you,” I just manage. “But I feel quite unwell, and think I need to retire to my room.”

“My Lady,” cries the butler from behind me. “Please wait, I have news for you!”

“What is it, Mannington?” asks Lord William. He appears from behind the door, the picture of calm. “What news do you have?”

Mannington looks from me to his master, obviously confused. “Lord Markham’s valet, Buckton has arrived, My Lord,” he replies, deferring to his employer’s instructions.

“Buckton?” I cry, almost screaming the name to the startled butler. “What news is there?”

Both men look to me, before Lord William approaches slowly. “Mannington?” he says. “Answer the lady—what news is there?”

“Well, My Lord,” says Mannington slowly. “As I said, young Buckton arrived a short time ago with instructions from Lord Markham that Lady Lydia and her maid are to return to Markham Hall at once.”

My heart literally leaps with excitement at the words from the butler’s lips.

“Lady Lydia cannot leave now, Mannington,” interjects Lord William. “It is getting late, and is already dark outside.”

“I care not!” I cry from beside the butler. “Mannington, please notify Buckton to ready the carriage. I will inform Lucy that we are to leave immediately!”

I run to the foot of the stairs, ready to ascend them before another word can be said on the subject.

“Do not be rash, Lydia,” calls Lord William from behind me. “I am sure Thomas did not intend for you to travel in the darkness.”

I turn on the stairs, facing both of the men again. The older, taller man behind us watches us both with piqued interest as I reply.

“My Lord,” I answer, trying to maintain the respect in my voice as I continue. “Thank you for your hospitality, but my guardian’s instructions are quite clear. We will make for Markham Hall just as soon as we can.”

 

* * *

 

With my things already packed by the shrewd-thinking Lucy, Buckton having taken his fill in the Cranningford kitchen, and the horses watered, it takes little time for my departure. Lady Helena meets me at the bottom of the stairs, her face genuinely crestfallen at the news of my retreat back to Markham.

“Lydia,” she cries, pulling me into an embrace. “I have just heard the sad news that you are leaving so soon. Are you certain that the journey is essential this late in the day? You can stay for supper, and leave after breakfast in the morning?”

She looks sincere enough, so I smile kindly, but pull away as I answer. “No, thank you, Lady Helena. My place is with Lord Markham.”

She grins at me, a knowing look in her eyes. “Ah, of course,” she says. “You must have missed him today?”

I nod as we make our way toward the large exit. “I did,” I admit quietly.

“Lydia!” The sound of Lord William’s voice booms from the drawing room. Both Lady Helena and I spin to meet him as he strides across the entrance hall. At the sight of his face I shiver, pushing down the spiral of fear which resurfaces in me. “Farewell, sweet Lydia,” he says, moving toward me and planting a firm kiss against my right knuckles.

I squeeze my eyes shut at the contact, backing away almost as soon as he has returned to his place at Lady Helena’s side.

“I do hope you will return soon, with Thomas of course.”

I take a deep breath, praying for the strength to get me through these next moments and into the carriage home.

“Are you ready, My Lady?” It is Buckton’s voice which interrupts my thoughts.

I turn to find him standing on the steps of the grand house, waiting for me. “Yes, Buckton, I am,” I reply.

“Thank you so much for permitting me to stay on, even after Lord Markham had to depart so unexpectedly.”

I direct my speech to both the lord and the lady of the house, careful to make eye contact with neither of them as I conclude. I make my way to the door, seeing Lucy waiting for me besides the carriage. Her face breaks into a smile as I descend the stone steps, and she holds her hand out to me. “May I ride with you, My Lady?” she asks as I approach.

It would usually be an outrageously insolent suggestion, and one in which I would never indulge. Maids do not sit alongside their ladies when they travel, and we both know it, but in light of recent events, I ignore the usual decorum and gladly welcome her offer.

“I would appreciate that,” I nod, taking her hand and squeezing her fingers gently.

I make my way into the carriage, allowing Buckton to help me up the small steps and into its sanctuary. Taking my seat, I watch as Lucy climbs aboard and takes the bench opposite me. I lean forward to take one final look at the grandiosity of Cranningford Hall, and on the steps I see Lord William. He is standing and staring at me, as though he cannot believe that I have managed to get away. He offers a smile, his bottom lip curling again in a way that makes me shiver.

“Are you cold, My Lady?” asks Lucy, seeing my response.

“No, thank you,” I answer, just as Buckton secures the door of the carriage in front of me.

“We will see you again soon, Lady Lydia!” cries Lord William from the steps.

I say nothing, but eye him as I hear Buckton climb on board and signal to the driver. As we pull away I am inexplicably unable to draw my eyes from him, my heart pounding with anxiety until we are many miles away from the house.

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Sanctuary

 

 

We ride hard and fast into the night; the horses pulling the carriage gallop on as though they too feel my pain. For the longest time there is only silence inside the gig. I feel Lucy’s eyes on me, and I know she senses something of my mood, yet either fear or propriety keep her from enquiring.

At length, once we are some distance from Cranningford and my unease is finally settled, I take a deep breath and look to my loyal maid. “Thank you, Lucy,” I whisper, feeling the emotion welling in me all at once.

She gasps at the sight of my tears, flying to the bench on which I sit. “My Lady, I know it is not my business to ask, but are you quite well?”

I shake my head, feeling the first large tear rolling down my cheek. “No,” I say, fighting back a sob. “I am not, Lucy, but—I hope I shall be, once we are back at Markham.”

“Oh, My Lady,” she says, sounding tearful herself. “Did Lord William hurt you?”

I look away, my eyes trying to keep up with the dark and twisted shapes of the trees as we rush past them. “No,” I whisper, my voice barely audible. “Though I think that he intended to, and had it not been for the arrival of Buckton, I dare not think on what may have transpired.”

I hear her gasp, and yet for some time I am unable to look at her, as though seeing the shock on her face will make the whole sorry story a reality. Eventually, my tears cease, and I garner some strength from within myself. “You must keep this matter between us,” I say, turning to look at her by my side.

She blinks at me as though she means to protest, yet wisely she says nothing of the sort. “As you wish, My Lady,” she replies in the end.

We sit together in the darkness, and I am comforted enough by her presence to fall into a fitful slumber. When I awake, I find that Lucy has once again taken her place on the opposite bench.

I stretch my limbs, leaning forward to try to decipher any of the landscape outside. “Are we near our destination?” I ask hopefully.

“I think so, My Lady,” she answers. “Buckton called down a short while ago to indicate that we are close to Markham Hall.”

“Good,” I reply, leaning back against the hard seat.

As my tender behind shifts against the bench, I am reminded of the way in which Lord Markham had taken me over his knee the last time we had travelled in a carriage together. All at once thoughts of Thomas fill my mind, and an eager wave of excitement at the idea of seeing him crashes over me. Within a few moments, I feel the carriage turn from the road, and I look from my window to see the lights of the great house at the end of the driveway ahead of us.

We disembark in the darkness. Buckton is on hand to help me from the carriage, and collects my bags as we ascend the steps of the entrance. I am met by Carson as I step inside. He smiles at me, bowing his head as the familiar sights and smells of the place reignite my senses. Scanning the stairway, I glance toward the door of Lord Markham’s study. All of a sudden I am nervous, those butterflies in my belly animated at the thought of my guardian.

“Lydia!” The voice is rich and warm, and I know at once to whom it belongs.

Turning toward the library doorway, I see him there, dressed in casual evening wear. A large smile appears on his face, and he begins to pace in my direction. Likewise, I find my feet moving toward him, as though they are compelled to do so by some unspoken force. We meet somewhere between our original places, his arms held out to greet me.

“Lord Markham!” I cry, pressing myself against his shirt.

I feel his arms close around me, and for one long, glorious moment, I am sated, back in the embrace which I had missed so badly.

“Come, My Lady,” he whispers into my hair. “Join me for a nightcap before we retire?”

I say nothing, but nod, just pleased to be near him again. I take his arm, and allow him to lead me back into the library. The room, so often the scene of our recent conversations, is dark but warm, heated as ever by the large fire to our left. He guides me gently to my usual seat, and then pours two drinks from the nearby decanter. Handing one to me, he seats himself just to my right, his face lit by the colours of the flames.

“How I have missed you today, Lydia,” he begins. Our eyes connect, and I feel the relief at being back at Markham with him flood through me. “How are you?” he demands. “Did you receive my note?”

I nod, pressing my lips together before I answer. “Yes, thank you, Thomas,” I say. “I did receive it, although I was shocked that you had already departed.”

I look to the glass in my hand, and am reminded of the earlier unpleasant incident with Lord William. Reflexively I put the glass down by the foot of my chair, an act which draws a look of surprise from Thomas, although he says nothing on the subject for the time being. “I apologise for that,” he replies. “There was little time, and I had no wish to wake you, especially after our time together last night.”

He pauses, and I blush at the memory as he continues. “I hope that Lord William looked after you in my absence?”

I swallow hard, suddenly unable to catch my breath. “How is the countess?” I ask, my voice a higher pitch than usual as I deflect his enquiry.

He hesitates before he answers, clearly vexed. “Yes,” he sighs. “Upon my arrival I found Mother to be well—in fact I found her to be in almost perfect health.” His voice sounds strained, and he takes a large sip of liquor as he concludes.

I am puzzled by his words, and shift in my seat as I probe further. “Really? Well, that is good news,” I say. “Although why were you sent for if this was the case?”

“A question which I also wondered, Lydia,” he answers. “And one which I put to Gregory at once. It would seem that the countess saw fit to call me back urgently—and alone…”

His voice trails away, and his large green eyes are drawn toward the fire. I follow his gaze there, wondering why the countess would seek to do so, unless she was so compelled because she desired for Thomas and me to be separated, and for him to be back with her?

I look back to him, pondering his silence. “How peculiar, Thomas,” I say softly.

“Yes,” he agrees, his intense gaze retuning to me. “I thought so also, so I queried this with my mother, and found that she had rather overstated her symptoms so that I would return.”

I blink at him, not wanting to criticise his mother aloud. “At least she is well,” I say, my voice little more than a whisper.

“I assume so,” he says. “I sent her home as soon as she was checked over by the village doctor, and then I sent Buckton on his way to collect you and Lucy.”

Looking to him, I am quite startled by this news. “Home?” I repeat.

“Yes,” he clarifies. “Back to Leadenham, and away from Markham. I will not abide her interference any longer.”

I swallow hard, appeased by his verdict, and yet unwittingly aroused by the authority in his voice. “I did not mean to come between you,” I offer in my small and unassuming voice.

He smiles lightly. “This is not your responsibility, Lydia,” he says firmly. “I have done what needed to be done.” He turns to me, pressing his body forward. “And so, tell me of your day?” he asks. His voice is insistent, as though he senses there is something I need to share.

I tense at the question, debating whether or not it is best to be open about what had transpired earlier. Thomas has asked for honesty on more than one occasion, and yet I do not desire to make more trouble with the people in his life. I have already caused some rift between him and his mother, and now, am I to spread stories about Lord William’s behaviour? I sigh, unsure of which way I should steer the conversation.

“Lydia?” His tone is resolved, and my eyes fly to him at once. “What has happened, tell me, please?”

I open my mouth, thinking that I will state a partial untruth, and yet the look in his eye halts me. “My Lord,” I begin, already hearing the tremor in my voice. “There is news to tell, and yet, I find that I do not wish to divulge it.”

His eyes widen at my comment, and he puts his glass aside as he rises, shifting the chair he is seated on directly next to my own. Reseating himself, he takes my right hand in his left palm. “We vowed to be honest, did we not?” he asks.

I nod as further tears gather in my eyes.

He watches me, and it is as though he can somehow permeate my thoughts and know to what I am thinking. “What did he do?” he says finally.

A small gasp escapes me, and I wipe the collection of tears from my eyes with my free hand. “It was nothing,” I answer breathlessly. “I mean to say, that nothing actually happened—but I worry that if he had not been interrupted, he would have tried to kiss me, or…” My voice trails away as I recall the heat of Lord William’s breath against my face earlier.

“Or?” prompts Thomas, encouraging me.

“Or worse,” I say, choking back a small sob in my throat. “I do not know, My Lord, but he was so close to me, pressing himself against me…” I look to the fire, biting my lip as I go on. “He said that the two of you share everything, and there was no point in my running…”

A noise escapes my guardian’s mouth. It sounds like the growl of a tortured animal. I look to him imploringly. “Please, Thomas. Know that I did nothing to encourage him. I did not want to be alone with him, and I even rejected the wine he offered.”

The tears come then, burning my eyes until I can see no more. I am aware of Thomas rising from his seat and drawing me up into an embrace. I sob against his shirt sleeve, feeling the warmth of the fire and his fingers in my hair. At length, I collect myself enough to speak, and looking into his eyes, I plead, “Thomas, you do believe me, don’t you?”

He leans down and plants a hot kiss on my forehead. “Of course I do,” he confirms, rocking me gently in his arms. “Once again this is not your responsibility, but mine.”

I pull away from him a little as I reply. “How so, My Lord? You were not even present?”

“Precisely,” he replies, holding me close. “Your safety and well-being is my priority now, and I overlooked this when I abandoned you this morning. Thank goodness you are well; I should not have forgiven myself if anything had happened to you…”

His voice breaks slightly as he concludes, and I feel compelled to offer him consolation. “This is not your fault, Thomas,” I say. “I do not blame you.”

I raise my right hand, and for the first time I reach out and touch him. My fingers find a day’s worth of growth on his chin, and I caress the stubble, gently tracing the hair up his strong and handsome jawline.

He permits my exploration, closing his eyes briefly as our skin connects. “You are more forgiving than I deserve,” he says, watching me closely as my hand moves at his jaw, “but I blame myself, Lydia. I have punished you for less reckless behaviour, for jeopardising your own safety, and now I find that my actions have been found wanting in the same area.”

“Thomas,” I begin, trying to soothe him.

“No!” he snaps, and the tone of his voice halts my ministrations at once. Seeing my response, he softens, leaning forward to plant a gentle kiss on my forehead. “I have known William all of these long years, and I was wrong to have left you there alone. I trusted him, and it was foolish of me, irresponsible—but the news of my mother caught me off guard.”

I can hear the frustration in his voice as he speaks, and I use my left hand to stroke his back gently. There is silence for the longest time, until Thomas finally speaks. All of a sudden there is a new edge in his voice. “Did you consider not telling me about this incident, Lydia?”

He asks in that knowing way; the one which is laced with desire, and I already know that by the time I look up I will find that dark brow cocked with enquiry.

“Yes,” I whisper. “I confess that I did.”

He pulls away, swallowing both of my hands into his large palms as he answers. “Why would you even consider it?” he asks, sounding desperate.

I sigh, despising the feeling that I have let him down. “I did not want to be the cause of trouble between the two of you,” I explain. “All I seem to have done since I arrived, Thomas, is be the cause of discontent.”

He smirks, and then chuckles at my reasoning, his left arm once again drawing me into his body for an embrace.

“Please, Thomas,” I say again. “Please do not permit this to be the cause of discord between you and Lord Pembroke?”

I eye him fearfully, as he considers my words. “This is not settled, Lydia,” he says. “I am frightfully angry with William, and he shall know about it. God knows if he had hurt a single hair on your head, I would be riding back to Cranningford right now to confront him.”

My mind reels at the news, the tension tightening in my belly. “Thomas, please?” I say again.

He stills, his eyes drilling into me. “Hush now,” he says finally. “You must be tired after your journey. Perhaps we should both get some rest, no? I will share my decisions with you in the morning.”

Swallowing hard, I look to him. “Are you cross with me for not confessing straight away?” I ask timidly.

He eyes me intently, that delicious gaze searing into my flesh. “Of course,” he says, his voice strong. “I should very much like to punish you for your ill intent, but I give you credit for being honest with me before I had call to press you on the matter.”

“Punish me?” I repeat, the rest of his words rather lost on me.

He smiles, as he pulls the strands of hair away from my eyes. “Mmmm,” he says. “Take you over my knee, bare your delicious behind, and spank you until you are desperate for me.”

My lips part and I hear a small gasp escape them. “Thomas…” My throat tightens, as though the words cannot make their way from me. “I think I am already desperate.”

His right hand skims its way up my body, reaching my hairline and drawing my head backward. “Desperate?” His voice is low and seductive. “What are you desperate for, My Lady?”

I blink at him, feeling my legs tremble. “You,” I whisper. “My Lord, I do not know what you have done to me, but ever since we met, I have been captured.”

He presses his lips against the nape of my neck, allowing them to caress the sensitive skin there. “Oh, Lydia,” he groans from my left shoulder. “We are both captured, my love.”

My eyes fly to his face. Have I really just heard him correctly, did he just refer to me as his love? My thoughts are sent reeling by the new trail of kisses which he plants along my neckline, until his lips reach my own jaw, and finally my mouth. Those lips are hot as they brush over mine, the scent of the liquor on his breath, along with the sensations of his mouth, making me feel giddy.

“What do we do, Thomas?” I ask, our eyes connecting once again as he towers over me.

“I can take you over my knee right this moment, Lydia,” he replies, “if it will lessen the desperation?”

I smile, although the thought of his suggestion sends a tingling sensation racing through me, pooling desire at my centre. I draw my hand up into his dark, thick hair, drinking him in.

“I see you find the idea agreeable?” he chuckles, nuzzling me.

I moan, unable to articulate the way his sensual kisses make me feel. “Oh, please, Thomas,” I pant. “Have mercy on me?”

He laughs outright, releasing my hair and pulling back to look at me. “Mercy, Lydia?” he smiles. “Is that what you need?”

I shake my head, unable to respond in any coherent way. Pulling me close again, he whispers into my right ear. “Whatever it is you need, sweet Lydia, I vow to always endeavour to provide it.”

I look up to him, and manage a small smile, certain from his eyes that he is telling me the truth.

Chapter Twenty-Eight: A Proposal

 

 

I wake early the next morning to find my room still blanketed with darkness. My head, heavy with the previous day, refuses to allow me any further rest, and after lying in the stillness for some time, I finally relent. Slipping on my waiting robe, I wander to the large window of my room. The view outside is cast into deep shadow; the light of the moon rather more limited than it had been just a few days ago when I had arrived at Markham. I ponder at the scene, thinking of everything that has happened in such a short time. Now I seem totally fixated with the gentleman who is also my guardian, and I wonder what can be done about it. Can we really marry, or are we doomed to play out this frustrating tension for all time, until the eligible bachelor is sure to find some other young lady to become his wife? I sigh, my mind shifting to the issue of Lord William. The thought of him wanting me in that way repulses me, and yet I do not want to be the cause of discord between him and Thomas. There must be some other—some better—way for resolution. Feeling more awake than I have a right to be, I make my way down the length of dark corridor and descend the beautiful staircase.

Halfway down, my eyes are drawn to Lord Markham’s study. The door is slightly ajar, and a long slip of light spills out into the darkness of the grand hall. As usual, my heart stirs at the mere thought of Thomas, and within a moment I find myself in front of the door. The scent of his cologne makes its way through the opening and reaches my nose, goading me. I take a deep breath, raising my right hand and gently tapping on the hard wood.

There is a pause, and then I hear the sound of a chair moving, before large footsteps make their way to the doorway. I hold my breath, trying to calm my ragged breathing, as the door is pulled back to reveal my guardian. He holds an oil lamp in his right hand, and looks devilishly handsome in just his breeches and shirt, which is once more opened at the front to reveal his toned chest.

“Lydia?” he asks, stunned by my appearance at his door. “What are you doing here at this time? You should be sleeping.”

I look up at him blocking the doorway, wondering quite the same thing about him, but do not press the point. “I am sorry, My Lord,” I say, my voice sounding awfully quiet in the vastness of the hall. “I was sleeping, but have been unable to rest since I was roused.”

He stares at me quizzically, his expression shifting into one of concern. “Are you well?” he asks, reaching for my left hand.

His skin is warm, and I welcome his touch like a petal welcomes the rain. “I think so, yes,” I reply, my voice breathy with anticipation.

Sensing my tone, he smiles. “You know, Lydia, it is not customary for a lady to come calling on a gentleman in the middle of the night…”

His statement hangs in the air as I gaze upon him. I know he is right; my behaviour is downright scandalous, and yet for the life of me I cannot find reason to care. “I apologise,” I say. “If you would prefer, then I will return to my room?”

I pull away slightly, testing him to see what his response will be, and silently praying that he will halt my return. As though reading my mind, his hand tightens around my wrist, preventing me from walking away. “No, I would not prefer it,” he answers.

I turn to look at him again, the black centres of his green eyes widening at the sight of me.

“I would not prefer that you go, and I should be the one to apologise, because I should absolutely prefer it.”

I move toward him, puzzled at his response. “What do you mean?” I enquire.

He looks around us, his eyes peering into the darkness to check we are alone before he replies. “I am your guardian, Lydia,” he sighs. “I should not want you this way.”

“And yet you do?” I ask boldly.

He chuckles. “You know that I do,” he confirms, pulling me into his body. My thin robe and nightgown press against his hard thigh, and once again that familiar tingle pulses from deep within me.

“I should not invite you in,” he says, staring into my eyes, “and yet I would like to.”

I do not even hesitate, my brazen desire evident from my eyes alone. “I should like you to, My Lord.”

His smile is clear as he relents, moving backward and allowing me entry into the warmth of his study. I walk to the centre of the room and pause, recalling that this is where I had stood the very first time he had chastised and then spanked me. The sound of the door closing behind me draws my attention back to my waiting lord.

“Is there something on your mind, Lydia?” he asks, as he passes around me and places the lamp back onto his desk at the far side of the room.

“If you permit it, My Lord?” I ask, all too aware of the sensual danger of my current situation. It is one thing to be alone with a gentleman in the daytime, although it would be frowned upon by many, but to pursue such a thing in the middle of the night? It is downright shocking and immoral. I wonder fleetingly what my aunt would say if she were ever to find out.

He sits on the edge of his desk, pushing piles of books to one side. “Of course,” he says. “You have leave to speak freely to me in private. No matters are taboo.”

I take a step forward, willing my courage to present itself. “Thank you,” I say, looking to him. “I wish once again to speak with you about the matter of Lord William.”

“Ah, yes,” he says knowingly. “Is this what has kept you awake tonight?”

I shake my head. “I think not, My Lord, although I worry of the consequences of my confession last evening. I do so hope you will not quarrel with him—about me?”

He rises from the desk and stands just a matter of inches from me. “I have good mind to do more than quarrel, Lydia.” His voice is deep again, and the sound of it makes me clench my most intimate muscles reflexively. “He took advantage of you, or would have liked to… and in doing so he broke a rule of our friendship.”

“I think,” I begin, “that he thought you would happily share me. The presumption was that you had always shared in the past, and so, it would not trouble you now?”

I angle the question deliberately to try to garner some more information about Thomas’ past. I am curious, but not bold enough to ask him outright.

“Lydia,” he says flatly. “If you have questions for me, then you have leave to enquire. Do not try to trick me into speaking, please. I find it almost…” he pauses, pressing himself against me as he concludes, “disrespectful.”

Our eyes meet on the final word, and we both know exactly the implication he makes.

“I am sorry, My Lord,” I whisper, feeling the chastisement wash over me. “I did not mean to disrespect you.”

“You are certain?” he asks almost playfully as his hands rake through my long hair.

“I think so,” I reply, relishing the feeling of his digits in my tresses.

“Well then, let us consider this your first and final warning on the matter,” he purrs. “The next time you are disrespectful, you land yourself back over my lap, Lydia. Do you understand?”

The summit between my thighs liquefies at his words, and instinctively I reach for him in order to steady myself. “Yes, My Lord,” I answer, gazing into his eyes as I do.

He nods. “So, do you have a question for me?” he enquires.

“I was only wondering if…” Yet again I feel the need to pause, as though the weight of the question will bear down on me.

“Yes?” he coaxes softly.

I inhale, before slowly allowing the air from my lips. “If you and Lord William had shared ladies—in the past?”

Thomas looks into the darkness behind me as he considers my words. “In the past we have shared lovers,” he says finally, regarding me again with a gentle expression. “But these things were always planned, and we were always together.”

My mind races at this news, images of the two men romancing a lady creating quite the tornado of emotion within me. The sound of Lord Markham’s voice steadies me, and captures my attention once more.

“It is no defence for what he tried to do to you yesterday, my love.”

There are those words again… my love. My heart races at the sound of them.

“I must address the matter with him,” he says adamantly.

“But, My Lord,” I plead. “We do not have to return to Cranningford for some time, do we? Could we not just forget all about the sorry event?”

His fingers relax in my hair. “It is not my style to ignore issues, Lydia,” he whispers. “And we shall return there, although I’ll be damned if I will ever leave your side again when we do!”

My eyes rush to his in an instant. “We have to return?” I ask, hearing my voice tremble. “But why, Thomas?”

I had not even considered the likelihood that I would need to go back to Cranningford again, and the notion disturbs me more than I would have thought. Within a moment there are tears burning in my eyes, as the anguish I feel about having to see Lord William again surfaces.

“Oh, Lydia,” he says, seeing my tears and pulling me into his strong arms. I rest my head against his chest, my tears spilling onto the soft hair. “I loathe how much he has affected you.”

“I am sorry,” I whisper, burying myself into his skin. The scent of him wafts around my face, enticing me from my anxiety, and instead stirring the lewdest thoughts about Thomas.

All at once he has jerked me backward, grabbing my wrists and holding me in place whilst he lowers himself to the same level as my face. “Lydia.” His voice is firm. “I will have no more apologies from you on this subject. Are we clear?”

“Yes,” I sniff, surprised at the change of tack. “Please hold me again?”

He concedes with a smile, opening his arms and drawing me close once more. I shut my eyes, feeling as though his body has become my sanctuary.

“Do you remember the dress that is being made for you?” he asks after a moment.

“Yes, My Lord,” I answer, recalling the fitting in Ripley just a couple of days ago.

“Well, it is being made for a rather special ball, which is set to be held at Cranningford.”

The news startles me, and I blink against his chest as I absorb it. “A ball, Thomas?” I ask.

“Mmmm,” he replies, stroking my hair once more. “I am sure you attended similar events in London.”

Indeed, I had done, but any similarities to my current situation seem quite lost on me now. “A couple,” I concur, “but nothing of any real significance. Why is this one to be special?”

He laughs softly. The sound is so gentle and warm that I wonder if it could not lull me back into sleep. “This one is set to honour my birthday,” he whispers into my hair.

I gasp, pulling away from him so that I may see his face as I answer. “Your birthday?” I exclaim. “Oh, My Lord! Why did you not say?”

He smiles. “It is not important,” he replies, stroking the tears from my face with his thumb. “Not compared to you.”

My breath catches in my throat. “No, Thomas, please!” I cry. “Do not allow me to ruin this celebration for you. I have tainted so much for you already; I must not ruin this!”

He tilts his head at my assertions, looking at me with quizzical eyes. “Tainted?” he replies. “What have you tainted?”

I swallow hard as I think on my answer. “Your life as a bachelor,” I blurt, “and now your relationship with the countess, and Lord William as well.”

His laugh is a hearty sound this time, and one which rather riles me. Why does my confession so amuse him, I wonder?

“Oh, Lydia,” he says, reaching forward to press his hot lips into my own for a fleeting moment. “You are not to blame for any of these things! Each predicament was of my making, and my choosing! You must not fret.”

I blink up at him, stunned yet again by his need to assume responsibility for every action. “I do not see how I assume no blame?” I murmur.

He gazes down at me, his eyes darkening. “Are you to contradict me then?” he asks, the question a sensual threat.

I swallow at the sudden intensity, wondering at the idea that my contradiction might earn me a well-needed spanking. “No,” I say quickly, dismissing the notion. “I just do not want you to miss your own birthday celebration, Thomas.”

He presses his forehead into my own. I close my eyes at the welcome proximity, feeling the heat from him radiate toward me. “The event is not for some days. We have time to think upon it yet. If we are to attend, then I vow not to leave your side, Lydia.” When I open my eyes I find him staring down at me, his eyes large and hungry. “How does that sound?” he asks huskily.

“That sounds glorious,” I reply, amazed at how the look in his eyes can transform me from one mood to the next.

“Mmmm, I agree,” he says, his mouth grazing against my cheek again. My lips part, as though they want to guide him inside. “Now no more fretting about Lord William,” he says, his tone laced with authority. “Rest assured that I will manage the situation.”

“Yes, My Lord,” I whisper, gazing at those lips, still just an inch from me.

Watching my stare, he smiles knowingly. “If we do return to Cranningford, I will ensure that I shatter the illusion that you are in any way available…”

Slowly I process his words, my eyes returning to his own shrewd orbs. Whatever can he mean by this last statement? “My Lord?” I say uncertainly. “How will you hope to do so?”

At that moment his lips come crashing into mine, answering me in the most carnal way imaginable. Desperate for his attention, my mouth parts and slowly, his tongue sweeps a sensual line inside of me. I feel his hand come to rest on the back of my head, holding me in place as he claims my mouth at last. When our mouths finally part, I am left panting for more of the taste of him.

Seeing my reaction, he smiles tenderly. “Dearest Lydia,” he purrs, stroking the side of my face. “If you will have me, I hope to take you as my wife.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine: A New Dawn

 

 

For the longest time I say nothing, but instead stare up into his loving eyes. Then, as though I had misheard him, I repeat his words right back to him.

“You hope you take me as your wife?” I say, as though in a dream.

“Yes,” he answers, smiling. “If you will have me?”

I blink up at him, certain that either I have misconstrued his words, or that I shall wake up on my pillow at any moment. When it seems that neither is likely, I press my palm against his chest, his soft hair rising between my fingers. “Are you certain, Thomas?” I ask.

“Lydia,” he says playfully. “Do you assume I ask the question without the necessary thought?”

“No!” I gasp, hoping that I have not offended him. “Only that I did not expect such a thing to transpire.”

He holds me tightly as he replies. “Nor I, sweet Lydia,” he says, breathing in the scent of my hair. “And yet it seems that the final twist of fate is this; the thing which Mother most resented—me taking on the role of your guardian—is to become the very thing she most sought, for me to wed.”

I muse on his words, finding them to be as ironic as he indicates. “Yes,” I reply. “But, Thomas, I am not yet of age. Are we able to wed?”

“I have considered this myself,” he answers as he holds me. “In fact I sought legal advice on the matter whilst we were in Ripley.”

“Your meeting?” I gasp, pulling away from him a little. “Is that what you discussed?”

He smiles. “That and other subjects, yes,” he replies, playing with my hair. “The legal view is that whilst you are under the age of twenty-one, I would usually require the consent of your parents in order to marry you. However…” He pauses, looking down at me as he speaks. “As your parents are sadly no longer with us, and I am now your legal guardian, no such permission is needed.”

I look at him, understanding his meaning. “So, as my legal guardian, you only require permission from yourself, My Lord?” I ask, suppressing a laugh.

“Precisely,” he confirms, kissing me on the cheek. “However, as a courtesy to your aunt, I will write to her and ask for your hand in marriage. I see no reason why she should choose to intervene.”

I nod, in agreement with him. “How do you think the countess will receive the news?” I wonder out loud.

Lowering his embrace, he takes my hands gently. “I should think she will be thrilled at the announcement,” he replies. “You are, after all, more than qualified for the role of my wife. You are from a fine, wealthy family, you are beautiful and intelligent—more than suitable to be her daughter-in-law.”

I bite my lip, my anxiety on the subject building. “I do not think she likes me a great deal,” I whisper.

“She will come around, Lydia,” he says, his voice full of confidence. “Just wait and see.”

I eye him intently, hoping that he is correct, but surmising that he must know his own mother far better than I.

He squeezes my left hand as he turns, and guides me toward the window. Outside the first blades of morning light spear the darkness. Dawn is approaching.

“More important than the will of my mother or your aunt, Lydia, is your opinion. And I realise that I have not yet sought your consent.” He draws me close again, smiling down at me.

“My consent?” I murmur, feeling almost hypnotised by his tone.

“Mmmm,” he replies, running a long finger down by jaw. “You and I, Lydia,” he says slowly. “We have been fortunate. You know that most courtship is quite unlike our own. Ladies are not generally permitted to be left with gentlemen in an unsupervised manner; there is no time for private conversations, and no opportunity for illicit spankings.” His eyebrow arches in that reflexive way, and I realise how fond I have grown of the gesture, as an excited shiver rushes through me.

“I know,” I whisper. “Our relationship has been scandalous, My Lord.”

“I agree,” he says, leaning into me and nuzzling my nape once again. The feeling of his lips against my skin is exquisite, and I lean away, offering him my exposed neck.

“You, My Lady Lydia,” he says mockingly, between kisses. “You are quite the scarlet woman, exhibiting wholly unladylike behaviour.”

I smile, knowing it to be true. “Yes, My Lord,” I agree breathlessly.

“Do you recall what I told you the consequences of such behaviour would be?” Those green eyes bore into me, the intensity searing.

I nod, clenching my muscles automatically. “Yes, Thomas,” I whisper.

He smiles, that devilish look that nearly takes my breath away. “It seems that if I am to take you on as my wife, then you will need a firm hand? I suspect that you will need to be spanked soundly and regularly, for your own good, and for our mutual pleasure of course.”

I swallow hard, imagining the life he describes. Can I really assume this role with him, and submit to the corporal punishment he portrays? If there was any doubt, the well of arousal between my legs is my answer. “I think I may do, My Lord,” I say finally.

“Oh, Lydia,” he says, his voice wavering with the passion he struggles to contain. “You know it will be my pleasure to give you that life. I promise to be fair, and kind, and to master you in the most sensual and filthy ways imaginable.”

He leans in toward me with a wink, and I swear it is only his arms holding me up as his mouth presses into mine again. Kissing me, he moves me gently against the glass of the window at my back. As our lips part, he looks down to me, and I notice his green eyes are dazzling in the reflection of the early morning light. “So, tell me, Lady Lydia Franklin,” he asks eagerly, “will you consent to become my wife?”

My lids flutter shut briefly as the question passes over me. I can barely believe that this is actually happening. Can this strong, enigmatic, and handsome gentleman, whom I have known for only a short time, really be asking for my hand in marriage? Staring up into his expectant face, I already know the answer. Not only is it true, but it is even more than I could ever have imagined. Lord Markham has awoken some dark part of me that I never even knew existed. My need to yield to him has been astonishing, and has stirred the most brazen desire.

I swallow hard, but smile as I reply to him. “I do consent, My Lord. It will be my honour to become your wife.”

There are no more words. He pulls me tightly against his side, warming me as the dying embers of the fire begin to fade. I rest my head against his shoulder, and together we watch the sun rise on a brand new day.

Chapter Thirty: Plans and Promises

 

 

The next week passes in a flurry of activity. Letters are written and sent with urgent riders across the country. Lord Markham and I move ahead with our plans, needing to wait on no one’s consent for the wedding. On the one hand my life continues as normal; meals are observed and Thomas attends many visitors who call about the estate and other matters. On the other hand, my world is turned upside down by the excitement of the forthcoming event. Mrs. Pemberley arrives with the dress we had discussed; a beautiful new garment for His Lordship’s birthday. Of course now we also discuss my requirements for a wedding gown, and similar meetings are arranged to consider flowers and a wedding breakfast. Thomas and I attend church to agree on a date for the ceremony and to organise the reading of banns.

My mind is a frenzy at the thought of actually becoming Lady Thomas Markham. It seems there is a near constant thrum of nervous energy bubbling within me, and the feelings swell whenever my intended is near. He is charming and cordial, but at all times, he seeks to guide me in his preferences, challenging me whenever I become wilful or obstinate. At no point though does he punish me, and after some days of thinking about the prospect, I wonder if I now do not need the penalty more than he needs to administer it.

I endeavour to settle into a routine and find some normalcy in the situation, but it proves impossible. All talk is of our impending nuptials, with Lucy in particular, excited to hear of Lord Markham’s proposal. She is eager to help, discussing how my hair should be styled for the service. I appreciate her contributions, and am often caught up in her infectious anticipation, but moreover I am eager just to have the wedding done and find myself, finally, Thomas’ wife.

On the morning of the eighth day since Thomas’ proposal in the study, I receive a letter from my aunt, confirming her delight at our engagement, and her intention to attend the ceremony with her own family. I wander from the drawing room, the letter in my hand, seeking Lord Markham, when I meet Gregory.

“My Lady?” he enquires, smiling. “May I help you?”

I have noticed the butler has been more friendly since Thomas had advised him of our plans to marry, and I meet his smile kindly. “May I enquire about the whereabouts of Lord Markham?” I ask. “I should like to share this letter with him.”

“I believe, My Lady,” he begins, “that he is in the study, having himself received a correspondence.”

I nod my thanks, and make my way across the hallway to the study. Knocking politely at the closed door, I await the voice of Thomas. “Come,” he calls; his tone is abrupt, and it startles me.

Pressing my palm into the handle, I push the door open and make my way inside. “My Lord?” I say, finding him sitting behind his desk.

His face looks severe, but it softens as he sees me approach. “Lydia!”

“Is everything as it should be, Thomas?” I enquire.

He watches me approach and beckons me onward to his side of the desk. He places his own collection of paper on his desk and reaches for my hand. “How lovely to see you, my love,” he says, pressing my gloved fingers to his lips.

I cannot help but smile. He has continued to call me his love since the morning he had asked me to be his wife, and I have not tired of hearing the words. “Thomas,” I say, yearning for his touch, and yet sensing that all is not well.

He nods, releasing my hand and collecting the papers from in front of him. “I have received word from the countess,” he begins, his voice weary.

I tense at his explanation, instinctively expecting to hear the worst. “What does she say, Thomas?” I ask tentatively.

He pauses, clearly considering his words with care. “She writes to acknowledge my letter,” he begins. “It seems though, that she is less pleased to hear of my betrothal…”

I slump, exhaling audibly. The tension in my belly tightens. “Oh, no!” I say, my voice little more than a gasp.

He turns to me and draws me onto his lap. “Worry not, Lydia,” he says soothingly. “Her approval is not required, and she will come around… you will see.”

I squirm, the concern clearly etched onto my face. “But, she is your mother, Thomas,” I say imploringly, “the only parent we have between us. I do so want her blessing.”

“I know,” he says, closing his eyes briefly. When he opens them, I see resolution in his eyes. “And we shall have it,” he declares quietly.

“But how, Thomas?” I continue, pressing him on the matter. “How can you be so sure?”

“I can be certain, my love, because she is my mother, and I understand her. I know how to bring her around.”

I blink at him, knowing in my heart that I should drop the subject, and yet somehow compelled to carry on. “Thomas, I…”

His hand raises, coming to rest gently upon my lips, silencing me. “That is enough, Lydia.” His voice is soft, yet firm, and the sound makes my heart flutter. “You will leave the countess to me.”

Gently he strokes my shoulder, trying to calm me. I feel the contradiction within me building. I know that it is right for him to manage the situation, but for some reason I want to place my mark on the matter. “Perhaps I could write to the countess?” I ask, meeting his eye.

His expression changes, and I know all at once that I am in trouble. I have yet again overstepped the line he has drawn between us. “You will do no such thing,” he says coolly. “Instead, you will listen, and do as you are told.”

I say nothing, sensing the imperceptible change in the air around us.

“Did you hear my instructions, Lydia?” he demands. He leans forward, moving me from his lap so that I now stand in front of him.

“Yes, My Lord,” I reply, lowering my eyes.

“What have I asked?” he prompts me calmly.

I shift my weight anxiously. “You asked that I leave the countess to you,” I say, my voice suddenly sounding small.

“So, you did hear me?” he asks, rising from his chair. “Why then, are you unable to do so? Do you, for instance, presume to know more about my mother than I do?”

I shake my head. “No, My Lord,” I reply.

He moves closer to me, lifting my chin with his finger so that I am forced to meet his eye. “Why then, Lydia, are you compelled to disobey me?”

The depth of the authority in his voice stirs me, sending energy coursing around my body. It pools at the apex of my legs, causing delicious tingles there. “I am sorry to have pressed the point,” I say, and I mean it, although I cannot help but wonder if it is his discipline which I really crave and have missed this last week.

I swear he senses the answer as he reaches for me. He sinks the fingers of his right hand into my hair and draws my body toward him. “Lydia,” he says, his voice almost a low growl. “Are you being intentionally disrespectful, I wonder?”

A silent gasp leaves my mouth as I look upon him.

“Oh, so you are…” he says with a knowing smile. “That is what this is about…”

I flush, knowing that there is little point denying what we both already know to be true. I glance up to him, my eyes imploring the messages I long to say. He pulls me closer, pressing my head against his warm chest. “Have you missed me, my love?” His voice is a deep murmur into my right ear.

“Yes…” I just about manage.

“And so you have chosen to be intentionally disobedient, to garner my attention?”

I shift my head, looking wildly into his face. “It is not my intention, My Lord,” I whimper.

“Oh, really, little one?” he asks, as that brow arches once again. “I think that is an untruth. I think you did intend to disobey me, and I think you did so because you have missed my discipline. Am I correct?”

I am trembling as I reply, utterly startled by his ability to read me. “Perhaps, yes, My Lord, but I did not want for you to be angry with me.”

He smiles. “Lydia,” he coos. “I am not angry. But you and I both know what happens to naughty, disobedient young ladies, don’t we?”

My mouth parts reflexively. “Will you spank me?” I whimper.

“Yes,” he says, pulling me toward him as he reseats himself. “I realise that I have been remiss in my duties to you, and for that I apologise. I intend to make amends right this moment.”

In an instant he pulls me forward and down toward his lap. “But, My Lord!” I exclaim as I lurch headfirst over his breeches. “Not here, Thomas! What if somebody finds us?”

“We have had this conversation, Lydia,” he says firmly as he hoists me into position, “and I have assured you that I will spank you either with, or without, an audience.”

I gasp, feeling the skirts of my gown, petticoat, and stays dragged up my back, leaving my behind exposed and vulnerable. Almost immediately, his hand lands against my bare skin, the sound resonating around the study. I squeeze my eyes shut, stunned by the escalation of events. I pray silently that none of the staff will hear us and enter the room unexpectedly.

A further four swats are landed on my bottom, and they are hard and intense spanks. I am forced to bear each one, feeling the sting and then warmth they leave after his palm has left. From this angle behind his desk I can see very little, except for the expensive rug at my fingertips.

As the next strike lands, I hear Thomas’ voice from over my head. “Why are you being spanked, Lydia?” he asks.

I notice his voice is calm, but there is just the slight edge of arousal laced there.

“I was disobedient, My Lord,” I reply, my own voice trembling as I do.

“Yes,” he agrees, swatting me hard on the rear again. “You disobeyed me in order to get the attention you require, instead of coming to me and telling me about your needs.”

His hand lands on my behind again. “And for that reason, little one,” he says firmly, “you will receive a sound spanking on your bare bottom, and you will thank me for it.”

I whimper as the next strike lands, catching the pulsating need between my legs. “Yes, My Lord,” I moan from over his lap. “Thank you.”

Five swats land quickly, and instinctively I mean to get up, arching my back as I try to move.

His hand holds me down decisively. “You will stay over my lap, Lydia,” he calls out, and I flinch at the volume, hoping that nobody else will hear him. “You need this punishment, do you not?”

“Yes,” I whine, wincing as the next spank lands.

“Yes, you do,” he says, reaffirming my own thoughts. “So just take it, little one.”

I swallow hard, loathing the way he calls me his little one as he spanks me. The label, of course, helps to reinforce my subservience to him. The onslaught continues, and the stinging sensation is intense. He pushes me on, the utter indignation of the punishment both riling and arousing me. At some point I lose count of the swats, feeling the tension between my legs growing and building. I know I am wet, and I long secretly for Thomas to explore me there.

His palm eventually pauses, pressing itself against the warmth of my bare bottom. “How do you feel now, my love?” His voice is filled with passion.

“Thank you for my spanking, Thomas,” I murmur, unsure what else to say.

I hear him laugh, and slowly, teasingly, his fingers dip between my hot cheeks.

“Well done, my love,” he soothes, as one and then two digits slip against my wetness.

I mewl and groan, loving the intensity of his touch already.

“So wet and beautiful,” he whispers adoringly. “I yearn for our wedding night, Lydia, when I can finally possess you as a man should claim his wife.”

“Oh, Thomas,” I groan. “But I am so impatient; however can we wait until then?”

He chuckles, allowing his fingers to delve a little deeper. “We will endeavour to do so,” he says lightly. “I have already taken advantage of my role as your guardian. I have taken you over my knee, I have bared you, and I have had the privilege to explore your lovely body, but I will not go any further until we are wed.”

I press my hips backward to meet his fingers, before grinding forward against him. Yet again I have become lost in the heady sensations, seeking the release which I know only he can bring me.

Above me I hear him laugh harder, and all at once his fingers disappear, swatting my inflamed behind in a playful way. “That is enough for now, my love,” he says, pulling me away from his lap gently. I groan at the movement, frustrated that my desire is not going to be sated on this occasion. I rise to my feet, feeling my legs tremble. Seeing my instability, he grabs my hand and pulls me back onto his lap. With my skirts still hoisted high, I straddle him, pressing my body against him.

“This much we will do the right way,” he murmurs, pulling my face down to meet his mouth. His lips graze mine, his breath hot and addictive. “I promise that you will be a maid when I take you to bed as my wife, Lydia.”

I nod against his face, understanding his words, and knowing that he is correct. Yet already, my behaviour is so wanton that it is difficult to quell the rising desire within me. “Yes, Thomas,” I concur with resignation.

He smiles, drawing me away a little. “Come now, my love,” he says. “It is not so bad. We have found one another, and soon you will be mine… completely.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, imagining for just one moment what our wedding night will be like. “I am lucky,” I answer finally, opening my eyes to see him smiling.

“We both are,” he agrees, nuzzling me. “The wedding is set for just over two weeks, as soon as our banns are read at the church. I will invite the countess here in the meantime, and seek to settle this unfriendliness.”

I look into his face, knowing that I can trust him. He is my guardian, my friend, and my guide, and very soon, he will become my husband.

Chapter Thirty-One: The Countess Returns

 

 

It is a Saturday morning when the countess arrives, and this time both Lord Markham and I are waiting for her carriage. The wedding is set to take place in a week’s time, and most of the arrangements are settled. The few invitations sent outside of the parish have been delivered, and it feels as though my every waking moment is focussed upon the events which will transpire on the second day of November, 1813.

Thomas and I stand on the pebbled drive outside Markham Hall, awaiting the arrival of his mother’s carriage, when all at once we see the horses turn from the main road ahead. He squeezes my right hand gently, turning to me quickly to subdue the anxiety he knows is rising. “Take a deep breath, my love,” he says quietly. “Let me lead, and all will be well.”

I nod to him, but say nothing. My eyes are fixed on the approaching carriage, which is now halfway down the long driveway. Within a moment, it is upon us, and Thomas drops my hand gently, moving toward the waiting coach. Carson opens the door and escorts its passenger to the ground. She greets her son with a cursory kiss, before her steely eyes find me.

“Good morning, Mother,” says Thomas. “Welcome back to Markham.”

“You need not welcome me back to my own home, Thomas,” she replies dismissively, taking his arm and moving toward the waiting staff who have gathered to greet the honoured visitor.

I stand watching as she moves down the line, speaking first to Gregory, and then other assembled members of the household. Lingering by the entrance steps, I move forward as they finally approach. It is Thomas’ voice which guides her. “You remember Lady Lydia, Mother?” he remarks.

“Certainly,” she says. Her voice is cold, despite the light in her eyes. “How are you, my dear?”

I lower my head as she approaches, raising it to meet her eye as I reply. “It is lovely to meet you again, My Lady,” I say graciously.

“Of course,” she says. “And now it seems there is a wedding on the horizon? How are the plans coming along?” Her grey brow tilts as she speaks, reminding me of the expression I have seen on her son’s face so often.

“Indeed,” I concur, “many of the details are now settled.”

She nods. “Well, I am certain there is still a contribution I can make to my only son’s wedding?” Her tone is almost indignant.

I notice Thomas’ face behind her as she speaks. His eyes drill into me, sending excited energy whipping through me. He moves forward, standing between us. “We can discuss this inside,” he says.

“Very well,” she acquiesces, “then take me inside, please, Thomas.”

They move past me, my future husband guiding his mother up the stone steps. I watch them for a moment, before following, trying to suppress the feelings of isolation which encompass me. The countess has a way of pushing me to one side, and this, I realise, is likely her deliberate intention.

We pass into the hallway. My eyes sweep the grandiose setting once again, and I wonder if I will ever grow used to it. My father’s townhouse in London is certainly extravagant, but we do not have such gorgeous, ornate architecture as Markham Hall. I follow the pair of them into the drawing room, the morning light spilling into the room and illuminating the high ceilings and the fine furniture. The countess takes a high-backed chair, close to the window, and pauses, her eyes assessing me carefully.

“Gregory, please arrange refreshments for us,” orders Thomas from the centre of the room.

I turn my head to see the butler receive the request and bow low as he backs out of the door, closing it behind him.

Thomas shifts, spinning toward his mother. “We are very pleased that you have agreed to return and help with the wedding arrangements,” he begins, taking small steps toward the seated woman.

She looks to him, her eyes wide. “You are my son, Thomas,” she replies. “What else am I to do?”

Lord Markham’s gaze moves to me. “Lydia, please sit,” he says, his voice soft, yet insistent.

I do as I am told, obedient mainly because of the anxiety gnawing at my insides, and find a chair a few feet away from where he stands, opposite the countess.

“I assume you have something that you wish to say on the subject of my betrothal?” continues Thomas from my left. “If so, then I invite you to speak those words now, and then, once stated, let us never need speak them again.”

The countess takes a deep breath, and I ready myself for whatever onslaught is about to unfurl. “Is it appropriate for me to do so, with Lady Lydia present?” she asks in an almost sarcastic tone.

Thomas turns to me, his gaze devouring my face for one long instant. “Yes,” he says. “It is quite appropriate. Lydia is to be my wife, and in one week she will become an intrinsic part of my life. Whatever you have to say, you may say it in front of her.”

The countess makes a face of disdain, her expression blanching as she wrinkles her nose. “So be it,” she says with resignation, and then turning to me, she adds, “Please, do not take what I have to say with personal offence, my dear.”

I nod, acknowledging her words. “Yes, My Lady,” I answer, wondering what she will say next. I am utterly conflicted. On the one hand I seek her approval, yet on the other, I resent the way she has responded to me from the very beginning.

“Thomas, dear,” says the countess, turning to her son. “You know I want only your happiness, but I fear that I must protest at this engagement.”

I hear Thomas sigh, his right hand reaching into the pocket of his jacket. “Go on,” he says, prompting her to continue.

The countess turns to look at me, before looking back to her son. “You two barely know one another,” she begins. “One month ago, you had never even met. How can you now seek to wed? Surely this troth is made in haste, and is ill-considered?”

A heavy silence fills the room, and all eyes turn to Thomas, who stands, leaning against the redwood dresser. He takes his time, musing on her words before he replies. “As I believe it, Mother, you and Father barely knew each other at the time of your wedding. I think you had only met a handful of times?”

My gaze turns to the countess. Her face is sullen, as though she is biting back on some yet unspoken rage.

“Lydia and I on the other hand,” continues Thomas, “have had the good fortune to spend a great deal of time together since Markham Hall became her home. As her guardian, I have had the opportunity to spend every day with her since she arrived, and I believe that we are a good match.”

The countess snorts, as though she can barely believe her son’s words. “Thomas,” she cries scornfully. “How can you believe it so? You have courted a great many ladies in the last few years. Of all of the young ladies with whom you could marry, why choose this one? Why did you not propose to Elizabeth instead?”

I tense at her tone. Who is this Elizabeth, and why is it that I am such a hideous prospective daughter-in-law? I look to Thomas, shifting uncomfortably, and desperate for him to bring this conversation to a halt. His face though is adamant, and he moves toward his mother as he speaks. “That is nonsense, Mother, and you know it,” he says with authority. “Lady Brooks was only ever an acquaintance of mine. There was no intention to wed on either of our parts. Lydia, on the other hand, is a fine catch.” His eyes flicker to meet mine as he says this. “Any gentleman would be honoured to have her as his wife.”

The countess presses her lips into a hard line, as though she vehemently disagrees. “Is that what this is about, Thomas?” she snipes. “You are to marry her because of her fine face, and the fact that she will look pretty on your arm?”

I gape at the conversation as it unfolds before me. The name Lady Brooks seems oddly familiar, and my mind recalls it was Lady Helena who had mentioned her when I was still at Cranningford. Thomas, for his part, is enraged. His eyes darken, as he raises his voice. “Mother, how dare you!” he cries. “I am appalled that you would say such things, and in front of Lydia as well?”

“Well,” replies his mother, “I did ask if it was appropriate that she remain?”

It is at this moment that Gregory knocks and enters the drawing room, a silver tray with refreshments in his hands. I take a deep breath as the tension in the room radiates, sneaking a look at both Thomas and the countess as tea is served. Gregory, clearly aware of the atmosphere, retreats from the drawing room, and once again the three of us are left alone.

The countess leans forward, collecting her teacup and raising the steaming liquid to her lips. Our eyes connect as she takes a small sip, and all at once I feel compelled to have my say. “Thomas, if I may say something on the subject?” I look to his tall, lithe frame for the permission I know he will require me to ask for.

His eyes widen a fraction as he acknowledges my question, but he nods. “You may,” he says softly.

I steel myself as I begin. “My Lady, please believe that I do not wish to cause discord between you and your son. Neither did I have any intention toward matrimony when I arrived here at Markham; in fact, it was my original purpose to leave as soon as possible.” I pause, searching her face for any sign of emotion. Seeing none, I have little choice but to go on. “But now I find myself at this juncture, and I am overjoyed to accept My Lord’s proposal. I vow to be a good and loyal wife to him…”

My voice trails away. I am unnerved at how little apparent impact my plea has made on the older woman. Seeing my alarm, Thomas steps into my rescue. He moves toward my seat, trailing his long fingers over my neckline in a reassuring caress. “Thank you, Lydia,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice, even though I do not look up to appreciate it.

The countess is less than impressed with the gesture. “Thomas,” she cries, placing her cup back on its saucer. “It is most improper of you to behave this way!”

I hear Thomas laugh next to me. “Oh, Mother,” he says calmly. “You must get used to seeing affection between Lydia and me. In one week, she will be my wife!”

“Perhaps,” replies the countess scathingly. “But she is not your wife today, and such contact between you is utterly indecorous!”

I swallow at her tone, guilt surfacing for all of the other acts that Thomas and I have already indulged in. My eyes flicker toward him, and he returns my smile knowingly.

“We do not mean to cause you offence,” says Thomas, his fingers still caressing my neck. “But you are in my house now, Mother, so please do not think that you can instruct me about how to behave here.”

The countess recoils, physically moving away from us at her shock at his words. She eyes her son as though she cannot believe his audacity, and from behind her gaze I see the inner turmoil, as she longs to contradict him. Gaining control however, she collects herself, and resumes her position as she speaks. “It seems there is little progress in this conversation?” she says, once again taking a sip of her drink.

Thomas moves from my side, coming in front of me to sit next to his mother. “I would like there to be,” he says, looking to her lovingly. “You know I care for you, Mama, but I need you to accept the woman who is to be my wife.”

The countess stills. “This marriage is not to my liking, Thomas,” she says, her eyes opening to face him. “There was a time when you heeded the advice of your elders, but now it seems you are set on ignoring my guidance.”

Thomas chuckles as he replies. “I am a grown gentleman now, Mother,” he answers. “I no longer need counsel on how to live my life.”

His mother squeezes her eyes shut tightly at his words, the saucer in her right hand shaking the teacup as she processes them. “I will try to accept your decision, but please do not expect to have my blessing.”

My heart sinks at this statement. I press my lips into a hard line, ensuring that I am unable to comment on her words.

“We would hope to gain your blessing in time,” says Thomas, standing and leaning to plant a chaste kiss on his mother’s right cheek.

She shakes her head as he stands before her. “Do not rely upon gaining it,” she remarks.

Thomas turns, and catching my eye, he offers me a comforting smile. “Lady Lydia,” he says. “Let us leave the countess to enjoy her tea in peace. I should like to have a word with you if I may?”

The butterflies in my belly flutter as I recognise the tone of authority in his voice. I rise from my chair. “Of course, My Lord,” I reply.

“Please excuse us, Mother,” says Thomas. “I will send Gregory to attend to you.”

The countess nods, saying nothing further on the matter as we turn to leave. We make our way back into the hall, and as we pass the threshold I feel Lord Markham’s hand seeking my own. I offer my right hand, flexing the digits as his fingers entwine with them. He guides me to his study in silence, pausing to allow me through the doorway before him.

Once again I find myself standing in the centre of his most private space, whilst he closes the door behind us. “Well,” he says, walking up behind me. “That could have been worse.”

He presents this as a statement, rather than a question, and in a way I am grateful, as I am quite unprepared to answer him. “Yes,” I reply simply, my voice small as I feel his hot breath against the back of my neck.

“Thank you,” he says, circling me.

I raise my head to see him in front of me. “To what do I owe the thanks, Thomas?” I ask.

He smiles, tilting his head as he assesses me. “For your kind words in the drawing room,” he answers.

“I meant every one of them,” I reply, watching him intently as he stands before me.

“I know, but still…” he says. “They were unexpected, and I appreciate your honesty.”

I blush, self-consciously playing with a loose curl of hair as he steps backward and collects a folded sheet of paper from his desk. “I received word from William and Helena today,” he says.

The sound of their names gets my attention at once, and a new wave of anxiety spasms within me. “Oh?” I remark, aiming to be casual, and yet failing at once.

Lord Markham watches my responses carefully, before reading a few lines from the letter. “We are delighted to have received news of your recent betrothal,” he reads, pausing to look at me. “We should like to join you to celebrate your wedding on the second day of November…”

His words hang in the air, and then all at once, silence falls upon the room until I can form a reply. “So, they are set to attend?” I ask, a small tremble evident in my voice.

“Yes,” replies Thomas, setting the letter back down on the desk. He strides toward me and collects my hands in his large palms as he continues. “It seemed inappropriate not to invite them. William is my oldest friend, and part of my family, but…” He hesitates, looking to me. “If you are uncomfortable, then I will gladly ride to Cranningford before next week, and deal with the matter once and for all.”

Tensing at his words, I grasp at his fingers. “No, please, Thomas!” I utter. “No more disharmony. Surely our announcement will prove to Lord Pembroke that I am not his to have.”

I blink up to him, trying to implore him with my eyes. He stares down at me, glowering at the memory the subject has awoken. “That is my hope also,” he says, pulling me into his arms. “But I do intend to reinforce the point in person.”

“At the wedding?” I whisper, almost too scared to know the answer.

He chuckles. “No, Lydia,” he says softly. “I will not allow him to spoil our day. We shall relish what is ours, and enjoy our bridal tour, before heading to Cranningford for the ball. It is there that I shall have the conversation with William…”

I sigh into his shirt, unsure if it is relief or uncertainty that I am feeling. “I will leave it to you,” I murmur.

He pulls away a fraction, once again using one finger to lift my chin. Our eyes connect, and his green orbs draw me toward him. “Then you, My Lady, are learning,” he says with a smile.

I flush, understanding his words. “Is it so unlike the Lydia you first met?” I ask.

He raises his eyebrow as he regards me. “Well,” he says. “Let me remind you of the Lydia Franklin I first met.”

I smile as he considers the memory of me. “She was full of spirit, yes, but also indulged, tardy, and sometimes downright disrespectful.”

I flinch at his words. “Was I such a devil?”

“No,” he says, smiling, leaning toward me as his lips graze my forehead. “You were no devil, my love. You were merely a young lady in need of a gentleman’s firm hand, and in me, that is what you have found.”

I swallow, musing on his statement as I blink up to him. “Yes, I have,” I sigh.

He raises his left hand and presses my head gently against his chest. “You are a part of me now, Lydia,” he breathes. “You are my everything.”

I inhale sharply at his words, grasping at his shirt. “Thomas,” I cry into the fabric. Tears burn my eyes at his emotional admission, my heart aching in the most profound way. How, I wonder, did I ever have a future without this man?

“Thank you for taking me in hand,” I whisper, drawing away from him enough to look into his absorbing gaze.

He smiles at my words. “It is my pleasure, Lydia,” he coos. “Although, not mine alone.”

As though caught in some reflex, the muscles at the apex of my thighs clench at his words, and I laugh, my voice demonstrating the nerves and arousal I feel. His eyes flash at the sound, slowly darkening in that way they do when his mind inclines toward such carnality.

“My Lord!” I admonish him in a quiet, mocking tone. “We must not! The countess?”

He nuzzles into the nape of my neck, sending a small groan from my lips. “The countess is in the drawing room,” he reminds me. “And I have you, right here…”

I exhale slowly, feeling my heart rate increasing at his words. “You do,” I murmur, once again entranced by his presence.

He presents me his most dazzling smile, before he kisses me. The caress starts slowly, his lips softly pursuing my own, before it gains in intensity. As his tongue slides inside my mouth, I find myself lost utterly to the sensations he is creating. Thomas holds me there for a long moment, before gradually withdrawing. As our mouths part, I hear his words purr over me, oozing quiet authority. “I cannot wait to have you, My Lady.”

Chapter Thirty-Two: Turmoil and Revelations

 

 

It is much later that day, when after a delicious supper, Lord Markham, his mother, and I find ourselves back in the drawing room. Nothing further on the subject of our wedding has been mentioned, and slowly, I am beginning to believe that the lady may be beginning to accept the impending marriage.

Gregory arrives, offering Thomas a drink, and providing the countess with a book which was requested, before gesturing to Lord Markham. “May I ask for a word with you in private, My Lord?” he asks humbly.

Thomas nods his head, placing his glass down and rising from the chair. “Excuse me, ladies,” he says, offering us both a small bow as the two men turn to depart.

As the door closes, I glance to the countess, who appears to be lost in her reading. For a long time, no words are exchanged, and the only noise comes from the crackling of the hearth. The countess hides behind her book, deliberately avoiding my eye-line.

I squirm, uncomfortable at the prolonged silence, feeling the weight of it pressing down upon me. I know I must say something to this lady, who—in little under one week—will become my mother-in-law. “My Lady,” I enquire, “do you plan to stay on at Markham for the week?”

I hesitate to mention the wedding directly, although I know she is well aware of the reason for my question.

She turns to me, her gaze loaded with its usual cold and unfeeling quality. “Do you wish to be rid of me so soon?”

I blanch at her words, stunned that she would draw this conclusion from my question. “No, of course not, My Lady,” I insist. “I mean only that you are most welcome to stay here until next week.”

Her lips curl in an almost vicious way as she answers me. “My girl,” she utters darkly. “You may have my son fooled, but do not think for one moment that your beguiling nature has captured me as well.”

The statement shocks me into silence, and I sit staring at her as she turns the page of the book on her lap. As she reads, I consider her words, and the anger at her implication begins to surface. “I do not know why you think so little of me,” I say, “but I can assure you, it is not my intention to fool anyone.”

The countess pierces me with her glare, before laughing. The sound is cold, and sends a shiver through me. “I am sure that you know Thomas is well-regarded, and could have his choice of ladies. He has courted a number of pretty young things, and it had been my hope that he would make a future with one in particular.”

I gape at her words, envy stirring again at the mention of these previous admirers. I wonder if it is the mysterious Lady Brooks to whom she specifically refers?

“I think I will stay on,” she says almost whimsically. “I still have a few days to change Lord Markham’s mind about this betrothal.”

Her boldness is startling, yet again rousing the old indignation within me. “I am sorry you feel this way,” I say, rising from my chair. “But I am not going to stay here to listen to your insinuations.”

I stalk away, feeling every inch the sulky child, and yet completely unable to accept the words of the countess. As I approach the door, I hear her call from behind me, “I am surprised that Thomas has not sought to control that petulant streak in you.”

I pause, resting my head against the wooden frame, as though I need to catch my breath. “I do not know what you mean,” I say, swallowing down the irritation that I feel.

Her laugh reverberates around the room again. “If that is the truth, my dear, then you soon will!”

I inhale deeply, turning the handle and dashing from the room. Pausing in the hallway, I am aware that I am flushed and a little breathless with annoyance. Reflexively it is Thomas that I want. I seek his reassurance, and if I am honest, I think I want to tell him about the conversation with his mother, and confess the way I am feeling. Not to do so seems like an untruth, and I know that he would be disappointed by my dishonesty.

Moving forward, I muse on where he may now be. If he and Gregory had wanted to talk in private, my best guess is that they would choose to do so in the study. I glance in the direction of the study door, considering whether I should interrupt. My eyes flutter across the hallway to the library instead, and I decide to wait there instead until I hear them depart the study.

Pacing toward the library door, I am stopped in my tracks by the voices I hear coming from inside the room. There are a number of tones coming from beyond the door, and reflexively I draw closer, reminding myself of the very first night here when I had stumbled across the library in the middle of the night. I am just about to knock, when I hear the sound of a woman. Straining harder, I soon identify it as Lucy’s voice.

I pause, prickled by the idea that my maid is inside the library. Over the last few weeks, we have become quite close, and she has proven to be a loyal friend to me, so why might she be summoned to the library without my knowledge? All at once I hear the sound of Gregory, and then the softer, dulcet tones of Thomas. My heart jumps at once, as slowly I come to understand what may well be about to transpire in the library. I press my head against the door frame, mimicking my actions on the first night, and I listen. The voices are a little muffled, although I can just about make out their words:

“Lucy, do you have anything to say in response to Mr. Gregory’s accusation?”

I recognise the sound immediately as the voice of Thomas.

“My Lord,” Lucy replies, her voice strained. “I always work hard, and do my best for yourself and Lady Lydia.”

My belly twists at the desperation in her voice.

“I agree,” replies Thomas, his voice calm and soothing. “Lady Lydia and I have had no complaints regarding your work, and yet Mr. Gregory has brought me this complaint.”

“Please, Lord Markham,” pleads Lucy. “I have never stolen from you, and I never will!”

My brow furrows in confusion. Theft—Gregory has accused Lucy of theft? It is all too much. Coupled with the residual anger I feel after my discussion with the countess, I am close to my limit of endurance. I hear Lucy sob from the next room, and in that moment, I can bear no more. My hand is on the door handle before I even have time to think, and all at once I find myself pressing it open and stepping inside the library.

The scene which awaits me is laid out exactly as I had imagined it from behind the door. Gregory stands in the centre of the room, hands behind his back. In front of him are Lucy and Thomas. They stand facing each other, her hands drawn up as though she is begging him. At the sound of the door, all three of them turn to see my entrance.

“Lydia?” Thomas’ voice registers both the surprise and irritation he obviously feels at my arrival. “What is the meaning of this interruption?”

I hesitate for a moment, uncertain of how to best answer this question given the mounting circumstances. “I was coming to wait in the library,” I begin, “when I overheard something of your discussion, My Lord. I simply cannot believe that Lucy could be guilty of such a crime.”

Lucy turns to me, her eyes streaming with tears, and I see the gratitude that radiates from them toward me. Lord Markham, on the other hand, seems less impressed with my performance. He moves forward, his face darkening with anger at my statement. “Thank you for your contribution,” he says, now towering over me, just inches away. “However, this does not concern you. Go and wait for me in the study, please.”

His tone is deep and unmoving. His eyes send me the unspoken message to obey, and not to push my luck any further. For some reason however, I seem quite unable to do so. “Wait for you?” I say, barely suppressing the indignation in my voice. “Is Lucy not my maid? Can I not thus have a say on this matter?”

From behind Thomas I see Gregory inhale deeply at my comment.

“Lydia,” Thomas says through gritted teeth. “Do as you have been asked. Now, please…”

I eye him wildly, both embarrassed to have been spoken to this way in front of the staff, and enraged that my opinion counts for nothing. I turn on my heel, dashing from the room in an awful mood. I cross the hallway in a blur, barely acknowledging the other staff as they go about their duties. It is not until I find myself in his study alone, that I begin to replay the events, and wonder just how much trouble my brooding scene is likely to have landed me in.

The question is answered a few moments later, when the door to the study is burst open and in strides Thomas. His face is like thunder, yet he closes the door behind him with care, before turning to face me. “What in God’s name was that petulant performance all about?” he demands.

I rise from the chair I had been waiting in, my emotions swimming around my head. On the one hand I am angered by his approach, and still stinging from the way the countess had spoken to me. And yet, I know also that I behaved badly by encroaching on what was clearly a private meeting, and speaking to him rudely in front of Gregory and Lucy. In the end, it is contrition which wins out. “I am sorry,” I whimper, wringing my hands in front of him. “I had genuinely come to wait for you in the library, and I had not intended to intrude until I heard what Gregory was accusing Lucy of doing.”

“That,” begins Thomas, moving toward me in an almost predatory way, “is no excuse for the way you behaved in there.” His voice is almost a growl, and for the first time in weeks I feel something akin to fear in his presence.

“I know, and I apologise,” I say, dropping my head.

He sighs deeply, a sound which seems to fill up the room. “You deserve a trip over my knee for such impertinence, young lady,” he says. “But first, you will tell me why you were heading to the library at all. I left you with Mother in the drawing room, did I not?”

Now it is my turn to sigh. “You did, My Lord,” I reply. “But I simply could not stay, not after the things the countess said!”

Thomas moves around me, seating himself at the edge of his desk. His right hand moves to his temples, as though he can barely process all of the information at once. “Well,” he says after a moment. “Tell me what she has said?”

I move toward him, but stop when I see the expression on his face. “She said that she would prefer you marry a former admirer, and that she intends to use the next few days to make you change your mind about our marriage,” I answer. “And that I am fooling you, but I cannot fool her!”

His face contorts as he hears the words, and for a moment I am wrecked with fear that he simply will not believe me. “I swear, Thomas, I speak the truth. These words really were told to me!”

He nods, and I see the acceptance on his face. “I am sure of it,” he says flatly. “I am just disappointed by the news.”

Relief spreads over me at his understanding, yet I am still filled with insecurity and hurt at the countess’ words. “Who is this other suitor to whom she refers?” I ask, the emotion in my voice evident.

Thomas crosses one long leg over the other and looks at me. “I assume she speaks of the Lady Elizabeth Brooks,” he sighs. “She was once in attendance at William’s parties, and I knew her briefly.”

I am astounded by the news. “Does the countess know how the two of you were acquainted?” I enquire.

“I am not certain,” he admits. “But it matters not now. Elizabeth meant nothing to me, despite the unlikely friendship she seems to have nurtured with my mother.” He pauses, and I wait, absorbing the new information. “Tell me, Lydia.” His voice is softer as he continues. “How did you manage this discussion with the countess; were you insolent?”

“I was angry,” I confess timidly, “which is why I chose to depart the drawing room and find you, Thomas.”

He leans back against the desk, stretching out his long limbs. “Very well, Lydia. I now understand your motivations for being in the library, but I will add that I do not condone your behaviour there. Surely you know better than to act this way?”

Blanching, I find myself biting my lower lip as I answer. “I do. I know it was wrong, but Thomas, I was just so enraged by the accusation against Lucy!” I spread my arms wide to illustrate the exasperation I feel. His face remains impassive, and he is clearly unmoved by my plea as I press on. “My Lord, may I ask about the details of the accusation now?”

He stands, moving back toward me. “You may,” he says, pressing a long kiss into my forehead. “You may always ask me about things in private.” He emphasizes the final word, and instinctively I raise my head to look into his eyes. “It seems that the countess has made the allegation…”

“The countess?” I ask, stunned that she may have a hand in this event.

“Mmmm,” he agrees. “Apparently one of her pieces was taken from the vanity dresser in the guest room, and since Lucy has been looking after her today, she reported the theft to Gregory.”

“Taken?” I repeat. “Perhaps it has just been moved, or misplaced?”

“Perhaps,” agrees Thomas. “Gregory had just raised the issue with me, and I was talking to Lucy about the matter when you arrived so unexpectedly…”

“Oh,” I reply, feeling the guilt spread into heat across my face.

“Indeed,” he says, a small smile crossing his lips.

“Thomas, I am sorry,” I reply. “I could just hear the desperation in Lucy’s voice, and I wanted to protect her!”

“A very honourable act,” he agrees, a trace of a sardonic tone in his voice. “But I wonder why you could not trust me to manage this? Have I not always been fair and reasonable? Do you think I would have punished Lucy without proof?”

“No,” I whimper, feeling more awful as each moment goes on. Thomas is right; I should have trusted him enough to know he would be just and rational. “I was so wrong, Thomas,” I confess, my eyes burning with tears.

“You were, my love,” he says, embracing me. “You must learn to trust me. Know that I will always listen to you, and that I will support you. But…” I tense at the sudden change in his tone. “That does not mean that I will not take you in hand.”

I nod, pressing myself into his hard body, finally yielding to his words. It is at that moment that something else occurs to me. “The countess said something else,” I say, pulling myself back to look up at him. He gazes at me quizzically, but allows me to continue. “She said that you would seek to control my petulance…”

“Really?” he enquires, his face changing into a look of confusion.

“Yes,” I gasp as the realisation dawns on me. “She must know, Thomas! She must know that you like to discipline me.”

“Well, I never!” he says, considering my words with a wry smile. “Perhaps Lady Brooks has divulged more than I had anticipated?”

“But, Thomas!” I press on, “how awful! How can I look her in the eye knowing this?”

“Do not fret, Lydia,” he says. “If it is true that she has garnered some knowledge about my preferences from Elizabeth, then it is probable that she is merely using this information to attack you. She knows that she has lost this battle—I am going to marry you—and there is not a thing she can do to halt the proceedings. She does so loathe to lose…”

I consider this, settling back against him.

“At any rate, it has no bearing on events which will transpire,” he says, kissing me gently again. “Her malicious words will not change a thing.”

Blinking up at him, I force myself to smile. “Thank you,” I whisper.

“I must confess that I have grown to quite adore you, Lydia,” he says, flashing a wide smile at me. “As such, I will do everything within my power to respect and honour you, including standing up to my mother.”

“And the missing jewellery?” I probe.

“Well,” he says, pulling me tightly against him. “Once I have the opportunity I will speak with Lucy again. I too agree that there is most likely a reasonable explanation for these events.”

I swallow hard. The idea that the countess may have acted twice in the evening to try to create upset in the house is disturbing. I had so hoped that she might have meant her words, and truly tried to accept our marriage, but the experiences tonight would seem to suggest not. I cannot help but sigh, the weight of the burden feeling heavier than ever.

His right arm snakes around me even further. “Lydia,” he purrs. “Look at me.”

The tone of his voice is compelling, drawing out the submissive side of my nature, and I look to him at once. “Yes, My Lord?”

“I do not want you to worry about these things,” he says. His voice is serious, and I can see by his face that he means it. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, Thomas,” I say, feeling myself surrendering to his will.

“Good,” he replies. Leaning in toward me, his mouth finds my own, his lips crashing against me. Instinctively I open to his dominance, my eyes closing as his tongue explores me gently. As he draws back, I am left with the deepest yearning for him, and yet I feel somehow settled and calmed by the sensual contact. “And now, my love,” he whispers into my left ear. “There is the matter of your spanking.”

I tense, my breath quickening almost on command.

“Do you not deserve to be punished for your performance in the library?” he asks, eyeing me intently.

“Probably, yes,” I whimper, nervous energy whipping through my body. I know he is going to spank me again, and I know that it will hurt in the most delicious way.

“Then, join me…” he says, taking my left hand and guiding me toward the large chair at the rear of his desk.

He has spanked me whilst being sat at this chair numerous times now, and somehow just the look of the thing excites me. I watch as he positions himself, before beckoning to me to climb across his lap. I move as though I am sleepwalking, my actions slow and deliberate as I consent to the penalty. Once I am in place, I feel him draw the back of my evening gown up toward my shoulders, and a moment later my petticoat joins it. His hand comes to rest against my expectant and exposed behind, and reflexively I hold my breath.

“Here we are again, my love,” he says serenely. “Thank you for accepting your punishment. You are to receive twenty-five swats to your bare bottom for your disrespectful behaviour. You will count each one, and thank me at the very end. Do you understand?”

I hear his voice in an almost distant way as my eyes acclimatise to the now familiar perspective of the rug behind his desk. “Yes, My Lord,” I say, hearing that husky, needy tone in my voice.

He begins at once, the first strike landing hard and firm against my bare skin. I gasp out of instinct, feeling the stinging sensation overwhelm the area. “One,” I whimper, bracing myself for the next impact. Once again he spanks me, forcing the air from my lips as I mark the number. My spanking goes on, falling into that heady routine of the sound and feel of each swat, the connecting pain at the blow, and the sensuality which consumes me. I do not try to fight him; I yield entirely. The act is cathartic. I punctuate each strike with the number of the impact. Being made to do this makes the whole thing feel even more denigrating than usual, and I feel my hips squirming against his breeches. The burning need within me begins to build, and as he continues I know my core has become wet with desire.

All at once we reach the twenty-fourth strike, and as I number it, he pauses, resting his palm against my hot, inflamed flesh. “Lydia,” he purrs. “You have been spanked soundly for the disrespect you have shown me this evening, but you have taken your spanking so well.” His fingers caress my skin as he compliments me. “Now you have just one more strike.”

I feel his hand leave me, and in an instant it comes cracking down back against my bottom. A small yelp leaves my mouth before I can form the necessary words. “Twenty-five, My Lord,” I gasp. “Thank you!”

His fingers stroke my skin, soothing me, and then he draws my skirts south over my legs, as he pulls me softly up into his lap. “Come here, my love,” he says, and he plants gentle kisses on my face as I manoeuvre into position, wincing a little as my punished behind makes contact with his hard legs. Thomas pulls me into an embrace, and I go gladly, wrapping my arms around his torso. We hug for some time in silence, my head filled with both the simmering arousal I feel, and then strange conflicted emotions that his punishments always produce in me.

“How are you, my love?” he whispers into my hair.

I have found that Thomas likes to do this after he has spanked me, but it is a routine that I always find awkward. I do not know what to say, or even how to express the feelings which wash over me. “I am well,” I murmur in reply, hoping that this will be sufficient for him.

“I am so lucky to have found a lady who understands, and dare I say, enjoys my discipline,” he remarks in an absurdly casual manner.

I flush, meeting his eye for the first time since he spanked me. “I do not know what to say,” I say in a rushed whisper.

He smiles at me. “Your face tells me everything that I need to know,” he soothes, “plus the way in which your body responds to me, of course.”

I bury my face into his collar, aware of the embarrassment which burns there. He chuckles, allowing me to rest there for a moment. Once my shame has alleviated a little, a thought occurs to me. “Thomas?” I say, my voice sounding tiny.

He gazes down at me. “Yes, my love?”

I clench instinctively at his words, still enamoured every time I hear those words from his handsome lips. “Do you still spank Lucy, and the other maids?”

I have barely had time to consider this notion before, but all of a sudden it seems pressing. The idea of the gentleman I am about to marry turning another woman over his knee, and spanking her in the same exposed and intimate way which he does to me, makes me feel nauseous.

He eyes me intently, perhaps reading my thoughts from the look on my face. “I used to punish them—whenever the need arose—and I admit that I used to enjoy the responsibility.”

I tense out of instinct, a jealous gnawing emotion clawing at me. “I remember seeing you spank Lucy on my first night,” I whisper.

“Yes, that is right,” he says. “But to answer your question, I have not spanked any of the maids in my household since that night.”

I draw away, watching him closely. “Has there been no need?” I ask, my voice portraying the uncertainty I feel on the subject.

“Of course,” he laughs gently. “Young ladies often err, and need to be corrected, as we have seen this evening.”

I blanch, pressing my lips together as he teases me. Choosing to ignore the remark, I continue. “Then why have you not done so?”

He looks at me, his eyes searing in that way which makes me question whether he can see into my very soul. “Is it not obvious, Lydia?”

I shake my head, catching my bottom lip between my teeth.

“Because of you,” he says sensually. “Because right after I spanked you for the very first time, I knew.”

I gaze at him, my heart beating rapidly inside of my chest. “What did you know, Thomas?” I murmur.

“I knew, Lydia,” he begins, “that there was something between us. I knew that I never wanted to spank anyone after you. Gregory takes care of the household discipline for me now, and that is how things shall remain.”

By the time he concludes I can feel the tears welling in my eyes. “Thomas, I…” I pause, my thoughts reeling out of control. “Is it true? Did you really know so soon?”

He presses his hot lips against me, grazing me with the sensual intensity as his arms cradle me tight. “Lydia Franklin, I had been waiting for all of my life—of course I knew.”

Chapter Thirty-Three: Moments of Resolution

 

 

I wake the next morning filled with a warmth I never experienced before. Despite the tenderness of my bottom, and the prevailing gloom from my window, I have never felt so contented, and I skip from bed with vigour. Lucy, still a little shaken from the previous night, says nothing, but I catch her smiling at me when she thinks I am not looking.

Resisting the temptation to admonish her, I return her smile, seeking to offer her reassurance. “How are you today, Lucy?” I ask, as she fixes my troublesome tresses.

“Well, thank you, My Lady,” she replies, and then she hesitates. “I want to thank you for defending me last evening.”

“Of course,” I say at once. “I do not believe the allegations for one moment, and neither, I believe, does His Lordship.”

She nods as she twists a curl into place. “Yes,” she replies. “Lord Markham came to visit me before he retired and ensured that I was innocent unless proof could be found, and I swear to you, My Lady, there will not be any. I would never dream of stealing from the countess!”

“I know, Lucy,” I say. “I will do everything I can to support you.”

Her smile grows wider as she responds. “Thank you, My Lady. If I may say so, it is such a pleasure to serve you.”

I catch her eye in the reflection of the looking glass, and watch her work as she finishes my hair.

Breakfast is served in the dining room, much in the same way as every other day at Markham Hall, except that today we are joined by the countess. Still, given my lifted mood since Lord Markham’s disclosure to me last evening, even the sour expression on her face cannot crush my spirit today. I enter with a smile from Gregory, and turn left to see Thomas already at his place.

Our eyes connect, and he rises to greet me as I approach. “Good morning, Lydia,” he says, his voice warm.

“Good morning,” I reply, offering him a wide beam. I turn to see the woman sat at the table opposite me. “Good morning, My Lady.”

She raises her eyes to me, assessing me with her usual cold demeanour. “Lydia,” she remarks.

I seat myself, determined not to permit her to ruin my disposition, and yet there is no denying the frosty ambience into which I have entered. My gaze passes between Thomas and his mother, and I wonder what has been discussed before I arrived. Instinctively I conclude that it must have something to do with me.

The room remains silent for much of the proceedings. I sneak the occasional look at Thomas, his face suppressing amusement at the situation. He picks up his broadsheet, apparently examining each line with deliberate intent, as though he seeks to dismiss the countess entirely. I shift awkwardly in my seat; the ambience and my tender behind both making me equally uncomfortable. After consuming a brief breakfast, I am just finishing my morning tea, when his voice spears the silence.

“I fancy a walk this morning before the rain begins again.” His declaration is as random as it is unexpected. In all of the weeks I have lived here, I have rarely seen Thomas take a walk. “Lydia, will you accompany me?” he asks.

“Of course, My Lord,” I reply in a hurry, as I set down my cup.

“I shall have Lucy meet you in the hall with your shawl, My Lady,” says Gregory from behind me.

I turn, having quite forgotten that he was there in the first place. “Thank you, Mr. Gregory,” I say.

As he departs, the countess rises from her place at the table. “Since it seems there is no further business for me here until the wedding, I will take my leave, Thomas.” Her voice is detached, although I hear a note of hurt in it.

Putting down his paper, Thomas looks to her. “We have been through this, Mother,” he sighs. “You should stay here until the ceremony. You are even welcome to stay on whilst we are on our bridal tour.”

She shakes her head as Carson rushes to pull her chair away from her. “No,” she replies firmly. “My mind is made up. You may be master of this house, Thomas, but you are not the master of me. I shall return for the service this weekend.”

I gape at them both, watching the exchange with a growing sense of dread. “My Lady,” I say. “I thought you were going to help with the arrangements?” I ask, imploring her to remain for the sake of cordiality.

She turns to me as she places her napkin back onto the pristine tablecloth. “It appears things are as you yourself have indicated,” she remarks. “All the plans are as they should be.”

I nod in acknowledgement, although I confess her words are rather lost on me. Thomas rises respectfully as she leaves, and I eye him as he sits down. “Thomas?” I say. “Should you go after her?”

“No, Lydia,” he says, wiping the corners of his mouth. “I have said everything I need to say to the countess for the time being. I suggest we let her go as she wishes.”

My head turns back to the open doorway, half expecting to find the woman there with a quick-witted retort, but there is no one.

“I suggest we take that fresh air now,” says Thomas, from my left. “The newspaper says a storm is brewing later today.”

He rises and walks to my place before gesturing for me to take my leave. We walk, arm in arm, to find Lucy waiting for us with my shawl in the hallway.

“My Lord,” Lucy says, bowing respectfully as her master approaches.

“Ah, Lucy,” he says. “I am glad to have found you so early.”

She eyes him with wild, frightened orbs, but says nothing as she clutches my shawl for support.

“Do not look so intimidated,” he laughs. “I mean only to apologise for the upset last evening. The countess has located her missing piece this morning, so it seems all is well again.”

The relief on Lucy’s face is palpable. “That is so good to hear, My Lord,” she says with a smile.

“I am personally sorry to have seen you so upset by the allegation,” continues Thomas. “I hope you will not take it to heart?”

“Of course not, My Lord,” she replies happily.

“Good,” he says, taking the shawl from her arms and holding it open for me.

I move forward and allow him to wrap it around my shoulders, before he fastens the front catch himself.

“Lady Lydia and I will be taking a walk on the grounds now,” he advises Gregory, who, clearly interested in the conversation, has come to participate.

“Very good, My Lord,” he says, gesturing for the footman at the entrance to open the door.

We make our way outside, the shrill wind rushing to meet us as we descend the stone steps and pass onto the vast lawns. The horizon ahead of us is grey and swept in the mists of late autumn.

“I am so pleased to hear that the countess’ jewellery is no longer lost,” I say simply.

He turns to looks at me as we walk. I feel his eyes penetrating my skin. “As am I,” he says finally. “It would seem they were never really lost. In fact, I wonder if the whole story was contrived just to throw the household into disarray in the run up to the wedding…”

I gasp out loud. Even though the same thoughts had crossed my mind, it is still shocking to hear them from Thomas’ mouth.

“Is that why the countess feels she must leave?” I ask. “For I genuinely would not see her go.”

He pats my gloved hand, which is interlinked around his left arm. “You are gracious, my love,” he says. “But Mother will do as she must. I hope that after a little time to contemplate these things, she may return with a level of contrition, as well as acceptance about us.”

We press on in silence, both of us musing on his words.

“You know,” he says after a while. “I think she is genuinely stunned by the affection we share. She had not foreseen this.”

I smile, unable to suppress my pleasure at hearing his assessment. “Neither did I, My Lord,” I say, “but I must confess to happiness at the outcome!”

He pauses, and I turn to face him. As I move, a gust of wind launches itself at me, and nearly forces my bonnet from my head. My hand flies to rescue it, and Thomas laughs openly at my struggle.

Vexed at his response, I scowl at him, but he has none of it, pressing himself toward me to protect me from the elements. “I cannot wait to make you my wife, Lady Franklin,” he purrs into my face.

I stare up to him, quite out of breath by his statement and the battle with the wind. “I look forward to becoming her…” I murmur.

Chapter Thirty-Four: The Exchange of Vows

 

 

The hustle and excitement of the wedding seems to push everything into acceleration. The days move forward in such a rush of planning, excitement, and nervous energy that it feels as though no time has passed at all before I am preparing to dress for my wedding ceremony.

The skies are lit with hazy autumn sunshine as I stand at the window, taking a moment from the frenzy to wonder at how I have journeyed to this point, about to become Lady Lydia Markham. The butterflies in my belly flutter eagerly as the name processes through my mind, and I turn with a smile as Lucy enters the room.

“My Lady,” she says, her face a constant dazzle of enthusiasm. “Your aunt is here, and has asked to see you. Shall I accompany her up?”

I smile at the prospect; I have not seen Aunt Jane for some weeks. “Yes, please,” I say, securing the robe which covers my wedding gown. “I should like to see her.”

Some moments later, it is Jane’s face which appears in my doorway. She is the closest thing I have ever had to a maternal role model, and seeing her emotion at my wedding takes me quite by surprise.

“Lydia!” she cries, rushing forward to embrace me. “It is such wonderful news! Are you not glad that I forced your hand at becoming Lord Markham’s ward?”

My mind flits back to our conversation of all those weeks ago, and I smile as I recall the hot-headed girl who had fought her aunt on the issue. “Yes, Aunt Jane,” I agree fondly. “I am most glad.”

She pulls away from me, assessing my face, hands, and hair. “You do look quite beautiful, my dear,” she says warmly. “If only your father was here to see you, and to give you away.” She hesitates, emotion rising in her face. “But at least you have Wilfred to do so in his place?”

“All is well, Aunt,” I say reassuringly, nodding at her assertion. My cousin Wilfred, Jane’s eldest son had kindly offered to step into the shoes of my late father, the earl. “It is kind of him to do so.”

“It is his duty!” snorts my aunt, “but yes, he is a good boy,” she admits, softening. “Now, my dear, is there any advice I can offer you about marriage?”

I still, rather thrown by her question. “Advice?” I repeat, wondering to what she refers.

“Yes, Lydia!” she laughs. “Remember, I was married to your uncle for many decades, so I know a thing or two about gentlemen, and how to abide them.”

I cannot help but join her laughter, the contagious nature of it spreading through the room. “Thank you,” I reply, “but I think I know a little of these things, and I am certain that Lord Markham will be there to instruct me in anything I need to learn.”

She cocks an eyebrow at this last comment, and for one terrible moment I fear that she is going to press me on the point, but thankfully, she does not. “Well then, my dear,” she says, kissing the side of my cheek. “Let me just say that I am most proud of the young lady you have become. I will go now, and see you at the church.”

I nod, the emotion suddenly welling in my throat at her kind words.

As she departs, Lucy turns to me. “Are you ready, My Lady?” she asks, barely suppressing the excitement in her voice.

“Yes, Lucy,” I say, untying the belt at my waist. “Yes, I think I am.”

 

* * *

 

I find Wilfred waiting for me at the bottom of the stairwell at Markham. He is much taller and broader than I remember, but as he has been away in the military for some years, it has been a while since we have seen one another. Based on his reaction to my entrance, I think he too is surprised at how his cousin has grown.

“Lydia!” he exclaims, smiling as he takes my hand at the bottom step. “How beautiful you look!”

“Thank you, Wilfred,” I say, beaming at him. “And thank you for standing in for the earl.”

He squeezes my hand, and we move forward, the cut of my gown sashaying beneath me as we walk toward the waiting carriage. Guiding me inside, Wilfred takes his place next to me, and I watch the windows of the drawing room and study as we pull away, musing on how my life has changed for the better since I arrived at Markham Hall.

Catching the eye of my cousin, I see him smile at me reassuringly. “I am so proud to be able to honour you in this way, Lydia,” he says kindly.

“Thank you,” I whisper, the well of emotion rising in me.

Producing a pristine handkerchief from his pocket, he presses the fabric into my hand. “I did not intend to distress you,” he smiles guiltily.

I shake my head, returning his smile, but find it easier to remain silent for the remainder of the short journey.

The local parish church is a fine-looking ancient building, purportedly built before the Magna Carta. I eye the turret-style tower looming as we pull up outside, and Wilfred jumps from the carriage before me, so I can collect myself. Taking his hand, I climb down tentatively, holding my pale gown up so that I avoid stepping upon it. We are met by my aunt, Wilfred’s sister, Mary, and her small daughter, Georgina, the latter two being my maid of honour and bridesmaid.

Aunt Jane is practically beaming as I approach on the arm of her son. “You look wonderful, my dear!” she says, embracing me lightly so as not to disturb my hair beneath my bridal bonnet.

I smile, turning to little Georgina. “Good day to you,” I say, bobbing to offer her a small kiss.

“Hello, Lady Lydia,” she replies politely. She looks to her mother, who takes her hand as she addresses me.

“How lovely to see you, Lydia,” she says, presenting me with a small smile. “Mother is correct; you do look delightful. I simply adore your bonnet!”

“Why, thank you,” I answer, instinctively touching the edge of the material at the side of my face. “Is it time?”

Wilfred checks his timepiece and turns to me. “I believe so,” he nods, grinning. “I think we have kept Lord Markham waiting long enough.”

The sound of his name sends the butterflies in my belly fluttering, and all at once the ground beneath my slippers begins to shift. Taking my right arm firmly, Wilfred steadies me. “Shall we?” he says calmly.

I inhale deeply, nodding in reply, and I see him gesture to his family to go ahead of us.

“Good luck, my dear,” coos Aunt Jane, before she turns and walks the short twisting path which leads to the entrance of the church.

“Come, Georgina,” says Mary, taking her daughter by the hand and following her mother up the slight slope ahead of us. Once they are a few strides in front, Wilfred moves next to me, guiding me forward.

We pass up the slope, each step slow and deliberate. I turn to the left, my eyes surveying the graveyard. I think of my father, wishing fleetingly that he could have been here in place of Wilfred. Turning back to my cousin, I see his face is resolute, as though getting me to the head of the altar is his life’s mission. A few yards beyond us, I see Georgina turn and wave as Mary leads her into the building. Despite my nervous energy, the innocent act makes me smile, and I feel my anxiety begin to dissipate. By the time we make it inside the church, I feel more certain and reassured. I am about to become Lady Thomas Markham! The thought, just a month ago, would have been open to ridicule, and yet now, it is about to become truth.

Turning right toward the altar, I hear the keys of the church organ begin, and every member of the congregation rises to greet us. The sensation should be overwhelming, as every pair of eyes drills into us, and yet all I can feel is joy about what is transpiring. As Mary and Georgina complete their walk up the aisle, Wilfred leads me forward. I keep my eyes forward and my breathing as steady as I can, but I feel just about fit to burst with excitement. This is really happening! It is then that I see him. Standing at the front of the church, the gentleman whom I have come here to marry turns to see his bride.

As he looks over his left shoulder, our eyes connect, and my heart begins to pound with new vigour. His are green, and shining with enthusiasm at the sight of me. I cast my eyes over him, absorbing the sheer masculine appeal of his presence. He looks fabulous in his dark tail coat and white breeches, a red cravat tied at his neck. Beside him stands another tall gentleman, Thomas’ choice of best man, George Audley. Whilst we have never met, Thomas has shared his various correspondences with George, and told me how they were educated together. I suspect that William Pembroke might have been his first consideration, but in light of recent events, I must confess I am not sorry to see George at his side instead.

I reach the altar, at which point Wilfred presents me to my future husband, before falling back to the pew behind me. Thomas offers me a ravishing smile as he takes my arm. “You look enchanting,” he whispers, and just the sound of his voice makes me giddy.

We move forward to join the clergyman who waits to marry us. The whole experience takes on a rather dreamlike quality, as we exchange vows in the presence of so many guests. It is not until Thomas speaks that I am compelled back to the amazing reality.

He turns to me, taking my left hand and pressing the gold band against my fourth finger. “With this ring,” he says, gazing into my eyes, “I thee wed. With my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow: In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

I barely catch my breath as he concludes, sliding the metal onto my finger, but as we are finally declared man and wife, I scarcely hear the applause of the congregation. My whole focus is on the man beside me; my husband, who now leans over me smiling. “Now I am permitted to kiss my wife,” he murmurs, and all at once his lips are on me, claiming me in the most sweet and sensual way. The connection is brief, acknowledging the presence of our audience, and yet it holds such promise. As he draws away, he winks at me, and I know that I am blushing.

The day is swept away in a wave of excitement and ceremony. The reception is held back at Markham Hall, and once the wedding breakfast is over and the beautiful cake has been cut, we try to speak to as many guests as possible, to thank them for attending. At this time, I notice my new husband greeting Lord and Lady Pembroke, so, excusing myself from my current conversation, I make my way over to join them.

“Ah, here is the beautiful bride!” It is Lord William’s voice which greets me, and I recoil inwardly at the gleeful expression on his face. As I walk besides Thomas, his hand finds mine at once, and he squeezes it, eyeing me with a reassuring gaze.

“Congratulations, Lady Lydia,” purrs Lady Helena, moving toward me to plant a chaste kiss on my cheek.

“Thank you both,” I say, gripping Thomas’ hand. “It is lovely of you to join us!”

“It was, of course, our pleasure,” replies Lord William, bowing low and nearly spilling the wineglass in his left hand. “Although, I might have expected to have been asked as groomsman, old chap?”

His eyes connect with Thomas, and a look passes between them. “We will discuss this matter at Cranningford next week,” says Thomas smoothly. “That is, assuming the celebration is still planned?”

“Of course!” interjects Lady Helena, her smile seeking to overcompensate for the tension between the two men. “We must celebrate your birthday, Thomas, especially now you have a young bride with you!”

Thomas nods. “Then we shall be pleased to join you, won’t we, Lydia?”

“Very much so,” I say in a rushed whisper.

“We will come directly to your estate after our bridal tour, seeking to arrive on the Friday of this coming week.” Thomas takes a small sip of his drink, watching William’s responses carefully.

“We are very much looking forward to it,” says Lady Helena. “And now you must not let us dominate you on this special day! Please, do go and enjoy your guests.”

We retreat with a smile, Thomas still gripping my hand with intent. My gaze meets his, and relief washes over me.

“Are you happy, my love?” he asks, his face serious.

“Yes!” I exclaim. “I confess that I have never been so happy. Thank you for managing Lord William.”

“From this day onward, I vow that I always will,” he says, leaning down to kiss the nape of my neck.

“Put her down, Thomas. You will have plenty of time to take possession of young Lydia.” A woman’s voice interrupts the sensual graze of his mouth, and we both turn to meet its owner. I am rather startled to see the countess standing before us. Although I have assumed her attendance at the ceremony, I had not actually seen her until this moment.

“Mother,” replies Thomas; his tone is not cold, and yet it sounds guarded.

I look between them both, wanting desperately to mend this rift which I have helped to create.

“Thank you so much for joining us,” I say, hoping my voice carries the genuine feeling I sense.

She stares at me, her steely eyes finally thawing. “Lydia, congratulations, my dear.” Moving in toward me, she plants a kiss against my cheek. “You do look lovely.”

“Thank you,” I murmur, amazed at the unexpected compliment.

“Thomas,” she says, turning her attention to her son. “I regret our quarrel, and do not wish for it to continue. I should like to send you away on your bridal tour with peace between us.”

My heart skips at her words, my own gaze turning to Thomas for his reaction.

“We also seek the peace you speak about,” he says, reaching for her right hand. “Does this mean that Lydia and I have your blessing?”

She pauses, her lips pursed as she replies. “Give me some time, Thomas. Your betrothal has come of something of a shock to me, but yes—in time—I believe that you will.”

“Thank you, My Lady!” I answer, genuinely pleased to hear the words.

“Indeed,” says Thomas warmly. “I do hope that you will stay on at Markham whilst we are away?”

“Yes, I think I will,” she says. “When are you planning to leave?”

Thomas checks his timepiece and glances over at me. “Actually, in truth, not so long from now. We had better ready ourselves, Lydia.”

I nod my understanding. “Very well, then I will take my leave of you, My Lady,” I say to the countess, and politely I make my way to my rooms to find Lucy.

“My Lady!” she exclaims, as I enter my room. “Congratulations!”

“Thank you, Lucy,” I say, moving toward her. “Lord Markham wishes to depart soon. Is everything prepared?”

“Yes, My Lady,” she says. “Your travel bags are packed, and Buckton has already taken them down.”

I smile, pleased with her usual efficiency. “And you, Lucy?” I ask. “Are you also prepared?”

“Yes, My Lady. Buckton and I will travel behind you as we did when we last travelled to Ripley.” She pauses, watching me. “Are you excited? Has His Lordship revealed where you shall spend the bridal tour?”

I shake my head. “He refuses,” I sigh with frustration. “I have given up asking him!”

She smiles. “I am certain he will not disappoint you, My Lady.”

I nod in agreement, and as we leave my room, I give it one last fleeting glance, wondering if I will return here once the bridal tour is completed.

Chapter Thirty-Five: The Wedding Night

 

 

It takes us some time to work our way through the crowds of well-wishers at Markham Hall, but once we eventually do, my husband and I find ourselves finally alone. As our carriage pulls away and the final gesture of farewell is complete, we settle back against the bench, my hand smothered in his hot digits.

“Now that we are married, I can finally sit with you at my side,” he says, as though he is musing aloud.

“I am glad,” I say, turning to my right to see his smile. “I confess I much prefer it.”

“As do I,” he says, drawing me toward him, so that our bodies are in constant contact. “May I congratulate you, Lady Markham, on your recent marriage to the devilishly charming Thomas!”

I cannot help but laugh at his words. It is the first time I have heard my new name, and I truly like the sound of it. “Lady Markham?” I repeat excitedly. “I am truthfully your wife then, sir?”

“Mmmm,” he says, nuzzling into me. “Our vows are said, and our cake is cut, but there is one more deed which must be enacted before I can say that I am truly your husband.”

A shiver of energy makes its way down my back, pooling between my legs. “To what do you refer, My Lord?” I ask, widening my eyes in feigned innocence.

His right hand claws at the fastenings of my bonnet, pulling them loose so that his digits may make their way into my hair. I shut my eyes at the contact, relishing the feeling of his hand against me. “Oh, I think you know, My Lady,” he says, his voice little more than a growl.

My eyes fly open at the sound, and I find that we are nose to nose, his hot breath warming the front of my neck. The sudden intensity is startling, but oh so desirable, and all I can think is how much I want to be his. “Will you make me yours, Thomas?” I whisper.

“Oh, yes, sweet Lydia,” he purrs. “I will claim and possess every part of you. Now that you are mine, I will love you completely.”

I am almost panting at his words, and yet the thought causes some anxiety. “Thomas, I…” I pause, feeling the frown cross my face.

“Lydia,” he says breathily. “What is wrong?”

I see the concern in those deep green eyes, and I want so much to alleviate it. “Do not worry,” I say. “It is just that I have no experience of these things, Thomas, and—I do not want to disappoint you…”

He chuckles, that deep sound resonating within me in the most profound way. “Oh, my love,” he says, kissing my nose. “You will not disappoint. You will be loved, and owned and cherished.”

I close my eyes briefly, pressing my forehead against his. “I want to be all of those things,” I reply.

“Good,” he soothes. “Let’s rest now. We have a long journey ahead, and a long night of love to come after that.”

I smile, giggling at his statement, but when he holds out his arms, I go gladly between them, resting myself against his hot, hard torso. I watch the light fade from the carriage window, and sure enough, the heat of Thomas and the excitement of the day soon overwhelm me.

 

* * *

 

I am roused some time later as Thomas moves behind me, and open my eyes to see quite a different vantage from the window. Stirring, I move forward to gaze at the new view, surmising at once that we are no longer in the country.

“Thomas?” I enquire, turning to face my husband. “Is this London? Have you brought me back home?”

His brow raises at my question, yet he smiles as he stretches his long limbs out in the place I had been sleeping. “Well, my love, yes, this is London, but it is not the earl’s townhouse to which we are destined.”

I gape at him with some excitement, pressing my face close to the glass to try to ascertain our whereabouts. The streets are as dark and dirty as I recall, and yet very soon I see us making our way into a much finer part of the city. After a moment, we approach the lights of a large building, and the carriage at last comes to a halt. The door is opened on Thomas’ side, and we are met by a very smart-looking footman. “Good evening, My Lord,” says the man, dipping his head in deference. “May I be the first to welcome you to the Mivart Hotel. Please, do come inside, and I will arrange for your bags to follow you.”

He retreats with grace, and Thomas turns to me, grinning. “Do you know where you are now, Lydia?”

“The Mivart?” I say, open-mouthed. I have heard rumours of the unrivalled distinction of this hotel, yet even my family have never stayed here.

He smiles. “You are pleased with your husband’s choice?” he says jovially.

“I am stunned, My Lord,” I say, watching him climb down the steps and extend a hand to me.

I follow him, taking my first step into the city for some weeks. The building before us is a massive, towering architecture, which resembles a number of fine-looking terrace properties linked together. I follow Thomas toward the grand-looking entrance. We pass inside, and are met by more hotel staff who seek to welcome us.

“Congratulations, Lord and Lady Markham,” says one mature-looking gentleman. “Your suite is prepared and waiting for you.”

“Thank you,” replies Thomas, squeezing my hand. “Please ensure our luggage is brought up to the suite as soon as you can.”

The man nods, smiling. “Of course, My Lord,” he says. “Here is the key to your room; James will show you the way there.”

He gestures toward the second gentleman, who nods and moves away. We follow him, and I trail behind a little, absorbing the splendour of the exclusive foyer. We are led directly to our room, and finally I am left alone in the hotel with my new husband.

“How do you like my surprise?” asks Thomas, as he closes the door.

My eyes scan the huge scale of the room. Dressed in light fabrics and soft furnishings, the space is primarily dominated by a gigantic four-poster bed in the centre, but is also host to other fine-looking pieces. I gaze back to him, unable to hide my pleasure. “It is wonderful, Thomas,” I say. “Thank you!”

He moves toward me, pressing himself against my body. “I want our first night as man and wife to be one to remember,” he purrs, gazing down at me.

I swallow hard at the intensity in his eyes, aware of the excited energy simmering within me.

A knock on the door startles us, but Thomas moves quickly toward the large double doors, greeting the concierge who has already brought our bags. “Please place them inside,” says Thomas, gesturing for the man to enter.

I move toward the bed as he passes inside and places the pieces on the waiting luggage racks. “There is a call bell, sir,” he says, “if there is anything else you should need. Please do not hesitate to ring.”

I turn my attention to the bell on the wall to which he refers, and both Thomas and I nod in acknowledgement. “Thank you,” replies my husband, ushering him out of the suite.

With the door closed and the lock in place, he turns, a fiendish-looking smile spreading across his lips. “And now, finally, my love…” he murmurs, as he paces back toward me. “We are alone.”

I risk a small smile, feeling the rhythm of my heart accelerating at the sight of him. He removes his dark coat, the tails dragging across the plush carpeted floor as he throws it onto a waiting chair. “Shall we draw a bath?” he asks softly. “I should very much like to bathe together.”

I flush at the mere idea. “Together?” I gasp. “Thomas, surely such a thing is… improper?”

The gentle sound of laughter leaves his lips. “Lydia,” he chuckles. “You are my wife; how can anything between us be improper?”

I drop my eyes as I consider his words, and then look back to his smiling face. “Should I ring for someone to draw the bath?” I ask tentatively.

“No,” he says definitely, already striding toward the door through which the bathtub waits. “I will do so.”

“But, Thomas,” I protest, following him. “Lords should not have to endure such menial chores! Please, let me?”

As I walk inside the enormous marbled bathroom however, I find him already running water into the huge white roll-topped tub. I stop, agog for one moment. Running water is a considerable luxury, even to someone like me, and the grandeur of this room is simply breath-taking. Thomas turns as I enter, one hand resting on his hip. “You are not arguing with me, are you, wife?” His tone is light and mocking, and yet the change of tack excites me.

“No, My Lord,” I say, backing away to the door as the water continues to run. “I merely sought to make myself useful to you?”

A familiar wicked grin spreads over his handsome face. “Oh, you will be useful to me, my love,” he chuckles. “But not by performing domestic chores.”

All at once he is right next to me, and I am forced to look upward to gaze into his eyes. “What should I do?” I enquire, feeling the palpable energy coursing through me.

A flash of something delicious passes over his complexion as he considers my question. “I believe,” he says slowly, “that a wife should bring her husband pleasure. Do you agree, Lydia?”

I know his question is a web which he dares me to enter, and that Thomas is the spider waiting in the middle. Never before has a fly been so keen to step into the spider’s web.

“I do agree, My Lord,” I say, swallowing even as I reply.

His right hand sweeps north to my face, and offers gentle caresses as he speaks. “Then I should ask that you do so for me now, my love. Strip for me, I would like to see what is mine.”

I gulp at his words, loving the domineering inference in them. Obeying at once, I step out of my slippers and remove the cape from around me. He moves to my back, assisting me with the fastenings of my gown, and then helps me draw the dress downward. The beautiful fabric pools at once at my feet, and I am left standing in only my thin petticoats, the stay having been ignored on this special day. With nervous fingers, I pull the binds which secure the petticoats to my waist, and finally I am nude in front of him.

Thomas circles me, smiling. It is not the first time that I have been naked in front of him, but now I am his wife—I am truly his.

“I must confess, my love,” he croons. “I have never seen such an impeccable vision as you.”

I gasp at the compliment, the vulnerability of my position serving only to fuel the growing desire pooling between my thighs. “My Lord,” I say, but he silences me by pressing one of his long fingers to his lips.

“Hush now,” he says, circling me. As he moves he trails a finger over my nudity. I feel his touch at my shoulder, and then my hip, and my nipples bead in an almost instinctive manner. I swallow, my mouth parting as he concludes his circle and comes to stand in front of me.

“We shall bathe together,” he says sensually. “And then I shall have you pleasure me with your mouth.”

I pause, trying not to let the enormity of what he says overwhelm me. “But, Thomas, I…”

“Shhh,” he reminds me. “I will guide you.”

I nod, frowning, but willing to trust his word.

He moves back toward the tub, adjusting the temperature of the water, before he too begins to remove his clothing. As he unties his cravat, the thought occurs to me that despite his knowledge of my nakedness, I have never actually seen him nude before. A rush of exhilaration passes over me as he takes a seat beside the tub and removes his shoes.

As he stands, we make eye contact, and he moves toward me, smiling. “Come here,” he says huskily.

I approach him, all too aware of my exposed body, but uniquely I do not wish to conceal it. Instead I desire to offer it to him. My gift to him will be my body, and my eagerness to learn how to please him. By the time I am next to him, I am panting, utterly unable to control my breathing.

“Undo the buttons of my shirt, Lydia,” he commands.

Unthinkingly I obey, as if compelled by his very essence. I fiddle with the three fasteners, until his chest is exposed, and he shuffles out of the fabric in front of me. All at once I am face to face with his bare chest, a broad expanse of toned muscle, covered in soft, dark hair. I gaze up to find his waiting smile. “Climb in the tub, my love.”

I want so badly to touch the soft hair just beyond my face, but not wishing to upset him, I shift to my left, toward the nearly full tub, which presses against my hip. Feeling the weight of his stare burning into my flesh, I look over my shoulder to see his encouraging face. “Now, Lydia,” he prompts me, his voice laced with just enough edge to make me move.

I raise my right leg and plunge my foot into the filled tub. Soon enough I climb in entirely, and submerge myself into the glorious, cleansing water.

“How fabulous you look!” he exclaims, and I turn to my right, once again absorbing his bare-chested form. “Yet, you do look a little lonely in that large tub. Should I join you, my love?”

I hear my voice catch in my throat as I try to reply. “Yes, please, My Lord…”

His fingers are at the waistband of his breeches even before I can conclude the sentence. With just a few movements, the garment is unfastened, and he steps out of them, to reveal his body in all its naked glory.

I cannot draw my eyes from his nude form. He turns, slowly moving his clothing to the waiting chair, almost as though he is deliberately giving me a show. I see the ripe cheeks of his behind as he bends to place the garments down. I think I hold my breath, watching him as if in slow motion as he spins back to face the bath. Being a true Regency lady and a maiden, I have never seen such a sight before. His manhood is long and surprisingly thick, and looks already eager to join me in the tub. He moves toward the long length of the tub where I have just entered, and presses his organ proudly over the edge. I know I gasp at the proximity.

“Thomas?” I say, gaping at its sheer size.

He smiles and says nothing, but climbs lithely inside with me, sending the level of water rising a good few inches as he seats himself opposite me. “I have dreamed of this moment, Lydia,” he purrs. “To bathe with you has been a fantasy of mine for some time.”

I blink at him, unable to think of anything intelligent to say in response, and my vacant expression once again makes him laugh. “Come to me,” he says, beckoning me forward with one long finger.

“There is no room for me, Thomas,” I say, bewildered by his request.

“Sit on my lap, my love,” he answers. “I want to feel you against me in the water.”

I want to protest again, and tell him that it is surely improper for even a wife to do such a thing, but I do not dare. Instead, with the nervous energy raging through my body, I draw myself up to my knees and crawl toward him. I meet his legs at once and am forced to straddle them as I move forward. He draws his arms up to the edges of the tub as I approach, watching me intently as I press myself against him. The water swills around my hips as I gradually move myself into place, and as I lower my body down, my bottom pushes against his hard length. I gasp at the sensation.

He eyes me, smiling. “So now you feel what you do to me?” he purrs. His arms move down simultaneously, the left one cocooning me tightly at the waist, and the right one pressing into my behind and pulling me against his excited organ.

I look down into the water, anxious and yet excited about what is transpiring. “I had no idea,” I mumble by means of explanation.

“Of course not,” he replies. “But this is the effect you have, Lydia. Every time you challenge me, each time I have spanked you, and for sure when I see your wonderful body.”

Gently he shifts my weight and draws me forward a few inches, so that his hardness presses against the apex of my thighs. I gape at him, unable to articulate the feelings I am processing. How, I wonder, can such a large organ hope to enter me? And yet the undeniable urge to permit it to do so is compelling.

“Thomas,” I murmur, but he catches the word with his mouth. His kiss is consuming, his lips hot and aggressive, as though they have been waiting a lifetime to devour me in this way. He draws away all too soon, leaving me breathless and hungry for him.

Raising his hips upward, his hard length rubs directly against my own wetness. My legs, forced open as I straddle him, are unable to close and protect the area, and the sensation is like nothing else I have ever experienced. Even on the occasions that Thomas has brought me to climax with his fingers, I had never felt this way. I look to him, wide-eyed, knowing that I should protest, and yet needing for him to continue.

“Move against me,” he purrs. “Do not be afraid; it will bring us both pleasure.”

As though they hear his instructions, I find that my hips are already moving on their own accord. I draw them back, and then slowly slide them forward again, meeting his now throbbing organ and grinding against it. He lets out a low groan from next to me, and the sound inspires me to continue. I press forward once again, the contact with my tingling nub producing the most exquisite sensation. His right hand clutches at my bottom, assisting with each movement as I flex my hips forward and backward against him.

“Ly-di-a.” His voice is almost a growl, and the strain in it causes me to look up to his face for the first time since I began moving.

“Should I stop?” I ask, concerned that I am somehow hurting him.

His other hand passes from my waist to the underside of me, finding my moist folds in the bath water. “Do not dare!” he cries, and slowly he plunges a digit into my wetness.

The sensation makes me heady and I arch my back, pushing against him almost out of instinct. “Oh, Thomas!” I call out, apparently unable to control my own words.

“Don’t stop, my love,” he says, meeting my gaze. “Pleasure me and I will pleasure you.”

I feel his finger pursuing me ruthlessly from under the water, and I push myself back against him again and again, seeking that special feeling as our most intimate parts connect. Seeing my pleasure build, he releases my left buttock, his right hand instead finding my full left breast. Massaging it roughly underneath, he raises the nipple to his waiting mouth. I watch, dumbstruck as he closes his hot lips into a tight vacuum, sucking intently on the most sensitive area. The feeling is heavenly, and I arch further, encouraging him to suckle me as I press heavily against his own waiting manhood.

We move in the water, drawn on by our mutual desire in a near silent exchange of pleasure. As Thomas moves to my right breast, I know I am close to the brink. The finger inside me now slips in and out so effortlessly that I fear I must cry out soon, or be overwhelmed by the growing emotions. As his mouth suckles my bud, his finger finds me and urges me on toward the climax of my pleasure. Instinctively I reach for him, pressing my hands into the soft hair at his chest, and then using his shoulder to take my weight as I rise up in the water and push myself alongside his hard length. I am lost to the sensations, my eyes shut and my lips parted in wordless ecstasy.

All at once there is another finger upon me, and this one pushes gently into the dark opening at my rear. My eyes fly open in shock. “Thomas!” I cry, unsure if the word is meant as an exclamation or a question.

I see him smile, his lids hooded with the rapture he feels. “Take it, Lydia,” he purrs. “I will know you in every way.”

Captured by the sensual order, I finally lose control, falling forward onto his chest as I spasm around his digits, both lodged deep inside of me. I freefall, grinding my hips in a reflexive way, as I hear the most guttural sounds coming from my own lips. My head is swimming with colour as desire floods through me. In this moment I exist only here and now, as pleasure for both myself and my new husband. Once my breathing has returned to some normality, Thomas withdraws his hand slowly, sending a new wave of shuddering convulsions coursing through me. As my body shakes, I am reminded once again of his own hardness. My hands are drawn toward his organ, and I find it throbbing with need.

Acting on instinct alone, I raise my head to look at him. “Thomas,” I say, my voice breathless with spent desire. “Let me pleasure you. Show me how?”

He grins, lifting me from his lap and placing me down in the tub as he raises himself up into a standing position. Hands on his hips, he looks down on me like some sort of god. “Kneel, Lydia,” he commands. “Take me in your mouth.”

I obey without question, wanting inherently to know how my husband tastes. A part of me realises that it is not proper for a lady to desire such things, but I rationalise that a wife should obey the will of her spouse, so I comply. Face to face with his manhood, I draw in a deep breath. It is even longer than I recall it from earlier. The girth too is impressive, and I use both hands to grasp him, as I examine the veiny tip.

Slowly, hesitantly, I run my tongue around the end, eliciting an appreciative growl from above me. Bolstered by the positive noises, I take the tip in my mouth and push my lips down and around his long shaft. The length of him soon consumes my mouth, and I am overcome by the salty taste of his arousal. I drop back for air, before once again taking him within my mouth. This time I am braver, plunging myself down as much of his length as I can manage. Thomas groans, and one of his hands moves to the back of my head, holding me firmly in place as he begins to thrust. He makes short, insistent moves into me, controlling the pace as he claims my mouth for himself.

Startled by my lack of control, I try instinctively to draw away. I am halted by the hand, fingering my hair and his croaky, needy voice from above. “Stay, Lydia,” he orders sensually. “I shall not hurt you.”

Believing in his words, I try to relax, taking in the air I require through my nose instead of my mouth. After a moment a trickle of fluid comes from him, and I taste the sweetness in the thrusting organ at my lips. I raise my eyes to look to Thomas, seeing his face screwed up in some sort of ecstatic torment. After my recent pleasure, I know something of the way he is feeling, and I want nothing more than to take him there and push him right over the precipice. Allowing him to use me this way feels peculiarly erotic; I am his now, his to claim in any way he chooses. I grasp my mouth around his width, trying to relax when all at once a rush of hot fluid floods my mouth. Thomas groans out loud, pulling back slightly and allowing some of the hot creamy liquid to spill into the bath between us.

His hands are still twisted into his hair as he looks down into my widening eyes. “Lick me clean, Lydia,” he growls.

I look to his still throbbing hardness, and do as he requests, drawing my tongue from the bottom of his shaft slowly up his length. I watch him as I move, seeing his eyes firmly shut at the sensation. “Yes,” he coaxes. “That is so divine.”

Pausing at the tip, I flick my tongue in small circles, overcome with the sensual act which we have just shared. He collapses back into the warm water and draws me back onto his lap. There are no words now; there is only the chemistry between us—the unfettered need to give into the temptation we have been resisting for so many weeks. As our eyes connect, I find my tongue tracing a line over my lower lip, brazenly savouring the taste of Thomas on my lips. The look on his face as it nears is unadulterated debauchery; those hot, attentive lips claiming me for their own once more.

His hands are in my hair again, holding me in place as his mouth possesses me in the most heavenly way. As our lips part, his expression has shifted a little from one of pleasure back to that assured look of authority. “It is time I take you to bed, my love,” he murmurs into my lips.

Not knowing how to respond, I drop my eyes over our combined nudity before I look to him. “What should I do, Thomas?” I whisper.

Smiling, he takes control of the situation once again. “Rise now,” he says, “let’s climb carefully from the tub.”

I nod, following his instructions to the letter, and trying not to overthink what he may have in mind next. Despite my very clear desire for my husband, the thought of him finally plucking my virginity from me stills fills me with a surge of uneasiness.

He follows me out of the bath and wraps a large sheet around me, before securing one at his waist. “Are you ready to become a woman?” he asks, using his towering height to his advantage as he gazes down at me.

“Thomas!” I gasp, feeling my cheeks rouge. I cannot believe that after everything we have already shared, he still has the ability to embarrass me.

He smiles, drawing my damp hair from my neck. “Yes, my love,” he replies, overtly teasing me.

“I do not know what to say to such a question!” I mutter, feigning a shock which in truth I do not really feel.

“Yes, you do,” he says calmly, pressing himself against me.

I press my palm against his hard abdominals. “In truth, Thomas,” I begin, “I feel rather nervous about the experience.”

My words make his face soften, and I feel his embrace tighten at my hip. “Lydia, you have no need to be nervous. I swear I will not hurt you.”

I blink up at him, nodding, a sudden wave of emotion rising in my throat. “I trust you,” I reply, hearing the tremble in my voice.

With that he kisses my forehead, and as quick as a flash, he moves next to me, sweeping me up in his arms. I gasp at the dramatic change of tack, but relax into his arms as he carries me from the humidity of the bathroom into our bridal bedroom.

Chapter Thirty-Six: Surrender

 

 

He carries me, still wrapped in my sheet, and stalks effortlessly across to the giant four-poster bed. Placing me gently in the middle of the covers, he climbs on top of me in a heartbeat. I watch as his face rises over me, the dark intensity of his eyes apparent as he gazes down at my wide-eyed expression. “How are you, my love?” he asks gently.

I swallow, gulping down the nervous butterflies flitting around my belly. “Thomas, I am so happy,” I reply.

“I am pleased to hear that,” he answers, tugging back the rogue strands of his wet hair. “I have one thing I should like to retrieve, if I may leave you for a moment?”

I nod, tensing at the unexpected question. He climbs from atop of me, and I rise to my elbows, watching him dart back into the bathroom. He returns just a few moments later, and I eye him intently. His cravat hangs loosely in his left hand, and as he walks back toward the bed, he stops, smiling at me. The fingers of his right hand move to the sheet at his waist, and in a moment it falls to the floor, revealing his wonderful, masculine body. His organ, pleasured only a short time ago, is already stirring as he makes his way back over to me. His eyes never leave mine as his legs skim the bedding. “Remove your sheet, Lydia,” he purrs. “I want you naked.”

I shiver at the command, but do as he says, shuffling the wet fabric from under my body and handing it to him. He takes it, smiling, and throws it behind him to meet his own used sheet.

“Now, Lydia,” he says, climbing back onto the four-poster. “I finally have you.”

I smile, willing the anxiety I feel to evaporate as he moves over my body. All at once he is on top of me, pinning me down into the soft bedding. His strong legs nudge against me, pushing my thighs apart beneath him. I gasp as I feel his hardening excitement between us. He smiles at my response, drawing my arms over the top of my head, and holding me there gently with his hands.

“Before I claim what is mine,” he purrs. “I am going to pleasure you again. I want you to be as relaxed and excited as possible when I slide into your beautiful body.” Thomas leans forward, pressing his lips against my open mouth. I groan at the sensual intimacy. “I am going to bind your wrists,” he tells me, his voice laced with carnal desire.

“Bind me?” I repeat, anxiety flooding my mind.

He grins, reaching down to kiss my startled face. “Yes, my love. Bondage will help you to yield to me. Once you know that you cannot move or disobey, you will have no choice but to surrender to me completely.” The intensity of his eyes is so scorching that I will him to look away, but he does not even flicker. “You have said that you trust me, Lydia. Now I need you to demonstrate that trust. Can you do that?”

I nod, biting down on my lower lip. “Yes, Thomas.”

“Thank you,” he whispers, offering me a long, probing kiss, before he draws away, kneeling up over me and flexing the silk cravat between his fingers.

Wordlessly he moves forward a little, leaning over me as he slides the silk beneath my wrists. He shifts them both together with careful and gentle movements, using the silk to secure my wrists. I tip my head back as far as I can to see him as he works, but my view is dominated by his broad, rippling chest and torso. Satisfied at last, he moves back down my body, smiling at the binds.

I test them out of instinct, pulling against the cravat, first gently, and then with some force. I am perturbed to find that neither action has any effect on my bondage. My eyes fly to him as I realise he has really bound me, and reflexively I begin to pant, not quite able to catch my breath.

He smiles at my response. “How wonderful you look this way,” he muses as his sparkling eyes appraise me.

I squirm a little under the weight of his gaze, feeling absurdly vulnerable without the use of my arms and hands.

“You will keep your arms above your head this way,” he orders me sensually. “If you disobey me, not only will you risk a spanking, but I will be forced to secure you to the bed directly.”

I actually feel the moist desire pooling between my legs as his threat registers.

“Do you understand?” he asks me, as his manhood stirs between us.

“Yes, Thomas,” I reply breathlessly.

“Good,” he purrs. “For now, you will lie there and allow your husband to pleasure you.”

His face is gone in an instant as he moves south down my exposed and vulnerable body. He pauses between my legs, and instinctively I raise my head from the covers, wanting to see what he will do next. Our eyes connect, the look on his handsome face nothing short of debauchery. For a long moment we gaze at one another, the tension between us mounting, and then all at once his head lowers and his mouth presses into my waiting flesh.

I feel his hands at my inner thighs, holding me down and apart, and gently stroking the soft hair he finds there. My head falls back to the bed, the strain in my neck too much to tolerate. Instead, I close my eyes, focusing on the exquisite sensations my husband is creating between my legs. His soft caresses shift to my wet seam, and I feel him exploring me at his leisure. From my place above him, I find myself breathless at the intimacy of the act. Is it right for even a husband to know a woman this way, I wonder? I press my wrists into the bedding above my head, feeling absurdly embarrassed, and yet undeniably excited at his ministrations.

It is then that I feel his lips. The first touch is just a gentle kiss, pressing firmly against my most private area, but then he laps at me, his tongue drawing my seam open. I rise from the bed in an involuntary way, shocked and perturbed by the act. My wrists, still bound by his wedding cravat, leave the bed and fall south to my chest. “Thomas!” I cry out, unsure if the word is a statement or a question.

He eyes me from between my legs, and his face tells me in an instant that he is not impressed with my behaviour. “So it seems you are not able to comply with my simple request?” he asks.

Blanching, I feel the colour drain from my face at his tone. “Thomas, I…” I begin, meaning to explain to him that one cannot simply do such a thing—even to his wife—yet the look in his eye silences me.

Once more he rises from the bed, striding this time toward one of the bags which he has brought with us. He opens the luggage, turning to face me for a moment as he rummages around inside. “Lie down,” he says flatly, returning his attention to the contents of the luggage.

Anxious and uncertain as to what he will do next, I comply, lying flat and returning my arms to their prior position above my head. I watch him from my new vantage, seeing him return, his strong, toned body stalking back toward me. In his right hand I see a length of rope, the sort which one might use to secure an unruly animal. Tension ratchets through my body as the thought registers, but he is back on the bed, straddling me before I can process it.

Thomas leans over me, his eyes expressing his displeasure at having been interrupted. “What did I promise would happen if you could not do as I asked?” he probes sensually.

I swallow at the menace in his tone. “You said that you would secure me to the bed?” I reply, my voice shaky with the fear that my impending bondage has roused in me.

He nods, pressing his hot mouth into my own. “That’s right, my love,” he purrs. “And also, that I will spank you for your disobedience, but first, you will be bound to our wedding bed.”

He leaps from the covers like a lithe predator and stands by the side of the bedding, drawing my arms north. I feel the tugging sensation as he secures the rope he has brought for the occasion to the cravat binding my wrists. I am unusually compliant, seeking neither to resist his action nor to view the bondage. For some absurd reason the idea that I am now tied down to the bed is thrilling, and fills me with as much desire as it does fear. I trust Thomas implicitly, and I know that he will not truly harm me, and yet the power he has over me now is captivating.

Seemingly happy with the bonds, he returns to the bed and presses himself over my tied and exposed body. Yet again my thighs are pushed open by the weight of his legs and then he is over me, resting on his left elbow as he deliberately teases my beading nipples. His right hand moves to my left breast, drawing a circle around the pebbling bud, before pinching it hard. I gasp and raise my head as best I can in time to see his head move to my right breast. He suckles me whilst his hand continues to provide the sensual torture to the other breast. The feelings are intense, arousing, and downright infuriating. Instinctively I want to push him away, protest, and make him stop, and yet bound as I am and pinioned by his weight, I can do nothing to prevent his action. My back arches as the heavenly sensations continue, his mouth finally breaking the suction of my right breast.

“You are mine, now, Lydia,” he growls from my chest. “Mine to bind, mine to explore, and mine to tease.”

I open my mouth to reply—to protest—and yet no intelligible sounds appear from my lips.

“You knew, I think, that it would be this way as my wife?”

I know his face is just a few inches from mine, and yet still I cannot meet his eye.

He continues, apparently not needing my approval. “My conjugal rights are not enough, my love. I will own your body, your mind, and your very essence.”

All at once his face is over my own, and I am no longer able to hide from the intensity his eyes portray.

“You can either be a good girl, behave, and obey my requests…” He pauses, watching my responses carefully. “Or, my love… you can resist me, try me, and be soundly spanked for your trouble. Do you know which you have chosen tonight?”

I swallow at the question, my hips raising beneath our entwined bodies as though they choose to answer for me. “I have disobeyed you,” I whisper.

He smiles, his brow rising wryly at my comment. “Yes,” he agrees, kissing me chastely on the lips. “And so you will be spanked.”

“I am sorry, Thomas,” I whimper, not really sure if I am truly sorry, or whether I just enjoy playing the heroine to his bondage scene.

He is already moving down my body. “Thank you, my love,” he replies, and there is genuine warmth in his tone. “But you know the rules. You are to be punished and then you will be pleasured.”

He kneels by the side of me, his body pressing against my right hip. “It is not my preferred manner of disciplining, but since this is where we find ourselves…”

I pull against the binds above my head, wondering to what he refers. Then in one swift movement, he reaches under my behind and tips my hips upward, forcing my legs to raise into the air above me. I am shocked at the action, although there is no pain involved. Positioning himself against the edge of my right hip, Thomas holds my ankles above him as best as he can. “Keep your legs up and out of the way, Lydia,” he instructs me. “If you cannot do as I have asked, I will add another ten swats. Do you understand?”

I nod, panting heavily. “Yes, My Lord,” I whisper, and I do my best to comply, willing my muscles to hold my legs in place as he has asked.

He watches my effort with a smile, and then tips my hips backward, placing his left arm in the crook at the back of my knees. My bottom is now right before him, exposed and vulnerable. My legs are above me, held fast by the weight of his left arm, and my arms, still bound securely to the bed behind my head. I am his; doomed to find my pleasure, and my pain, at the hand of my lord, Thomas Markham.

His right hand is raised even before I am aware of it, and comes crashing down against my upturned behind. The sound as our flesh connects is like a drum, and whips around the bed. From this position I am bound and helpless, unable to prevent his hand, and the threat of further strikes if I try to move still hangs over me. The intensity of the swat is powerful and I cry out.

“Ow, Thomas—please…” I begin, but I am silenced by the weight of the second impact, and then all at once, the third and the fourth.

“When I ask you to stay in place, Lydia,” he replies, his voice calm. “I expect you to behave and obey.”

He spanks me again, the fifth strike landing in the same sitting spot of my upturned bottom. I baulk, shifting my hips instinctively, simply unable to permit the humiliating spanking to continue. “Thomas, please stop!” I plead, but already his right hand is poised and ready to continue.

The next strike is hard, as though my protest has earned me a far greater swat. I writhe against my binds, apparently unable or unwilling to control myself. It is not the spanking to which I protest—in fact I have grown to rather like being over his knee—but the ignominious position in which he now delivers it, reinforced by the fact that I cannot move my arms or hope to rise from the bed. I am forced to yield to the spanking. Three further swats land in fast succession, again causing me to call out to my unrelenting husband. “Please, Thomas; not like this!”

“Yes, Lydia,” he replies, punctuating each word with a new swat. “Exactly like this—a punishment designed to remind you of your place. You are my wife, and you will do as you are told, or you will find yourself regularly bound and penalised this way.”

Thomas strikes me once more, and it is as though something inside me crumbles. I stop fighting, my head falling back against the soft covers behind me. I can feel tears burning in my eyes as I slowly process his words. He is right, and I know it to be the case. I am his; I have acknowledged this truth myself. Why resist it, and why resist the man who I love? The man who I have vowed to obey in front of God?

Perhaps he senses the change in me, but after a further two spanks, he pauses and shifts his weight on the bed to look down upon me. “Why are you being spanked so soundly, my love?”

His voice has taken on a softer tone, and the sound stirs me from my self-imposed stupor. I look up into his face, acknowledging once again the beauty of its handsome form. “I did not do as you asked,” I whisper, my voice raspy and heavy. “It was a simple instruction, and yet I chose not to obey.”

He nods, his face relaxing in one smooth movement of his muscles. “That is correct,” he says. “You have eight more strikes, Lydia, and I want you to count them down for me.”

I nod, acknowledging the instruction even as I struggle to contain my emotion. “Yes, My Lord,” I whimper.

His palm connects with my rump once more, the hand stilling against my warmed bottom as he turns to see me carry out his latest request.

“Eight,” I breathe, feeling one heavy tear escape my left eye as I look away from him.

“No, Lydia,” he purrs, “you will keep your eyes on me whilst I punish you.”

I snap my head back to meet his eye, the old defiance rising with my new need to surrender. “Why?” I sound desperate. “Why must you make me endure it this way?”

Thomas’ eyes narrow at the question, and he rubs my bottom gently as he replies. “Endure it you will, Lydia,” he says. “Because it is my will. I will bear witness to your pain, just as I will observe your pleasure. You will be punished, and you will be loved—so learn to endure.”

The look in those green eyes is serious, and as he lands the next strike I do not dare to break my gaze. “Seven,” I whisper, maintaining my eye contact as I speak.

It continues this way, Thomas tanning my upturned bottom as he presides over my most thorough and sound spanking. For my part I remain passive, my arms bound tightly behind me, and my eyes locked firmly on my loving protagonist. By the time I number five, the look in his eyes has managed to clear any remaining clouds from my mind. I choose to yield to his desire, finding some unspoken strength in his face as he turns to hear me speak. By the final strike any fight in me has thoroughly been mastered.

As I name the swat, Thomas rises from the bed, releasing my legs. “Good,” he says, his voice a calm reassurance. He makes his way around the edge of the bed, passing the two posts as he rounds to my left side. Instinctively my legs lower, my toes brushing the soft covers on which I lay.

“Did I ask you to move, Lydia?” he says tersely.

I tense at once, raising my legs back to their original position. “N-No, My Lord,” I reply.

“Let me look upon you,” he says by means of explanation. “I want to see your punished behind in all of its glory.”

I eye him as he sits at the opposite side of me, moving immediately to tease and torture my nipples again. All at once the humiliating penance is forgotten, and my head is filled only with the sweet sensation of his fingers at my pebbling breasts. I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing my breasts forward into his waiting hands.

“Now I am going to claim you,” he tells me sensually. “First with my mouth, and then with my manhood.”

I turn my face toward his voice, trying to listen over the top of the dominating sensations.

“And you, my love,” says Thomas, his voice louder than before, “will lie here and yield.”

I open my eyes to find him just a few inches over my face. The intensity in his eyes quite takes my breath away, but before I can reply, he rises, leaving me bound and desperate. For the longest time he waits at the end of the bed, watching me. “Lower your legs, and spread them,” he demands in a soft, authoritative voice.

Finally, I lower my legs, pressing the base of my feet against the covers for a moment, before opening them as he has instructed. I look to see him dropping to the bed once more, that devilish look in his eyes alive with desire for me. He is on me within seconds, his hands spreading me wide as his mouth devours my wet, hungry seam. My punished bottom grazes the bedsheets, but it pales into insignificance compared to the sensations Thomas’ tongue produces between my outstretched legs. I never knew that it was possible for a man to deliver such an act to his wife, and bound as I am, I am helpless to resist his outrageous ministrations. I feel his lips pressing between my soft hair, and then once again his tongue parts my lips there, and he devours me. I know I cry out, this time not in pain, but rather from the shock of the feeling, and yet he does not even pause.

After a while, I settle into the feelings, each lap of his tongue now less uncomfortable and more needed by my hungry body. I feel the heat within me building, inspired by my bondage, and the weight of his hands holding my legs down and apart. With each new sensation my fervour is increased. I feel his tongue at the very base of my quivering sex, and slowly it rises north to my tingling nub. Every time it makes contact with that excited bud, I feel my body tighten into an excited ball, each sensation drawing me closer and closer to the edge of reason. I hang in the midst of the impending pleasure, pulling futilely against the silk at my wrists. I am panting with desire, the urgency of need I feel becoming consuming. I spread my legs wider, pressing my hips up to meet Thomas’ mouth, willing him to consume me. As he has done so many times before, he seems to sense my requirements, and all at once his tongue circles my trembling nub, before clamping down upon it hard. The feeling, which would have been completely overwhelming earlier, is now heavenly, and as I buck against his mouth, I feel myself at the very precipice.

He sucks at my sensitive flesh, pulsing the sensation between demanding and gentle, before once again clamping down at me. It is everything my desperate body needs, and pleasure begins to burst from my every fibre, coming in expansive waves which send my body rising from the bed, drawn between the ropes behind my head and Thomas below me. I spasm in his mouth, convulsing as he draws away, my eyes squeezed shut as I deal with the sheer intensity of the whole experience. It is then that the whole sordid reality of the event dawns upon me—Thomas has just pleasured me with his mouth, and I have thoroughly relished it! I can scarcely believe it, and yet it is eroticism defined…

As he crawls up the bed, I can feel the extent of his excitement at his thigh. My eyes fly open at the sensation, and I find him bearing down over me. “Lydia…” His voice is deep, rasping, and desperate with need. “I have to possess you; I need to make you mine.”

I stare up into his eyes, my body recovering from the immense pleasure which he has just delivered to me. “Yes, My Lord,” I say, my voice almost begging him. “Please, make me your one, true wife.”

He pinions me with the weight of his body, resting on both of his elbows as he gazes down into my eyes. “I love you, Lydia,” he says. “I want to show you all of the ways in which a gentleman can love his woman.”

I nod, biting my lip as he shifts his weight. I feel the head of his massive manhood pressing against the wetness at my core. My legs are spread wide open where he has left them, and slowly he pushes inside of my need. Despite his gentle precision I am overawed by the sheer size of him. A small gasp leaves my lips as I search his face above me. “Thomas!” I whisper, the urgency in my voice obvious. “Surely you are too large? You will never fit?”

His smile is kind as he answers. “My love, you are more than ready to receive me. Stay with me; look into my eyes whilst I make love to you for the first time…”

The feeling of surrender as he slides deeper within me is near overwhelming. I am his for the taking, and I do so want him to take me. I keep my gaze steady on his green eyes as his girth stretches me, and there is just the faintest hint of pain as he fully deflowers me. My mouth opens of its own accord, as if it is acknowledging the truth; this man and this act have become the centre of my entire world.

He stills at once. “Lydia.” His voice is pained. “I do not want to hurt you.”

He presses his forehead against my own, and our lips meet, colliding in a sensual frenzy. I taste my own excitement on his lips, a thought which should have rightly disturbed me, but at this moment serves only to fuel me. “Thomas,” I pant. “I want you, please…”

His lids are hooded as he acknowledges my words, and then his mouth makes its way across my jaw, planting sensual kisses over my flushed skin. At the same time, he begins to move again, drawing away from me just a fraction, before pushing even deeper within me. I groan at the intrusion, feeling fuller and more satisfied than I have ever been. Thomas is right; I am so ready for him, my body compliant with arousal as he thrusts into me. He is everything—over me and inside me—all at once. His fingers are at my bound flesh, and his lips caress my face, as his organ begins to find his rhythm below. I am heady with desire as he takes me, devouring each and every part of me at his leisure.

“Lydia…” The words of my lover draw me back to the moment, and I realise that I have slipped away into some other state amongst all of the pleasure and sensation. I gaze up into those deep green orbs, spellbound by the effect he has on me. “You are so magnificent,” he moans, strands of his dark hair falling over me as he once again dips his head to kiss me.

I groan into his mouth as his tongue claims me once again, the muscle imitating the sensual act transpiring between us. As he draws away, the rhythm grows faster, each thrust becoming shorter and more necessary. I can feel his passion hardening even now, and with every plunge into my wetness, the contact at the apex between my thighs brings fresh pleasure to my own excited body.

All at once he stills, reaching back to my left leg and drawing the thigh up into the air. “Like this, my love,” he gasps, levering my leg north, before encouraging the right leg to do the same. Following his lead, I hook my ankles up and around his back, opening my hips and welcoming him to even greater depths. The difference is striking, and as he begins to move again, I rather lose my breath. He smiles at my response, his eyes darker all of a sudden. “Yes, Lydia,” he coos from over me. I feel his fingers caressing my upturned wrists behind me. “I have you now, do I not?”

I eye him, unable to reply, and breathless at both the intensity and the look of him. He is the picture of the devilish cad; strong, dominant, and virile, and he is all of these things. And yet he is now my guardian and my husband, bound to love and take care of me. He has the right to touch me, and spank me, and possess me—and I must surely be the luckiest lady in the world.

He continues to drive into me, the pace increasing with urgency, his breath coming in short, laboured bursts. Our eyes never leave each other. He looks to me as though the very presence of my face is grounding him and stopping him from floating away. I, for my part, am totally absorbed by the man consuming me. The feeling of him within me is more than I could ever have imagined, and despite a tenderness at his depth, a part of me never wants it to stop.

I watch the tension climb his arms and shoulders, reaching the handsome features of his face, and I realise all at once that Thomas’ own climax must be approaching. Lifting my head, I raise my body as best I can, given my bondage and his weight bearing down on me. His whole body stiffens as he makes more insistent thrusts into me, and I am overawed by the masculine vision before me. As his pleasure peaks, he pushes his weight forward, forcing my head back down onto the covers. A low growl leaves his lips, and his face lands in the nape of my neck, his hot breath tickling my flesh.

For a long moment there is silence as we lie together, our bodies entwined in our own breathless, mutual pleasure. I am lost utterly to the experience, enjoying the warmth and scent of his skin against me as he slowly rouses from his pleasure-induced stupor. I watch his face as he comes back to life, raising his head and leaning over me again with a smile.

“Well, my love,” he purrs, drawing his long fingers through my splayed hair. “Now, you are truly my wife.”

I inhale deeply, and offer him a small smile. “Thomas…” I begin, feeling my face flush with embarrassment as I answer. “I never knew there could be such a thing between a gentleman and a lady…”

“Oh, Lydia,” he says, planting chaste kisses against my mouth. “There is so much more that I want to share with you.”

I pull at the bondage, still holding me down against the bed, wanting desperately to touch the man who has just shown me such devotion. He watches me, clearly enjoying the show. “Would you like to be free now, my love?” His tone is sardonic, and the sound fills me with frustration at my bound and helpless state.

“I cannot believe you have bound me,” I reply, my inner conflict on the bondage rising to the surface in my voice.

He laughs; a soft, gentle sound. “I will always bind you when the need arises,” he assures me. “You will behave, or you will be forced to behave.”

My tender muscles clench reflexively at his words, squeezing his own organ which rests there. He looks down at me, his eyebrow raised as he acknowledges the sensation. “I can tell that you like that idea,” he says softly. “It pleases us both.”

With that his mouth is on me again, his tongue intruding as it pleases, whilst his left hand roams my chest and belly. Once again I am torn between my desire for him and the vexation at not being able to move as I please. Squirming beneath him, I writhe against the cravat at my wrists.

As his lips move away, they form into a smile as they surmise my uncontrollable response to the bondage. “Oh, Lydia, I do so like to see you struggle this way,” he says darkly.

I still, panting as I look into his eyes. “Will you please untie me now, Thomas?” I ask imploringly.

He nods, his fingers already moving north to tug at the silk. “I will, my love,” he answers. “But you can be sure that you will find yourself bound and at my mercy again soon.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Dark Endeavour

 

 

The next few days pass in a frenzy of unadulterated passion. Thomas has become literally the centre of my entire world, guiding me through the exploration of our mutual pleasure. He possesses me in any way he chooses, tying, spanking, and claiming me at will, and I revel in his utter mastery of me. We rarely leave the gratification of the suite, but of course the lure of the city is too great to ignore completely.

Venturing out one evening, we eat at a dazzlingly indulgent restaurant, and enjoy the delights of the Theatre Royal. I have not seen any live theatre since my father has passed away, and being able to share the experience with my new husband makes it especially pleasing. We return to the Mivart to find Lucy and Buckton awaiting us. Given the nature of our stay thus far, I have not spoken to Lucy since the day of the wedding, and I am genuinely happy to find her well and at my service.

Taking her to one side, whilst Thomas gives Buckton some instructions, I task Lucy with some specific directives of my own.

“Of course, My Lady,” she agrees pleasantly upon hearing my request.

“Please ask Buckton to accompany you,” I say. “I should not like the thought of you alone in the city.”

She nods with a small smile. “There is no need to worry, My Lady,” she says, reassuring me. “But I am certain that Mr. Buckton will be happy to escort me.”

 

* * *

 

It is Thursday, and the evening of our final night in the splendour of the Mivart. Thomas and I retire after a decadent meal, and by the urgency of his tone with the hotel staff, I sense that my husband has something particular in mind for us. He turns, locking the door to the suite behind us. His expression is guarded, as though he is trying to suppress some undeniable need within him. Since our wedding night, Thomas has claimed me in several new ways; some sensual and loving, and others more demanding and debauched. I have sometimes felt dread at his suggestions, yet cannot deny the pleasure and love he has bestowed upon me in our first days as man and wife. There is something about his face now, however, which sends a reflexive wave of fear through me. Yet fear, I am learning, can itself be a potent aphrodisiac, and I try to calm my erratic breathing as he approaches me.

“How are you, my love?” he asks, his tone deliberately casual, and yet at the same time clipped.

He walks toward me at a slow and even pace, his fingers slipped into the large pockets of his evening coat. I resist the urge to bolt, despite my accelerated heart rate and the increasing feeling that he is going to pounce on me at any moment…

“Thomas?” I ask. “Is everything as it should be?”

He pauses, his lips curling into a smile as he closes the distance between us. “You are coming to know me too well,” he muses out loud.

I gape at him, knowing my face must demonstrate my bewilderment. “How so?” I enquire. “How can your wife know you too well?”

His dark chuckle makes the muscles south of my belly tense in excited anticipation. I watch, bewitched as his right hand rises slowly to my face, caressing the side of my cheek. “I mean only that already you have come to know my mannerisms and expressions. I know you can sense something of my needs and expectations for this evening.”

I pause, his words reinforcing the feelings I have already acknowledged. “What do you intend for us, Thomas?” I ask, hearing the tremble in my voice at the question.

He towers over me, his presence as dominating as his physical stature. “You shall see, my love,” he says gently, tracing his digits down the line of my shoulder to the place where my gown begins. Taking a small step forward, he presses himself against me. “Tell me, Lydia, how are you? Are you tender from all of my attention this week?”

In spite of how intimately Thomas has come to know me these last days, for some reason the question makes me flush, and I feel the heat rising to my face in an instant. “My Lord, I…” I falter, dropping my eyes to the chain of his timepiece as I try to find the words.

One finger rises to my chin, propping it up and forcing me to look him in the eye. “You can be honest with me, Lydia,” he says evenly, “and furthermore, I expect you to be. I think I made my expectations on this subject clear to you some weeks ago?”

I swallow hard at the sudden edge in his voice, and at the same time my mind recalls the spankings I have received on the subject of my honesty with Lord Markham. “I am a little sensitive,” I reply, my voice coy. “But I do not want it to prevent your pleasure, Thomas?”

He smiles, his finger relaxing at my chin. “There are a vast number of ways to create and elicit pleasure, my love,” he says. I look to him, his voice now deep and low. The sound resonates within me, pooling arousal at my core. “I am going to bind you,” he purrs, “and then I am going to pleasure you—over and over again.”

I swoon at his words, the prospect of what he suggests making me giddy. “Thomas,” I squeak, unable to articulate anything further.

His smile is knowing. “Strip now,” he demands sensually. “I would like you naked and kneeling on the bed.”

I look to the place he indicates, feeling my breath accelerate further. Without thinking, my hands are at the fastenings of my dress, fiddling with the ties there. Thomas moves behind me, untying the lengths of the fabric and then falling back to watch me as I slip the gown from my body. Neither of us speaks as I move toward the giant four-poster—the destination for nearly all of our wedded lovemaking—and climb obediently on top of it as he had requested.

Kneeling in my place I wait, hearing him moving behind me. I am nude, breathless, and all too aware of my absurd vulnerability. Yet at the same time, my body is thrumming, whirring with excitement at what My Lord has in store for me this evening. He rounds the bed next to me, and I risk a glance to the right to see the now familiar lengths of rope in his hands.

He climbs on the bed beside me, displaying the rope in his open palm. “I am going to bind you facing forward tonight, Lydia,” he explains, watching my responses to his words. “Then I am going to devour your sweetness, explore you with my fingers, and bring you relentless pleasure.”

I gasp at his explanation, watching as he gently places my limbs where he desires them to be. He draws my legs apart softly, before moving me forward onto all fours with my wrists crossing in front of me. Sitting on the bed next to me, he winds the length of rope around them. I watch wordlessly as he works, transfixed by the look of the bondage against my own skin. Lately my wrists and ankles have been left with the most pretty-looking patterns from the ropes, the sight of which has proven most hypnotic during my quiet times of reflection.

My wrists, now bound together in front of me, support my weight as I kneel on all fours. He moves toward my rear, taking his time and stroking the backs of my legs. “You are so beautiful, my love,” he coos, kissing my inner thighs. “So exquisitely stunning, and you are all mine.”

I giggle reflexively at the proclamation, leaning against my elbows as I imagine which part of my skin he will touch next.

“Lie flat against the bed,” he instructs me, and gingerly I move down as he demands, stretching my bound arms out in front of me. As I do so he extends my legs, and I feel him at my right ankle, the now familiar feeling of the rope against my soft skin as he anchors it against the wooden post. I twist my head to the right, and see him concluding the knot. Our eyes meet for a moment, and the knowing look I find in his face is loaded with carnal intent. Smiling, he moves seamlessly to the left ankle, repeating the process and securing my outstretched leg to the other post. I watch him for a moment before turning my face back to the bed.

With my limbs now secure, his movement stops. I cannot see him from my place on the bed, but I imagine him standing there, behind me, watching my squirming, bound body. The thought of him enjoying the look of my helplessness makes me so inexplicably hot and aroused, that somehow it serves to only drive me on, closer to desire. I writhe against the covers, akin to a serpent, feeling the strength of the unrelenting rope against my skin, and wondering what my husband will do to me next. Time elapses, and still he makes me wait as though the anticipation of the event is somehow an experience in itself. Then, eventually, and just as I am certain I can take no more, I feel his hands upon my calves, and his fingers running north up inside my thighs.

“Raise your hips, Lydia,” he orders me. His voice is husky and already clearly loaded with desire of his own. I obey at once, straining my legs against the ropes as I indeed raise my hips, exposing my intimate parts for his eyes.

“How tempting you are,” he says. “And how I am going to ravish you…”

I turn my head to the left, pressing the side of my face against the bed as I listen for further clues about what is coming next. Then all at once I feel the weight of Thomas’s body on the bed behind me, and between my bound legs. Within a moment his hands are against my buttocks, pressing and spreading my inflamed cheeks apart. I wince at the sudden hurt, my bottom still warmed from the spanking I had received earlier over his knee. The entire bridal tour has been one long ride of spankings; some given as penance for behaviour my husband is disinclined toward, and others delivered just for our mutual pleasure. As such my bottom had been spanked thoroughly every day, and sometimes on more than one occasion. It now has an almost permanent rosy hue.

His hands, now prizing apart the delicate skin of my behind, hold my hips in place and it is then that I feel the heat of his breath against my intimate flesh. I gasp, knowing what I think will transpire next. He presses himself into my wet lips, his hot mouth grazing the area with soft kisses.

“Thomas,” I moan into the bedding. “Too much. This is too much…”

He answers me with one long lick of his tongue, followed by a sharp swat to my right bottom cheek. “Enough,” he snaps, but I can hear the joviality in his voice. “Lady Markham will lie bound in her place, and accept whatever her lord bestows upon her…”

“Yes, My Lord!” I gasp, feeling his tongue plunge into my soft, moist flesh.

I bury my head into the covers, my mouth drawn open by the unrivalled pleasure that his lips create. His mouth drops lower, offering pleasure to the small bud which is now pulsing between my legs. Again I groan, squirming in my binds, desperate to move my legs, for some reason wanting to prevent his access, and yet at the same time never wanting to permit him to stop. The large hands of my husband hold me in place, and his tongue does not relent. Soon enough, my squirming has turned to rocking, my hips bucking back to meet the exquisite torture that his tongue promises to provide. The fleeting contact it delivers is as intense as it is delightful, and before too long I am heading back toward the summit of the pleasure I seek. Sensing my pursuit, Thomas increases the pace against my throbbing need, tormenting it ruthlessly until I scream, calling out and muffling the sound in the bedding in front of me. Once more I find myself flying higher than the clouds above us, circling our bodies as though I am some astral being invented from pleasure.

Gradually the sensation slows, and as it ceases, I want to collapse, the weight of the hedonism making me lethargic. I sigh, freefalling in the midst of my climax, pulling futilely on the ropes at my wrists. Thomas’ kisses have moved to my thighs again, but by the time I can catch my breath, it is his fingers I can feel upon my wet, sensitive skin. One, and then two digits press against me, before they dip, probing deep inside my wet core. A groan leaves my lips at their presence, the pull on my ropes growing tighter as the sensations torment my body.

Thomas climbs higher on the bed, straddling my body so that his face comes in to view over my left shoulder. His fingers move in and out of me, driving a rhythm of their own.

“Thomas!” I call out, searching his face for the reassurance of his eyes. I find them, loaded with carnal intent.

“Feel me inside of you, Lydia,” he says, his voice overflowing with the desire flowing through him. “Up on your knees,” he commands, and I obey without a word, sensing his need for my submission.

Once I am in place, his fingers, wet from my recent climax travel north to my darkest, and as yet virgin hole. Not needing my consent, Thomas presses them forward, dipping them directly into the exposed hole. I gasp, tensing at the intimate sensation.

“Relax for me, Lydia,” he says firmly.

Exhaling into the covers, I try to do so. I will the tension in the ring of muscle to ease, and still his fingers probe, consuming the area at once.

“Thomas,” I say again, not really certain what I am beseeching him to do, but unable to contain the burden of the emotion I feel.

“Yes, Lydia,” he coaxes from over my bound body. “I told you that I would possess all of you, and tonight I will.”

My body tightens at his words, feeling the sinfully wicked sensation of his digits working their way in and out of my most private place. In my mind I know it is wrong to find glee in such naughty pleasure, and yet the feeling is singly the most compelling that I have ever known. The more he demands from me, the more I yield to his will, and after some moments I welcome the peculiar intrusion, feeling myself pushing back against his digits like a brazen hussy.

“Thomas,” I say, finally able to articulate the words, “please take what is yours.”

Our eyes connect again; his orbs look fit to burst with emotion. “Not yet,” he whispers. “First I have vowed to give you pleasure, and then my love—when you are ready to detonate—then I will take what belongs to me…”

I let out a long sigh, uncertain of everything he intends, and yet safe in the knowledge that I am his most willing captive. The sight of his face leaves me, and I feel him shifting back into position at my rear. His fingers, still exploring my virgin hole, continue to probe, teasing me and eliciting guttural sounds from my mouth. And then, just as I am sure that my body can take no more sensation, it is his mouth I feel, again at my swollen wetness.

I moan aloud, feeling his left hand yet again holding my hips in place as his tongue and lips devour me. At the same time his right hand delves deeper into my soundly spanked bottom, claiming the other part of his wife. Now I am truly writhing, unable to escape either the attentions of his hands or his mouth, and yet yanking at my bondage all the same.

Instinctively I leverage the use of my arms, pulling my weight forward and onto my elbows. Almost at once the left arm of Thomas tightens at my hip and pulls me backward, toward his waiting face. “Where are you going, my love?” His voice is dark and teasing. “You will stay in the place I have put you, or you will be punished again.”

“But, Thomas!” I moan, my words sounding incoherent in the heat of the passion. “I cannot—I must not!”

“Oh, but you will…” he tells me firmly, and with that, my hips are drawn back into the proper place, his mouth connecting with my exposed flesh, before suckling against it. Wrought with pleasure and heady with the bondage, I am defeated, falling face-first against the covers once again. All the time he consumes me, his tongue lapping and offering soft caresses, before his lips seek my trembling bud once more and draw upon it. The sensation is sweet agony, and for one long moment I seem quite unable to take a breath. I know I am panting into the bedding, and yet I seem incapable of controlling myself, my body now just a vessel for my husband’s desire.

It is at this time that something shifts in me, and rather than resist the sensations he creates, I once again choose to yield. I focus solely on what I can feel; his hot mouth clamped at the apex of my thighs, and his ruthless digits continuing to exercise their authority over my bared bottom. The combination of the two leaves me reeling, and I submit to the inevitable conclusion—the bound and exposed Lady Markham will have no choice but to climax once more.

Thomas’ fingers and tongue push me higher and higher, their unrelenting motion driving me past distraction to elation. With seemingly no choice in the affair, I yield, and sensing the summit approaching, I bite down on the soft covers at my mouth to prevent yet another un-ladylike performance as the pleasure consumes me. Despite this there is still an ungainly sound from me as I am devoured, my muscles convulsing in ecstatic torment. His mouth stills, and I am vaguely aware of him behind me, catching his breath. His fingers though never cease their rhythm, dominating me even as I ride the wave of my latest climax. It is only once Thomas straddles me again, the heat of his own arousal stiff at my thighs, that those digits cease.

Cradled in the hardness of his body, I am utterly overpowered. Without a word he draws me back to my knees, cocooning me on all sides. “You are so ready, Lydia,” he says, his voice breathless. “I am going to take this sweet behind of yours, and make it my own.”

I look to where his voice has come from, opening my eyes to find the weight of his stare bearing down upon me. I nod in acknowledgement, too filled with emotion to fully articulate my response, but the look in his eyes tells me that he understands. “Hold still,” he whispers, his face now close to my right ear. “I will be slow and gentle.”

I feel him rise into some type of crouching position, the majority of his weight borne on just one arm as he pushes his length into position at my rear. As the head of his organ touches my virgin hole I cannot help but inhale, the sheer intensity of what it about to transpire suddenly too much to comprehend. I had never even contemplated that such an act could exist between people until I met Thomas, and yet somehow he has made his ownership of my body feel like the most natural thing in the world.

He kisses the nape of my neck, the border between my head and my body, and at the same time I feel him ease himself into my dark channel. I cannot lie; the initial feeling is so intense that I cry out. It seems impossible not to do so. There is not really pain, but a level of discomfort as such a large organ finds its way inside of me.

I do not recall having closed my eyes, and yet as I slowly open them I see him there, gazing down at me. I swear the expression he wears could set the bed aflame, and the knowledge that he is claiming me in such a debased way makes me want to melt. True to his word, his pursuit is slow, taking me inch by inch as he watches my reactions closely. “Breathe, Lydia,” he tells me, feeling my muscles tighten and clamp around him.

I draw in a deep, deliberate breath, and focus on relaxing, the action permitting him to slide yet deeper into me. At this point I have no idea how much of him remains, but we feel more deeply connected than I had ever believed was possible.

“Sublime,” he murmurs from behind me, and once again he moves over my back, cocooning me in his heat. “I am going to move now,” he says, speaking slowly as though he intends to explain his actions. “Tell me if it is too much to bear.”

I open my mouth to reply, and yet he is already gone, rising north and withdrawing from me. All at once he thrusts back inside; the surge of sensation I feel makes me call out yet again. Before I can regain any composure, he pulls backward and then surges into me once more. I am utterly lost to it, pinioned in place by this one small action, the root of which is now my only focus.

Slowly he claims me this way, driving gently into my bottom, and yet still eliciting the most guttural sounds from the confines of my mouth. The sensation is easily the most intense that I have ever felt. It is sordid and wrong, and yet on every level it pleases me to surrender to him in this way. He is my master now, in truly every way possible, and honourable or not, we are intimately connected in our fervour. The pure carnality of the act arouses me, and I am shocked to find that the nub between my legs, so recently satisfied by my husband, begins to pulsate again.

“Oh, Lydia,” he growls, his voice so close to my right ear again. “I am going to climax here inside of you.”

I watch his face, contorted with the rapture he feels, as he drives onward, ploughing deeper and deeper within me with every thrust. Pulling against my binds, I revel in his mastery of me, allowing my hips to rock backward with his organ, aware of how wet the whole sordidness makes me. I am struck by the utter submission of the act, and by the sheer physical presence of the gentleman who now plucks me of my last vestige of innocence. The combination, it seems, is impossible to ignore, and I am soon hurtling yet again toward the precipice of more pleasure, my hips lowering reflexively to make contact with the soft covers below me. It only takes the smallest connection, and I splinter. My reality crumbles around me, and I am aware of one of his arms reaching around and pulling my hips back up into position as I freefall. Time is suspended by ecstasy, and when I finally come up for air, Thomas reaches his peak behind me. Lurching forward, he collapses on top of me and sends us both flat into the bed. He rolls his head to one side to allow me to breathe, and all at once his smiling gaze finds me. The happiness I find in his expression makes my heart leap, and I readily return the smile.

“Now you are mine in every way,” he muses out loud.

I nod, swallowing as I process the inference. “Yes, My Lord, Thomas,” I reply, feeling overwrought with the emotion of the experience.

He leans in to kiss my nose, his body shifting on top of me, although his length remains lodged between my cheeks. “I will claim this hole whenever I choose, my love,” he explains, his eyes now level with my own. “Just as I will do with your mouth, and your glorious sex.”

I flush at the vulgarity of his language, but remain passive, nodding at his intent. “I am yours,” I say, my voice sounding oddly distant as I reply. “I want only to make you happy, and proud of your choice of wife.”

He shifts his weight, finally breaking the intimate connection between us, and coming to lie on my right side. “I have never been happier, Lydia,” he answers, leaning up against his right elbow. “And with you by my side, I know we shall both have a truly fortuitous, yet prosperous future.”

We rest there a while, me still bound by his side as we doze in the afterglow of our lovemaking. At some point, I am aware that Thomas moves, and soon enough I feel the binds at my ankles being released. He re-joins me on the bed, rolling me onto my back, and allowing my bound wrists to slip over his head. We are eye to eye once more, his kisses eager and insistent.

Drawing away, his warm green eyes consider me thoughtfully. “I thank the Lord every day for bringing you into my life, Lydia Markham.”

“And I, for you, My Lord,” I reply, pleased to finally be able to touch his skin and ruffle his dark, luscious hair.

“I cannot wait to show you off at my birthday celebrations this weekend,” he purrs, nuzzling his face into my neck as he trails a fresh line of kisses at my nape.

I tense in silence at his words, my mind once again returning to the subject of Cranningford. These last few days of joy and carnality have helped me to forget the inevitability of that meeting, and yet now I find it is just around the corner.

Sensing the change in me, his caresses pause, and he raises his head back to meet my eye. “You are still troubled by the event?” he says, his enquiry seeming much more like a statement than a question.

Knowing it is futile and dangerous to try to lie to Thomas, I bite my lip, looking for the right words to answer him. “Not really troubled,” I say, “just a little anxious to return there.”

He nods, those green orbs searing into my flushing face. “I know,” he whispers. “But remember this; you are my wife now, and I will lay down my life before I allow anything to happen to you.”

I shudder reflexively at his tone, feeling a sudden urgency swell within me. “Please, Thomas,” I implore him, “just do not leave me alone with Lord William again?”

He presses his head against mine gently. “Lydia,” he replies, his tone deadly serious. “I swear that I never will.”