Though I wasn’t involved in the daily ministrations of this London town house, earlier I had overheard the two maids chattering about a night dark and decadent where his lordship might “fancy a lick or two with the belt on a mott’s pretty haunches before he found the keyhole to her ladyship’s door.”
When I confronted them and asked what a mott was, Lucie blurted out that such a person was a prostitute from a lowclass neighborhood. She was quickly rebuked by the older woman, a portly soul who wore her white lace cap on her head as straight as a ruler, and sent away, leaving the rest to my imagination. Campbell apologized for the girl’s insolence and insisted she was fresh from the country and knew nothing about what she spoke, then attended to my toilette, offering me no further explanation. I pretended to dismiss the incident, since I was certain the maid believed I had aligned my expectations about marriage with the puritan ideal that the wedding night was a dreamlike state consisting of whispers and rustlings in the dark. Nothing more. I dared not change that in her eyes lest she discover my secret.
What I had found in the town house library.
While Mother spent her time fretting about my white satin wedding gown from the House of Worth, the arrangements for my marriage at St. Peter’s Eaton Square, and the newspaper coverage following my every move, I yearned for something else to read besides the English Lady fashion magazines or domestic guides she deigned I should acquaint myself with before my marriage. I was hungry for heartier literature, though I had no reason to suspect what I’d find in the library would be of a salacious nature.
Upon entering the room, I was pleased to observe that the top-floor study had a clublike atmosphere: wood paneling, oil paintings, leather armchairs and chandeliers made from Venetian glass. Its sensual energy overwhelmed me when, and to my delight, I discovered the owner of the town house entertained a most interesting collection of rare books. Very rare. And quite scandalous.
Hiding several slim tomes under my skirts, I secreted them to my rooms, where I devoured the reprint of The Decameron of Pleasure, along with Lascivious Gems and A Night in St. John’s Wood. Dog-eared copies showered with brandy stains and cigar burns. A gentleman’s retreat that I have no doubt had never seen the delicate step of a lady’s fine leather boot. Until mine. And stamp my footprints upon its polished floor I did. Many times. I inhaled the erotic literature as if it were an overpowering perfume that opened the door to the secret life of this British nobleman.
Lord Penmore.
It was his house where we resided and his library.
After our engagement was announced, James had insisted Mother and I enjoy the privacy and comfort of the elegant West End residence owned by his friend and associate away on business in Japan. Poking about the library, I also discovered a cache of letters of a most dubious nature written by Lord Penmore to my husband. Accounts of his visits to a disreputable quarter in Tokio known as Yoshiwara with brilliantly lit streets, people eating and laughing, bony fingers plucking a tune with no beginning, no end, the discord of life forgotten in the dark corners where young girls beckoned him with sweet smiles and slender bodies wrapped in white silk kimonos. He also wrote of turmoil and dissent among the military men he called samurai. Burly, hard-drinking soldiers who, according to Lord Penmore, wielded their swords at whoever insulted them. I shall neither confirm nor deny his reports, for I fear revealing too much will raise such disbelief in you that you will return this book to the shop where you purchased it and demand your funds returned.
I retreated back to my books, lost in the lurid details of French courtesans and lords engaged in a pleasing act known as soixante-neuf. I had hoped to engage in this robust position with my new husband, head to tail, his cock within reach of my lips, his tongue busy at my pussy, licking and sucking, exploring the sweet juices oozing from my folds. As I read, each word dripped from the pages and into my psyche as easily as the morning dew settled onto a thirsty flower petal. I failed to acknowledge that I had not yet blossomed under a man’s touch. Such hopes I had, since this elegant town house was also where I was to spend my first week of married life before embarking on a honeymoon to Paris.
So you can understand why I smiled when, after the lavish wedding reception, my mother kissed me on both cheeks and whispered in my ear I could loosen my night corset but not remove it. And if I lay very still, she assured me in an even voice, it would all be over quickly.
My father glanced toward me but said nothing, though I saw a grim look on his face that troubled me, as if he hadn’t accepted the idea his daughter was a married woman and subject to the erotic whims of her new husband. What would he say, I wondered, if he knew Lord Carlton had a penchant for riding crops and plump bottoms?
I turned my attention back to the scene playing out before me, knowing I was trapped inside the garderobe, dust up my nose, the scent of snuff adding to the precarious teetering of my psyche. A bride living out her fantasies and creating a world where she was merely a voyeur instead of a player. A little voice reminding me we’re trapped by our deeds only if we choose to be. I couldn’t deny I was curious to see what happened next, as I believe you are, too. You wouldn’t be reading this far if you weren’t. I assure you, by the time you arrive in the land of the samurai with its scattered pine woods, crimson foliage and the floorboard that sings when the head of the samurai clan approaches, you will be perspiring (yes, ladies do perspire), your chemise unbuttoned, the lacings on your corset loosened. So pray, do not lecture me, telling me I should have leaned back in the closet, fallen asleep and waited for them to leave, since curiosity has been known to skin the pubic hairs of even the most careful pussy. I should have. But I didn’t. And I would pay the price for my folly.
“Please, my lord, more, more…” the girl yelped.
“I shan’t disappoint you, wench, though I can’t wait much longer to fuck you.”
To my horror, though jealousy was a more descriptive mot for what I was feeling, I could see James kissing her buttocks; then he drew the riding crop through his fingers, caressing it and making it shine with the sweat of his palms.
“I’m ready for you, milord,” the girl said, cooing.
An unseen female voice laughed, then said, “His lordship won’t have enough energy to fuck his new bride if he takes us both.”
Who else watched the intrigue being played out here?
“Mind your mouth, Sally,” the other girl said, her voice breathless. “Lord Carlton has enough rod to please both of us and his new bride.”
“Who said I intended to bed the American?” said Lord Carlton, rubbing the back of the girl’s bare thighs. “I dare say I imagine the twit is asleep, though I should wake her. Observing a good whipping might open her eyes to what’s expected of my wife, eh, Bridget?”
How dare he speak about me in such a manner!
“Begging your lordship’s pardon, but who needs her?” Bridget laughed. “You can whip me arse for as long as you like.” She wiggled her buttocks, then parted her fleshy cheeks with her small hands, exposing the puckered hole for his lordship’s visual delight. “And make use of me back stairs for your pleasure.”
I couldn’t close my mouth. Did James intend to do the same to me?
“Not before you slide into me, milord,” said the girl called Sally when she moved into my view. I could see a tall brunette wearing a scarlet corset with white laces, her pubic hair blacker than jet and glistening with her juices as she expertly drew a rubber phallus from inside her. (Such an item was known to me by way of a novel I found in the library about a young Parisian’s foray into self-gratification with what she labeled a “dildo.” I don’t recall the name of the story.) I drew in my breath, excited by its length as well as its breadth.
Could his lordship compete with such a wonder?