Improper Relations

by Juliana Ross

  At last I found my voice. “I’m afraid I don’t partake of spirits, Cousin Leo.”

  “Then don’t have a drink. But please stop quivering up there like a frightened rabbit.”

  There was nothing for it but to comply, not least because the clock in the hall had just chimed the hour. I gathered my mending into its little basket and descended the spiral staircase to the lower level.

  “I won’t bite,” he promised. “Come and sit, across from me. And allow me to tell you something.”

  I did as he asked, twisting my hands together in my lap so he would not see how they trembled. It wasn’t every day, after all, that one witnessed the thorough corruption of a maidservant by one’s cousin by marriage.

  “I have a confession to make,” he said. “I saw you the moment I entered the library.”

  My face grew hot, more from anger than shame. “Why did you say nothing?”

  “Why did you say nothing?”

  “How could I have known what you intended? No one ever comes in here—I thought you would stay but a moment and then leave me in peace.”

  “Fair enough. But you must have realized what we were about. You might have said something then.”

  “I was going to…”

  “But?”

  I could have hidden behind prevarications and excuses. I could have proclaimed my dismay over the lateness of the hour and his mother’s expectation that I be at her side when she rose from her nap. But instead I told him the truth.

  “I was curious.”

  “Curious? About what?”

  “She seemed eager,” I said, though I had to force the words past my teeth. “As if she were enjoying herself.”

  He said nothing for a moment. I didn’t know him well enough to judge his thoughts from the expression on his face, but it seemed to me that I’d surprised him. Perhaps he was shocked by my forthrightness, though I would have thought him immune to shock of any kind.

  At last he looked up from his glass and met my gaze. I’d never looked him in the eye before, so had never realized what an unusual shade of green were his eyes. They were a clear green, without a trace of brown or amber, the exact color of bluebell leaves when they first appear in spring.

  “Forgive my impertinence, Cousin Hannah, but is your opinion born of conviction? Or of experience?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Do you truly believe women aren’t meant to enjoy lovemaking? Or is it simply your own experience that informs you?”

  “Of course women aren’t meant to enjoy the marital act.”

  “I see. Where did you learn that? From my dear, departed cousin?”

  I looked away, no longer able to bear his gaze upon me. “Not from Charles, not precisely. My mother, I suppose. She told me it was my duty to submit, that it would be unpleasant, but that women had to bear such things as penance for our sinful nature.”

  He made no reply, so I went on. “She told me to keep my disgust to myself, otherwise Charles would be disappointed in me. She said it was best to think of other things while…while it was happening.”

  “Such as?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “What things did she say you ought to think of? While it was happening?”

  “Mundane things. My household accounts. Or a favorite poem.”

  “When Cousin Charles was at his labors, did you think of your favorite poem?”

  “No,” I admitted. “I simply waited for him to finish, so I could go back to sleep.”

  Cousin Leo leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his expression grave. “They did you a great wrong, you know. Your mother and my cousin.”

  “That is unfair—”

  “Because they were wrong. No woman should ever feel she has to submit. No woman should have to grit her teeth and endure her husband’s attentions. Lovemaking is meant to be enjoyable, for men and women.”

  “But how could it be?”

  “Do you know what an orgasm is?”

  I’d never heard that word before, so I shook my head.

  “When Charles was—making love hardly seems the proper term, but it’ll have to do—when he was making love to you, do you recall a moment, just as he finished, when he experienced a moment of great enjoyment? Of bliss?”

  “I suppose he did. I usually kept my eyes closed.”

  “You must have noticed it today, when I was fucking Ida. Did you not see how I reacted, at the end?”

  “Please don’t use that word. It is most improper.”

  “Fucking? Hannah, everything about this conversation is improper. And you didn’t answer my question. You saw how I reacted, didn’t you? That was an orgasm. And she had one as well.”

  “But that’s not possible. Women cannot…that is, we’re meant to be vessels for your lust. We cannot feel such things ourselves.”

  “Nonsense. Women can and do, if the man they are with knows what he’s doing. Although we’re all quite capable of experiencing an orgasm on our own.”

  I felt my jaw drop open and my eyes widen in a caricature of disbelief. He was jesting, testing to see if I would believe anything and everything he told me.

  “It’s true. And I can prove it to you.” His words hung in the air, echoing silently, endlessly.

  “I’m not certain I wish to know. And the hour—”

  “Yes, yes, you need to be upstairs by half past. I’m well aware of my mother’s schedule. But a quarter hour remains. That’s more than enough time.”

  “But what of the danger? Ida might not have cared, but I cannot risk—”

  He was smiling again, for he knew I was tempted. The mere fact of my having lingered so long, despite the impropriety, told him I was susceptible.

  He was right. I was tempted, though I knew it could only lead to ruin. What madness was overtaking me?

  “There’s no danger, Hannah. To begin with, what I propose to show you carries no risk of disease, nor of pregnancy. If you were a virgin still, it would leave you intact. In fact you needn’t disrobe at all.”

  “You didn’t care about Ida. Of what might become of her.”

  “I do care about what happens to her. And she’s quite safe. You see, the winter of ‘47, there was a mumps epidemic at Eton. I fell ill, badly so. Fortunately my brother was unaffected.”

  “So you are—”

  “Yes, and Ida knows it. It makes me a great favorite among the maidservants, I can tell you.”

  “But why? Why me? You’ve never so much as said hello, not once in all the years I’ve lived here.”

  “For that I beg your pardon. If I wounded your feelings, I’m sorry. But my parents would have noticed, had I paid you the slightest heed. Had I so much as looked in your direction.”

  “I know myself, Cousin Leo. I’m not so easy to tempt. I would not have been easy to seduce.”

  “Then what is this?” he demanded. “Why do you linger, if my proposal doesn’t tempt you?”

  “Curiosity. Nothing more than that.”

  Did I speak the truth? I wasn’t sure, at that moment, if I knew. I only knew that he was looking at me, properly seeing me, as no one had done in all the years I’d been part of the Dorchester household.

  “Have you made a decision? Will you allow me to show you that it’s possible for a woman to feel the same bliss as a man? We’ll lock the door. No one will ever know.”

  Still I hesitated. “The time—”

  “We’ve more than enough time. Lock the door, then come and stand before me.”

  I could walk away and spend the rest of my life wondering. Or I could stay, believe his promises and learn the truth for myself.

  I went to the door. I locked it. And I returned to stand before him, just as he’d asked.


  “Look at me, Hannah. You’ve been fed a pack of lies, your entire adult life, by people who ought to have known better. There’s no shame in what I’m going to show you. Can you believe me?”

  I nodded, although I wasn’t the slightest bit sure of my feelings on the matter. I decided to reserve judgment until he’d done whatever he was going to do.

  “This will be easiest if I remain seated and you stand in front of me,” he said, his tone almost conversational. “But you’ll need to face away from me.”

  I turned away, my hands clutched together at my waist.

  “I know it’s not easy, but try to relax. I’m going to reach under your skirts, but just with my right hand. You can lean back against me if you like.”

  I could feel his hand reaching low, under the hem of my skirt and petticoats, pushing them up so they gathered in a great untidy bundle at my waist.

  “Thank God you don’t wear those metal hoops,” he said. “Though you must tire from the weight of all these petticoats.” His hand was on my leg now, stroking the plain, worn linen of my drawers. “Now I’m going to touch you between your legs. Try not to flinch.”

  Even as he warned me, I felt his fingers slip inside the open crotch of my drawers. My hands flew down, ready to push him away. Without pausing, he captured my wrists in his left hand and pressed them to my breast, where he grasped them gently.

  “I’m going to take one finger, my middle finger, and touch you very gently in one particular spot. I won’t touch you anywhere else. But you need to open your legs, just a little wider. Come on, now.”

  So I did as he asked. I shifted my stance, moving my feet apart a few inches, and heard him groan raggedly as his finger traced the folds of my sex for the first time.

  “Can you feel it, Hannah? A kind of pressure? As if your body is waiting for something to happen?”

  How could he have known? I recognized it from earlier, from when I had watched him with Ida. A strange sort of almost pain that pressed and pulled and wouldn’t allow me to think of anything else. I couldn’t remember ever having felt it before.

  “And can you feel this?” His finger pushed farther, deeper, and when he pulled it back a fraction I could feel that it was wet. Which meant that I was wet, there, between my legs.

  He must have sensed my shame, because he pressed a kiss to the curve of my neck. “Nothing is wrong. It tells me you want this. Don’t be embarrassed.”

  His finger began to move, ever so lightly, barely caressing one particular spot between my legs. I could feel it swelling, growing tender, and he seemed to know just how hard to press on it, seemed to know that I wanted him to press harder and harder and faster.

  But then he withdrew his hand from my person, just at the very moment where I was beginning to feel I would die if he didn’t continue. He took my right hand in his and burrowed back under my skirts, returning to the exact spot he’d been caressing a moment before.

  “I’m going to take your finger, Hannah, and place it over this spot. It’s by rubbing against this little pearl that you can give yourself an orgasm.”

  He took my finger between his thumb and forefinger and resumed the delicate rhythm over that mysterious area between my legs. So small, so undetectable and unassuming, that I had never suspected its existence before today.

  At that moment, as he showed me how to rub and push and circle the swelling nub of flesh, it was everything to me. Nothing else, nothing in the entire universe, mattered—only the deepening, thrilling, looming mystery of what he promised.

  “I’m going to let go of your finger, Hannah. Keep rubbing, just as we’ve been doing. If you want to press harder, do so. If you want to go faster, do so. Do whatever feels best.”

  “But I can’t. I don’t know how—”

  “You do. Trust me.” He withdrew his hand, letting it settle lightly at my waist. And waited, I suppose, for me to finish.

  The pressure, somewhere deep inside me, was building, and the compulsion to keep rubbing, ever harder and harder, kept growing too. The world shrank, tightening around me, and all the while I continued to circle and push and rub against the spot, my pulse racing, my mouth dry with anticipation.

  And then it happened. Whatever I had felt a moment earlier, blissful though it was, couldn’t compare to the waves of pleasure that began to implode within me. I was so surprised that I nearly pulled my hand away, but Leo was there, guiding me, whispering words of encouragement, telling me to embrace it, let it happen, let it come.

  When it was over, when the spiraling curve of delight had dwindled to a memory, he took my hand and wiped my fingers with his handkerchief, and then turned me around so I could nestle in the curve of his arms.

  “Do you believe me now?” he murmured.

  I opened my mouth to answer, and then I heard the chime of the hall clock. “It’s half past—I must go. I daren’t be late.”

  “Will you come to me again?”

  At that I froze. “Again? I dare not—”

  “What you felt just now is only the beginning. Come to my rooms tonight, after dinner, and I’ll show you more.”

  I wanted to ask, wanted to know what he meant, but there was no time. Without so much as a word of farewell I left him and hurried upstairs.

  Aunt Augusta was in a difficult mood that afternoon, and that evening too. When we were in Dorset I was expected to dine with the family, unless guests were expected. It wouldn’t do to have the poor relation sitting at table as if she belonged, so on those evenings I took my meals with Mrs. Taylor, the housekeeper. But tonight it was only Lord and Lady Dorchester, Cousin Arthur, Cousin Leo and myself.

  Only Leo never appeared, which led to yet another discussion of his imprudence, his inability to settle down, his ungentlemanly habits and his louche behavior.

  Was that the real Leo? I wondered. Or was there more to him than his reputation would suggest?

  I was grateful for his absence, for it gave me the chance to think on his offer. Staying in the library, allowing him the liberties he’d taken, had been the most audacious act of my life. Indeed, it had been the only such act I had ever committed. If I were to seek him out tonight, I would risk everything—my good name, my position in his parents’ household, my life as I knew it. If we were discovered, I would be cast out, and the workhouse would be my only refuge.

  And yet…

  He’d shown me delight, when I’d thought my life barren of it. He’d shown me bliss, when I’d assumed none existed.

  I’d been starving, my whole life, and hadn’t known it until today.

  I would go to him again.

  Chapter Three

  I thought dinner would never end. My appetite had vanished—I’d never really enjoyed the richly sauced dishes that Lord Dorchester preferred—and it was all I could do to consume the merest portion of what was served.

  Nor did Aunt Augusta appear to have enjoyed her meal. After only a bite of her rhubarb tart she rose abruptly from her chair and indicated that I should follow. I hastened after her, hoping she wouldn’t be afflicted by insomnia tonight.

  I had forgotten, however, about the bottle of tonic her physician had prescribed on his last visit. Tonic, indeed—I’d sniffed its contents and it was nothing more than laudanum mixed with brandy. No sooner had we entered her chambers than she was asking Reed, her maid, for a dose. In an hour, at most, I’d be free.

  I read from her favorite volume of Lord Tennyson’s poetry as she readied herself for bed, my voice low and soothing, just as she preferred. The clock on her mantel chimed the half hour, then the hour, and still I read, not daring to stop until she’d given me leave. At last, her voice muffled by her pillows, she told me I might go.

  Setting the book aside, I curtsied and wished her good night. I took my little oil lamp, the one that normally lit my path to my modest bed
chamber on the floor above, but as soon as I’d left her rooms, I extinguished it.

  I approached Leo’s chambers silently, my heart in my throat—what if I were to be discovered at this end of the corridor or were seen entering his rooms? I tapped on his door, so softly it seemed unlikely to me that he would hear, and waited.

  “Come in,” rumbled his voice, so strong and certain, beckoning me within. I slipped inside and shut the door behind me soundlessly.

  I’d never visited his chambers before. What struck me first was how plain they were, certainly if compared to the ornate, elaborate splendor of his mother’s rooms. They were nearly empty of furniture, for a start. His sitting room had only a large desk, set before the south-facing windows, a pair of wooden chairs flanking the hearth, and a row of bookcases, filled with what looked to be well-worn volumes, running the length of the opposite wall.

  He was sitting at the desk, which was covered with papers and folders and books all in a jumble, and was making notations on one of the papers—it was hard to make out, but it appeared to be some kind of elaborate map or drawing. He set down his pen, wiped his fingers on the blotter and came to me.

  He said nothing, only took my hand and led me toward a door. I hesitated, for I knew it was the entrance to his bedchamber. Was that what he intended should happen between us tonight?

  “I know what you’re thinking, Hannah. I simply thought we’d be more comfortable in here.”

  His bedroom was nearly as plain as the sitting room. The bed itself was magnificent, a huge Jacobean four-poster that had probably been built at the same time as Bexington Hall itself. But it bore no embroidered hangings, no costly damask cover, and instead was draped in a plain linen coverlet. In front of the fire were two hopelessly old-fashioned high-backed chairs, their upholstery threadbare in places. A low cabinet held decanters and glasses, their crystal glinting in the firelight.

  “What about your valet?” I whispered.

  “Jessup’s in London,” he said, his smile infinitely understanding. “When I’m in Dorset I shift for myself. But I can lock the door if you like.”