by Ava Sinclair
The flush that came to her pale cheeks indicated that she knew he was talking about more than just the food. Lord Westcott smiled as he speared a potato, and she obediently opened her mouth for that as well.
Handing her the fork, he picked up his and popped a piece of the beef into his own mouth.
“Mmmm,” he said, looking right at her. She flushed.
Good. He wanted her to ruminate on what was coming, to see his pleasurable devouring of the meal as an analogy for what he would soon do to her.
As he ate, he kept his eyes on her, noting how she squirmed occasionally, how the flush kept rising to her cheeks whenever he noted the tenderness of the beef, or remarked on the extraordinary sweetness of the pudding.
When a chocolate torte ringed with candied cherries was brought into the room, Alton was pleased to see Penelope’s eyes widen in an almost childlike glee. But then her expression changed and with a cry of distress, she rose from the chair and rushed to the door. He was on his feet in an instant, and before she could leave he had caught her gently by the arm.
When he turned her to him, he could see she was crying.
“Leave us,” he said to the footmen. The two men exited without a word, shutting the room’s heavy door behind them.
“Penelope,” he said. “Why are you crying?”
“Because less than a day here and I’m failing!”
“Failing? Failing who?”
She looked up at him, distraught. “Failing myself. Failing my teachers. Failing to keep my promise!”
“What promise?”
She sobbed harder. “To be good!”
“You are good,” he said.
“No!” She pushed him away almost violently as she pointed at the table. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing? You tempt me! You tempt me with your fine food.” She clutched her bodice. “You tempt me with your fine clothes. You tempt me with your… your words!”
“And you consider succumbing to this temptation a failure?”
“Yes!”
Alton put his hands on his hips and sighed, inwardly cursing the indoctrination that threw up a barrier of guilt between Penelope and the pleasure she should be feeling.
“Come here,” he said. He took her hand then and led her to a chair by the fire. Sitting down, he pulled her gently into his lap. She sat there, stiff and still, but did not try to get away.
“Did you see the sunset today?” he asked.
Penelope looked at him curiously and then nodded.
“So did I,” he said. “There is nothing like a winter sunset, my little dear. Two years ago, I commissioned an artist to paint me a picture of it. He failed to do it justice, so I commissioned another. He too, failed. And it occurred to me, my sweet Penelope, that there are some pleasures that man cannot duplicate, no matter how hard he tries. No work of art can come close to giving us the pleasure of a sunset created by God’s own hand. Would you agree?”
She nodded and gave a little smile.
“Well, given that, is it sinful to take pleasure in what must be the most decadent of pleasures—a sunset—that glorious, one-time work of art courtesy of the creator Himself?”
She’d stopped crying now, and was listening to his words. “No,” she said.
“Exactly,” he said. “God gives us the sunset as a feast for the eyes. That some are blind does not mean the rest of us should not enjoy it. God gave us rich food for the enjoyment of our palates. But would it not be a sin to let the berry wither and sour on the vine simply because not all can enjoy it?”
He paused. “Our bodies, too, were made to feel pleasure. The nuns at the convent will never know it. But is a nun better because she denies the feelings of her flesh? Is it not a sin to deny yours?”
The body that had started to relax on his lap tensed up again. “But I have no such desires,” she said.
“No?” Now Lord Westcott reached into his pocket to withdraw the pantalets that Betsy had given him earlier. “Recognize these?”
Her eyes widened. “My underthings!” Penelope’s tone was incredulous. “How did you get them?”
“I had your maid bring them to me earlier, so I could examine them. They were wet, sweet Penelope. And do you know why?”
“No!” She tried to get off his lap, but he held her fast as he continued to talk.
“Because that secret place between your legs—your pussy—longs for a touch just as your eyes long for a sunset and your mouth longs for a summer berry. It is natural, my sweet little love. It is natural and good, and to deny it is a sin.”
She grew still and looked at him, tears glistening on her lashes.
“You don’t understand. It’s not what I was taught,” she said. “I was taught that to even think on it is a sin. And to act on it is worse!”
“The girl you saw punished at the convent, you said she did something horrible, Penelope. What did she do?”
He felt her tremble. “She… oh… must I answer?”
“You must. And you must look at me when you answer.”
He could tell it took all her resolve to obey. When her response came, it was barely audible. “She was caught… touching herself.”
“Go on…”
“In the night. By Sister Agnes.”
“And punished?” he asked.
She nodded.
He caught her face in his hands. “Oh, Penelope. Don’t you see how cruel this is? To punish girls for feelings that God gave them? To make them deny the body’s cry for the most natural pairing in the world?”
Her breasts were heaving now, her eyes dilated. He thought she was the most beautiful thing in the world. “I will free you from the bondage of these false teachings,” he said, and with that promise, Lord Alton Westcott pulled Penelope to him to taste her virgin lips for the first time. She resisted at first, but more from surprise than any real aversion. Had she genuinely fought him, he’d have stopped, but he could already feel her softening, feel her moan against his mouth as his tongue met hers, feel her body mold to his as her resistance melted away.
She was right; she was weak. She was a font of pent-up need and the walls holding back her desire were crumbling from within even as he pressed against them. He kissed her deeply, enjoying the unskilled reciprocation, the feel of her slim hand pressed against his jacket. He thought back to earlier in the evening when he’d held her damp undergarment to his nose, breathing in her arousal, and he longed for it again, hungered for it.
But not yet. He would take this slowly. He would wait until their wedding night. She would come to his bed a curious innocent. But she would leave a knowing wanton.
Breaking the kiss, he held her to him.
“The torte!” he said suddenly, as if in afterthought. Lifting her as if she weighed no more than a child, Lord Westcott rose and placed Penelope in the chair where they’d been sitting. Then he went to the table, cut a piece of the dessert, and brought it back. After placing her back in his lap, he lifted a spoonful of the decadent sweet to her lips. They parted, as they had done for the kiss.
“The chocolate is sweet and smooth, the cherries tart,” he said. “See how the bite of the fruit heightens the taste of the chocolate?”
She nodded. “Remember that,” he said. “For your education has begun tonight, and the lesson of this moment will be revisited in my touch.”
He could see her flush and smiled.
“Tell me, Penelope,” he said as he spooned another piece of torte into her mouth. “Did you ever risk punishment at the convent? Did you ever touch yourself?”
“No. Never.”
He believed her this time.
“Did you want to?”
Her downcast eyes gave him his answer.
“I can imagine you in the dark, your hands by your sides, your fists balled tightly to keep your fingers from straying to the ache between your thighs. You wanted to relieve it, but you feared punishment.” He trailed a finger down her face. “You have nothing to fear here,” he said. “There ar
e punishable offenses, but touching yourself is not one of them. In fact, as your future husband, guardian, and ultimate authority in your life, I give you permission to touch yourself.”
“Oh, do not,” she said. “I do not want to be given such leave…”
“You are given it nonetheless,” he said, and tipped her to standing. He looked down on her, his expression kind but stern. “We are to be married soon,” he said. “I will enjoy your body as a husband enjoys his wife. I will expect you to know your body, to use your hands to explore its dips and curves, its mounds and secret places that ache and throb. Do you think you can do that? Do you think you can place your fingers on that ache, and relieve it as I will do?”
“Oh!” She looked for a moment as if she may swoon.
“It’s all right. You don’t have to answer. Dinner is done now and you look tired. Can you see yourself to your room?”
She nodded and he raised her hand to his lips, his teeth gently nipping her knuckles before soothing the little hurt with a soft kiss.
“Your lesson will resume tomorrow. Until then, my love.”
Chapter Four: The Maid’s Example
Penelope was reeling. She was also torn. She felt like a hothouse flower that had been uprooted and replanted in some wild garden. Was it really less than a week ago that her life had felt so orderly—that matters of what constituted sin and obedience had been so clear?
The moonlight coming through the window in the upstairs hallway cast her shadow on the floor. Her dark shadow self, with its graceful curves, seemed to be mocking her even now. When she moved, it moved, as if to say, “I’m always here. I’m the want you try to deny.”
“No.” She turned away from it to face the window. The light snowfall that had started earlier in the day had stopped. The crust of it covered the hedgerows and fields below, glittering in the milky light of the moon’s ethereal glow.
She looked up at the sky. “Mother,” she said, her hands clasped in prayer. “I want nothing more than to be true to you, to be good. If you will not save me from this house, or give me strength to resist this man, at least give me a sign of what I should do…”
“Ohhh.”
The sound—a low moan—came from somewhere up the quiet hallway. At first Penelope thought it was just her imagination, but then she heard it again, more muffled now, but unmistakable.
“Hello?” she called out, but when there was no answer, she padded quietly forward.
There was a giggle then, high and light, and a laugh, lower and obviously male. Penelope could see a panel of the wall slightly ajar to reveal a hidden chamber behind it. A pedestal with a large fern sat just to the left of it. She could detect snatches of conversation now between two people, and although she knew she should just go to her room, her curiosity about who could be hiding along the hall in the dark of night got the best of her.
It was not the first time she’d spied on others; at the convent, Sister Agnes encouraged the students to be ever vigilant for signs of sin they could report on. It was, the old nun said, a way to help one another.
Now as Penelope hid behind the plant, she realized what she was witnessing eclipsed any of the small sins of gossip or sloth she’d ever witnessed in the convent halls. A lighted lamp on the small shelf of the hidden alcove cast a glow on two people. She instantly recognized one; it was her new lady’s maid, Betsy. The plump redhead was standing with her back against a tall man she recognized as one of the valets. His hands were cupping Betsy’s large breasts, squeezing them, but it was the maid’s hands that caught Penelope’s attention. As the valet’s lips moved from Betsy’s mouth to her bare shoulder, Betsy held up the hem of her skirt with one hand as she stroked herself with the other.
Penelope’s own hand flew to her mouth to quell her cry of surprise. As the footman squeezed Betsy’s breasts, the maid rode her own hand, her ample hips thrusting against her own touch. The valet moved his hands down the maid’s arms now, pressing his pelvis against her bottom as he looked over her shoulder.
“Oh, Betsy,” the valet said. “It’s so lovely, the way you touch yourself. Do you know what you’re doing to me, lass?” He squeezed her upper arms as he put his mouth to her ear. “Make yourself come for me. I want to see.”
Betsy was working herself with both hands now as the footman watched, his chin resting on her shoulder. One of his hands had disappeared between them, and Penelope could not see what the valet was doing with it, but now he was groaning as Betsy spread the fleecy outer lips of her pussy with the fingers of one hand and worked the slick inner folds of flesh with the other.
“Ah, that’s it,” the valet coaxed, moving his mouth to her ear. “Oh, Betsy. You’ve got me so hard.”
After a few moments, Betsy cried out and slumped in her partner’s arms. Startled, Penelope stepped back so suddenly that she upset the fern. There was a flurry of motion in the alcove, and the sound of the valet’s concerned voice. But Penelope did not stay around to listen to what he had to say. She ran for her room, fearing for her maid even as her slippers pattered down the moonlit hallway. When she entered her chambers, she found an older woman sitting by the fire. She stopped, staring.
“Who are you?”
The old woman stood. “Mrs. Colbert,” she said with a smile. “Your maid has been given the evening off, so I’m here to help you dress for bed.”
For a moment, Penelope just stood there dumbly. “Right,” she finally said.
She considered refusing the woman’s offer of help, but realized that her hands were shaking too much to undo her own buttons anyway, so she stood there, letting the chatty maid remove her dress and replace it with a nightgown, all the while wondering if she should tell the old woman what she’d seen. Her mind replayed the last of it—Betsy’s spread legs, the fingers stroking the dark pink folds, the maid’s cry before she fell against the footman. Was she all right? Had she fainted?
As Penelope climbed into bed, Mrs. Colbert asked her if she needed anything. Penelope paused, and was on the verge of telling her what she’d seen when the door opened and Betsy walked in.
Penelope was rendered speechless by the appearance of the young woman she’d fancied was passed out on the floor of the alcove.
“I thought you were out, Betsy?” Mrs. Colbert said.
“I was, but thought I’d pop in on my way back to my quarters.”
“Very good.” Mrs. Colbert nodded, bid both women a good evening and left. Penelope said nothing, but continued to stare at Betsy.
“Are you all right?” The maid gave her a lopsided grin. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost, m’lady.”
Penelope sat up, clutching the blankets to her. “I’m… I’m fine… Are you?”
Betsy took a seat in the chair by the bed. “Yes, m’lady. Never better, in fact. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Because… never mind.” Penelope flushed, realizing that whatever had transpired in the alcove, the maid was none the worse for wear. If anything, Betsy looked relaxed.
“Did you have a good dinner with Lord Westcott?” Betsy asked.
For a moment, Penelope considered continuing with the small talk. Then, in a rush of boldness, she changed her mind.
“Why did you give him my undergarments?”
Betsy regarded her mistress for a moment before answering. “If you were a maid in a house and the great lord ordered you to do something, would you disobey him?”
Penelope looked down and smoothed the edge of her blanket. “No. No, I suppose I would not. But still… what manner of man is he, that he should ask such a thing?”
“It’s not my place to say, m’lady.”
“That’s not fair!” Penelope pushed the covers back and rose from her bed. In the middle of the room, she stopped and turned back toward Betsy. Crossing her arms, she faced the maid. “If you have been hired to be my maid, then my maid you will be. I’m not asking you to betray Lord Westcott, Betsy.” She paused. “I only want to know more of him. All I can divine of him now is t
hat he means to have me—me, a woman who but a fortnight ago dreamt of becoming a nun.” She put a hand to her mouth to stifle the beginnings of a sob. “I am frightened. He’s changing me, Betsy. Already he is changing me. I can feel it.”
“Oh, poor lamb.” Betsy rose from her chair, and although the two women were close in age, she held Penelope to her as a mother would a child. “Sometimes it is easy to think women of your station lead a charmed life, and to forget that you have trials as well. Come.”
Penelope allowed herself to be led back to the bed. The two sat down together.
“The man you are marrying is wealthy, but you already know that. He is also powerful,” Betsy said, “and as experienced as you are innocent.”
“Then why not choose someone who is equally matched?” Penelope asked, her tone miserable. “Surely there were others in his past more suitable.”
“There was a lady we thought he would wed, a beautiful lady. She visited often. But the relationship cooled, at least on his end. They remain acquaintances still, but nothing more.”
“If he has other prospects, then why me?” Penelope insisted. “Surely he must have told you.”
“He has not,” Betsy replied. “It is not my place to know more than what he chooses to tell me. But rather than see his selection as a curse, perhaps you should see it as a blessing. Lord Westcott may be a man of appetites, but he is keen to settle down now. That he picked a sweet gentlewoman speaks positively of his nature, does it not? And he’s a loyal man, too. He’ll care for you, m’lady.” The maid smiled.
“And if I may say, he’s fair to look upon. Even a woman raised among nuns can recognize that.”
Penelope flushed at this. “He is handsome,” she agreed. “And the things he says. The way he makes me feel with words alone…” She caught her lower lip with her teeth. “Tonight he told me I could…”
“Go on…” The maid urged, giving Penelope’s hand a reassuring squeeze.
“If I tell you something, will you not be angry with me?” Penelope asked.
Betsy laughed at this. “I’m not your peer, m’lady. It would do no good for me to be angry. I serve you.”