Taming Lady Lydia

by Felicity Brandon

  I swallow hard at the prospect, imagining—just for the briefest second—how it would feel to be in Lucy’s place; exposed, vulnerable, and punished at Lord Markham’s hand. A swell of emotion surges through me, taking me quite by surprise, and for a moment I am forced to look away for fear my knees may give way below me. Inhaling deeply, I hear Mr. Gregory marking the eleventh strike, and then the voice of my second cousin.

  “This will be your final strike, Lucy.” His voice is like a soothing tonic, and I wonder how much it aids the heat which her now reddened backside must be feeling. “You have taken your punishment very well indeed.”

  His hand falls down upon her even before she can respond, and despite his lulling words, it shows her no mercy. This time she cries out, perhaps in relief as well as the pain she clearly feels. I watch in fascination as His Lordship begins to caress her sore bottom, rubbing the punished skin with gentle touches, before reaching to pull down her skirts. With her modesty finally covered, he seeks to aid her safe passage from over his knee. As she stands, I see for the first time her tearstained, flushed face.

  Lord Markham rises to meet her, opening his arms and offering her an unexpected embrace. She readily accepts his offer, moving to the seeming comfort of his arms, although her eyes never rise to meet her master’s. He holds her there for a long moment, stroking her fair locks, and allowing her to sob against his fine waistcoat until the tears have dried. After such a brazen and denigrating penalty, it is a moment of unforeseen tenderness, and I find that I am completely obligated to watch, soaking in every last moment of this unusual intimacy.

  Movement from behind the door startles me, and it is then that I recall Mr. Gregory, who is probably no more than a few feet away to my left, behind the door. I see the back of his long black jacket as he strides toward the pair still embracing in the middle of the room.

  “My Lord, please allow me to see Lucy to her room?”

  Lord Markham turns to acknowledge his butler, and for just a fraction of a second he looks straight in my direction. I am paralysed with fear, as those large green eyes look out into the gloom. I cannot allow myself to be seen after this incident! How could I ever hope to explain myself? Much to my relief though, he seems not to see his ward, quivering around the edge of the large oak door frame, and addresses Mr. Gregory as he approaches.

  “Thank you, Gregory,” he replies. “As Lucy received her punishment with such grace, I think her early morning duties should be allocated to another maid. Can you arrange for someone to attend to Lady Franklin in the morning?”

  Gregory nods, watching as His Lordship releases the now calmed Lucy from his arms.

  “Thank you, My Lord,” she whimpers as she turns to be received by Mr. Gregory.

  “I will arrange the details, My Lord,” confirms the older man, placing a protective arm over her shoulder.

  “Thank you,” sighs His Lordship. “Please ensure she has a drink before she retires. She has received a sound spanking, and will need proper rest to recover.”

  “I understand, My Lord,” answers his butler.

  “Good, then I bid you both a good night, for if I do not retire now, I fear I shall never be able to attend Her Ladyship’s first breakfast at Markham Hall.”

  Breakfast! The notion slices through my reality like a dagger. I have no idea what time it is now, but no doubt in just a few hours I too am supposed to attend. Anxiety whips through me as the strange scene comes to an end. How will I flee back to my room without being seen? Surely there is no way to make it up the grandiose staircase in time? I fall back against the wood to the left of the door frame, hearing the footfall of His Lordship making its way toward the place I am standing.

  I scan the dark hall around me for potential hiding places. A quick look to my right reveals only the dark corridor which I know leads to the dining room. Beyond me, past the foot of the staircase however, are a number of other doors; any of which could provide sanctuary until the danger has passed. Without thinking I move, darting barefoot over the cold floor, back past the comfort of the crimson rug, and to the nearest door in my eye-line. This one is nearly exactly opposite the library, and is now only a few feet away.

  Behind me I hear the voices of Lord Markham and Gregory, and I know that at any second they will emerge into the hall and discover me. I run the final few feet to the door, praying that the room has not been locked as my heart pounds furiously at my throat. Twisting the metal handle, I am filled with relief to see the door open at my command. I make my way into the unknown room and seal the door behind me as quietly as I can, only seconds before the hall is filled behind me.

  Chapter Six: Markham’s Study

  Stepping away from the door, I turn and take in the new room around me. This is much smaller than what I could see of the first, although its walls, too, appear to be lined with oversized bookcases, stacked full of bound editions. At the opposite end is a large window, no doubt looking out toward the currently vacated lawns. The moon, though shifted slightly from its earlier position when I had risen from my bed, still lights a good proportion of the space, allowing me to see the dark-wood writing table which dominates a good part of the area.

  I move forward, my feet finding yet another soft runner beneath them, making my way to the left of the table and into the long stream of moonlight. The air in here is different to outside. It is warmer, although the fire was clearly extinguished some hours before, and the scent of tobacco still lingers in the air. A smoking room perhaps then, or a study? My fingers graze the polished surface of the desk as I near it, sensing the quality of the finish beneath them. I look to the table, seeing stacks of paper and expensive-looking stationery. Drawing in a breath, I realise that this must be His Lordship’s study, and a wave of guilt overcomes me. I should not be in this room, let alone snooping around at his private writing materials.

  I back away, skipping in silence toward the door, intending to return to my bed now that the hallway has been vacated. A feeling of exhaustion falls over me as I approach the door. This late-night foray has turned out to be much lengthier than I had imagined when I left the sanctuary of my rooms. Not once did I expect to find His Lordship, or any of the staff awake, let alone witness a spanking! The act, which had originally repulsed me, has left me feeling hot and confused; a heady sensation when combined with the tiredness which now overwhelms me. I press my hand to the metal, relieved not to have been caught by any of the group, and pleased to now—finally—be heading to my bed for some well-needed rest. Ladies, after all, are known to need several hours of sleep to truly flourish and grow.

  It is at this moment that I feel the metal in my hand turning, but it is not my hand which is enacting the force. Panic rises in me, but it’s too late to run, and anyway, there is nowhere left to run to. Before I can take another breath, the door opens in front of me, forcing me to move backward to avoid it hitting me square in the body. I jump back with a small squeal.

  Lord Markham looms over me. I know it is him from the sheer size of the silhouette which meets me, although the small gas lamp in his right hand emits a low light which indeed confirms my suspicion. My heart jumps furiously at the sight of him, plotting to find a way out of my chest. Never did I expect to find him still awake! Had he not just told his butler of his intentions to retire for the night?

  My own shock however is nothing compared to the stunned look on His Lordship’s face.

  “My Lady!” he exclaims, the amazement etched into his face in the half light. “What are you doing here in the middle of the night?”

  I swallow hard, realising with gloom that his question is valid and will require an answer. “Lord Markham!” I can barely speak for the sudden rush of energy storming around my body. I press my palm to my heart, willing it to settle.

  Seeing the act, Lord Markham moves toward me, shifting the lamp upward toward my face. “Are you quite well, Lady Lydia?”

  I sense his concern, and seize upon it as a way out of my imp
ossible situation. “I am most sorry, My Lord,” I reply, not daring to meet his eye. “I awoke feeling queer, and came in search of a drink to remedy my sickness. Unfortunately, I know not where to find such a tonic, and so in error I came upon this room—which I can see is clearly private, and was just about to leave when you found me…”

  His eyes drill into me as I speak, evidently trying to decipher if my words are true. I move my hand from my chest to my forehead, feigning a feeling of light-headedness which frankly is starting to become a reality. I see his eyes soften as he watches me, and he moves my hand gently from my head, replacing it with his own large palm. My breath quickens as I recall just how he has used that palm in the last hour.

  “You do indeed seem rather hot, My Lady,” he concludes after a moment. “Perhaps a tonic will be good for you. I shall have one prepared and brought up to your room.”

  He now stands only a few inches away from me, the weight of his stare pushing me down as he removes his hand and uses it to move the small, unruly strands of hair which have become captured by my face.

  “Thank you,” I whisper, feeling rather overcome. “I hope that will help.”

  He moves to my right side, still not taking his eyes from me. “Come now, let me take you to your bed, and see that you are rested. If you still feel this way in the morning then I will call for Hardwick, the local doctor, to make a call.”

  He guides me from the room, pressing his left hand into the small of my back and moving me forward. I hesitate initially at such an intimate gesture, but find that my feet soon obey his will. Back in the hall, he closes the door to his study, lamp still in hand, and pauses to look at me again.

  “My Lady, you must be frozen wandering the house in such a thin robe!” His eyes crawl over my body, taking in the shape of my bosom and belly. I flush at the attention, no longer sure if it is welcome or not, but increasingly finding that my earlier untruth about feeling under the weather appears to be coming to pass. I need my bed at the very earliest convenience.

  “Perhaps it was not the best choice, My Lord,” I admit, pulling the silk tight across my body at his analysis.

  He smiles, and I watch as he slips his arms out of his evening jacket. “Please, put this on until you reach your rooms. I do not want you catching your death of cold on your first night in your new home!”

  He thrusts the long garment at me, and I mean to protest—ladies do not wear overcoats, even in such circumstances—but the look on his face silences me. Yet again I allow my mind to wander back to the act he had bestowed upon Lucy just a short time ago—whilst wearing this very coat—and I catch my breath.

  Smiling, as though he senses where my thoughts are leading, he holds the coat open for me. Unwilling to do anything further which could potentially upset him, I turn, pushing my right, and then left arm into the warm garment, which completely dwarfs me. The arms fall low, well below the length of my hands, and the ends of the tails hit the backs of my calves.

  He grins as he appraises me in the gloom of the hall. “Come now, My Lady, let us get you to bed.”

  His words, though said with an even tone, affect me in the most strange and intimate way again. The muscles between my thighs clench, as though of their own accord, acknowledging the effect that this gentleman is having on me. I inhale deeply, breathing in his scent from the jacket covering my body. Traces of his spicy cologne and the lingering aroma of cigar smoke envelop me, making me feel lightheaded. “Yes… please,” I reply in a hushed, breathy tone.

  Perhaps he can sense my dismay, but he says nothing further, taking my arm and guiding me once again back to the room I had left earlier. We travel in silence, his oil lamp breaking the darkness around us. He leads me into the moonlit corridor, steering me toward the half-open door near the end on the right, which I recognise to be my own. He pauses, leaning against the door frame. The cool white outline of his dress shirt helps to highlight his face, now already illuminated by the ghostly light of the moon. “How are you feeling now, Lydia?”

  It is the first time he has ever called me by my first name, and I blink up at him, unsure if I have heard him correctly. “I… I think I am well, My Lord. I presume I am just tired.”

  I choose deliberately to ignore his informality and use his correct title, although I cannot say why. Perhaps the convention makes me feel secure; a badly needed comfort in light of the many new experiences and sensations this night has brought.

  “Of course,” he replies soothingly. “I shall send a maid with a tonic for you at once.”

  I flush at his words, recalling the earlier untruth I had told when he had found me in his study. I hope inwardly that his body will block the light streaming from the large window just a few feet away from where we stand. Perhaps then he will fail to see the heat in my face and recognise my deceit.

  “Thank you, My Lord,” I begin, sounding incredibly small all of a sudden. “I think that perchance just a long rest shall help me to recover at this juncture?”

  He swings the lamp up toward my face, clearly assessing me. I see the perplexed look in his eyes as he speaks again. “But, My Lady, I thought it was the tonic you sought when you left your room in the first place?”

  I shift my weight awkwardly, pleased to hide the majority of my body language inside his giant jacket. “You are correct,” I reply, trying to keep my tone light. “Yet it is now very late to wake the staff. I feel sure that sleep is all that I require.”

  His body stills, in an ominous and knowing way. “Well, good night then, My Lady.” His tone is suddenly much deeper, sending an involuntary shiver through me. He holds out his arm toward me, reaching for his jacket. “May I?”

  I swallow hard as his hand descends upon me, beginning at the top of my left shoulder and trailing gently down the arm of his jacket toward my hand. The act is gentle, and yet it startles me into action. “Of course, My Lord,” I reply, shaking the garment from my shoulders. “Thank you so much for permitting me to use it.”

  He presses his lips together as he collects it from me, as though he is preventing them from pursuing an avenue. “You are welcome.”

  I risk a glance up to his face, trying to read what I find there. His eyes are large and expressive, sending a new wave of energy rushing through my body. I feel the small hairs on my arms rising in response to his gaze. The affect he appears to have on me is consuming.

  “Until the ‘morrow, Lady Franklin.” Lord Markham’s voice snaps me back to the present. He pushes the door open, revealing my darkened room.

  I nod to him, dipping into a small curtsey as he passes by me. I hear his footsteps landing up the corridor behind me, the sound echoing in my dreams long after I have slipped into a restless slumber.

  Chapter Seven: Belated Breakfast

  I am roused by a sudden stream of light, which startles me like cold water. My eyes fly open, finding an unknown young woman standing before me. She is dressed in the standard maid’s attire, and stands with one hand on her hip, assessing me.

  Riled by the audacity of this unidentified servant, I rise from my bedsheets, irritated by her casual demeanour. “What is the meaning of this?” I hiss at her, sleep falling away from my head in almost an instant.

  “Begging your pardon, My Lady,” she replies, bobbing into a curtsey as she speaks. “His Lordship orders that you rise—unless of course you are still feeling unwell?”

  There is something about her tone and the small smirk which creeps into her lips that makes my belly twist. Memories of my eventful night fly back to me. I recall the spanking I had encountered, the bizarre way it had made me feel, and then being caught in Lord Markham’s study. Finally, I remember the untruth I had told him to cover my tracks. I feel heat rushing back to my face, and all of a sudden my rage turns into embarrassment. How could this maid know of any of this? Has His Lordship himself really imparted his knowledge on the subject?

  Flustered, I appraise her standing over me, realising that she is still w
aiting on my answer. “What is your name?” I ask, my voice deliberately clipped.

  “Clara, My Lady,” she replies without hesitation.

  “Well, Clara,” I respond coolly. “You may tell His Lordship that I am feeling much better this morning.” I stretch casually, expecting her to scurry away, but to my annoyance she simply stands there with the same smug look etched into her pale skin.

  “My Lady, His Lordship has instructed I assist you to dress, and then accompany you to a rather—late breakfast…”

  I blanch, straining my body to the left to see the hands of the small table clock at my bedside. It is nearly ten minutes after ten o’clock. Ten o’clock! In all of the years I have been away from my nursery I have never slept in until this late hour! No wonder my guardian is concerned…

  My eyes flit back to Clara. “Very well, please find me a gown to wear and you’ll need to do something with my hair—can you manage?”

  She smiles, although somehow the light fails to reach her eyes. “I shall manage, My Lady.”

  The next half an hour passes in a flurry of fabric and hairpins. Once I am finally happy with my attire, Clara spends some moments combing and then rearranging my long golden locks into some semblance of order. The hour is fast approaching eleven as I am led directly to the dining room. Clara leads the way down the now familiar dark corridor downstairs. She knocks, waiting for His Lordship’s permission to enter. Excited butterflies rise at the sound of his voice. I cannot decide if I am pleased to be seeing him, or nervous at what mood may await me. Clara introduces me, and then steps backward, allowing me space to enter the vast room.

  Yet again, my guardian is seated at the far end of the room, a copy of a broadsheet in his hands. He raises one dark eyebrow as he sees me approach. “Good morning, Lady Lydia,” he begins, folding the newspaper in his hands and placing it on the white tablecloth in front of him. As I make my way across the room, I see that all of his breakfast items are empty and eaten. His meal had clearly concluded some time ago.