I peer closer at her. Her face is hidden by the cascade of chestnut hair falling over it, yet I feel sure that this is a lady I do not know and have never met. I sidestep left, moving toward the scene and rounding toward the woman’s rear. The next strike is harder—I hear the connection of his hand against her flesh—the noise stirring some birds in the trees behind him. The throaty sound of her cry is immediate, resonating through me in that way which I never expected, yet have come to find so consuming. Once again I feel the heat of my body growing, centring me. The inexplicable moisture which I had never felt before coming to Markham Hall pools within me, creating a well of wetness between my legs. The air from my mouth leaves in a rush, creating a gasp rather louder than I had anticipated. Roused, His Lordship raises his head and finds me watching him intently.
“Lydia.” His voice is raspy; his eyes full, the green hue darker than I have seen them.
“My Lord?” The words leave my lips as though I am in a trance. I rather suspect that I am.
Lord Markham raises his palm again, sending it crashing down against the willing participant in front of me. Again I inhale sharply, understanding a little of the pain she may feel, but more than that—wanting to know much more of the pleasure.
There is a small hint of a smile as he watches not the rouging of the bare skin below him, but his ward instead. “Is this what you need, Lydia?”
I am moving forward again, toward him. “Yes,” I whisper. “I need the release, My Lord.”
“Which type of release do you need, my little one?” His tone is warm, and his new description of me is stirring. I have never been anyone’s little one before. Even my own father had kept a careful distance from his only child.
“I do not know,” I reply with an honesty which threatens to break me open. My voice sounds desperate, and I realise that I am close to tears. I lower my head, not wanting him to see my emotion.
“Come now,” he soothes from just a few feet away. “Come to me.”
“But, My Lord…” I pause, confused at his request. “What about the other lady?”
“There is no one, Lydia. No one but you.”
I raise my head to object, still envisioning the nudity of the woman draped over him. To my absolute shock she is gone, and His Lordship sits alone. I open my mouth to speak, but find that there are no words. He stands before I can organise my thoughts, closing the distance between us in a flash.
“I asked you to come to me, Lydia.” His tone is deeper now and more staccato. The sound of it makes me clench my most intimate muscles.
“I, I’m sorry,” I stammer, still unable to understand how the lady I had seen so clearly just a moment before could have just—disappeared.
He leans over me, his body just a few inches from my small flimsy gown. “What did I tell you about obedience, Lydia?”
I look up to him, my breath catching in my throat. “You told me that you expect my obedience.”
“That’s right,” he says softly, using the thumb on his left hand to brush away the hair from my face. “My rules are not draconian, Lydia. They exist for your benefit and protection.”
“I know—I’m sorry.” The words are forced out in a hushed murmur. For some reason I cannot take my eyes away from him, but I have the feeling that if I could I would see the earlier mist creeping back toward me.
“So many apologies, my little one.” His smile is soft, yet sincere.
“I keep disappointing you,” I say, choking back a small sob.
“No,” he insists, resting the palm of the same hand against the side of my face. “Not disappointing. You are learning—and when we learn new things, there will always be errors. I am here to help you and to guide you.”
My head feels heavy, so much heavier than ever before, and yet still I cannot draw my eyes away. “Thank you, My Lord.”
“What did I tell you earlier, when I was seated? What did I ask of you?”
I close my eyes, and without thinking I find myself leaning against him, my temples brushing the soft, dark hair of his chest. I breathe in the masculine scent of him, some heady combination of cologne, tobacco, and earth.
“You asked me to come to you?” My voice is so tiny that I barely recognise it.
“And why did you refuse?”
My eyes blink open, wanting to tell him that I did not refuse; I had just not wanted to interfere with the spanking which he was administering. Before I can respond, his right arm is snaking around my body, pulling me even closer against him. The proximity takes my breath away. “I had not wanted to interrupt you, My Lord.”
He rests his chin gently on the top of my head as he answers. “I understand, yet it is not your job to decide if you are causing an interruption. Let me make the decision.” He pulls away slightly, forcing air between our bodies as he looks down at me. Instinctively I raise my head to look up at him, startled by the intensity in his eyes. “If I ask you to come then I expect your obedience.”
“I understand,” I say, feeling hypnotised by his strong physicality.
“Do you?” he persists, inclining his head as he makes the enquiry. “Or do you need to be punished to really understand?”
A gasp leaves my lips at his words, and how intuitive they are. After all, is this not the reason I came wandering in the gardens in the first place? I had certainly been fascinated, if not indignant, about my spanking yesterday. It had left an impact in more ways than one… “I cannot say,” I reply, not wanting to have to ask for the thing I really desire.
“Do you require my guidance on this issue?”
The question hits me hard, resonating within my core. The pool of moisture there grows, galvanising me, as though my body is responding to His Lordship directly. I give the only answer which makes any sense to me. “I think so, My Lord.”
He pulls me close again; my face presses into the hardness of his chest. “Then I will spank you, Lydia; not so much as a punishment, although you will be punished the next time you deliberately disobey me. This spanking is about your needs; calming you, comforting you—catharsis perhaps?”
I nod, all of a sudden unable to articulate the bubble of emotion rising in my belly. I feel his lips brush the top of my hair, caressing me in the most tender way.
“Let us begin, then?” It is really more of a question than a command, but I feel my feet moving nonetheless, away from the comfort of his body and toward the place he had previously been seated. Our hands are linked, his fingers lacing between mine, drawing me on and moving me into position as he resumes his place on the stool. We lock eyes before I move forward over his body, and the depth I find in his gaze almost frightens me. “Are you ready?”
I nod at him, certain my face is betraying the anxiety I feel.
“Speak please, Lydia. I need to know how you are feeling.”
I inhale slowly, contemplating what he demands. Can I really ask for my own punishment? “Yes… My Lord. I am ready, but I am more than a little afraid.”
“Do not be,” he says, voice full of reassurance. “For this spanking I will only go on as long you permit me. You have the power, Lydia. When you tell me to stop, I will stop.”
I swallow hard, turning my attention to his lap before I drape myself across him as the woman had been earlier. My lower chest and belly press into his legs and against his groin. I am startled by what feels like a growing hardness there, forming beneath my tummy. Gasping, I force myself to remain silent, and instead concentrate on where to place my arms and hands. I refocus on the red and white print of the blanket below me, and I feel my own hair now falling down to conceal my face.
His hands are on me in an instant. One rests against my shoulder blade, stroking the fabric covering my skin with gentle circular motions. The other begins at the backs of my knees, gliding its digits north to where my behind awaits its attention. I am aware of each sensation, the tension in me building from a low hum to a constant vibrating need. By the time his right hand has
reached the orbs of my bottom I am holding my breath in anticipation of what is to come. The contact is fleeting, and I imagine his palm raised over my body as I had witnessed earlier. The thought is splintered as it reconnects with my flesh, the sting burning through the thick fabric of my gown.
Before I can truly process the sensation the hand has left me again, coming back down hard, this time on the right cheek alone. I wince, allowing my head to fall forward as the same force is used against my other buttock. The strikes continue, varying in pace and intensity. Initially each one hurts a lot, and I force my lips to still, fighting the instinct to call a halt to proceedings at once. I want this—I need this—stop fighting, Lydia… Gradually the tension in me lessens, and the urge to resist wanes. I can still feel the blows, registering each one on some subliminal level, and yet as they rain over me my mind relaxes. And it is then—right at this most critical juncture—that the desire already swimming between my legs comes to life.
As His Lordship’s hand reconnects with my smarting behind, the pressure of the smack pushes my core forward against his breeches. The contact swells the burgeoning sensation there, sending warm tingles throughout my body. I gulp in a mouthful of air, willing him to land the next spank, which of course I feel a moment later. Closing my eyes, I consider the desperate need simmering within me. Although I have no idea what is happening to my body, I like the warmth and sensation the spanking is bringing. Or rather, I like it a lot.
As he lands yet another round of spanks in quick succession, I am lost momentarily to the feeling, no longer aware of anything except the weight of his hand, the hardness at my belly, and how the whole experience is leaving me frantic for more of the same. The excitement within me crescendos, promising to bring me to a place I have never been before. I am hot and wet, and feel ragged with the intensity of it all. I moan out loud, unable to contain the passion any longer.
“Are you well, Lydia?” His voice is deep and etched with concern.
I want to tell him I am more than well. I want to tell him not to stop, to never stop—but to bring me to the peak which I am clearly climbing. I long to reach the summit and fall free. I need it. I need it more than I could ever have known. Instead, my lips are locked together, simply incapable of speaking the words my brain is screaming.
Again, he calls out. “My Lady, should I halt? Are you well?”
I moan again, squirming my weight over his hardness, and trying to make him understand without the need for words.
“My Lady?”
It is useless, I realise—I will need to speak to convey my consent, and further, my ardent feelings on the subject.
“My Lady?”
Something is wrong. His Lordship’s voice is changing, and there’s a note of real panic in the tone. I turn my head toward the place where he is seated, but he is no longer there.
“My Lady!”
I fly from the dream, landing abruptly in my bed. Sitting bolt upright I find myself a hot and tangled mess, caught up in my bed linen, and out of breath. Lucy stands at the bed next to me, alarm flickering in her eyes.
“My Lady! Are you quite well?” The relief in her voice is evident, and I try to reassure her with a small smile.
“Just a dream, Lucy,” I assure her. “It was just a vivid dream.”
“A nightmare more like, My Lady,” she says, moving forward to pour me a glass of water from the jug at my bedside. “You were writhing around something terrible, Miss—I feared I would have to wake the master to see what was wrong with you.”
I flush at the thought of Lord Markham seeing me in this state, the dream clinging to me like the air around us. Taking the glass from her, I allow the cold water down my throat, grateful for the fluid at my dry lips.
“Worry not, Lucy,” I say again, more firmly this time. “It was just a dream.”
She nods and bobs into a small curtsey, hurrying away to arrange my clothes for breakfast. As she goes, I look out my window to the lawns below. I feel the weight of my heart still hammering from the torrent of emotions I had felt. It was only a dream… Surely that is a relief; a good thing. And yes, I reconcile—it is. Although I cannot deny the sting of disappointment I feel on the subject.
Chapter Twelve: A New Day
My guardian is waiting for me as I enter the dining room, although this time the expression on his face is warm and inviting. Dressed in a lavish-looking coat, dress shirt, complete with cravat, and royal blue breeches, he stands as I approach. The ensemble is completed with a pair of fine-looking riding boots. My breath catches a little as I appraise him. He is so tall, so dark, and so debonair.
“Good morning, My Lady.” He offers me a broad smile, and pauses as I come closer, leaning in to kiss the fingers of my right hand.
I breathe in the smell of him, disconcerted to find it is exactly as I had dreamt. The lingering scent of his cologne makes me feel heady. “Good morning, My Lord,” I reply, all too aware of the tremble in my voice.
He hears it too—I can tell by the small widening of his bright eyes, but he says nothing, instead escorting me to my usual place at his left side. “Are you well?” he begins as he resumes his seat at the head of the table. “I have heard reports that you did not enjoy a good sleep?”
I blanch at these words, wondering how Lucy could have reported this news so soon. Shifting uncomfortably on my chair, I am reminded of my spanking yesterday, a thought which does little to quell my anxiety. I look up to find his green orbs drilling into me. I know he will accept nothing less than the truth, and I know the likely consequences if I do not offer it. My eyes look quickly around, noticing Carson at the far side of the room, pretending not to listen to our conversation. The prospect of disappointing His Lordship, and finding myself over his knee here—in front of the staff—propels the words from my lips.
“It is true I had a lurid dream, My Lord.” I regret my choice of words in an instant. Lurid? Why say lurid? I had merely only meant to intimate that it was not a nightmare. “It was quite startling, but rest assured, I am well now.”
His expression changes as I conclude, and as he puts down his teacup I can feel the tension rising inside of me. “Lurid?” he repeats. I feel the anxious butterflies within me stir. “How very disturbing. I wonder what could have brought about this event?”
There is a look in his eye which tells me that he very well knows what has caused it, but I choose to remain silent on the subject. Instead I pick up my knife and watch as the light from the window behind me catches the edges of the metal.
“Is this a matter which needs to be discussed in private, My Lady?”
I freeze, understanding his tone immediately. I look from him to Carson, my options reeling through my head. Should I tell him the truth as he has instructed, and face up to the implications of such a confession. Or worse still—should I tell yet another untruth, which I feel certain he is sure to uncover. I put down the knife as I answer him. “Perhaps, yes, My Lord,” I say. “Although, it feels indulgent to trouble you with such frivolous matters as the contents of my dreams!”
The remark is supposed to be jovial, and yet the tension within me resurfaces as I absorb the look on his face.
“Matters concerning your health and welfare are not frivolous to me, Lydia. They are now, in fact, my primary concern.”
I clench at the authority in his voice, wondering if my head is not still full of the dream. “As you wish then, My Lord,” I respond.
Satisfied for the time being, he returns his attention to his plate. We finish breakfast, breaking silence with polite conversations about his plans and expectations.
“You must write to your aunt, My Lady,” he says at one point, shifting his weight to impress upon me the gravity at which I should absorb the instruction. “Let her know of your safe arrival, and—I hope—of your intention to stay here at Markham.”
I swallow down the tea in my mouth, looking up to meet his eye. He still wants me to stay? The thought is so
mehow warming. “I shall do so, My Lord.”
He smiles. “Feel free to use my desk in the drawing room. There is good natural light there, and I find the gardens to be a constant source of inspiration.”
I flush, recalling my dream and its location with the grounds of the hall.
“Carson can show you once you have finished your breakfast.”
* * *
And so it is the drawing room in which I find myself some time later. Carson, having led the way and shown me where the quills and ink are kept, has retired for the time being, allowing me to finally be on my own with my thoughts. I sit at Lord Markham’s ornate writing desk. It is made of some dark red wood, and positioned next to the large bay window, the sunlight illuminates the scarlet hue. Collecting the ink from the edge of the desk, I take a deep breath, turning my attention to the long, impressive-looking quill at my right hand. I begin to compose my letter, telling my aunt about my journey, and assuring her of my plans to stay—in the short term at least. I write about two thirds of a page, asking questions which she will expect to hear. I enquire about the townhouse, her health, and her plans for the coming winter.
Putting down the quill, I glance left toward the window. The lawns sweep west to the right of my view, and behind me to the left is the edge of what looks like a deep, dark wooded area I have yet to explore. My eyes scan the various colours of the scene. The light green of the neatly cut lawns is contrasted to the deeper green of the ancient-looking trees. The view is innately relaxing, and resting the quill back in its place, I lean back in the hard-backed chair.
All at once my attention is captured by a figure heading into view from the trees. The tall, lithe form strides across the lawns, finding the path and then heading back toward the house. Before he turns, I know instinctively that it is him, Lord Markham—the man in charge of my life, who also appears to be haunting my dreams.
I watch him, peering closer to the window. As I do I feel my heart thrumming loudly inside my chest, its pace increasing with each long step His Lordship takes. It is clear that his attention is taken from the front of the house, and I see him meander casually in that direction. I move toward the window, straining my neck to the right to see what has garnered his interest. At the entrance of the hall, I see a carriage waiting, and then another person comes into view. It is a woman I do not recognise, and she approaches His Lordship with confidence. I appraise her mature looks. She is a lady much older than I, and based on the exquisite pale blue gown and bonnet she wears, she is wealthy. Her sudden presence is startling, and I draw back from the window, nearly tumbling over the leg of the chair behind me.
Taming Lady Lydia Page 8