Pressing my palm into the handle, I push the door open and make my way inside. “My Lord?” I say, finding him sitting behind his desk.
His face looks severe, but it softens as he sees me approach. “Lydia!”
“Is everything as it should be, Thomas?” I enquire.
He watches me approach and beckons me onward to his side of the desk. He places his own collection of paper on his desk and reaches for my hand. “How lovely to see you, my love,” he says, pressing my gloved fingers to his lips.
I cannot help but smile. He has continued to call me his love since the morning he had asked me to be his wife, and I have not tired of hearing the words. “Thomas,” I say, yearning for his touch, and yet sensing that all is not well.
He nods, releasing my hand and collecting the papers from in front of him. “I have received word from the countess,” he begins, his voice weary.
I tense at his explanation, instinctively expecting to hear the worst. “What does she say, Thomas?” I ask tentatively.
He pauses, clearly considering his words with care. “She writes to acknowledge my letter,” he begins. “It seems though, that she is less pleased to hear of my betrothal…”
I slump, exhaling audibly. The tension in my belly tightens. “Oh, no!” I say, my voice little more than a gasp.
He turns to me and draws me onto his lap. “Worry not, Lydia,” he says soothingly. “Her approval is not required, and she will come around… you will see.”
I squirm, the concern clearly etched onto my face. “But, she is your mother, Thomas,” I say imploringly, “the only parent we have between us. I do so want her blessing.”
“I know,” he says, closing his eyes briefly. When he opens them, I see resolution in his eyes. “And we shall have it,” he declares quietly.
“But how, Thomas?” I continue, pressing him on the matter. “How can you be so sure?”
“I can be certain, my love, because she is my mother, and I understand her. I know how to bring her around.”
I blink at him, knowing in my heart that I should drop the subject, and yet somehow compelled to carry on. “Thomas, I…”
His hand raises, coming to rest gently upon my lips, silencing me. “That is enough, Lydia.” His voice is soft, yet firm, and the sound makes my heart flutter. “You will leave the countess to me.”
Gently he strokes my shoulder, trying to calm me. I feel the contradiction within me building. I know that it is right for him to manage the situation, but for some reason I want to place my mark on the matter. “Perhaps I could write to the countess?” I ask, meeting his eye.
His expression changes, and I know all at once that I am in trouble. I have yet again overstepped the line he has drawn between us. “You will do no such thing,” he says coolly. “Instead, you will listen, and do as you are told.”
I say nothing, sensing the imperceptible change in the air around us.
“Did you hear my instructions, Lydia?” he demands. He leans forward, moving me from his lap so that I now stand in front of him.
“Yes, My Lord,” I reply, lowering my eyes.
“What have I asked?” he prompts me calmly.
I shift my weight anxiously. “You asked that I leave the countess to you,” I say, my voice suddenly sounding small.
“So, you did hear me?” he asks, rising from his chair. “Why then, are you unable to do so? Do you, for instance, presume to know more about my mother than I do?”
I shake my head. “No, My Lord,” I reply.
He moves closer to me, lifting my chin with his finger so that I am forced to meet his eye. “Why then, Lydia, are you compelled to disobey me?”
The depth of the authority in his voice stirs me, sending energy coursing around my body. It pools at the apex of my legs, causing delicious tingles there. “I am sorry to have pressed the point,” I say, and I mean it, although I cannot help but wonder if it is his discipline which I really crave and have missed this last week.
I swear he senses the answer as he reaches for me. He sinks the fingers of his right hand into my hair and draws my body toward him. “Lydia,” he says, his voice almost a low growl. “Are you being intentionally disrespectful, I wonder?”
A silent gasp leaves my mouth as I look upon him.
“Oh, so you are…” he says with a knowing smile. “That is what this is about…”
I flush, knowing that there is little point denying what we both already know to be true. I glance up to him, my eyes imploring the messages I long to say. He pulls me closer, pressing my head against his warm chest. “Have you missed me, my love?” His voice is a deep murmur into my right ear.
“Yes…” I just about manage.
“And so you have chosen to be intentionally disobedient, to garner my attention?”
I shift my head, looking wildly into his face. “It is not my intention, My Lord,” I whimper.
“Oh, really, little one?” he asks, as that brow arches once again. “I think that is an untruth. I think you did intend to disobey me, and I think you did so because you have missed my discipline. Am I correct?”
I am trembling as I reply, utterly startled by his ability to read me. “Perhaps, yes, My Lord, but I did not want for you to be angry with me.”
He smiles. “Lydia,” he coos. “I am not angry. But you and I both know what happens to naughty, disobedient young ladies, don’t we?”
My mouth parts reflexively. “Will you spank me?” I whimper.
“Yes,” he says, pulling me toward him as he reseats himself. “I realise that I have been remiss in my duties to you, and for that I apologise. I intend to make amends right this moment.”
In an instant he pulls me forward and down toward his lap. “But, My Lord!” I exclaim as I lurch headfirst over his breeches. “Not here, Thomas! What if somebody finds us?”
“We have had this conversation, Lydia,” he says firmly as he hoists me into position, “and I have assured you that I will spank you either with, or without, an audience.”
I gasp, feeling the skirts of my gown, petticoat, and stays dragged up my back, leaving my behind exposed and vulnerable. Almost immediately, his hand lands against my bare skin, the sound resonating around the study. I squeeze my eyes shut, stunned by the escalation of events. I pray silently that none of the staff will hear us and enter the room unexpectedly.
A further four swats are landed on my bottom, and they are hard and intense spanks. I am forced to bear each one, feeling the sting and then warmth they leave after his palm has left. From this angle behind his desk I can see very little, except for the expensive rug at my fingertips.
As the next strike lands, I hear Thomas’ voice from over my head. “Why are you being spanked, Lydia?” he asks.
I notice his voice is calm, but there is just the slight edge of arousal laced there.
“I was disobedient, My Lord,” I reply, my own voice trembling as I do.
“Yes,” he agrees, swatting me hard on the rear again. “You disobeyed me in order to get the attention you require, instead of coming to me and telling me about your needs.”
His hand lands on my behind again. “And for that reason, little one,” he says firmly, “you will receive a sound spanking on your bare bottom, and you will thank me for it.”
I whimper as the next strike lands, catching the pulsating need between my legs. “Yes, My Lord,” I moan from over his lap. “Thank you.”
Five swats land quickly, and instinctively I mean to get up, arching my back as I try to move.
His hand holds me down decisively. “You will stay over my lap, Lydia,” he calls out, and I flinch at the volume, hoping that nobody else will hear him. “You need this punishment, do you not?”
“Yes,” I whine, wincing as the next spank lands.
“Yes, you do,” he says, reaffirming my own thoughts. “So just take it, little one.”
I swallow hard, loathing the way he calls me his little
one as he spanks me. The label, of course, helps to reinforce my subservience to him. The onslaught continues, and the stinging sensation is intense. He pushes me on, the utter indignation of the punishment both riling and arousing me. At some point I lose count of the swats, feeling the tension between my legs growing and building. I know I am wet, and I long secretly for Thomas to explore me there.
His palm eventually pauses, pressing itself against the warmth of my bare bottom. “How do you feel now, my love?” His voice is filled with passion.
“Thank you for my spanking, Thomas,” I murmur, unsure what else to say.
I hear him laugh, and slowly, teasingly, his fingers dip between my hot cheeks.
“Well done, my love,” he soothes, as one and then two digits slip against my wetness.
I mewl and groan, loving the intensity of his touch already.
“So wet and beautiful,” he whispers adoringly. “I yearn for our wedding night, Lydia, when I can finally possess you as a man should claim his wife.”
“Oh, Thomas,” I groan. “But I am so impatient; however can we wait until then?”
He chuckles, allowing his fingers to delve a little deeper. “We will endeavour to do so,” he says lightly. “I have already taken advantage of my role as your guardian. I have taken you over my knee, I have bared you, and I have had the privilege to explore your lovely body, but I will not go any further until we are wed.”
I press my hips backward to meet his fingers, before grinding forward against him. Yet again I have become lost in the heady sensations, seeking the release which I know only he can bring me.
Above me I hear him laugh harder, and all at once his fingers disappear, swatting my inflamed behind in a playful way. “That is enough for now, my love,” he says, pulling me away from his lap gently. I groan at the movement, frustrated that my desire is not going to be sated on this occasion. I rise to my feet, feeling my legs tremble. Seeing my instability, he grabs my hand and pulls me back onto his lap. With my skirts still hoisted high, I straddle him, pressing my body against him.
“This much we will do the right way,” he murmurs, pulling my face down to meet his mouth. His lips graze mine, his breath hot and addictive. “I promise that you will be a maid when I take you to bed as my wife, Lydia.”
I nod against his face, understanding his words, and knowing that he is correct. Yet already, my behaviour is so wanton that it is difficult to quell the rising desire within me. “Yes, Thomas,” I concur with resignation.
He smiles, drawing me away a little. “Come now, my love,” he says. “It is not so bad. We have found one another, and soon you will be mine… completely.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, imagining for just one moment what our wedding night will be like. “I am lucky,” I answer finally, opening my eyes to see him smiling.
“We both are,” he agrees, nuzzling me. “The wedding is set for just over two weeks, as soon as our banns are read at the church. I will invite the countess here in the meantime, and seek to settle this unfriendliness.”
I look into his face, knowing that I can trust him. He is my guardian, my friend, and my guide, and very soon, he will become my husband.
Chapter Thirty-One: The Countess Returns
It is a Saturday morning when the countess arrives, and this time both Lord Markham and I are waiting for her carriage. The wedding is set to take place in a week’s time, and most of the arrangements are settled. The few invitations sent outside of the parish have been delivered, and it feels as though my every waking moment is focussed upon the events which will transpire on the second day of November, 1813.
Thomas and I stand on the pebbled drive outside Markham Hall, awaiting the arrival of his mother’s carriage, when all at once we see the horses turn from the main road ahead. He squeezes my right hand gently, turning to me quickly to subdue the anxiety he knows is rising. “Take a deep breath, my love,” he says quietly. “Let me lead, and all will be well.”
I nod to him, but say nothing. My eyes are fixed on the approaching carriage, which is now halfway down the long driveway. Within a moment, it is upon us, and Thomas drops my hand gently, moving toward the waiting coach. Carson opens the door and escorts its passenger to the ground. She greets her son with a cursory kiss, before her steely eyes find me.
“Good morning, Mother,” says Thomas. “Welcome back to Markham.”
“You need not welcome me back to my own home, Thomas,” she replies dismissively, taking his arm and moving toward the waiting staff who have gathered to greet the honoured visitor.
I stand watching as she moves down the line, speaking first to Gregory, and then other assembled members of the household. Lingering by the entrance steps, I move forward as they finally approach. It is Thomas’ voice which guides her. “You remember Lady Lydia, Mother?” he remarks.
“Certainly,” she says. Her voice is cold, despite the light in her eyes. “How are you, my dear?”
I lower my head as she approaches, raising it to meet her eye as I reply. “It is lovely to meet you again, My Lady,” I say graciously.
“Of course,” she says. “And now it seems there is a wedding on the horizon? How are the plans coming along?” Her grey brow tilts as she speaks, reminding me of the expression I have seen on her son’s face so often.
“Indeed,” I concur, “many of the details are now settled.”
She nods. “Well, I am certain there is still a contribution I can make to my only son’s wedding?” Her tone is almost indignant.
I notice Thomas’ face behind her as she speaks. His eyes drill into me, sending excited energy whipping through me. He moves forward, standing between us. “We can discuss this inside,” he says.
“Very well,” she acquiesces, “then take me inside, please, Thomas.”
They move past me, my future husband guiding his mother up the stone steps. I watch them for a moment, before following, trying to suppress the feelings of isolation which encompass me. The countess has a way of pushing me to one side, and this, I realise, is likely her deliberate intention.
We pass into the hallway. My eyes sweep the grandiose setting once again, and I wonder if I will ever grow used to it. My father’s townhouse in London is certainly extravagant, but we do not have such gorgeous, ornate architecture as Markham Hall. I follow the pair of them into the drawing room, the morning light spilling into the room and illuminating the high ceilings and the fine furniture. The countess takes a high-backed chair, close to the window, and pauses, her eyes assessing me carefully.
“Gregory, please arrange refreshments for us,” orders Thomas from the centre of the room.
I turn my head to see the butler receive the request and bow low as he backs out of the door, closing it behind him.
Thomas shifts, spinning toward his mother. “We are very pleased that you have agreed to return and help with the wedding arrangements,” he begins, taking small steps toward the seated woman.
She looks to him, her eyes wide. “You are my son, Thomas,” she replies. “What else am I to do?”
Lord Markham’s gaze moves to me. “Lydia, please sit,” he says, his voice soft, yet insistent.
I do as I am told, obedient mainly because of the anxiety gnawing at my insides, and find a chair a few feet away from where he stands, opposite the countess.
“I assume you have something that you wish to say on the subject of my betrothal?” continues Thomas from my left. “If so, then I invite you to speak those words now, and then, once stated, let us never need speak them again.”
The countess takes a deep breath, and I ready myself for whatever onslaught is about to unfurl. “Is it appropriate for me to do so, with Lady Lydia present?” she asks in an almost sarcastic tone.
Thomas turns to me, his gaze devouring my face for one long instant. “Yes,” he says. “It is quite appropriate. Lydia is to be my wife, and in one week she will become an intrinsic part of my life. Whatever you have to say, you may
say it in front of her.”
The countess makes a face of disdain, her expression blanching as she wrinkles her nose. “So be it,” she says with resignation, and then turning to me, she adds, “Please, do not take what I have to say with personal offence, my dear.”
I nod, acknowledging her words. “Yes, My Lady,” I answer, wondering what she will say next. I am utterly conflicted. On the one hand I seek her approval, yet on the other, I resent the way she has responded to me from the very beginning.
“Thomas, dear,” says the countess, turning to her son. “You know I want only your happiness, but I fear that I must protest at this engagement.”
I hear Thomas sigh, his right hand reaching into the pocket of his jacket. “Go on,” he says, prompting her to continue.
The countess turns to look at me, before looking back to her son. “You two barely know one another,” she begins. “One month ago, you had never even met. How can you now seek to wed? Surely this troth is made in haste, and is ill-considered?”
A heavy silence fills the room, and all eyes turn to Thomas, who stands, leaning against the redwood dresser. He takes his time, musing on her words before he replies. “As I believe it, Mother, you and Father barely knew each other at the time of your wedding. I think you had only met a handful of times?”
My gaze turns to the countess. Her face is sullen, as though she is biting back on some yet unspoken rage.
“Lydia and I on the other hand,” continues Thomas, “have had the good fortune to spend a great deal of time together since Markham Hall became her home. As her guardian, I have had the opportunity to spend every day with her since she arrived, and I believe that we are a good match.”
The countess snorts, as though she can barely believe her son’s words. “Thomas,” she cries scornfully. “How can you believe it so? You have courted a great many ladies in the last few years. Of all of the young ladies with whom you could marry, why choose this one? Why did you not propose to Elizabeth instead?”
I tense at her tone. Who is this Elizabeth, and why is it that I am such a hideous prospective daughter-in-law? I look to Thomas, shifting uncomfortably, and desperate for him to bring this conversation to a halt. His face though is adamant, and he moves toward his mother as he speaks. “That is nonsense, Mother, and you know it,” he says with authority. “Lady Brooks was only ever an acquaintance of mine. There was no intention to wed on either of our parts. Lydia, on the other hand, is a fine catch.” His eyes flicker to meet mine as he says this. “Any gentleman would be honoured to have her as his wife.”
Taming Lady Lydia Page 25