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I can hear you groaning at my description,
ready to toss the book aside before we land upon the silken earth of
the
Orient, fearing you have chanced upon the prim meanderings of a young
matron
lost in romantic illusions before she takes to her bed while her
husband visits
his mistress. I assure you this is no such missive. 'Tis fire and
passion I
reaped when I dared to abandon a life of privilege and taste for the
way of the
warrior. Riding the wind to meet the gods, slashing through the rain,
my arms
bending from the weight of the heavy steel sword in my grasp, a dirk
nestled
between my breasts near my heart. But I'm allowing my passion for this
life to
raise a fever in me and deliver me from the memory of what happened on
my
wedding night. It was a different instrument of pain that made me
twitch and
moan. An item worn and smooth and without the sharp point of the sword
but just
as accurate to reach its mark.
A black riding crop.
I shall never forget what should have been
a night woven with satin threads and romance,
wanton kisses and honeyed sighs. Instead, I
was shocked to see my new husband racing up the stairs after a saucy
redhead
and whipping her plump backside. I ran and hid in a teak garderobe that
smelled
of whiskey and snuff and mold. A strange desire awakened in me, making
me want
to know more about this suggestive, mysterious world that disturbed me,
stimulated me.
Are you shocked?
Insulted? You're a young woman
of good
breeding, I hear you
say, modest,
shy. I'm
Irish-American and proud of it, though too often my fiery race is
dismissed
with a cutting glance meant to be a public snubbing by stony-faced
termagants
suffering from the social disease of snobbery. I ignore them. I don't
care
about their political citadel with its perfunctory restrictions and
bloodless
debutantes in their swinging crinolines keeping their suitors at arm's
length.
I grew up riding bareback, my hands and face often gritty from digging
into the
wet, soggy bowels of the earth to feed our empty bellies before my
father made
his fortune.
I
come from a hardworking, God-fearing family and never had it in my mind
that
I'd live in a posh house. But here I am, Thomas O'Roarke's daughter,
Katie,
hiding and holding her breath as she watches the intoxicating scene
played out
before her in this Mayfair town
house. Not
what I expected married life to be when I attended Miss Brown's School
for
Young Ladies, where I was bred to become a grand lady by the
headmistress
herself, Miss Herminone Tuttle. I wanted to please my other (who so
desperately
wanted one of her daughters to make a successful marriage), so
I dabbled
in the folly of silks and corsets, gossip and scented notes, singing
and
drawing lessons, all necessities coveted by a girl of my nouveau riche
status
to furnish her female arsenal. Day after day Miss Tuttle lamented about
my
chatty nature, spurred on by my insatiable curiosity to question
everything.
Not wise, I discovered, for a girl born in a white frame house in the Pennsylvania
woods, a
plain girl with more brain than bosom who linked her dreams with her
emotions
and sensibilities. No wonder I was rejected by every eligible bachelor
approved
by the Knickerbocker Society matrons.
But it was my mother, dear soul that she
is, who established my power base of teachers and dressmakers and
embarked with me to London
with one goal in
mind: husband hunting. She emphasized to my suitors I had money and
plenty of
it. (My father is a railroad tycoon, a self-made man with more guts
than
schooling. He's a grand da, always encouraging me to be the inquisitive
lass
that I am. "Katie, me girl," my father is fond of saying when we spar
over a political issue, "you have more fighting spirit in you than any
man
I've met." How I love him.) But I
had no real path, no realm laid out to pursue my dreams. I often asked
myself, What is to become of me? We Irish often find ourselves taking up the
more unsavory professions, such as following the life of an
actor, or worse
yet, a writer. 'Tis the gift of words bestowed upon us by the rulers of
the
heavens, and I be no exception. I find myself more oft than not in
trouble
because of it, but I can't keep my thoughts to myself. I speak before
thinking,
making my observations with a keen, dry wit and at times without tact,
which is
why I kept neither beau nor my mother's faith I'd ever make a match. No
amount
of primping and lavender water could take the smell of horses and hay
out of
this girl who crossed the Atlantic to
find a
husband among the British aristocracy.
To my mother's dismay, more than one London suitor complained
I was too quick with the sassy remarks and too eager to express my
opinion. She chided me for my boldness, emphasizing that eligible males
were
more interested in the sway of a girl's body than the wit of her words.
Here again, I failed the test. I was taller
than the fragile English girls paraded around the circuit for three
months out
of the year. Thin as paper doilies they were and each one cut from the
same
curlicue pattern. I was fair haired and blue eyed and cut a good figure
with a
small waist, though I had boyish hips.
Then the forces of nature took it upon
themselves to present a delicate rearrangement of destiny (also known
as the
exchange of a great deal of money), and I received a proposal of
marriage. As
was more the custom than not in these hasty marriages, I went to the
altar
knowing little about my husband, save he had a title and a manner of
looking at
me that made my pussy burn with longing.
My
hunger for romance proved to be my
undoing when I allowed myself to be wooed by this deviant aristocrat
with wild
black hair and a slight limp. His chest and shoulders were broad and
strong,
his head held high as was his ego. I noticed the wide dimple in his
chin
deepened when he set his mouth in a grim line. Lord James Carlton was
as
handsome as a prince of the realm and he knew it. He exuded charm,
though I
would later discover this show of assuredness and sybaritic demeanor
concealed
a different side of him that when challenged erupted into a dark,
decaying
soul. I knew none of this when I accepted his hasty proposal of
marriage.
Trying to hide my surprise as well as my girlish pleasure, I fancied
myself in
love with him and could not admit that what I felt was mere
infatuation. What
did I know about love? Nothing. What I didn't know I concocted into
stories,
romantic tales too often centering around an idealized heroine created
out of
an alchemist's bottle.
And now this display of bare skin and
beautiful breasts and round buttocks askew before my eyes, what God
himself had
designed to covet the devil's lust, made my mouth drop. How can I
explain to
you the emotions racing through me? I was a young girl, barely
nineteen, and
though I rarely admitted it, I was rather naive about the ways of the
world
save for what enticing books I'd read in this house, their salacious
descriptions never matching the rise of anticipation playing out before
me. I
couldn't take my eyes off the girl's buttocks. Red streaks
crisscrossing her
cheeks. Long, straight marks. A wild
craving hungered deep within me, something I never expected, as if my
dark
alter ego was enjoying
the pleasurable lashing.
I
never dreamed so innocent an item could induce such a look of pleasure
on a
young woman's face. Eyes closed, plum lips parted, jaw
slackened, head back,
glorious red hair tossed to and fro over her pale nude shoulders, her
expression could only be described as saintly, as if the blows from the
crop
erased her sins from her soul and she floated toward the heavens in a
state of
spiritual ecstasy.
Hail Mary, full of grace…
I envied the freedom she
possessed to
accept the shadow of her other side, something I dared not do. Though I
prided
myself on my independence and my modern view of a woman's place in
society I
was, through no accomplishment of my own, Lady Carlton, wife of Lord
James
Carlton, his lordship born to Braystone House, a fifteenth-century
limestone
goliath situated somewhere in the Midlands and unknown to me.
As was this side of my husband.
A mischievous giggle escaped my lips. Who ever dreamed his lordship
fancied a taste of thewhip for his pleasure?
Settling in, I'd had little time to
accustom myself to his persona since I was a stranger to this new
reality, but
this display of flesh and depravity took my breath away and evoked a
different
feeling within me. A feeling that both puzzled and delighted me.
Sniffing the
sweet, odorous scent between my legs off my fingers, I smiled and
accepted it
as a sign of my readiness to abandon my virginity for pleasures
promised. I
pulled the thin wrapper closer around me and in doing so, awakened a
family of
dustballs from their slumber. I couldn't deny my ego was as fragile as
the ball
of dust I crushed beneath my bare foot. It was obvious my husband took
no
interest in the fact that his bride yearned for his embrace and had
performed a
succulent toilette for his benefit. Hours ago I had wiggled into a
cocoon of
peach silk and fancy ribbons, insisting the maid loosen the lacings on
my night
corset, then peeled down my white stockings and attempted to do the
same with
the constrictions of my staid upbringing. I was determined to enjoy
this night,
asking him to "Touch
me here, milord, and there. Yes, I like it. Do it again."
I was at this moment without words. Dry lips parched, I could only stare
at the scene being
played out in the dimly lit room in the
five-story house in London's Mayfair
district near Berkeley
Square.
Excerpt © 2010 Jina Bacarr All Rights Reserved
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