Claiming Her Innocence (4 page)

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 are 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 that 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.”

“I saw you just now,” Penelope said, flushing scarlet. “In the hallway. I’m sorry. I did not mean to pry, but the door was ajar and… I saw you… your hands. In the convent, the sisters beat the girls for touching themselves.”

“You aren’t in a convent,” Betsy said. “You’re in Westcott Manor.”

“So I’ve been told.” Penelope said. Her eyes met Betsy’s. “Did it hurt?”

“Did what hurt?”

“What you did in the hall. You fainted.”

“I didn’t faint. I came. It happens when you touch yourself, or when a man touches you, or puts his fingers or his cock inside you. The pleasure is so wonderful that it overwhelms you. There’s a name for it.
Petit mort
.”

“The small death,” Penelope mused. Then her brow furrowed. “But what is a cock?”

Now the maid laughed. “It is what springs from between a man’s legs. We are the sheaths, and they are the swords. But I believe these are questions left to his lordship. He’ll not thank me for telling you too much.”

“He told me I could… touch myself. If I wish,” Penelope confided.

“And why not? There is no shame in it,” Betsy said, standing. “You are to be married, after all. He will touch you plenty, and likely wants you to know the pleasure of it through practice.” She smiled wistfully as she stood by Penelope’s bed. “I envy you a bit, you know. I lost my virginity to a randy youth who lifted my skirts behind the stables one afternoon. I’ve not regretted it, but it would have been nice to have been guided down that path slowly, by an experienced man who wanted to make it special.”

“You’ve given me much to think on,” Penelope said. “Thank you, Betsy.”

“Of course, m’lady.” Betsy curtseyed. “I am always at your service.”

Penelope watched her go and then snuffed the candle out before crawling back under the blankets.

There
was
much to think on. She closed her eyes and replayed the events of the day. She could feel the tip of the cane sliding up her thigh, hear the timbre of Lord Westcott’s voice as he gave her the choice between a punishment and obeying his command. She could still taste the savory meat, the sweetness of the chocolate, the hint of tobacco on his mouth as he kissed her. She could still hear Betsy’s moans, could see in her mind’s eye the maid’s hands working the flesh between her legs. As she mulled over these things in the dark, her own secret place began to throb with need.