From the Baroness's Diary: The erotic escapades of Baron Beardley's wife

Chapter 1

My Husband, the Eleventh Baron Beardley

Mon Cher Journal,

I'm excited! I'm aroused! I—oh!—I am so happy.

Let me start at the beginning.

I am the sole daughter of an impoverished French Marquis and my name is Chloé de la Fleur—or rather, it was. Yesterday morning, it was changed to Chloé de la Fleur Beardley, because now I am a married woman.

My husband's name is Joseph Georges Charles Fitzroy Von Tussen Beardley and he is the 11th Baron Beardley. He is 40 years old and a wealthy English peer.

When he was introduced to me at my London debut party, I found him to be charming. He is blond, with gentle blue eyes, lean, and not much taller than I am. He is more fit and more handsome than most gentlemen of his age.

We talked for a while under my mother's vigilant eyes and when the baron left the party, he said we would meet again.

And we did, on five more occasions.

At one of those parties, after we danced, he invited me for a walk through the Duke of Belfort's beautiful back garden, and I told him I had to ask for my mother's permission, which was granted immediately. We walked to the unlit part of the garden, where pointing to a wooden bench, the baron asked me if I wanted to sit with him.

I smiled and agreed.

He told me about his late wife, who had died in labor, leaving him heirless; about his widow mother, the dowager baroness, who still lives with him—or rather, with us, since yesterday; about his properties in London and in Warwickshire, and his business interests. He is an intelligent and captivating man, and although it might sound boring, it wasn't.

I asked a few polite questions and also answered politely when he inquired about my childhood, studies, friends, and my brief Parisian life.

When he bent his blond head and put his arm around my waist, pulling me against his chest, I let him kiss me.

When he pressed his tongue on my sealed lips, I opened for him.

"Soft as petals," he whispered on my mouth before thrusting his tongue inside again and brushing it against mine.

And then his hand was fondling my breast, tugging at a nipple, and I squirmed on the bench. "Non, monsieur—"

"Joseph," he corrected me, not stopping his administrations to my nipple. His tongue was now sliding down my neck and my thoughts became jumbled.

When his other hand wandered under my skirt and caressed my leg, I tried again to stop him, gripping his wrist. "Non, non. Joseph."

"Yes, sweetheart?" He raised his head for a minute, but his hands didn't move, neither from my breast, nor from my thigh. Well, his hands didn't move, but his fingers were very active, massaging my breast and my inner thigh.

"Oh," I moaned from the good, warm feeling that was spreading over my body.

"That's it, sweetheart," he whispered. Without taking his eyes from mine, he put his hand inside my drawers and began to rub my hair down there.

Without thinking, my legs opened and I leaned back.

His fingers searched and found my opening, and he slowly inserted just a tip inside, receding when I flinched.

"Oh," I gasped, blinking at him. "What are you doing?"

He didn't answer and began to rub another spot.

It felt good—very good, and I relaxed again.

"You're so beautiful, Chloé."

Soon he was rubbing me quickly and I was panting; he was breathing hard and I was writhing, until I screamed, "Jo-seph!"

I started when I heard myself brokenly crying out in pleasure, and pushing him away, I fled back to the party, going directly to the bathroom.

In the mirror my reflection showed reddened lips and a flushed face. I could see my puckered nipples peaking through the thin gauze-and-lace of my most beautiful evening dress. When I touched my drawers, they were wet.

I was confused, but—oh!—haven't I liked it.

When I got out of the bathroom, he was leaning against the door jamb. I hesitated, not knowing what to do, and lowered my head.

He picked my hand up with his, and gallantly kissed it. "Forgive me for being so forward, Chloé."

Stumbling on words, I said, "Monsieur le baron, please don't tell my mother."

"I won't tell anyone," he answered, and continued, "but you must call me Joseph."

When he offered me his arm, I stepped back.

"Are you afraid of me, sweetheart?"

And in a whisper, I confessed, "Non, monsieur—Joseph, I mean. I am...I never felt something...like that."

"Beautiful girl." He smiled, kissed my forehead, and putting my hand on his arm, led me back to my mother's side.

After a few minutes, the baron said his goodbyes, saying he would call the next morning.

I couldn't begin to imagine that he would propose on that very next morning. And that my parents would accept him in my name.

You see, I was 17 years old then—I am now 18—and a virgin. I mean to say, I am 18 years old and still a virgin.

I've been raised in a convent in France and haven't had much contact with men, but for the last three months, in a few parties in Paris and London. I was sure I was going to find a rich Prince Charming who would solve all my problems—and save my family from bankruptcy.

I knew I must marry, but I must say it was rather a shock. I wasn't expecting—or planning—on doing it so fast.

Let me state here that I didn't go to the gardens with any intention of seducing the baron. Also, don't go thinking the baron is a seducer of young girls. He is a gentleman first and foremost.

In the month that followed the proposal and our pending marriage, my father forbade me to see the baron alone, while my mother instructed me in the art of sex, or as she said, "What a woman must endure to survive."

To be truthful, I didn't care much for her talks, and even found some things to be funny. I guess my father never made my mother feel good the way I had felt in the baron's arms.

The baron took me—and my parents—to lunches, teas, and dinners. He took me—and my mother—shopping. Fresh flowers, delicious chocolates, and small mementos, with his handwritten cards attached, arrived at our rented apartment every day. He bought me a new and complete wardrobe, paid for my wedding dress, and gave me a priceless diamond ring.

During that month, he stole a few kisses as he said his good-byes. Two days ago, my father allowed us a few minutes alone, with the living room door opened.

He didn't touch me as I was expecting. Instead, we had a serious talk, and he promised me I wouldn't need for anything in my married life, that we would be very happy, and our kids as beautiful as I am. Just before my father knocked on the door jamb, he kissed me passionately, saying he was anxiously waiting for our wedding night.

Yesterday, we married in a lavish ceremony in Beardley Manor Chapel, followed by a sumptuous party held by the lake gardens.

It was a beautiful spring morning and I was allowed for the first time to drink champagne.

I guess I overdid it because after my mother put me in bed, yesterday afternoon, I slept and only woke up this morning.

Now I must wash, dress, and go down to have breakfast with my husband.