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

Chapter 4

Disappointment

Mon Cher Journal,

I hate to be disappointed. I hate, I hate, I hate.

But let me tell you why I am ranting.

I have woken this morning feeling rested and cheerful. I was at the garden lake early and waited for breakfast to be served for a long time, but no one appeared. When I was too hungry to wait more, I went back to the manor and discovered my mother-in-law had ordered breakfast to be served in the Yellow Drawing Room as she was feeling cold.

When I arrived there, my husband had already left and the dowager baroness had retired to her rooms. The housekeeper, Mrs. Lynd, a stout woman with a dark mustache, who was cleaning the table, told me in a severe voice that I had to be on time for meals and that she was not going to heat everything again.

I broke my fast alone, washing down my tears with cold tea and toast. After, I wandered through the rooms and played a bit of piano, which immediately lifted my spirits.

By noon time, I had changed clothes and was waiting for the baron in the library to have lunch with him and his mother. And again, I waited and waited but no one appeared.

When the clock struck two, I went searching for Mr. Longman, our butler, asking him about my husband. He told me the baron had left right after breakfast and wouldn't be back for dinner. I asked about my mother-in-law and he answered she was abed and didn't want to be bothered. Finally, I asked about lunch. He eyed me quizzically and replied that as I hadn't ordered lunch, cook had already retired to her rooms and that meant I had to wait for tea time.

I couldn't believe my ears. I raised my chin and informed him I was expecting all the house staff in the dining room for a meeting in one hour.

I was not going to let things run amok in my home.

I spent that hour in the library furiously writing instructions and rules on sheets of paper I planned to distribute to those mal-educat employees.

I wandered into our grand dining room and surveyed the place. I am looking forward to the day I will give my first reception in our beautiful house. I sat myself in my husband's tall chair at the head of the long mahogany table.

The meeting was stressed to say the least, but with all the pomp and aplomb I had learned at the convent, I handed the housekeeper, the butler, the cook, and head of the footmen the new rules they would be following and reminded them that the baron said I was the one who gave orders in that house from now on and demanded tea to be served in half-an-hour with pastries and finger-sandwiches by the garden lake.

When they remained there speechless, staring at me, I snapped my fingers and said, "Allez-y."

To no avail as they didn't speak a word of French, les ignorantes! Suppressing an annoyed sigh, I translated, "You must go."

They bobbed their heads and went and in thirty minutes I was gorging myself with delicious food freshly prepared just for me. Ha! They weren't going to make me a fool inside my own house.

I spent the rest of the day taking notes about flower arrangements and planning menus and retired to my rooms after informing Mrs. Lynd I didn't want dinner, but only a cold supper delivered with champagne to my sitting room while I readied myself for the night.

Martha, my mother-in-law's maid, prepared a warm bath for me, brushed my hair until it shined, oiled my skin, and helped me don another beautiful white nightgown. I sat in my sitting room with a book, sipping the cold champagne.

When I heard the baron's footsteps, I hurried to the bathroom to refresh myself and went back to the sofa.

He entered my rooms after a brief knock on the door, again carrying two glasses of Cherry. "Good evening, Chloé. I—What's this?"

I thought he was referring to the supper and I explained that I had ordered it prepared for the two of us.

He crossed the room with a frown darkening his face, put the glasses on the table, and took the flute from my hand. "Why are you drinking?"

Why was I drinking? Because I wanted. But I didn't say it. He was angry, I could tell, but he shocked me when he threw my champagne in the ice bucket and banged the flute on the table, saying, "You are not allowed to drink. It's not good for your health."

"I'm sorry," I said. "I—"

"Go to bed," he said.

"Joseph, non," I complained, putting my hands on his shoulders. I didn't want to make love with him angry at me.

"Bed," he repeated. And gulped down the contents of both glasses of cherry!

I hurried to my bedroom and slid between the sheets.

There was no talk last night as there had been on the previous.

My husband took off his robe, turned off the lights, laid down beside me, and pushed his tongue between my lips.

I pushed at his chest. "Joseph, I—"

"Shut up, Chloé." He tugged at the ribbons of my gown and it opened, revealing my breasts to him. He drew a nipple between his lips and sucked in sharp pulls, and thrust his hand between my thighs, pushing them apart. "Spread your legs."

"Joseph, please stop," I said, pushing at him again. "You're scaring me."

That made him pause. His lips wandered softly over my breast and his fingers between my legs gentled and he caressed me softly there, on that place—my small button—circling it softly and slowly.

Soon, I relaxed and he coaxed moisture from inside my body and began to rub me, and rub me, and rub me more, until I was gasping, until I was moaning, until I cried out my pleasure. But it hadn't been the same thing.

"Good girl," he said.

And then his member was inside me. And his fingers kneading my breast hard, and his tongue slobbering over my lips and face, and he was panting, huffing, gasping, and breathing hot on my neck.

He had said it would be better this time, but apart from not hurting, it wasn't better. It was as annoying and boring as last night, and every time he plunged in, he repeated, "Good girl."

I counted more than thirty good girls, before he stiffened, grunted loud and long, and spurted inside me.

In the dark, he rolled off me, got up, went to the bathroom, came back, and turned on the table light. Sitting by my side, he put a pillow under my hips and legs and caressed my cheek. "I'm sorry I scared you. It's just that I got angry when I saw you drinking. It's not good for a soon-to-be mother."

Then he kissed me good night and retired to his chambers.

Soon-to-be-mother. Oh, well, that. After a long time of pondering over his words and realizing that I was the one in the wrong, not him, I berated myself for not pleasing my husband and fell into a fitful sleep.

All I can say now, as I finish writing this and before I go down to have breakfast by the garden lake, where it's to be served every morning from now on, is that I am hoping my husband is not angry with me anymore and that I'll do everything he wants me to. I'll be the most lady-like baroness that has ruled this manor.

And also I am hoping that, somehow, the act gets better.