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

Chapter 10

Perils of Boredom

Mon Cher Journal,

There is no one I can talk to and I need to get this off my chest! I'm frazzled and in a confused state because of what happened—is happening.

But let me backtrack a bit.

Right after Collette's sojourn and a few days of fucking for procreation (!), I slipped and fell down over my right arm, breaking it above the elbow. It took four long months to heal in a cast and then four more painful months of doing exercises to move it again and to be able to write. But to be truthful, my life has been so uneventful I had nothing exciting that vied for my putting pen to paper.

I have been married for more than two years now. Eight months ago, after an ancient doctor asked me a thousand and one questions and probed my body with unpleasant instruments, I have been forbidden to ride, instructed to take very early morning walks in a sedate pace while taking deep breaths, and the baron added middle morning and before-tea-time visits to my bed. Yet, I haven't gotten pregnant. Oh, well. Maybe I am barren.

Two days ago, my husband traveled on one of his usual business trips and left me here alone with his mother. Again.

Well, not really alone, as we have many employees and the dowager has many friends who come every day to chat, play cards, and have tea with her.

Yesterday, bored out of my mind, I decided to do some gardening—or rather, I decided I wanted some gardening done.

I love English roses and I thought that when in bloom they would be a lovely sight to be seen when I came back from my walks.

I asked the butler to call the head gardener, Mr. Jacursky.

I like Mr. Jacursky a lot. He is very patient and attentive to all my requests for the manor's weekly flower arrangements.

But the man who walked into me while I was having my tea was not Mr. Jacursky!

When the dark, tall, and handsome male specimen—as none I have ever seen, not that I've seen many—knocked on the opened door and stepped in the room a warmth instantly spread through my body making me blush.

I was speechless for what must have been a too long moment, because he smirked at me and asked if he was dismissed already.

Idiotically, I said, "Non, monsieur. You have just entered."

"But you have already looked your fill, milady," he answered.

I sputtered on my tea.

Oh! Wasn't he arrogant? Yet that arrogance sat well on those broad shoulders and large chest.

Without me inviting him, he sat on the sofa by my side, and I felt obliged to ask him if he wanted some tea. To my surprise, he accepted. When I handed him the tea cup our hands brushed and a frisson went through me.

Embarrassed, I cleared my throat and said, "Monsieur, I wish to have roses planted by the pool which faces my rooms." I told him in detail the kind of roses I wanted and the exact way he would have to plant them so they would blossom in a delicate rainbow of white, pale-rose, and pink.

He nodded time and again, eating with gusto the small finger sandwiches, scones, and delicate pastries. When I finished my explanation, he said, "If you want to get your roses planted, cara, meet me tomorrow morning by the stables, and be ready to get dirty."

With that, he smirked, turned, and walked out.

Oh. And Mr. Jacursky?

The poor man is having a severe arthritis crisis.

As the lady of Beardley Manor, I asked Mr. Longman, our butler, to let him know I was giving him the month off.

Because, tomorrow, I am going to plant roses with the Italian gardener.