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

Chapter 11

Planting Hopes

Mon Cher Journal,

After breakfast with my mother-in-law, I went to the stables to meet with the gardener. To start the rose garden planting, of course.

I was a bit apprehensive about meeting him, the Italian gardener. As I slowly walked there, I mused about the innocent flirtation we had yesterday in the library and about the rules and the code of ethics which should exist between an employer and an employee. It was clear to me he didn't follow any.

I asked the stables head-master, Mr. Smith, if he had seen the gardener. He asked which gardener I was looking for. I must tell you I was so stunned by the man's figure, I forgot to ask his name. So I tried for a description.

"He is tall." And I moved my hand up to show Mr. Smith how tall the gardener is.

"We have many gardeners who are tall, Lady Beardley," Mr. Smith said.

He was right. We have more than ten gardeners working full time on our big property and many who would fit this simple description. I tried again. "He is Italian." I know that because of his accent.

"Ricardo?" Mr. Smith frowned. "Or Salvatore? Marcello, perhaps?"

I didn't know what his name was and annoyed at my stupidity, I said, "He is dark-haired, handsome, rugged, virile!"

Mr. Smith's eyes widened at that and I blushed furiously at my faux-pas and tried to fix it, "He looks like a very rude man."

Mr. Smith coughed in his hand and confirmed, "Yes, it's Salvatore."

I discovered he had left after waiting for fifteen minutes, saying he had to sheer the brambles on the other side of Beardley Park.

A bit ashamed for being late—and also annoyed at having made an idiot of myself—I made my way through huge trees and wild grass, soaking the hem of my dress on the grass still wet by dew.

And there he was: bare-chested, sweat dotting his tanned back and glistening on his defined muscles as he wielded big garden scissors and unmercifully pruned the shrubs.

I stood behind an oak, teetering between the irresistible idea of being near that delectable man and the incorrectness of it.

After all, I am a respectable married woman—the lady of the manor—and shouldn't be ogling my husband's employee with greedy eyes but I couldn't take my gaze away from him, imagining those hands on my skin. My nipples tightened and puckered, pushing against the silk of my dress, and I pressed my thighs one against the other.

Before I could decide if I should go, or stay and talk to him, he stretched his back and caught me red-handed.

Tilting his head to the side, he said, "You're late, cara."

"I'm sorry. I—" I cut myself short, not needing to apologize for a tardiness of a mere fifteen minutes. "I want to begin my rose garden."

He eyed me from head to toe, and his gaze lingered on my heavy breasts. I squirmed under his stare. A stare that promised naughty and forbidden things, things like those Jean did with Collette!

He smirked as if he knew what I was feeling and said, "Then be at the stables tomorrow at nine o'clock. Sharp."

With that, he went back to working, dismissing me as if I was an irritating buzzing bee.

I stood there with my mouth agape for a whole minute before walking back to the manor, directly to my bedroom. Fuming, I banged the door with so much force that the dowager's maid, Martha, rushed to see if everything was alright.

I assured her nothing was the matter, but when she looked me over, she tsked and began to undo my coiffed hair, plucking a leaf from it, and then unbuttoned my dress, horrified by the mud that mucked the skirt. "You should take a bath, milady. By the way, the baron sent flowers and a card."

She pointed to yellow English roses in a vase on the center table of my sitting room and an envelope by it. Sighing inward, I picked up the card and read:

Dear Chloé,

I'm sorry to know your period has come again.

I'll be back in seven days.

Your husband,

Joseph

Mon Dieu! In a week, the twenty-day dull process of trying to get me pregnant is going to begin anew. Even though the baron strives to give me pleasure before he starts the act itself, it has become increasingly difficult for me to enjoy it. I now know he is not doing it for me, or for us, but for himself. It is...mechanical and most of the times I feign orgasming so he just ends the act swiftly. I don't think I can take this for much longer. I have to find a distraction for the baron when he is home!

As I watched the dowager's maid fill the bathtub with warm water and threw in some bathing salts, I had an idea. "Martha, spread the word I am looking for a lady's maid. Someone young and pleasant to the eyes."

"Of course, Lady Beardley," she said. And looking at the floor, whispered, "I'm sorry I'm not pleasing you, milady."

Martha is old: her hair is salt-and-pepper, her face full of age lines, and her back is stumped by years of hard work. As any old woman, sometimes she is slow and forgetful, but Martha is one of those rare maids who find pleasure in their service. Sweet and dedicated, since I have arrived here, she has fussed and pampered me in the same way my nanny did when I was a small child.

"Martha, non!" I cried, and rushed to her side, taking her hands in mine. "You please me, I swear. It's just..." I couldn't tell her why I was looking for a young girl. "It's just that you are the dowager's maid, and it's unfair to burden your shoulders with all the cleaning and pressing my clothes need and my baths and massages."

"Oh, no, milady. It's no trouble," she said, her smile returning. "It's a pleasure to serve you."

"I know, Martha. But my lady's maid will only be here to help you with the hard work."

I was glad she was gullible enough to be fooled by my lame excuse and that I had not hurt her feelings. It was the last thing I wanted to do to hurt someone who has treated me so well.

She told me she would find the best applicants for me to interview and left the room, informing me she would be back with tea and biscuits for a morning snack.

I entered the tub. The gardener's image entered my mind.

I didn't waste time and fingered myself. Water sloshed all over the floor as my hands quickened and my hips undulated, seeking fulfillment. I had to bite on my lip to avoid gasping my pleasure out loud.

I let out a sigh as I mused that at least my husband has taught me how to find pleasure.