The Wicked Confessions Of Lady Cecelia Stanton (novella)

  The Wicked Confessions

  of

  Lady Cecelia Stanton

  Viveka Portman

  Contents

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Epilogue

  Bestselling Titles by Escape Publishing…

  The Wicked Confessions of Lady Cecelia Stanton

  Viveka Portman

  When faced with a rakish, lusty husband, what is a proper English wife to do but educate herself in the art of bedplay?

  “Marriages are strange things, none stranger perhaps than this betwixt me and my lord husband.”

  Lady Cecelia is married to the dashing and philandering Lord William Stanton, a situation that would distress even the most composed and refined gently-born lady. However, Cecelia has a secret balm to her dissatisfaction: her maid, Bess Miller.

  Cecelia’s inexperience and William’s insatiable appetites fuel her desire to learn, and Bess is a willing teacher. Then, when Cecelia blossoms into pregnancy and can no longer accommodate William’s needs, he distances himself, and Bess becomes her only solace and comfort — and the channel for her most intimate desires. As Cecelia struggles to understand her own feelings, gossip begins to spread. William starts asking questions, and wicked confessions must be made...

  About the Author

  Viveka Portman is an author of romantic erotic fiction, and has a fascination about times past. With a bachelor degree in anthropology, Viveka weaves historical fact into fiction to create lively, realistic and thrilling tales, sure to titillate and engage the most discerning reader. Considered an upstanding member of society, Viveka does not make a habit of eavesdropping, gossiping or making vulgar displays of impropriety — except, that is, in writing.

  Acknowledgements

  I’d like to acknowledge and thank Escape Publishing and Kate Cuthbert for their enthusiasm and support of my regency tales. I’d also like to thank my family, for accepting without comment the content of my stories. To Shona Husk, what a wonderful critique partner and friend you are. These stories would never have seen the light of day without your constant support and advice.

  For my friends, you know who you are…

  Chapter 1

  Thursday 17th June 1813

  Wiltshire, England.

  I am with child, again.

  In the unfortunate event I do not recover from this birth, I write my confessions in this diary. I do so in the hope that should word of my most intimate affairs ever become public, then these confessions may give insight into the reasons behind them.

  This is not an easy disclosure, and yet I must, in part to distract myself from my growing fear, but also to remind those I love of why I have taken this path, and perhaps explain why rumours abound regarding my husband and myself.

  My name is Lady Cecelia Stanton, wife of Lord William Stanton of Stanton House, Wiltshire. By September next, we will have been married seven years. In those seven years, with God’s Grace, I will have delivered five healthy children – providing of course I birth this one successfully.

  One may be tempted to deduce from our ever-growing brood that we have a highly compatible marriage – though such deductions would be incorrect. Our marriage has been fraught with difficulties.

  I married William at the somewhat tender age of eighteen. I recall at the time, I neither wanted nor relished the prospect of marriage, but my father was adamant as fathers often are.

  Our marriage ceremony was a quiet one. My husband, it must be stated, was known to be something of a rake. It was his family’s most ardent wish that marriage to me would settle him. No thought however, was given to the fact that I personally found the idea of marriage, particularly to him, abhorrent. It has always rankled me that what is best for the gentleman is not always the best for the lady yet society seems bent on keeping it these inconvenient methods.

  Prior to my marriage, I was never the sort of young lady to fawn over young men. Of course I found the odd one attractive, and frequently pondered over the occasional swelling in a male’s breeches – but never for too long. You see, my interest had already been taken. Many young women fill their minds with the hope of suggestive glances from young handsome men, the improper reading of scandalous books, skilful sewing, or the sweetness of puppies or kittens. My interest and affections however were taken with one Bess Miller.

  I met Bess when I was fourteen, when she was a mere scullery maid. I was an unruly child prone to wickedness even then. I took inordinate pleasure in causing mischief for my governess and nanny.

  I recall my first meeting with Bess with vivid clarity.

  I had been exploring the estate’s greenhouse one morning with the specific objective of avoiding my governess. It was there I happened upon a most outrageous scene. The gardener, a Mister Thistleswaite, had his breeches about his knees and appeared to be urinating over one of the potted lemon trees. His manhood was limp and withered, reminiscent of a butchered turkey neck. I found this sight shockingly amusing, and veritably squealed with hilarity. Unsurprisingly perhaps, Mister Thistleswaite turned and saw me, his face as red as a beet. He frantically tried to make himself decent, but I turned and fled, laughing uproariously as I did. I could hear him call to one of the gardening lads, but I headed toward the kitchens. My hysterically amused flight made me careless and as I hurtled through the kitchens, I stumbled. With arms splayed, my fall overturned a boiling pot of potatoes. The scalding water washed over my hands, and my laughter turned to screams.

  I shudder to think of the damage that may have been done had the pot overturned upon my head, alas, at the time the injury to my hand was pain enough.

  As I cried, it was Bess who first came to me.

  A tall, wiry and strong girl, she lifted me to my feet and rushed me to a bucket of icy water, which the cook used to wash vegetables before consumption. Without waiting for my approval she thrust my hand into the chilled, dirty water. I screamed louder and tears stung my eyes.

  Cook then came to the rescue.

  ‘What you doing, Miss Cecelia?’ she chided, shooing Bess away. She pulled my hand from the water and glanced at it. ‘Serve you right. Young ladies like yon self shouldn’t be straying where they’ve no place.’

  She was of course correct. I had behaved in a fashion singularly inappropriate for my station.

  I looked upon Bess then. She had her back toward me and was busy cleaning the mess of potatoes. Her maid’s uniform stretched over her broad back and her sleeves were rolled up her arms. I admired her then, so strong, calm and composed, yet only a year older than I.

  Cook shortly ordered Bess to wrap my hand in some muslin after the scald had cooled. The feel of Bess’s work-roughened hands, and the simple tenderness of her touch simply took my breath away.

  I feel I must express something here. As a child of the peerage, my education in women’s arts was of the utmost importance. It left little time for naïve and silly things such as displays of affection and kindness. So Bess’s attentions awoke something within me. Our friendship blossomed, and at times it felt as though we were part of the same body. I was the left hand and she was the right.

  So it was I made myself a vow that day. I would no longer be the silly, flighty girl I had been. I would be stronger, I would be calmer. I chose to become more mindful of my behaviour, though I often went to seek Bess in the kitchens. My sole intent on these occasions was to steal her away
. Occasionally, I was successful. We would to spend the afternoons whispering and laughing behind the sitting room curtains – away from Cook’s red-faced glares and my governess’s haughty disdain.

  It is little surprise then that it was Bess who opened my eyes to the world of men and women. The first time she tumbled in the hay with Carter, the son of our head groom, she recounted the wicked details to me with glee.

  I’ll confess, I was mightily jealous of her, sinful though it was. You must understand, I had no desire to tumble with Carter, who smelled of horseshit and had teeth like the animals he managed, but I did want something. I was merely unsure of what.

  My jealousy however did not just stem from wanting someone to tumble with. It also came from knowing Carter touched Bess in a way no one had touched me, and likely never would. I ached for even the simplest form of affection. When Bess would touch my hand, I was suffused with joy.

  Internally, I would question myself. I understood not why I felt this way, and wondered if Bess may feel the same. She gave no indication that she did.

  It continued thus, until my marriage, when everything changed…and so begins my confession.

  My father announced my engagement to Lord William Stanton over dinner one evening in 1806. I had only just started my first season in London. Truly, I still feel it unfair that my one and only season was cut so miserably short. I felt something harden within me. William Stanton? I recall thinking. Is he not the young Lord who was caught sodomising a maid during the Yule Tide Ball, a year last? Indeed he was. Bess, as it turned out, had family in service with the Stantons and knew many of the wicked details.

  You may well envision my misery. I beseeched my father to reconsider, but he was, as ever, adamant. We were a good match, or so it was said, and my dower was a happy supplement to the Stanton coffers. I could do nothing but adhere to my father’s wishes, but I asked one boon of him. I had only one wish, and that was to keep Bess as my lady’s maid.

  My father accepted and preparations for the nuptials began. I left everything in the capable hands of my stepmother, a young woman whose marriage to my father had occurred three years prior, upon the death of my mother. I shall admit that, despite my grievances regarding my pending marriage, I had at least escaped the misfortune of marrying a man twenty years my senior.

  As I said, my marriage ceremony was a quiet one, the party even quieter. My new husband seemed to enjoy himself. I believe this enjoyment was mostly due to the wine he had consumed.

  I feel I must state that my Lord husband is a devilishly handsome man. Fine of form, with thick dark hair and lively blue eyes. I took care to watch him that eve. His shoulders were broad and stretched the cloth of his fine coat as he moved. I noticed other women offering him admiring glances. Though I could see his physical fineness, his shamelessness in attitude was quite repugnant. He has a swagger, you see, a cockiness and sureness of manner that distresses and amuses me in equal measure. William’s gaze upon me was crudely hungry. I could verily see the wicked thoughts cross his mind behind his sparkling eyes. Shameless, that is what he was.

  It was soon time for the bedding. Many a ribald comment was made as we farewelled our guests and retired to my rooms. Bess was awaiting us, solemn-eyed and patient.

  ‘A maid?’ William chortled, and waved Bess away before he turned to me. ‘This night, my dear, I shall be as your maid. I shall serve you, however, in a vastly different manner.’ He laughed once more.

  I watched with trepidation Bess’s retreat. When the door clicked behind her, my stomach knotted.

  ‘Here, Ceecee. You look lost. Shall I order her to stay? I don’t mind an audience!’ His voice was thick with mirth.

  What a singularly inappropriate man.

  William chortled again at my evident surprise. ‘My lady, let me help you out of that damnably prudish gown. Why would you choose such a thing for wedding?’

  I glanced down at the white damask gown. I had thought it rather elegant in a tight, uncomfortable way. The stays were constricting, but the material very fine.

  ‘My stepmother chose it,’ I said quietly, willing my cheeks to not bloom with the embarrassment his words provoked.

  He grunted, his long fingers working at the laces and wrenching them apart. ‘You look incredibly uncomfortable. Dare I say you look as though you’ve had a cock up your arse all evening.’ He paused and surveyed me with those sparkling blue eyes. ‘But I said to myself, “William my man, she can’t possibly have a cock up her arse, you’ve not bedded her yet!’” He chortled again, slapping his thigh in evident merriment.

  I choked and flushed at his words. ‘My stays are too tight,’ I whispered in shame. Mortification made my words thick, and eyes glisten. Is that what he planned to do to me? Bess had never done such a thing – not that she’d divulged to me at any rate.

  He sobered minutely. ‘No matter. Let us rid you of the beastly garment then! But rest assured my dear, if you wish to walk about looking as though you’ve a cock in your arse, you need not wear tight stays. I shall gladly accommodate you in that regard.’ His laughter boomed around the room and he swatted playfully at my derriere.

  The sharp slap brought a paroxysm of surprise rushing through my body and I cried, ‘My lord,’ at the unfamiliar contact and stepped away. ‘I am quite ill-used to this bawdy talk. Forgive me, if I cannot join in your merriment.’

  William rolled his eyes, chuckled some more before he stripped off his shirt. It danced to the floor in the flickering lamplight.

  ‘I offer you no apologies, Ceecee. You shall become used to my manner, I hope, and if I do say your rump looks ripe for a rogering…’ He smirked.

  What did he mean? Though Bess had educated me in many of the ribald vocabulary of the lower classes, I was not entirely certain of his implication, and nor on this occasion did I care to investigate.

  Chapter 2

  My husband freed me of my clothing then, stating that the feminine form was too beautiful to be encumbered by cloth at times such as these. I personally disagreed and began to say as such. Alas, as he was wont to do, William laughed at my prudishness. His deft fingers made short work of my garments and soon, I stood naked before him.

  The candles in my room flickered and my body felt taut and uncomfortable under his licentious gaze. How many other women had my husband eyed like this? Many, I knew. His hands reached towards my breasts and with both hands he gripped them, hefting their weight as one might with a ripe peach or melon. His fingers grazed across my nipples. His touch was rough, but curious. I stared down at the hands that captured my breasts and realised belatedly that he was the first to ever touch them. Something warmed betwixt my legs.

  ‘Lovely teats,’ he murmured, bending down and suckling on each pebbled tip. He looked into my eyes then with a look of pure wickedness. ‘See how I stroke and kiss them?’

  I nodded, my breath caught in my throat and he nuzzled at them again. The caress made my body tighten and yearn. For what, I was uncertain.

  ‘I want you to stroke and kiss my cock like this.’ His breath was hot and laced with wine, brushing against my face.

  For a moment, I scarcely was able to breathe.

  He truly was a philandering beast.

  William’s hands left my breasts and he unlaced his breeches and pulled them off.

  It was then that I got my first glimpse of his cock.

  It was nothing like Mister Thistleswaite’s limp horror. Nor was it as Bess had described Carter’s squat hairy thing.

  My lord husband had what could only be described as a rather impressive staff. It jutted high and thick from the hair that dusted his groin. He gripped my reluctant hand and dragged it towards his length.

  I was torn with the twin desire to touch it and run away. I was certain it would never fit inside me – any part!

  However, his grip made the decision for me.

  Under his strong, guiding hand, my fingertips grazed the ruddy, swollen head and circled around the gaping single eye. I heard
my husband groan, and I ran my fingers once more around. In response to my caress, his phallus seemed to leap forward in eagerness.

  Absurdly, I felt my quim begin to pulse between my legs.

  He was scorching hot, as soft as brushed velvet beneath my fingers, and as I watched, a pearly bead of seed swelled from its eye.

  ‘Would you so bold as to kiss it?’ My husband’s voice drew me from my reverie.

  I looked up and caught his twinkling eyes. He winked.

  I felt my cheeks burn with embarrassment.

  ‘No.’ I withdrew my hand and turned away, though his suggestion made my mouth water.

  I heard William click his tongue. ‘Shame,’ he replied.

  Without warning his hand came around and gripped my buttock, he squeezed it hard and the pain flashed through my entire body. I gasped out aloud. Despite the grinding weight and heaviness in my womb, a sure indicator of my body’s interest in him, I was growing increasingly fearful.

  ‘To the bed with you, good woman,’ William cried with gregarious chivalry.

  He must have seen the stiffening in my demeanour for he gently drew me to him. Pressing bodily against my husband, with his member jutting eagerly against me, did little to calm me.

  I could hear his heart pounding in the lean planes of his chest.

  ‘I’ll be gentle,’ he murmured, ‘but only if you want me to be.’

  I nodded, feeling as skittish as an unbroken horse, and allowed him to guide me to the bed. It was my first night in Stanton, and everything felt terribly unfamiliar. I sank down atop the blankets, and William swiftly covered me.

  I squeezed my eyes tightly shut. I could feel him writhe betwixt my thighs until his manhood was situated firmly between the juncture there.

  To my surprise, I found the threat of his invasion not in the least unpleasant – quite the opposite. The position in which we lay spoke of promise, passion and excitement, though I remained chastely reluctant.