The Secret Diary of Lady Catherine Bexley by Viveka Portman Page B

finger inside me. I gasped, but he withdrew and examined his fingertip. I could see my virginal blood glistening in the flickering light. He gave me a brief, apologetic smile, turned and left my rooms.
    Soon after his departure, Hetty came in and fussed over my bloodied thighs and the ruin of my sheets. She had the servants draw a bath for me, and for a time I soaked. As I did, I pondered the slow grinding sense of dissatisfaction that my husband’s first conjugal visit has inspired.
    So, dear diary, my wedding night is over, and I have lain awake for hours, listening to the wretched ticking of the mantle clock, a frustrating reminder of my husband’s acts.

Friday 9 July 1813
    My days have been filled with such activity that I scarce have time to breathe. However, it is not those activities of which I wish to write. It is this damnable ache, the sheer longing I feel. It has not abated since my wedding night and indeed, if anything, it is inflamed.
    What has happened to me? I wonder. Does every wife feel this heat? Does my husband suffer so? If he does, he masks it so well I cannot tell.
    Like most married men, I suppose, he takes to his carnal duties well enough, but regrettably it is passionless, perfunctory. Yet, those brief, harsh and intimate occasions leave me with an ache so fierce I scarce know what to do. I’ve heard whispers in the sitting room of other ladies speaking of taking their ease by their own hand, but I scarce know what to do, and fear what my husband should do if ever I was caught. I also hear gossip of other ladies taking a paramour. Again, I think my Lord Joseph might slay me in my sleep if such an indiscretion was ever discovered.
    Since our wedding night, he has visited my rooms often. The pain of that first time lessened on the second, and all but vanished by the third. Yet as the pain has diminished my dissatisfaction has grown. Now, when he leaves me, I have a heavy sensation that lingers between my thighs, and restlessness that cannot be accounted for.
    Not long ago, my moons came, along with my husband’s great disappointment. I stayed in confinement for seven days, and last night he came to me again.
    ‘Are you able to receive me?’ he asked. The door of my room creaked as he pushed it open.
    He was, as ever, dressed only in a night gown, lightly tied at his waist. He’d bathed and his hair was damp, brushed back from his high proud forehead.
    ‘I am,’ I replied, unable to hold his gaze.
    I lay back on the bed, as he strode towards the bedside table and the pot of olive oil.
    I watched his long fingers dip into the green-gold fluid, whilst the other worked at the belt of his gown.
    ‘You won’t need that,’ I said softly, hoping I wouldn’t offend. This night, my state of dissatisfaction was intensified — for reasons unfathomable to myself. I could feel the slickness between my legs.
    The look my husband gave me could have frozen Hell itself. ‘Will I not?’
    I hesitated, ‘No’.
    Still, my husband allowed the gown to fall open, as he greased the swelling length of his staff, regardless of my words.
    ‘You are a gentle woman, Catherine, I would rather not cause you pain. This oil ensures that any discomfort caused by my needs will be minimised,’ he explained.
    ‘Your needs don’t cause …’ I began, but he cut me off.
    ‘Shhh.’
    His staff glistened in the candlelight and I could smell the slight sweetness of the oil. I felt my stomach tighten with that peculiar longing.
    I fell quiet and began to remove my nightdress. It was his preference that I merely lift it to my waist. However, I longed to feel his skin against mine, for once unimpeded by scratching lace.
    I threw the wretched thing on the floor, where it landed in a heap.
    My husband stared at the discarded cloth. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked, averting his eyes from my naked body.
    ‘I am taking off my nightdress,’ I replied. ‘It seems to me that you have no clothes on, and perhaps it may be better