Chapter 7 #2
When Polly had finally gone and Joan was alone, able to take out her hard-won copy of 50 Ways to Sin at long last, she couldn’t keep her mind on it.
She turned the pamphlet over and over in her hands.
It looked innocent enough; 50 Ways to Sin, it read in plain letters that might have graced any theological tract.
The story inside, though, was anything but sober and edifying.
Every issue chronicled the flirtations of the rather wrongly named Lady Constance, a woman of the ton.
Beyond the shadowy details of being a widow of some social standing, Constance told little of herself or her history, but a great deal about the gentlemen who pursued her.
And instead of coy phrases that left a great deal to the imagination, Lady Constance described every intimate detail of her amorous encounters.
That alone would have sufficed to make the stories scandalous.
What made them the most sought after publication in London, though, were the gentlemen Constance took to her boudoir.
Statesmen, officers, men of science and men of letters, they all bore striking resemblances to actual gentlemen.
If one took Lady Constance’s word for it, she consorted with the crème de la crème of English society, right under its nose.
Part of society was appalled at such indiscretion; the gentlemen themselves protested their innocence of such carnal activities and offered rewards for the author’s identity; and everyone else seethed with delight at the challenge of unmasking each of Constance’s lovers.
Joan even knew her own mother read them, from overheard snippets of conversation with other matrons.
That hardly meant she would excuse her daughter reading them, of course; if anything, knowing what was in 50 Ways to Sin only assured Lady Bennet how thoroughly inappropriate it really was.
Which, naturally, only intensified Joan’s desire to read it, in spite of all obstacles.
It was published in a mysterious, almost covert way, with irregular distribution.
One had to know which booksellers sold it, and then one had to approach at the right time.
New issues appeared without warning, and were sold within hours.
This was the first issue Joan had been able to locate on her own.
Previously Penelope had stolen her mother’s copies and shared them with her and Abigail.
All three girls were avid followers of the series.
But somehow tonight . . . Joan flipped open the cover with one finger, though she kept seeing palm fronds instead of words. Tonight she had been kissed by a true rake, and reading about fictional kisses and embraces paled in comparison to the real thing.
She wondered if Lord Burke had read any of it.
She wondered if he even knew what it was.
It seemed unlikely that he would have resisted making some comment about it, after the way he’d teased her in the bookshop about buying prurient poetry.
But then, she never would have thought he’d buy it for her, even if his only goal was to torment her.
She pressed one hand to her temple, trying to force Lord Boor physically from her mind.
Of course he hadn’t read it; why would he need to, when his own life was probably ten times more debauched than anything in these pages?
Assuming one could possibly be more debauched.
Some issues made her blush scarlet and lie awake wondering if the acts described were even plausible.
Was there a man alive who could bring a woman to such heights of ecstasy that she almost fainted?
It made for a thrilling story, so thrilling that it seemed incredible.
But tonight, for the first time, she began to think maybe it was possible—wildly exaggerated, most likely, but slightly, remotely, possible.
With renewed interest she smoothed open the front page.
The previous issue had featured a taut scene at the opera, where Constance’s lover had stolen into her box and knelt on the floor behind her chair to pleasure her.
They had almost been discovered when Constance’s sighs reached a pinnacle at the exact moment the music suddenly stopped.
The description of the scene proved the author had been there, and everyone in London was sure they had had the box next to hers.
The issue had ended with Constance’s vow of greater propriety, which no one believed—or wished to believe.
Joan plumped up her pillow and settled in to read how wickedly that vow would be broken.
It was exceptionally shocking. Lord Everard, described as a large beast of a man, let Constance know he had overheard her passions at the opera.
It seemed to have made her attractive to him; their assignation was fixed for that very night.
Joan’s eyes grew wide as she read the method of their pleasure: Lord Everard spanked Constance!
And then he begged her to whip him with a crop as he made love to her.
By the time she reached the end of the story, Joan’s mouth was hanging open.
She immediately flipped back to the beginning and read it again before falling back into her bed, self-consciously wriggling deeper into her pillows.
Thanks to some books of poetry she had managed to filch from her brother, Joan knew far more than most young ladies about the ways men and women coupled.
It had all been wasted knowledge, of course, for a spinster, but she hadn’t given up hope yet.
Perhaps someday there would be a man who found her attractive enough that he would want to marry her, and then she would be free to explore all these sensual delights—and if the acts were this stirring when she read about them, how much more so would they be when experienced in the flesh?
She ran her finger down her throat as she imagined what it would be like to be the object of such desire.
To know that somewhere, a man existed who admired her, who wanted her so desperately he would risk scandal to be intimate with her, to hold her in his arms and make passionate love to her until she expired from the joy of it.
She spent several minutes savoring the concept, although the mystery lover in her mind somehow began to look like Lord Burke.
Even when she deliberately tried to alter her mental image of a suitor entreating her, picturing him with fair hair and a slender build, his eyes seemed to gleam at her with as much deviltry as Lord Burke’s always did.
Irritably she flipped over onto her stomach, paging through 50 Ways to Sin to re-read the key scene.
This time she lingered over every word, reading again how Sir Everard brought Constance to her climax.
Constance confessed that though his blows stung, they also excited her, amplifying her pleasure almost to the point of senselessness.
There was obviously more to lovemaking than Joan had even guessed.
Again the rogue thought crossed her mind that a rake as wicked as Tristan Burke would surely know each and every way of making a woman delirious with pleasure . . .
From the hall downstairs the clock chimed the hour of two in the morning.
In the quiet house, the sudden sound gave her a violent start.
The only thing worse than getting caught before she read 50 Ways to Sin would be getting caught the morning after, when Polly came in to make the bed.
Reluctantly she got out of bed and went to her writing desk, where she secreted the pamphlet between the pages of a book of household management stratagems. Her mother had given her the book, but thankfully didn’t quiz her on the advice within; the book’s main value in Joan’s eyes was as a place for hiding illicit items like 50 Ways to Sin.
She settled back into her bed, trying to banish the wicked images from her mind.
Overall it had been a successful night. She had punched Lord Burke in the face, obtained the elusive copy of 50 Ways to Sin, and finally been kissed by a real rake.
And best of all, she hadn’t been caught doing any of it.
If there was anything more satisfying than being naughty, it had to be being naughty without consequence.
After a long while, Joan went to sleep with a smile on her face.
Her reprieve ended at breakfast the next day.
“Good morning, dear,” said her mother, looking more like herself this morning, when Joan reached the breakfast room.
“Good morning!” She went to kiss her mother’s cheek. “You appear greatly revived.”
Lady Bennet waved one hand. “Yes, your father had the physician here for an hour. I just overtaxed myself.”
“And you won’t do it again,” put in Papa from the other end of the table.
“I’m fine, George.”
“You won’t do it again,” he repeated, turning a page of his newspaper. “Out of compassion for my nerves, if nothing else.”
It looked very much like his wife wanted to roll her eyes. Joan leapt to her mother’s defense. “She looks very well this morning, Papa. Anyone could become overtired at a ball. It was very hot in that room last night.”
Her father gave her a glance. “Overruled, am I? Then I charge you, miss, with seeing that your mother drinks that entire dose of tonic.” He nodded at a small glass at Lady Bennet’s elbow, which held a dark plum-colored liquid.
“I shall take myself off and try to recover from the great anxiety I experienced last night.” He rose and gave a brief bow. “Your servant, ladies.”
“Good-bye, Papa,” said Joan sweetly. “Good luck bidding on horses at Tattersall’s.”
“Minx,” he said with a wink, and left the room.
“Are you truly well, Mother?” Joan turned back to her mother when her father was gone. Lady Bennet did look much improved, but up close Joan could see how pale she was.