Excerpts from Helen’s Diary
I am quite ashamed of my new-sprung distaste for country life. All my former occupations seem so tedious and dull, my former amusements so insipid and unprofitable. I cannot enjoy my music, because there is no one to hear it. I cannot enjoy my walks, because there is no one to meet. I cannot enjoy my books, because they have not power to arrest my attention. My head is so haunted with the recollections of the last few weeks that I cannot attend to them. My drawing suits me best, for I can draw and think at the same time, and if my productions cannot now be seen by anyone but myself and those who do not care about them, they possibly may be hereafter.
But then there is one face I am always trying to paint or to sketch, and always without success, and that vexes me. As for the owner of that face, I cannot get him out of my mind—and indeed I never try. I wonder whether he ever thinks of me, and I wonder whether I shall ever see him again. Then might follow a train of other wonderments—questions for time and fate to answer—concluding with—‘Supposing all the rest be answered in the affirmative, I wonder whether I shall ever repent it?’ As my aunt would tell me I should if she knew what I was thinking about, and what strange, delightful feelings have been excited in me.
Oh, what have I done, and what will be the end of it?...
To feel his hands on me filled me with such desire I could barely breathe. He crushed me against him, pressing his body to mine, and I felt his hard member poking into my stomach. I gasped at the feeling, and he took the opportunity to slide his tongue into my mouth, flicking the tip against mine. I should have stepped back, but my body yearned for him, and I found myself mimicking his movements with my own tongue, clinging to him as his hands began a slow, inexorable slide along the curve of my back.
When he cupped my buttocks a surge of heat rushed to my quim and I felt myself growing wet, aching for his touch. I could picture him laying me on the sofa, raising my skirts and entering me—but I could not allow that, though I longed for it.
“Mr Huntingdon—we cannot,” I told him hastily as he pulled back to take a breath.
His smile told me he knew we could, if I would let him.
“Helen,” he interrupted me, pressing a fervent kiss to my neck as I paused. “You need not worry—your virtue is safe. But you want to—I know you want to.”
Another kiss fell on my neck and I moaned, unable to stop myself.
“Tell me what you want, Helen,” he whispered.
“I want you—” I caught my breath, forcing the words out. “I want you to stop, Mr Huntingdon.”
“Ah, Helen, you are lying.” He gave a wicked, low chuckle, and I bit my lip to stifle a cry as he tightened his hands on my bottom. “You want me to continue.”
How could I lie to him? I did want him to continue—I wanted his touch, his kiss, the pleasure he would give me—but I knew we could not. If my aunt were to come through the door, she would be horrified—she would never forgive me, and Mr Huntingdon would be barred from the house, his suit for my hand would be refused and my happiness ruined forever. I could not allow it, and yet I ached for it so badly, to stop would be almost painful.
“Tell me, Helen. Tell me you want this, and I’ll stop.”
“I—” He was kissing my throat, moving lower, and my heart was beating faster. In a moment I was sure he would expose my bosom from my dress. The thought was so arousing I was on the verge of giving in, and he sensed my hesitation, pressing another kiss to my chest, then another.
“I want this!” I finally cried in desperation. “Now please, Mr Huntingdon, stop!”
I have had several letters from Arthur already. They are not long, but passing sweet, and just like himself, full of ardent affection and playful lively humour. My aunt has not asked to see them, fortunately—I would not wish to show them in any case, but certainly not in this case, as they frequently contain descriptions of his hopes for our wedding night, and while I see no reason to be shocked at this, the thought of her looking over them is enough to make me shudder.
He tells me how much he has imagined seeing me naked, how he wishes me to undress for him, to recline on the bed and display myself for him, and oh! The idea is so wanton, yet so exciting! To picture myself revealed for his delectation, touching myself as I do still at night, bringing myself to completion under his gaze! I have never desired anything so much in my life, and when I read his letters I feel a terrible impatience for our wedding day, so that we can finally be joined as one and all these pleasures can be shared with him as my husband.
His letters are a constant enjoyment, but there is always a ‘but’ in this imperfect world, and I do wish he would sometimes be serious. I cannot get him to write or speak in real, solid earnest. I don’t much mind it now, but if it be always so, what shall I do with the serious part of myself?
Into the quiet village of Lindenhope comes Helen Graham, an attractive young widow and mother. Living alone with her son at Wildfell Hall, her seclusion attracts curiosity from the local people, in particular Gilbert Markham, whose interest in her is soon edged with desire—and Helen, despite herself, begins to reciprocate his love for her.But when scandalous rumours begin to circulate about Helen’s behaviour, Gilbert is filled with anger and jealousy. Helen attempts to clear her name by offering Gilbert her diary, which reveals the dark, passionate story of her former marriage to debauched rake Arthur Huntingdon, whose sexual and sensual desires fill her with excitement and pleasure but precipitate a gradual descent into hell.Gilbert believes he could forgive her anything, but the lies continue to spread, threatening Helen’s peace of mind and, above all, her physical safety. Will the secrets of Helen’s past get in the way of their future?
About the Author
Tanith Davenport began writing erotica at the age of 27 by way of the Romantic Novelists' Association New Writers' Scheme. Her debut novel "The Hand He Dealt" was released by Total-e-Bound in June 2011 and was shortlisted for the Joan Hessayon Award for 2012.
Tanith has had short stories published by Naughty Nights Press and House of Erotica. She loves to travel and dreams of one day taking a driving tour of the United States, preferably in a classic 1950s pink Cadillac Eldorado.
Tanith's idea of heaven is an Indian head massage with a Mojito at her side.