* If you haven't read the first chapter, Rose broke her marriage vows by having an affair with another woman who had become a widow. Rose admits she murdered her husband and went to trial and she tells the jury and court room audience her story.
*
Rose Belvedere Ashton did not want to look back, for it felt as if she was physically moving back in time to re-live the past few years which had been a combination of pain, anguish, torment and at the same time friendship, happiness, love and passion. She did not wish to travel back in time through her memory, to tell this court room filled with judgemental and self-righteous fools all the sordid details of her affair with another woman. But she had no choice and she proceeded.
"The first year of my marriage went by rather swiftly. There was nothing that happened within that year to foreshadow the coming storm. Sir Lionel Ashton was a perfect gentleman and at that time, a good husband. He treated me as if I was a princess, a woman who stirred his most tender feelings, who admired not only my beauty but my mind and at times listened to my thoughts and opinions. There was nothing in his character or conduct that remotely suggested he would become a monster."
As Lionel approached her, in slow, steady steps, the moonlight cast a dim, somewhat sad sort of lighting over the candle-lit chamber. It was a master bedroom, furnished with red divan, rosewood chairs, a vanity mirror, drawers, armoirs and closets. There was a balcony and large window. It was in Lionel's home in London, where he conducted business, the said business being trading with America in commodities, namely precious metals such as iron, silver and gold. He also invested in oil. His contacts in America were becoming numerous. When he married Rose, he was already very affluent, holding the title of Sir, the lord of a manor in London with many servants and a seat in Parliament.
But Rose saw past these things. She had believed that Lionel was her prince, a man who would change her life forever, for the better. He had whisked her away from a dull middle-class life, charmed her with his aristocratic demeanor, his chivalry, his protective embrace. Here in this room, sprawled on the bed in the nude, she awaited the sensation of his flesh against hers, longed for his kisses and the feel of his hardened manhood inside her. She had been a virgin before her wedding night and Lionel had, of course, deflowered her. Because she had never known the intimacy of lovemaking and what she experienced the first time had been so refreshingly new and good, she again waited for his passionate caresses and the dominant way he claimed her body. She ached for the penetration of his cock inside her, desired to be ravished. Her imagination was growing stronger and her sexual whims were growing as well. These feelings, so strongly sexual, she did not speak of to her husband. What woman did? She kept her wishes silent and feared that, should she in any way admit to having them, her husband would label her a wanton, and would compare her libido to his own. So she was only hoping that her husband would somehow know, through intuition, that she wanted to be taken in creative new ways.
How to tell him that she wanted him to bind her to the bed in sensual ropes and feel him mounting her and penetrate her with his penis. How to tell him that she wanted to tie him up to the bed and to ride his erect penis as it slipped inside her and bounce over him? How to tell him that she wanted him to take her through the anus? How to tell him that she wanted to feel as if she would die of pure erotic pleasures never known before? Rose had been reading a certain type of novel in secret. It began with an interest in women's novels; that is to say novels written by women. In England, a pen with which to write a novel could now be held by both sexes. Not many women took a deep-seated interest in this profession. For that matter, not many women took any interest in anything other than finding a husband, raising a family, cooking, sewing, washing and all other domestic affairs. If the woman was of a higher station, she supervised the maintenance of the house, saw to it that her children were tutored or cared for by governesses and aspired to the status of salon hostess or in the least of a drawing room women's circle, in which, over tea and luncheon, she organized charity balls, soirees and other events for the season, in hopes that brilliant people could attend - the greatest actors of the time, dancers, singers, political figures. Rose did not wish to be one of these women, but she was aware that some women understood women better than others and could only express themselves not through superficial things like hostess work but through writing, a field dominated by mostly men.
Therefore, Rose enjoyed reading the works of Emily Bronte and Charlotte Bronte, at the time the only women whose books one could read and not feel any sort of embarrasment. But there were other books, written by some women but also men, whose content was highly erotic and extreme. These "secret" books everyone knew of but never spoked of openly. These books were pornographic and meant to arouse the reader sexually, even if his mind was not filled with much of a story or emotion. These books, many in French, Rose had been reading in secret. To even procure these books was dangerous. She was a lady of a more aristocratic mold now, since her husband fit in with high society in London. Rose would disguise herself as a man, which she found surprisingly easy to do. She was a tall woman with a build that, from afar, somewhat resembled that of a man's body. She would hide her long hair in a bun and then wear a man's hat. To cover her breasts she would wear a large trench coat. She would not say much to the book peddler in the small store by the dark street. She didn't have to. Many of the men, and prostitutes, who frequented these places had only to pick out a book and hand the peddler the money. Sometimes, a mist would rise in the streets of London, and many thought it was the perfect way to conceal themselves as they ventured out in search of this type of release, or other types.
There she was, night after night, the same bed, the same man. Lionel did nothing new in his lovemaking. He was as if uninspired or ignorant concerning sexual pleasures. He would mount her, he would spread her legs, keep her from moving and repeatedly penetrate her until she orgasmed and he reached his own climax. But the fact of the matter was that Rose had only achieved an orgasm the first time when he had deflowered her. In every other episode of their lovemaking, she had pretended to orgasm and she deceived him night after night, making him believe that she enjoyed his lovemaking.
But she did not. He was so dull. She might as well pick up one of those books which aroused her and orgasm from reading those stories while he did his business on top of her. With the passing of time, she became restless, vexed and somewhat unhappy. Lionel was nothing like the bold and adventurous lovers in those books. Perhaps he was still a prince, but she discovered an unspoken truth, a matter which surely all women could not deny but could not mention: every woman wanted a rogue for a lover, not a prince. If only Lionel could be bad, deviant, but never truly evil, just tinged with a little bit of vice and danger. But there was no such luck.
