I run my husband's correspondence and I am good at it. Every letter that leaves this estate leaves in my hand. I measure what I am worth by whether he has looked at me that day.

He is a libertine and he has never pretended otherwise. He points at the library table. That is the entire conversation. On Tuesday we disagreed about a letter and he had my skirts up over that table inside a minute. He never went near the door. It stood open behind us the whole time. Two footmen passed in the corridor.

That is the shame of it. Not the table. That the open door is the part I think about at night. He says the word library and my hands stop being any use to me.

There is another disagreement coming and the house is full of guests. Over the table. Skirts up. Struck harder each time until I yield. Taken there with the door standing wide. One maid walks in and I am finished in this county forever, my husband's name goes down with mine, and I still will not ask him to turn the key. What kind of wife wants a witness? What am I if nobody ever looks?

A full-length Regency corporal punishment exhibitionism erotic novel featuring a rake's wife and the husband who leaves the door open.