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The Diary Of Cozette [Paperback]

Amanda McIntyre

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Book Description

Oct. 1 2008
Passion knows no status or wealth…

True, I am but a mere maidservant from a great house, snatched from a wretched existence of poverty and desperation to serve noblemen of wealth and privilege.

And yet…

While I am indeed of lowly rank, I am also a young woman who allowed herself to sample life's greatest pleasures in the hands of these titled men. My tales overflow in this journal, penning my journey to becoming a woman of power of the most base, yet stimulating, breed.

Unmarried and twenty, yet betrothed to no man, I would be considered a spinster by most, yet this is of my own ardent intention. With my unabashed lushness and wisdom regarding a man's most vehement cravings, I am not lacking for suitors or proposals given in the heat of passion. No, I have yet to meet the man who will challenge me, satisfy me in all ways, not only of the flesh.

For where passion and desire are fleeting, my heart continues to beat.…

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Product Details

  • Paperback: 432 pages
  • Publisher: Spice; Original edition (Oct. 1 2008)
  • Language: English
  • ISBN-10: 0373605250
  • ISBN-13: 978-0373605255
  • Product Dimensions: 20 x 16 x 3 cm
  • Shipping Weight: 272 g
  • Amazon Bestsellers Rank: #852,246 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)

Product Description

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

I must confess, for though I am female, and of lowly rank for a woman of my time, I am wealthy by comparison to many who suffer the drought of a dry marriage bed. But the journey was not an easy one; indeed, the road to my freedom is riddled with potholes and steep embankments, at times seeming to careen from my control altogether. Yet even the dangers excited my blood. I always suspected I was an unlikely breed for a woman cast headlong into a deceptive era, where on the outside there was a polished veneer of social propriety and beneath the wood crawled every vile and wretched atrocity. I marvel now how it is that I survived. Nevertheless, I have always been untamed, and perhaps that is what, in the end, saved me.

I came to the good Robert and Virginia Archibald quite young by today's standards. For more than a decade in their service, I garnered much more than a plate of food and a bed in which to lay my head. This is my life, my tales of growing up, a journal penning my becoming a woman in every sense of the word.

Not all are stellar in memory as they once were, but others stir a remembrance that is yet able to warm as well as a good brandy.

Not only was it improper, by standards set by the men of my time, for a woman to partake in pleasure of a social nature, it was forbidden as a house servant to speak of such trysts. Oh, accepted so it is that, in private, we women are expected to enjoy those moments of passion created for purposes of marriage, but before then, what? God help me, why is it that men are the only passionate beings on earth? Or is it what society at the time wanted us to believe?

Most would consider me of spinster age at the time of these writings. At seventeen, I was unmarried and betrothed to no man. It speaks well, I suppose, of my headstrong behavior, that by choice I remain alone. However, it is not for lack of suitors, or one or two that graciously offered to make me a respectable wife.

I venture to say that my heart was tainted, willing to partake of the sinful fruit of impropriety, but unsatisfied with the taste of most men I'd met. Though I captured glimpses of my imaginary lover in the eyes of many, it would take years and an unusual twist of the fates to find a lover who would challenge and accept me for the passionate woman that I am.

I admit I am a slave to my own passion, a bit rebellious, and so reminded by a distraught aunt and a most horridly strict keeper of the orphanage where I spent a short time.

I am keenly aware of the power of my sexuality and unafraid to confess that, more times than not, my preference is for the strength of a man's hands upon me, giving me pleasure, instead of pleasure derived of my own hand. Either achieves the desired purpose, but I so love the scent of a man's skin.

Passion, in my day, was reserved for a man's pleasure whether married or not. It is accepted as part of a man's virile needs, in some cases even perpetuated by his health.

By contrast, a woman's passion in view of current social standards is not only considered odd, but simply does not exist except for what it will gain for her husband and most importantly for his inheritance.

Proper women, well taught in the attributes that make for the perfect prize, often scorn those of us who are rebellious to society's shackles. The cream of our society is the woman well versed in reading, able to play piano, proficient in needlework, able to sing, knowledgeable in politics, thoughtful only to a point and only in the company of other women, but by no means should it appear we know more than the man in our company. In addition, she is at her best if involved in works of charity and events of social relevance.

Ah, the perfect prize, who would sit and twiddle her thumbs while her husband takes trips of three to four days, journeys on pretense of business. I have known the women they rush to visit in secret.

I fear there was a time when I held none of these comely attributes, and likely was viewed as less than cow dung in the eyes of most. As for my surviving, I owe this to my mistress and her bountiful kindness. Whatever her intent, or however successful were the results of her plan for me, she fashioned me from the ashes of my existence to a woman of substance, if only in my eyes. That is ample recognition for me.

In all that, social propriety demanded I was most fortunate to have the sort of relationship with my mistress that I did. Loyal and hardworking, I dutifully served the Archibalds for years. I kept my affairs discreet, smiled dutifully as I saw to their needs. As a result, through my mistress's personal trials, I became closer to her than perhaps most handmaids would to their employers.

Each encounter has served as a stepping-stone to my growth, sexual and otherwise. Every man I have had the good fortune to meet has left me wiser than before, being able to see deeper into the human heart and mind, mine being the first. It is not a bad life for a young woman left alone to find her way.

Permit me to begin by way of introduction. My name is Anne Cozette Bennett and I was born the youngest of seven into a simple family near Manchester. My father died in a mining accident. My siblings died thereafter, as did my mother, of cholera. I often wonder, even now, why I alone was spared.

These then are my confessions, looking back on a life full and ripe with all my passions, trysts and turbulent trials. It was a contradiction of propriety, with grace and gentility on the surface, and an underbelly of vermin that scurried below. Nevertheless, I grew amidst these changes, polishing the veneer, and enjoying the forbidden fruits that made my life… well, interesting, as you shall see.

I have for a very long time considered that when my time comes (and it does for all regardless of wealth) that should someone find a fascination with the stories of a young, unpretentious handmaid named Cozette, that they should read them by my own hand. I think this is what my mother would have wanted, and I would give anything if she could read it now. I did what I had to do in most cases, for to deny any of the tales, to alter them in any form more pleasing perhaps to the sensitive eye, would be to rob me of all that I am.

My dearest of lovers, as we lay in his bed talking of the past, said to me, "To move forward, my love, you cannot forget your past, but embrace it, all of it. It made you the passionate woman you are today." He, of course, was right in addition to being a most adoring and talented of men, both in skill and in bed.

I pray then if your libido, dry from the tensions of this world, thirsts for passion, let your palate be satisfied as you join me in the fire of my youth.

~Lady C.

August 25, 1869

I will be fourteen in a few months. Today my mother informed me that I am being sent to an aunt and uncle, as she no longer has the strength to care for me. I begged her to let me stay. I'd helped her to bury my father and my siblings, all but one. But Everett teeters on the brink of death even now.

"But Mama, please. I can help you with Everett. And what happens if you turn ill?"

"There will no more discussion on this, Anne Cozette. I've written to make arrangements and sent a little money, what I could, ahead of time to help with your expenses. They will expect you by week's end. There is a carriage that leaves Friday morning, and you will be on it."

She sifted through my clothes, checking for spots to be mended or altered. I'd received many of my older sister's clothing at her passing.

I pleaded with her until at last she dropped to her knees, her fist clutched to her breast. Great sobs shook from her and I knelt at her side, comforting her as best I could with my embrace. She looked at me, her eyes rimmed red from her tears.

"I can see no other way, Anne. I have watched my children, one by one, taken from me. You are my last and, thank God, still healthy. You are all I have. I need to know that you will survive. If you stay, there is no hope of that. There is so much sickness here…so much."

My childhood had ended. I saw for the first time my mother's view of life. Something deep inside me was pried loose, like a ship pulling away from its moorings, leaving the safe haven of the shore. My mother was giving me my freedom. She was giving me my life.

Before I left, she gave me a thin book with blank pages.

"It was a gift for our wedding, but I never had the time to write in it, with children to raise and a husband to care for. You take it. Your aunt is a very proper woman, who will insist you have an education. She will have writing tools. You

can keep a journal of your adventures. Perhaps, when you learn to write, you can send me letters as well. I'd like that. Please remember one thing, my dear Anne, what I do now, I do because I love you."

I clung to those words as the carriage pulled away from all that I'd known.


September 17, 1869

I have been kept busy with my schooling. True to my mother's words, my aunt Eleanor is a very stern woman and when I am not studying my lessons, she has me helping the housemaid with simple chores. I do not mind the work as it gives me time to think, but it does not permit me much time to write, which I am trying to perfect.

My cousin Edward, three years older than me, does little except to torment small helpless birds. I once caught him about to drown a new litter of kittens as a lark. The evil glint in his eye as he told me to keep silent on the subject, gave warning that I should stay as far away from him as possible.


September 28, 1869

I am at my wits' end, for what has transpired I could perhaps endure if my aunt were not so blind. I have been here only a few weeks, and can see the rules that apply to me do not apply the same to my dear cousin Edward. Yet she insists that I am an evil influence in her house.

While I do not profess to be a model child, and admit that on occasion I am prone to moments of rebelliousness, I question the term "evil" which denotes malicious intent. I have never sought to be hostile, nor would I except for survival's sake. My nature, prone to defiance, I a...

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Most Helpful Customer Reviews on (beta) 4.4 out of 5 stars  10 reviews
4 of 4 people found the following review helpful
5.0 out of 5 stars Fantastic! March 16 2009
By Amy C - Published on
The Diary of Cozette is just that, the diary of Anne Cozette Bennett, which spans from August 1869 to the winter of 1875.

At the age of fourteen, Cozette's mother becomes too weak from illness to care for her, and sends her away to an aunt and uncle's home to live. Her mother gives her a diary and tells her to keep track of her adventures. Of course, I doubt her mom would have thought Cozette's entries would be of the explicit sexual journey Cozette embarks upon.

After an incident with her cousin shortly after Cozette's arrival, she finds herself shipped off to an orphanage. There she meets a young man named Ernest. Eventually their relationship turns to one of a sexual nature, awakening her feminine passion. Ernest fears for her well-being and sends her to London with the promise he will follow her shortly.

He never shows and over a year later, after suffering terrible tribulations, Cozette finds herself serving a most unlikely lady. She gave Cozette a safe and secure home, even though she was a servant, there was still much respect, allowing Cozette to grow into a decent young lady. Within that home Cozette also learns of her inner passions and longings, that which is denied ladies of the time.

Men enter her life, offering her what her body craves since that night of passion with Ernest. Ernest awakened her passion. Francois breathed life into it. And Mr. Rodin refined it. But who will claim it and keep for themselves? For Cozette has a passion that will be neither banked nor denied.

I loved watching Cozette grow and change over the course of this book. Watching her go from inexperienced with Ernest, to thinking herself in love with Francois, to knowing that what she has with Mr. Rodin is no more than two adults enjoying the companionship of each others bodies. And then of course the one man who matches her and stokes the flames inside her that she dreamed she could spend the rest of her life with without worry he might tire and seek passion elsewhere. That one man she could love.

The Diary of Cozette is not really a romance, more erotic fiction with romantic elements. It's more what I said previously, Cozette coming of age and accepting and exploring her sensually passionate nature. It was very elegantly written. The words flowed very poetically. Ms. McIntyre can pen some really amazing sexual encounters. And the great thing, they are rather short but pack a walloping punch! Truly an awesomely talented writer Amanda McIntyre is<---hey, that was kinda like Yoda :). I also loved the unique set-up of this book, entry dates as if it really were a diary, rather than chapters.
1 of 1 people found the following review helpful
5.0 out of 5 stars Great Read Dec 22 2008
By Hayden King - Published on
Thought book was a great read, a great escape to another time. I enjoyed the characters, enjoyed the "steamy" intervals. The ending of the book was a nice surprise. Will be looking forward to more from this author! A very entertaining delight!!
1 of 1 people found the following review helpful
5.0 out of 5 stars Engrossing! Nov. 10 2008
By Amazon Customer - Published on
Format:Paperback|Verified Purchase
Diary of Cozette was a pure delight--a fresh, engaging first-person voice, a compelling story, and some seriously *hot* love scenes. I particularly enjoyed the 'diary entry' format--very original! All in all, a great read, and one I couldn't put down!
4.0 out of 5 stars Never let your heart forget June 20 2014
By Kathryn - Published on
Format:Kindle Edition|Verified Purchase
This was a beautifully done romance. At times it moves very slowly, but there is a reason. The author, through the words of the writer of the diary, is building the story. She's made your imagination fall back in time and feel what it was like in the 1800's. The grand manors, the carriage houses, the whore house, the dirt & nastiness of the streets.

The main character, Cozette, learns what it is like to be a woman. Not so much, "the hard way", but more, it's time to do this... what will the world show me through pleasure?

The men, well, of that time, they thought it was their due for pleasure. From the whorehouse to the manor you meet all types and they live up to your imagination.
3.0 out of 5 stars The Diary of Cozettee Oct. 9 2013
By Mary - Published on
Format:Kindle Edition
I thought this book was just okay. It did have a lot of "steamy scenes", yet it just didn't have enough excitement for me until the end. I think if the readers had known the true identity of the stable man it would have been made the story a whole lot better.

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