The Westerfield Trilogy Read online

  “Yes, quite a shock, considering I hardly know the man,” Kitty said drily. She tossed her hair over her shoulder. “Apparently he thought I would look good in his sitting room.”

  She sensed Lord Westerfield’s offense, but couldn’t help herself from going on. “Yes, Maury sold me like a cow at auction.”

  Maury grasped her upper arm. “Excuse us just a moment,” he said, pulling her none-too-gently after him.

  He drew her down the corridor to his study. “That was inexcusable. I am only going to warn you once,” he said icily. “You will behave yourself or I will make you very sorry.”

  “Sorrier than I already am? Go ahead and try!” she dared.

  His hand shot out to slap her face, but it stopped, mid-swing, caught in Lord Westerfield’s quick grasp.

  “Calm yourself, Stanley,” he said. “If you’ll leave us a moment, I will handle her discipline,” he said.

  Maury’s eyes narrowed, considering. She held her breath, unsure which of them she’d rather take her to task. She was not surprised when Maury agreed; surely his concern over his contract was greater than his concern for her discomfort. She watched him leave the room, reluctant to look upon the wooden face of her fiancé.

  Lord Westerfield walked to the settee and sat down. “Come here, Miss Stanley.”

  Her heart began to pound and she felt her face flush to the roots of her hair. Was it just as Miss Anderson had warned? Was she to be taken over his knee?

  She walked slowly to stand before him, gathering all her nerve to gaze at him directly. She lifted her chest. “You think I am a piece of pretty property to be bought. You think I can be trained to sit quietly by your side? Perhaps you should have done your research first, Lord Westerfield. I am not known for my perfect manners.”

  His brows knit together in a deep furrow. “No, Miss Stanley. I am not in need of a wife who sits quietly by my side. I adore your wit, and until this evening, admired your manners, too.”

  She twisted her fingers. She knew she ought to apologize, but she still felt too angry—both with Maury and with him.

  * * *

  Harry considered his bride-to-be. He’d asked to discipline her, not because he was upset, but because he couldn’t stand the thought of Maury punishing her, especially when he’d been so angry. She had been quite rude, but looking into her face, he did not see defiance. Rather, he saw uncertainty and fear, as if she already regretted her behavior. She was young—only eighteen, and understandably disturbed by the changes he’d inflicted in her life. A little guidance and boundaries might be all she required.

  “Your rudeness was unacceptable,” he told her, patting his lap.

  Her eyes traveled from his face to his lap doubtfully.

  “Be a good girl and I’ll make it swift,” he promised, taking hold of her wrist.

  Blushing, she allowed him to guide her across his lap.

  “I’m sorry—” she began, but he cut her off with a sharp slap, which he repeated many times, the sound of his hand meeting her bottom, punctuated by her gasps.

  “No—” she cried, struggling. “Wait—I’m sorry!”

  He tightened his grip on her waist and continued spanking, the satin of her skirt sliding under his hand and making it difficult to hold her in place as she squirmed. He pulled the skirt up, out of the way, flinging her petticoats with it to spank through the thin linen of her drawers. He could see the shadow of her cleft, the shape of her buttocks, and his duty to teach a lesson began to morph into something not nearly so unpleasant. Perhaps her spanking should be on the bare…

  He paused and rested his hand on her heated flesh, then began slowly stroking, following the shape of her curves and feeling his cock grow hard. She was panting, but not crying.

  “Listen, you have cause to be angry,” he said soothingly. “I understand I went about this all wrong, but may we please begin again?”

  “No!”

  He began another volley of hard slaps, not with the intent to beat her into submission, but rather to distract himself from the temptation her bottom provided. But he didn’t truly wish to hurt her. He stopped to rub again, intoxicated by the feel of her warm cheeks under his hand.

  She shifted her hips and turned her head in his direction. “I just require a little time to adjust, my lord. I’m angry with Maury and I’m angry with you, but I will do as I must.”

  This was the Kitty with whom he’d fallen in love. Clever and self-possessed, even in her humbling position. He admired her honesty. He rubbed circles around her bottom.

  “I assure you when I’m not furious I can be quite charming,” she added.

  He chuckled. “I am well aware of that.”

  “Please spank me, my lord, and get it over with, else Maury will send Miss Anderson to look in on us and I should die of embarrassment.”

  Harry had considered her punishment to be mostly over, but to hear that she expected more created a tiny thrill of excitement. He followed the waistband of her drawers to her stomach and found the string, giving it a tug to loosen them.

  “My lord!” she cried in a strangled breath.

  He shimmied the drawers over her hips and sucked in his breath at the sight. She was absolute perfection—two shapely cheeks standing out as an amiable target for his hand, her skin showing a delicate pink where he’d already spanked. He brought his hand down on her bare flesh, shocking himself with the sound of it. He slapped again and again, finding it deeply satisfying—far more than he might have imagined. He slapped lower, growing slightly dizzy at the sight of her little sex peeking from between her legs. She kicked her legs and tried to reach back and cover her bottom with her hand.

  “No, Miss Stanley,” he said, his voice far quieter than the sound of his slaps. “You have a spanking coming and I expect you to submit to it.” He bent her arm behind her back and held it there as he continued to spank every inch of her wiggling bottom.

  Her squirms aroused him and he began to feel a heady thrill, realizing this beautiful creature would soon be his wife. His to take to his bed, and his to chastise when naughty. And, wickedly, he found himself hoping she would be often be naughty.

  He spanked, falling into a rhythm of slapping one cheek then the other, watching the bounce of her resilient flesh under his hand.

  “Ow, oh, please, Lord Westerfield!” she gasped. “I will not sass you again,” she promised.

  “Thank you, Miss Stanley,” he said. “I am almost finished.”

  He applied his hand firmly and after another interval of spanking, realized she had given up all fight and lay quietly over his lap, accepting her punishment. He looked at her face where it lay on the settee and then froze.

  She had not submitted—she had swooned.

  * * *

  Kitty blinked up at the worried face of Lord Westerfield. She appeared to be on the floor, cradled in his arms. Her bottom was throbbing—a tingling burn to remind her of the humiliating position in which she had just been.

  “You fainted,” he explained at once. “I opened your corset so you could breathe.”

  “Oh,” she said, coming to a full realization of her new predicament. Though her dress was still on, the bodice was unhooked in the back, her corset was unlaced, and her drawers were still down around her thighs.

  A hysterical giggle bubbled up in her throat.

  “I’m sorry. I should have considered the effect of discipline on your breathing before I took you over my knee. That was very stupid of me.”

  She peered up at him. She felt quite a bit more like herself now and was beginning to fully comprehend just how far this evening had diverged from normal. “Well, I’ve come around, will you let me up?”

  “No.”

  “Are you going to spank me again?”

  His mouth twitched with what appeared to be humor. “No.”

  “Then—?”

  “I rather like holding you like this.”

  She bit her lip, trying not to smile.

  “We should not
be in here alone.”

  “No, we shouldn’t,” he agreed.

  “So will you let me up?”

  “No,” he refused flatly.

  She rolled her eyes and reached up, plucking the end of his cravat and yanking it, so it came untied. It was bold to tease him now, considering he’d shown no compunction in turning her over his knee, but his eyes crinkled with amusement and he smiled down at her.

  “Silly girl,” he murmured.

  She caught her breath. She had never seen this expression on him—this tender warmth. He usually seemed so harsh and closed—the sharp angles of his face giving him a stern look. Now, in the lamplight, with his face open, he looked like an altogether different man. She grinned back at him. “I’m sorry, my lord, I was unforgivably rude to you tonight.”

  He smiled fondly. “Not unforgivably.”

  “I guess I know what to expect from you when I’m saucy, don’t I?” she said wryly.

  He chuckled, still gazing with affection. Then his expression grew serious. “Kitty,” he said, and she felt the tiny thrill at his use of her given name. “I am truly sorry for the way things have gone between us. I do see that I went about this all the wrong way.”

  She blinked at him, surprised at his admission. “You do?”

  “Of course I do. And I would give anything if I could go back and do it properly—if I knew the right words to say to seduce you.” He shook his head impatiently. “I’ve just—well, I’ve never had any grace when it comes to women.”

  That made her burst into laughter. “Surely that’s not true, my lord.”

  He smiled his handsome smile. “You think not? I assure you, it’s a fact.”

  She bit her lip and considered him. “Would you permit me to see the contract?”

  He looked surprised. “The contract? Between Maury and me? Why?”

  She lifted her chin. “Maury won’t let me see it, and I’d rather like to know how much I fetched for him.”

  Regret showed in his face. “Kitty,” he moaned. “I made a mistake. Please, let’s put it behind us?”

  “I just want to see it,” she said stubbornly.

  He looked at her for a very long time. Then he said with the seriousness of swearing an oath, “I promise I will show it to you some day—but right now I am desperately hoping you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me.”

  For some reason, her eyes filled with sudden tears and she turned in his arms to hide them. The boning of her corset twisted and poked her and she looked down, realizing one breast was peeping out. She hurriedly yanked it up, feeling her cheeks grow warm.

  “I suppose you’re going to swear you didn’t peek at all when you unlaced me?” she demanded.

  His mouth quirked into a smile. “I shall do no such thing.”

  Her jaw dropped, eyes widening as a rush of heat pricked across her chest and up her neck. She was shocked that Lord Westerfield, who she expected to be the very essence of decorum, would make such rakish innuendos.

  Holding the gaping corset closed, her eyes met his and her breath caught. They were darkened, hungry. Without thinking, she reached up to brush back the lock of hair that had fallen in his face and suddenly found herself lifted toward him, her lips crushed against his. She cried out in surprise and pushed against him, but his strong arms were immovable. One of his hands lifted to cup her face and the gesture was gentle, tender, even as his kiss was brutal. Something in her gave way and she circled her arms behind his neck, returning the kiss tenuously at first, then sensing encouragement in the way his arms pulled her even closer, with more enthusiasm.

  His hand stroked down her neck, over her shoulder, and then cupped her bared breast. Helpless to resist him, she thrust it up at him, wanting him to possess it the way he’d possessed her mouth. He did—his hard kisses traveled the same pathway of his hand, down her neck, then directly to the exposed breast, where her nipple pointed enthusiastically. He sucked at the stiffened peak, creating a tightening in both breasts and a corresponding tug between her legs.

  As if he knew about that tug, his large warm hand caressed lower, around her bottom, which still smarted from his spanking, shaming her with the memory, yet also spurring her desire to give herself over to him. His hand boldly came between her legs, rubbing the satin of her dress against the layers of petticoats and sending a lick of white fire right up her center core. She moaned.

  “Yes,” he said hoarsely in response.

  His hand plunged into her skirts, lifting them out of his way and settling on her hip, bared because her drawers were still lowered. She whimpered at her vulnerability—the thought of his fingers touching her bare sex both terrifying and arousing.

  A knock at the door made her leap out of his arms and scramble to her feet in pure terror.

  “Maury!” she whispered in panic, desperately pulling up her drawers and trying to fasten her corset.

  “One more minute, Stanley,” he called out, pulled her toward him and spinning her around, his efficient fingers fastening her corset and gown. “It’s all right, I’ll take care of it,” he reassured her in a low voice.

  She turned back around and her eyes widened at the sight of his untied cravat. Maury opened the door as Lord Westerfield was retying it.

  “Westerfield,” Maury said coldly, “you are not married to my sister yet.”

  Chapter Three

  Kitty dashed off, leaving him in the study with Maury. What in God’s name had he been thinking, getting swept away in frenzied passion with an innocent girl? If Stanley hadn’t arrived, he might have fully taken his little fiancée right there.

  Maury glowered. “So, am I to assume she is coming around?”

  The vision of how she’d looked only moments before floated into his mind—cheeks flushed, lips swollen from kissing, hair falling from its pins. Her rumpled disarray had been more erotic than a light-skirt prancing in nothing but stockings. He marshaled his thoughts and cleared his throat. “Ah, yes. Yes, she is coming around, I believe.”

  Stanley relaxed. “Good. I’m glad to hear it.”

  They joined the dinner party, for which Kitty was surprisingly pleasant and afterward he joined Fenton and Stanley in the study for brandy. They sat and made casual conversation about politics, and all the while he ran numbers in his head. Forty-nine days until Kitty was his wife. That meant six more weeks of resisting his mounting desire for her. So, even if he limited his contact with her to twice a week, it would still be a dozen meetings in which he’d have to suffer the agony of being near her and not yet sure she was his. Because even though he had a signed contract, he never counted his winnings until the play was actually over.

  Wanting to another private word with Miss Stanley before he left, he was the first to leave the study, and hesitated outside the drawing room when he heard the topic of conversation.

  “Arranged without even asking you,” Miss Fenton breathed. “Or courting. Unless you count the two dances at Maybury’s.”

  “Apparently he thought that was enough to choose his life mate,” Kitty said drily.

  “Well, it could be worse. Lord Westerfield is quite a catch, really,” her friend soothed.

  “I know,” Kitty sighed and his heart leaped. “But I’m just not sure I can ever forgive the way they went about it.”

  Stanley’s and Fenton’s voices behind him ended the ladies’ conversation and he took a breath and entered the drawing room, his heart beating an irregular rhythm at Kitty’s words.

  “Miss Stanley, may I have a word?” he asked.

  She stood up immediately, but looked wary, and he could hardly blame her, considering he’d just taken her over his knee.

  He reached in his pocket and pulled out a small jewelry box. “Your ring,” he said, holding it out to her.

  She opened the box without enthusiasm. He had chosen an enormous dome-shaped ruby, five carats in size, set in a circle of tiny diamonds. It was quite beautiful, and he hoped Kitty would like it. She did look surprised and he thought he
saw her fingers tremble when she took the ring and slipped it on her finger. It spun around, too large to wear.

  “They will size it for you at MacArthur’s. You can stop by anytime, or I can come to call for you and we can go together.”

  “I can manage it,” she said immediately, disappointing him.

  He pulled a handful of ornate cards and stationery from his pocket and handed them to her. “These are the invites that arrived after my appearance at the Maybury ball. I’d planned to ask you tonight which you’d like to attend. There’s one at Standish House in two weeks’ time—would you care to go?”

  She took the cards without looking at them. “Thank you, I should like that, my lord,” she said, too formally.

  “I’ll come around 7 p.m., then. Wear your orange gown.”

  “Two balls in a row? It isn’t done.”

  “Think of it as practice in obeying your new husband,” he dared, enjoying the color that rose to her cheeks. He picked up her hand and kissed it. “I don’t mean to anger you. Please wear the orange gown?”

  Intelligent green eyes searched his face, and she gave a tiny nod. “As you wish,” she said lightly. He bid them all good night and made his escape, both exhausted and elated. He was not used to having his emotions so accentuated as they had been since he’d met Miss Kitty Stanley. In truth, he was not used to feeling emotions at all. It was as if laying eyes on her had wakened some part of him that had been dormant. And the new feelings were not altogether comfortable.

  * * *

  He made it a week without giving in to the temptation of calling on her. On the eighth day, she sent a note inviting him to call, and he immediately rang for his carriage. It was raining when he arrived, and the butler showed him into the parlor.

  He stood when Kitty entered with her companion, Miss Anderson, and kissed her little gloved hand. She sat down with him and made conversation, but she frequently looked over at the companion, as if she wished they were alone. After a while, she stood up and paced to the window, staring out at the rain. “I wish the weather would permit a walk in Hyde Park or even a carriage drive,” she lamented.