The Westerfield Trilogy Read online

Some of her animation slipped away and he knew she understood.

  “Give me your slipper.”

  Her eyes widened and she sucked in her breath, but she bent to comply. When she handed him the little leather slipper, he lifted her from her perch upon his lap and guided her back into position. There was something sweeter about the way she took her place this time; he’d earned her submission. He lifted the skirts again and ran his hand over her drawers, seeking the split. He pulled the two sides open again, and looked at her reddened cheeks. He had to resist tracing a finger down her cleft.

  “I’m sorry,” she squeaked.

  “Thank you for that,” he said, gripping the pliant leather slipper and snapping it across her cheeks. Her buttocks clenched. He brought it down swiftly over the tightened cheeks a dozen times, then paused to let her catch her breath. She was gasping, but had not made more than a whimper. He ran his hand over the smarted cheeks, feeling the heat he’d generated. Adjusting the slit of the drawers fully open once more, he began spanking again, the slap of the slipper making a satisfying pop each time it connected with her flinching bottom. He delivered another set of twelve, and then a third, until her wriggling and whimpering became more animated and her bottom had turned from blush to deeper red.

  * * *

  Harry pulled her drawers closed and helped her up to sit on his knee. She covered her face with her two hands, her body trembling, chest heaving. Determined to remain stoic, she’d managed not to cry out as he’d spanked her, but she did not wish him to see her face now while she struggled to control the threatening tears, which were more from humiliation than pain. She shifted uncomfortably on his knee, the stinging of her buttocks making her want to wiggle and rub rather than sit quietly. He wrapped his arms around her waist and held her. There was a strength and quiet of his embrace that helped soothe her humiliation.

  “I hate dinner parties,” he admitted softly, speaking to her covered face.

  She still could not seem to remove her hands.

  “It is my least favorite social gathering. You know me, Kitty—I don’t talk! I can’t make idle chatter or fill awkward silences. And I never talk politics!”

  Defeated, she dropped her chin toward her chest, her shoulders slumping. She started wiping at her face, but still needed the safety of her hands to hide behind.

  “You’ve purposely backed me into a corner over showing support for the damned Cruelty Against Animals Act and you had no right.”

  She dropped her hands to her lap. “I’m sorry, Harry,” she said heavily.

  He cupped her face to turn it to him. It was difficult for her to lift her eyes to his face, but she found no anger in his expression, only solemnity. “What would you have done if I simply refused to attend?”

  She went still. “But you will come, won’t you?” she whispered.

  “Yes,” he sighed. “I will be here. But please don’t put me in this position again.”

  “I won’t. I promise.”

  His eyes crinkled with warmth and he reached his face up to kiss her cheek. “Thank you.” He handed her slipper back and nudged her to stand, standing up behind her. She rubbed her smarting bottom and adjusted her drawers, giving a silent prayer of thanks that he had not actually lowered them, as she had her monthly courses and would have been mortified if he’d seen the rags. She watched him go, already missing the feel of his arms around her.

  When the evening hour arrived, she dressed in a cinnamon-colored gown with a wide, scooped neckline and a narrow waist. The hue of the dress brought out the red highlights in her hair, and of the ruby necklace Harry had given her, which was nestled in the hollow between her breasts. She’d had the wedding ring sized to fit and wore it for the first time, as well.

  “You look lovely,” he said, when she came downstairs. He draped an arm around her waist, in a gesture of affection that helped ease her anxiety. She felt nervous around him since her spanking, and was anxious to make sure the evening was not uncomfortable for him.

  The knocker sounded and the butler showed in Lord and Lady Goren. Lord Goren was a short, stout man, with the appearance of an amiable frog. His wife was tall and lean, with hair drawn up in a severe bun and a pair of crooked, thick-glassed spectacles perched on her nose. Not waiting for introductions, Kitty curtsied and introduced herself to Lady Goren.

  “Lady Westerfield, how nice to meet you.”

  “You may call me Kitty,” she said. “I’m not accustomed to the new title yet.”

  “Yes, it was rather sudden, wasn’t it? Everyone’s talking about the Westerfield affair.”

  She felt Harry stiffen at Lady Goren’s cutting remark, but she recovered her wits and answered breezily, “Yes, well, I’m afraid I am rather impetuous—I couldn’t wait to be Lady Westerfield. Fortunately, my husband indulges me.” She smiled up at him, batting her lashes and earned a wink.

  The St. Johns arrived and were shown in. She knew Thomas St. John was a friend of Harry’s from both Eton and Cambridge, a scholar who now taught at University. His wife appeared to be painfully shy, biting her lip as she curtsied, eyes lowered, almost cringing from the direct attention. Kitty ignored the shyness, picked up her hand as if they were old friends and folded it over her arm, leading her into the parlor. “I’m so pleased to meet you—I know that my husband is old friends with Mr. St. John.”

  Keeping one eye on her husband to gauge his discomfort, she kept up a steady stream of conversation, and the moment it dimmed, stood to indicate it was time for dinner. Kitty found that being hostess required the same skills she had honed as a wallflower at the balls—keen observation about her subjects and an intuition about their nature—but rather than sitting back and offering commentary, she must manage the personalities.

  She deduced Lady Goren was the intelligence behind her rather foolish husband, and that Mrs. St. John believed herself inferior to all others at the party. Kitty drew both women into a lively conversation with the men about St. John’s latest research. Lord Goren required no winning over—he seemed to be already inured with her, which caused her to shoot nervous glances at her husband, who was difficult to read.

  Nervous though she was, she managed everyone as well as she could and by the time the evening was over, they all were laughing and talking comfortably. She and Harry saw them to the door and bid their farewells. When the door closed, she turned to her husband.

  “Was it horrible?”

  He smiled, the same warmth she’d seen in his eyes after he’d spanked her that morning. “No, kitten,” he said, leaning over and giving her a kiss on the cheek. “You were marvelous.”

  She glowed at his praise, lifting her face in hopes of more kisses, only to be disappointed when he bid her good night and strode back to his study alone.

  * * *

  His Lady Westerfield had been magnificent. She’d managed the dinner party with an easy social grace that left their guests eating out of her hand. He poured himself a snifter of brandy and sat down on the leather settee in his study, warm appreciation for his wife running through him.

  The door opened without a knock and Kitty entered, then startled him by kneeling at his feet. “Are you still angry with me?” she asked softly, the firelight bringing out the gold flecks in her eyes and the red lights of her hair. She looked beautiful in her brown gown, her breasts lifted and framed by the open neckline.

  He shook his head slowly. “I wasn’t angry.”

  She raised her eyebrows in contradiction.

  He quirked a grin. “Did I bite again before barking?”

  She smiled ruefully. “No, not really. Will you forgive me?”

  He cradled the side of her face with his large hand, stroking the delicate silk of her cheek with his thumb. “I already have. Will you promise not to make me the object of your games again?”

  Standing up on her knees, she leaned toward him, resting a hand on each of his thighs. “I promise,” she said in a low voice like smooth honey.

  Aroused by her submission and
obvious desire to please, he reached for her waist and pulled her up onto his lap. “Good girl,” he murmured, his voice sounding low and throaty. When she’d settled, he traced the line of her collarbone with his forefinger, eliciting a little shiver from her. She fingered the ruby necklace at her throat nervously and he touched it too, then drew his finger straight down from the lowest pendant to the cleft between her breasts. Sliding his finger along the inner rim of her bodice, he arrived at one nipple, which he teased by running the back of his finger over the hardened tip.

  She drew in a ragged breath, the inhalation thrusting her breast against Harry’s finger. He freed it from the constricting stays, lifting it out to knead and cup, then bending his head to flick it with his tongue.

  She gasped and squirmed on his lap. He circled the tip of her nipple with his tongue, then drew it into his mouth, sucking. She arched her back to offer even more of her breast for his exploration. Encouraged, he freed the other breast, pinching her nipple between his thumb and forefinger and tugging on it as he sucked the other. She clutched at his shoulder, her head falling back, eyes closed.

  His hand came down to her leg, sliding along her calf, lifting her skirts with its upward pathway. She went still, then caught his wrist just as it reached her sex. “Harry—” she gasped. “I can’t!”

  He froze, then instantly withdrew both hands from her dress and pushed her to her feet, standing up behind her. Of course she didn’t want this—not from him, after the way he’d hurt her the first time. She’d married him because she had to, not because she wished to be his wife in any way other than by name.

  She wriggled her corset and bodice back over her breasts. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just that it’s my time of the month—”

  He wanted to be alone, to retreat and get his head back in order. He put his hand at her low back and guided her swiftly out of the study and down the hallway. “There’s no reason to apologize,” he managed stiffly. She turned to look over her shoulder at him, but he quickened the pace, escorting her up the stairs, where he opened the door to her room and nudged her inside.

  “Good night, Kitty.”

  She turned to look up at him with a worried expression. “I’m sorry,” she said again, but he was already closing the door.

  Harry sent his valet away and peeled off his clothes, the mixture of shame and arousal making him ill-tempered. He took hold of his shaft and slid the skin over it with angry, punishing strokes.

  Did Kitty really have her monthly courses? Or was it an excuse for a further reprieve from his sexual attentions? He couldn’t blame her for being afraid, and she’d confessed herself after their wedding her relief at not having to consummate the marriage. He ground his teeth and continued to pump his length at a rapid speed, squeezing more tightly. He thought of her on his lap, her breasts free of her bodice, arching into his hands. He climaxed almost immediately, but it did little to ease his foul mood.

  Stalking to the bed, he sprawled on his back, naked, staring at the ceiling until he fell asleep.

  Chapter Six

  After another week of Harry spending his evenings on St. James Street, Kitty was vexed. “I do not understand it, Wynn,” she complained to her friend. “When we were first engaged he told me, in no uncertain terms, he wanted me in his bed. But now he doesn’t touch me. I cannot decide if he’s lost interest, or thinks I don’t want it, or if there’s some other reason I cannot fathom.”

  Wynn clucked sympathetically. “Well, have you tried to seduce him?”

  “No, not exactly, but I did go as far as to enter his room last night in my nightdress,” she confessed.

  Wynn spluttered with laughter. “And what happened?”

  “I thought it was working at first,” she said, her mind flitting over the interaction. She’d shut the door softly behind her, then leaned against it. Harry had crossed the room to stand in front of her, close enough that she could smell the soap on his skin. “Harry,” she’d begun, her voice hoarse.

  “Yes?” He’d stepped closer still, crowding her against the doorway, leaning in to trap her there, against his door.

  “I was just wondering…do you consider our marriage to be…” she swallowed. “Consummated?” Her voice wavered on the last word.

  He eased his body against hers, his long thigh pressing between her legs, his hand cupping the back of her neck as he leaned his lips toward her ear. “Do you?” he whispered, and she felt his cock straining against his trousers and brushing her belly.

  “I don’t know, does it count if it happens in the wrong order?”

  He blinked rapidly, as if reminded of their first time, and then had abruptly pulled away, turning his back on her to stride to the basin and splash water on his face.

  “Go to bed, Kitty,” he’d rasped.

  She’d remained, waiting, hoping for an explanation or something more, but he didn’t turn back around and at last she gave up and left.

  “And?” prompted Wynn, returning her to the present.

  “It was strange, at first I thought I’d succeeded—he leaned over me like he was going to kiss me, but then he just turned around and told me to go to bed.”

  “Perhaps we should ask Teddy. He might have some ideas about what goes through a man’s head.”

  “Yes, that might help. Sometimes I’m afraid—” She stopped. She could not voice, not even to Wynn, her terrible hunch. That Harry had wanted to break their engagement that night because he’d found her so distasteful that he no longer wanted her for his wife. A sick feeling sat in the pit of her stomach.

  “Afraid of what?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know…just afraid that he doesn’t want me as his wife.”

  The sympathy in Wynn’s eyes was more than she could bear.

  “Never mind,” she said quickly. “How about you?” she said, changing the subject. “Has anyone come to call?”

  At breakfast the following morning, she made another attempt to keep him home for supper. “My lord, may I invite friends to dine?”

  “Who, kitten?”

  The endearment hurt, for some reason. They were living as practical strangers, after all. “Wynn. And Teddy.”

  His head jerked up at the latter, which she’d added in an off-hand tone. “No.”

  “But Harry—”

  “I said no.”

  “But Wynn is my best friend, Harry, and I’ve hardly seen her—” She trailed off at his raised eyebrows.

  “You’ve called on her several times in the past weeks,” he said, surprising her with his knowledge of her excursions. “Is it Wynn you wish to see, or her brother?”

  She blew out her breath. “I thought you believed me that there is nothing between us?”

  “I do, but that doesn’t mean I want to see the man in my home. It’s irritating enough to see him in the House of Lords every day after the scandal at the ball.”

  “I invited him to our reception, you know.”

  “I remember that, yes.”

  “Well, how is that different?”

  “It is, and you know how! Now stop. If I hear another word about it, I’ll take you over my knee.”

  Kitty’s stomach gave a flip and a frisson of heat darted between her legs. Whether it was the result of his jealousy or his willingness to take her in hand, she couldn’t be sure. Certainly the jealousy was a welcome reassurance.

  Harry stood from the table. “I won’t be home till late again this evening,” he said.

  “But it’s Friday!” she protested.

  “I have a meeting,” he clipped.

  She had the distinct impression he was lying. As she watched him go, all the anger she’d felt toward him rekindled. She resented him for purchasing her hand, for helping to ruin her reputation, for trying to relinquish her hand, and now for acting as though she were not even there. She hated him for leaving her here, alone, night after night, imprisoned for life within the walls of his house. For the hundredth time she wondered why he had wanted her for h
is wife.

  Well, if he wanted a marriage in name only, she would be happy to oblige. In fact, she would return to her family home in Penrock so he didn’t have to see her face.

  With that decision, she sent for a carriage and informed her maid Violet to pack a trunk for their departure. After pacing about the room in agitation, she sat to write a note to Harry.

  My lord,

  It seems to me we are better off apart. I will stay in Penrock until—

  She paused. Until when? Until their reception ball? Or should she cancel that? She picked up the quill again:

  until indefinitely. Please inform me of your intentions regarding the reception.

  —Kitty

  It seemed foolish to even mention the reception ball, but even if they were going to have a marriage in name only, the reception was necessary to help restore her honor. She may be willing to walk away from her marriage, but she’d rather not walk away from society as a whole. She left note with the butler, who deferentially protested that Lord Westerfield would not approve of her traveling without him.

  “I have Violet to accompany me. If he does not approve, then he can come and fetch me,” she dared, realizing that was, in fact, the outcome she desperately hoped for.

  The carriage was called and she and Violet set off, riding most of the day. She passed the time imagining the joy she would feel at seeing her old home and spending time with her brother and sister-in-law and their two children. But when she arrived, the niggling feelings of doubt over her decision to leave burst into full force.

  Mrs. Baker, the housekeeper, came out to the carriage to greet her.

  “Miss Kitty! I mean, Lady Westerfield, is it now? We heard of your betrothal, well, and then your marriage,” Mrs. Baker added hastily, and the shame of her elopement made her flush.

  “Er, yes.”

  Mrs. Baker craned to look past her. “Where is Lord Westerfield?”

  “He’s not with me.”