His Spoilt Lady

Copyright 2014
Blushing Books and
Vanessa Brooks

Published by Blushing
Books at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition,
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Brooks, Vanessa

His Spoilt Lady: The
Adventures of Linnett Wainwright, Book One

eBook ISBN:
978-1-62750-507-9

Cover Design by ABCD
Graphics & Design

This book is intended
for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented
in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults. Nothing in
this book should be interpreted as Blushing Books' or the author's
advocating any non-consensual spanking activity or the spanking of
minors.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Blushing Books

The household
held its breath, waiting for the enraged young mistress to leave
for her daily ride. Until that time came, there would be no peace
for anyone, and the cause of her rage? The lady’s father had
informed her, only that morning at breakfast, that the man he had
chosen for her future husband was due to arrive this very day.
Since then, any of the household staff who had the misfortune to
encounter the young mistress had suffered the outraged lash of her
tongue. When she had finally slammed out of the house on her way to
the stables, her father, Sir Thomas Wainwright, had emerged from
his study, mopping his brow with his kerchief. He had hidden
himself there after imparting the momentous news that so upset his
daughter.

The household
relaxed again, breathing a communal sigh of relief as the girl was
seen to gallop away from the house. The staff, meanwhile, continued
with preparations for their important guest: the finest sheets were
placed on the bed, flowers arranged throughout the house, silver
polished and cake and puddings baked in abundance. Despite all the
fuss that had been called for, the staff privately thought the
young man’s suit bound to fail, for rumour had it that the young
mistress’s heart was engaged elsewhere. The rumour had come from
the person of one Lottie Brown, the young mistress Linnett’s
personal maid.

When word had
reached Lavenstock Hall that at long last, Sir Thomas’s ship, The
Tempest, had docked at Plymouth, the coachman Davis, who had been
on standby for the past week, made haste to the port to fetch the
important guest.

Whilst Linnett
sought refuge from her irritation with a long gallop on her beloved
horse, Pango, a certain John Foster disembarked from his ship,
gratefully climbed into the large dark green coach that his English
host had courteously sent to fetch him and promptly fell
asleep.

John awoke and
leant back against the comfortable leather seat, stretching his
long legs until his joints cracked complainingly, then gave an
all-encompassing yawn followed by a grateful sigh. It had been a
rough sea crossing and a long one. Normally at this time of year,
the trip from the American colonies took about eight weeks, but
high seas and bad weather had delayed the return to England by
another six days. It was a tremendous relief to be ashore. John was
not a man who took kindly to a long period of inactivity for he was
an athletic fellow who enjoyed physical hard work.

Half opening
his eyes, John gazed sleepily out of the small window. It was May
in England, and the hedgerows were full of hawthorn blossom. The
leaves on the trees were gently unfurling into soft light greens
and pale yellows, and other trees were already in bud. The scented
promise of a summer not far away hung sweet and heavy in the air.
As the soft rolling green countryside of Devon rolled by, John
relaxed, enjoying the sights and smells that only an English spring
could offer. He found himself pondering the health of his host, an
old and dear school friend and former business partner to his late
father.

Sir Thomas was
now John’s business partner since he had inherited his father’s
half of the business. John had been invited to stay at Sir Thomas
Wainwright’s country estate at Lavenstock Hall. This was for the
express purpose of looking over Linnett Wainwright, the daughter of
Sir Thomas Wainwright, to assess whether she would suit as his
wife. John sighed heavily. He was under pressure from both sides of
the Atlantic; John’s mother, who also resided in Boston, had her
heart set on the match. Sir Thomas Wainwright was equally adamant
that his girl and John would suit each other; both parents were
keen to strengthen the business ties with a family tie. So here he
was -- a browbeaten man sent on an arduous journey to look over a
chit of a girl he hardly remembered (and then only as small, fair,
rather spoilt and precocious young miss). John doubted the girl’s
suitability on the grounds that a gently raised English miss would
not endure the rigours of the Colonies, let alone the arduous sea
voyage required to reach the shores of the Americas.

The cumbersome
coach lumbered on, the rolling motion lulling John into a much
needed nap. Eventually, they passed through the lodge gates at
Lavenstock. The coach lurched while making the awkward turn and
John’s head snapped forward, rudely awakening him. Glancing
blearily through the half opened window, John could see atop the
brow of the hill a horse and rider, who, upon seeing the coach,
turned towards it riding at breakneck speed down the slop of the
hillside. John held his breath, admiring the fluid movement of
horse and rider as they seemed to merge as one, the horse, a large
black beast raced along with its tail held high, the rider lying
forward, almost flat over the horse’s neck.

At first, John
had thought the rider to be a man due to the fact that the rider
was astride the horse, but he now perceived in profile the soft
curves and shape of a woman. She had a mane of fair, russet hair,
and it streamed out behind her, glinting, catching the sun’s rays.
John saw her physical outline clearly as she swung her horse
around, could this possibly be the girl that he had come to meet?
Intrigued, he watched her disappear around the side of the hill,
and then he sat back in his seat, wide awake at last and feeling a
strong sense of anticipation.

As the coach
swept along between the rolling hills, a view of Lavenstock Hall
emerged, its old twisted chimneys standing high above the trees.
The house sat nestled in a small valley surrounded by parkland. The
structure was originally built around Saxon times, hence the name
‘Hall,’ and different generations of Wainwrights had added to the
original building over the centuries. For the most part, the house
was Elizabethan in style, the windows mainly diamond-shaped and set
in stone mullion. The architectural mix worked well, and the house
had a mellow and welcoming appearance. At last, they drew up
outside Lavenstock Hall, scattering gravel as the coachman bought
the coach to a flourishing halt. John was met by Sir Thomas
Wainwright himself, beaming a jovial smile as he descended the
Hall’s wide shallow steps, his arms flung wide in welcome. “John
Foster at long last. Wonderful to see you, m’boy! How is your dear
mother? She keeps well, I trust?”

John stepped
forward, holding out his hand with a warm smile, lightening the
dark severity of his rather harsh features. A tall man, he stood a
head taller than his host. John silently assessed his host’s
health, studying him closely. He knew that his partner had suffered
a seizure before Christmas, and although Sir Thomas Wainwright had
written assuring them of his recovery, John and his mother were
extremely concerned. It was partly this concern that had prompted
John’s decision to travel back to England and consider the
suggestion that he should marry Linnett Wainwright. John noted Sir
Thomas’s skin had a yellowish hue, his lips underneath his large
white moustache holding a tinge of blue, and even his hazel-brown
eyes appeared to have a grey film across the surface. John frowned,
deciding that it was a good thing he’d decided to visit.

“Something
wrong, m’boy?” Sir Thomas said, turning anxiously to his guest.

“No, Sir
Thomas, nothing...Mother is extremely well, I thank you. She sends
you her regards and trusts that your health has much improved.” Sir
Thomas placed a friendly hand on John’s shoulder. “I couldn’t be
better lad; I tell you, leeches are the answer! A good bleed put me
to rights. Upset m’ daughter I can tell you, she don’t take to me
being bled, disagrees with the practice. I think it’s just a case
of a female’s natural squeamishness. My wife was the same, don’t
you know. Now come along inside; you must be exhausted!”

Gravel crunched
as the coach pulled slowly off to the coach yard at the back of the
house. Two footmen ran down the steps and gathered John’s luggage.
Sir Thomas turned and led the way into the house, John following
and answering questions regarding his journey that Sir Thomas flung
cheerfully back over his shoulder.

On their
arrival into the entrance hall, they met a young woman coming
through from the rear of the house. She wore a dark green riding
habit, her skirts unusually split down the middle. John guessed
that this must be the rider he had watched from the coach. Sir
Thomas went forward to greet her. “Well met Linnett m’dear! You
remember John Foster, do you not?”

Sir Thomas
Wainwright beamed cheerfully at his daughter. She drew herself up
straight, her back rigid, her haughty but beautiful face
expressionless, one foot poised on the bottom stair, ready to
ascend. Glancing only briefly at John, she spoke directly to her
father. “I may vaguely recall him, Papa” she replied in a
disinterested tone. John stared, drinking in her looks; such an
extremely beautiful girl, with a mass of dark russet gold hair the
colour of wild honey, her build slender but full busted. It was her
eyes, however, that caught John’s attention; they were certainly
her most striking feature, a clear translucent green, almond-shaped
and almost uncannily cat-like. John took a step forward, determined
that the beauty should notice him.

“How do you do,
Miss Wainwright?” he enquired politely. Linnett Wainwright raked
her gaze over him insolently before turning her back on John and
speaking only to her father. “Papa, I shall have a bath and prepare
for dinner.” She spun and was gone, running lightly up the stairs
disappearing from view. John raised an eyebrow. Whew! Well she may
be a rare beauty, but no one had ever taught her any manners,
thought John. Sir Thomas Wainwright was florid with
embarrassment.