The Westerfield Affair (6 page)

“No.”

Her heart picked up speed. Where was he taking her? After a short ride, the carriage pulled up in front of what must be his house, and he handed her out of the carriage without speaking.

Her heart thudded painfully in her chest as she allowed him to lead her inside, passing swiftly through a marble-floored foyer, then upstairs to his chamber. He waved away his valet, who hurried in to light the lamp. She stood trembling as he ignored her, taking off his coat and waistcoat, removing his cufflinks and rolling up his sleeves. The unknown—what he was thinking, what he would do with her—was more dreadful than anything her imagination could produce. When he picked up his razor strap from the dressing table, it was almost a relief.

A whipping.

She shivered. But at least now, she knew.

“Take off your clothes, Kitty.”

She heard herself gasp but stood, rooted to the spot.

He raised his eyebrows. “
Now
.”

She reached behind her, but without someone to help her undress, could not manage.

“Perhaps you could send me a maid?” she suggested, her eyes pleading.

Comprehension dawned on his face. “Come here,” he beckoned.

She seemed unable to move at first, as he stared at her, unblinking, his face as hard as stone. At last her feet obeyed, moving in mincing steps to stand before him. He tossed the strap on the bed and took her by the shoulders, turning her around with surprisingly gentle hands. She felt intensely aware of his breathing on her back, the release of each hook of her dress. She imagined his large hands working the small hooks and remembered the feel of that hand on her backside, hard as a paddle. Soon she’d be feeling his strap. She shuddered. The gown fell open and dropped the floor, and he pulled the laces on her corset, petticoats and drawers. Her entire body was trembling as piece by piece, he stripped her clothes from her until she stood in nothing but her garter belt and stockings. “Bend over the bed, Kitty,” he said in a hoarse voice.

She cast a fearful look over her shoulder and he nodded. Slowly, she bent her torso over the edge of the bed, tucking her forearms beneath her chest and resting her cheek on the cool silk of his quilt. Tears were already forming in her eyes, not for fear of his punishment, but for her own shame at requiring his discipline.

“Forgive me, my lord,” she wept, unsurprised when he didn’t answer.

She squeezed her bottom in anticipation, yelping at the first stroke, a crisp line that landed right in the middle, across both cheeks. The second landed directly below it, and then the next below that. The initial shock of impact seemed manageable, but a delayed burn was erupting as he striped his way down, and then back up again. She jerked and cried out with each weal-producing stroke, hot tears soaking the bed covers as she sobbed in between. He was slow and methodical—precise, as she might expect from a mathematician. When he caught the backs of her thighs, she screamed into the quilt, taking it between her teeth to keep from waking all the servants. He continued whipping and her hips wobbled despite her efforts to remain still and accept his punishment.

It seemed like an eternity before he stopped, dropping the razor strap on the floor. She heard him blow out his breath. A sharp slap of his hand on one of her sore cheeks intensified the fire burning in every welt. He spanked her repeatedly with his hand, his large palm no more gentle than his strap had been, yet somehow more intimate. “I’m sorry,” she sobbed, turning her head to the side to speak to him. “I’m sorry, Harry.”

At the use of his given name, he stopped abruptly. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him, but felt his eyes boring into her, his ragged breath betraying the intensity of his emotions. His hand connected with her bottom again, this time in a possessive grip. He kneaded her cheeks with both hands in a way that was both painful and satisfying at once. She heard his breath grow more rapid, as if he were aroused by the feel of her. She held still for him, her bottom the only offering she could think to make.

He ran both hands around her two cheeks, then pulled them wide, exposing her little back hole for his inspection. She flinched, clenching her bottom and wriggling to get out of his grip, only to earn a slap on one cheek. He rubbed her backside with both hands again, then trailed them down to her thighs, pulling them apart, so she was forced to adjust her feet to a wider stance. Her legs trembled and her knees would not hold her up.

A sharp slap delivered directly between her legs shot terror through her. She attempted to scramble up on the bed, away from him, but he grabbed her hips and pulled her back, pressing one hand into the small of her back to hold her still and nudging her legs back open with his foot. He spanked her delicate sex several more times and she realized, with shame, that it was sticky wet—the sound of slick flesh making his slaps even louder. He was not slapping so very hard—her agitation was less for the pain than the curious panic he was arousing in her. He rubbed her throbbing cheeks with both hands, making firm, possessive circles around her bottom. Another light slap connected with her sex and his hand remained there, cupping her mound, one finger slowly gliding along her wet, swollen folds. The finger searched the moist pleats, finding her secret entrance and slipping in.

She whimpered; whether it was in protest or encouragement, she could not be sure. He moved his finger in and out, sparking a need inside her to have him deeper. She heard a rustle of clothing and realized he was going to take her like this. Half excited, half terrified by the idea of it, she buried her face into the bed again, tension gripping every muscle in her body. A warm firm pressure at her entrance sparked her need again—even more than the touch of his fingers—and she could feel the rightness of the act, even as she feared it. He pushed and her flesh stretched around him in a ring of fire. He moved deeper, forcefully plunging past her virginal resistance. She gave a little scream from the pain of it and he froze within her.

“Kitty!” he gasped in a strangled voice.

Chapter Four

What was he doing?
He’d just deflowered his bride before the wedding. Not only that, he’d dragged her out of the ball and to his home unattended, which was a far greater scandal than the one Kitty had caused.

He pulled out of her slowly, trying not to further her pain, his cock already deflated as reason had returned.

It was unforgivable.

He felt nauseated. Trembling, he picked up a blanket and covered her with it, then sat down on the edge of the bed, pulling her into his arms, cloaked in the blanket. She pressed her face into his chest and sniffled.

“Kitty,” he choked, trying to sort out the events of the past hour. “I’m sorry—I should not have done that. I lost my head.”

“It’s all right,” she said, though he could feel her entire body trembling. “I’m so terribly sorry for the way I behaved,” she wept. “I never should have treated you so rudely, and I should have listened about the champagne.”

“Kitty, I have to ask—what’s going on between you and Lord Fenton?”

She lifted her head to answer him. “Nothing, I swear to you,” she said, her eyes pleading. “I was just trying to make you jealous and Teddy wished to throw off the attentions of Lady Dunning.” Her voice choked with tears.

Lady Dunning.
His chest constricted so tightly he could not breathe. She’d manipulated him so easily. He’d been jealous and caused a scene for no reason.

“Shh, don’t cry,” he murmured. “It’s all right, kitten,” he said, though it was certainly not. All his careful control, all his work shoring bets had just slid away from him in one staggering tilt of his world. He had taken her innocence and ruined her against her will.

She was looking up at him anxiously, still waiting for a forgiveness he wasn’t qualified to give. As usual, no words came to him. He bent and kissed her forehead, stroking her mahogany hair back from her face and pulling out the pins, one by one. She sniffled again and he fished out his handkerchief, handing it to her. She took it and blew her nose, then pulled the gloves off her hands. “I guess you won’t mind seeing my bare hands now?”

Her rueful attempt at humor sent a stab of pain straight through his heart. He forced a faint smile. “Kitty—” he attempted, then stopped, unsure what to say.

She picked up his hand where it was tangled in her hair and pulled his fingers to her lips, kissing them. His heart stopped and he had to fight tears that sprang to his eyes. He bent to kiss her forehead again. “I will have some milk warmed for you while you dress.”

“Thank you,” she said, looking disappointed, though why, he could not fathom.

When he returned with the milk, she was in her orange gown again, which was now well-rumpled and stained in the front with champagne. She required his assistance with fastening the hooks of both the corset and the gown and he obliged with trembling fingers. She drank the milk, looking exhausted, her eyes reddened from crying, her face pale. When she finished, he took the glass from her and set it down. “Come, I’ll take you home.”

They rode to her home in silence—his mind repeatedly running over the moment when he’d plowed past her virginal resistance like a plundering Viking. By the time they arrived at Kitty’s, he came to the only decision that seemed right—he must let her go. She hadn’t wanted to marry him to begin with, and now that he had violated her, she would despise him. It was not fair to force her to spend the rest of her life with a man she could never forgive.

Dawn was close, the night sky taking on the color of a bruise. Kitty’s breath quickened as he led her to the door, her fingers tightening on his arm, then tugging at it, as if to slow their walk. “Maury—” she began.

“I’ll take care of it,” he said, knocking on the door.

He heard her sniff and covered her hand on his arm with his larger one to reassure her. The butler bowed them in, looking rumpled from sleep.

“I wish to speak with Lord Stanley,” he said, as if this was an acceptable time to call on his friend.

“Lord Stanley has not returned yet this evening,” the butler said stiffly.

Kitty’s hand tightened on his arm and he sensed her silent message. “I will wait for him, then,” he said.

“As you wish,” the butler said, ushering them to the parlor.

When they were alone, he turned to her. “Go to bed. I’ll take care of matters with your brother.” He intended to release Maury from the contract, while still upholding his offer of the additional 10,000 pounds.

“No,” Kitty said stubbornly. “I’ll wait with you.”

Having no heart to refuse her anything, he sat upon the settee and pulled her to sit beside him.

The door opened and Miss Anderson flew in, wearing her dressing gown. “There you are!” she trilled. Kitty stiffened beside him.

“Go back to bed, Miss Anderson. I will address the matter with Lord Stanley.”

Miss Anderson curtsied. “As you wish, my lord,” she said and left them.

He put an arm around Kitty, drawing her against his side, offering his shoulder if she wished to rest. She fell asleep in mere minutes. He closed his own eyes, only to be startled awake by the return of Miss Anderson.

“Forgive me, but Lord Stanley never returned home last night.”

He blinked, realizing full daylight was streaming through the windows. The clock on the mantel read 10 am.

Kitty stood up, gasping. “Something has happened to him!”

Harry blew out his breath. He doubted it, but he could see how it would be upsetting to her.

“Has this happened before?”

“Never!” she exclaimed, wringing her hands and pacing the room. “Of course, he sometimes comes home quite late, but he’s never stayed out all night. It’s mid-morning! Please—will you help?”

He doubted foul play. More likely Stanley had grown weary of his sister’s ire and had taken comfort with gambling, liquor, and possibly a light-skirt. Still, she asked for his assistance, and he owed it to her.

“I will go to St. James Street at once.”

She grasped his arm, sending a shock of pleasure through him. “Take me with you.”

When he frowned, she pleaded, “
Please.
I cannot stay here, pacing about all morning, I’ll go mad!”

He looked down into her anxious face and realized this was another example of her exquisite expressiveness. When she was happy, she exuded joy, just as her anger was explosive. Now, overcome with worry for her brother, it was clear she would not rest until her mind had been put at ease.

“It’s not appropriate—”

“He’s right, Miss Stanley,” her companion chimed in.

“We’ll stay in the carriage,” she cut in. “With the curtains drawn. Please, my lord?”

She looked up at him with a pleading look he found impossible to refuse. He sighed and shook his head slowly, muttering, “I must be out of my mind.”

“You’ll take us?”

He nodded.

“Thank you,” she breathed. “I’ll go and change my dress right now!”

Kitty tried to hide her discomfort sitting in the carriage. Her bottom was tender from the spanking and the jostle of the vehicle did nothing to soothe it. Her mind was in complete disarray. Abashed by her behavior at the ball, she knew she’d deserved the chastisement Lord Westerfield had given her, though she was shocked that he’d furthered the scandal by departing with her unescorted. A frightening thought occurred to her. What if his intention had been to complete her social ruin, and then withdraw his offer to marry her? She would never be seen in society again. It would be the worst kind of revenge for the way she’d humiliated him.

She stole a look at him. No. He would not be helping her now if he meant to ruin her.

Though he would need to break the contract with Maury. The hairs on her arms stood up. Was he a vengeful man?

Lord Westerfield drove with her and Miss Anderson to Spencer’s and bade the driver of the carriage to drive them around the streets until he returned. When he rejoined them, he said Maury was not at Spencer’s, but he’d been there. They believed he had gone to a brothel, which Lord Westerfield tried next, only to discover Maury had left for yet another, more seedy gambling establishment. He ordered the driver to pull up in the back alley, presumably so they would not be seen there.