Bad Kitty (3 page)

But he had her in a vise hold and there was nothing—absolutely nothing—she could do or say now other than yes. Her total loss of control filled her with dark desire she could not explain.

She simply could not agree to it, though. When she had come here to spy on him, to reveal all the horrible things he had done, how could she willingly pull down her drawers like a common doxy and show him her virtue?

“No,” she said, knowing he would surely punish her for insubordination and instinctively her bottom raised a fraction of an inch, awaiting the sting, the throb, the heat.

“So that’s the way of it, is it?” he asked, his voice terse, strained.

Kitty swallowed thickly, listening to the hoarse sound of his breathing, feeling the tension of his thigh that was pressed against hers. But there was more… Oh God, no.

His phallus!

And it was hard as stone.

But there was no time to consider what he might do with that thing. His palm fell on her bottom and she pressed her lips together to keep from crying out. Again and then again.

Kitty’s forehead fell to the cool, polished wood of the desk. Her channel tightened over and over until she felt something wet oozing down her thigh. What was happening to her? She should be horrified at herself. Any sane person would have already agreed to his demands. It was almost as if, by her refusal, she was giving him permission to…spank…her into submission.

With each new slap she whimpered, dying for the fire between her legs to be quelled.

His hips rocked against her thigh and she suddenly knew she wanted that thing inside her. She wanted him doing to her what he had done to the duchess—and the shocking realization she wanted such a thing made her think she deserved the punishment the earl was meting out to her.

“Do you burn for me?” he demanded. Again his voice was rough. “Do you tingle here?”

Kitty gasped as his fingers sought through her drawers the part of her that ached for him. She rocked toward his hand like an animal but he quickly withdrew it. Inside she was screaming, begging for him to touch her, as if his touch could somehow magically make this carnal ache go away.

He released one of her hands. “Touch yourself.”

“I can’t.”

“Do it, now. Pleasure yourself,” he commanded.

When she hesitated, another slap landed on her buttocks.

And then, as if she had lost all sense of control and decorum, Kitty pushed her hand between her legs and began to furiously rub the hard little nub that so ached for this man’s touch.

It feels so good…

She had never known a person could find such pleasure at their own fingertips, and while she struggled to attain something she did not yet understand, Bram soothed her stinging buttocks, kneading and rubbing and encouraging her.

“I smell your cream,” he muttered, rocking against her thigh. “Are you close, Kitty? Yes, that’s it, darling. Let it come.”

Kitty’s knees buckled as something wonderful exploded between her legs, sending waves of mind-numbing bliss through her body. She rode it, feeling herself growing even wetter through her drawers and then, when the last of the spasms in her channel melted away, she grew still.

Shame flooded her.

How could she have willingly committed such lewd and sinful acts?

Bram released her other wrist and moved away, leaving her feeling completely fallen and disgraced. “Get off my desk. Dress yourself.”

Some part of her wanted to play the game again, wanted him to ask to see her, wanted him to throw her down on the carpet and rut inside her to bring her to that bliss all over again.

He moved to the window with his back to her. “Are you certain you want to remain in my service?”

This was her way out. She should grab this opportunity and tell him what she thought of him and run for her life.

Instead, she said, “Yes, Master.”

Chapter Three

Bloody damn hell.

Bram kept his back turned while he heard her scraping up her clothes and donning them.

He knew if he turned around, she would not make it out of this room with her virginity intact. He inhaled sharply and immediately wished he had not done so. The room was fragrant with her cream, with the scent of her unsullied sex.

He swallowed. What on earth was a woman like Katrina Hartford doing disguising herself as a maid?

It made no sense.

Unless she, like so many others, sought him out for the taboo pleasures only he could provide them…

He had known from the beginning she was not Kitty Hartley the maid, but instead the haughty creature he had seen at the Duke of Blakemore’s party.

But why was she here? Most women who sought his services were married and had long since become bored with their bed partners.

Bram recalled his friend telling him that Katrina Hartford had refused the suit of anyone who’d proposed courtship to her. That did not sound like a woman who wanted what Bram had to offer. No. There was certainly some ulterior motive that had brought the curious Miss Hartford to his doorstep.

Bram’s conscience prodded him to turn around, to expose her identity and send her packing, but the memory of her body convulsing on her own hand—and knowing full well it was the first time she had ever known such sensations—filled him with the desire to learn more, to watch
her
learn more.

He had seen women in the thrall of deriving pleasure from punishments but, by God, he had never before seen one so thoroughly succumb to the sensual delights the body had to offer. Not like that. Not so quickly.

He shifted from one foot to the other, clenching his teeth at the swell of his cock struggling against the confines of his breeches. An image welled in his thoughts of bursting through her maidenhead and then finding
the little death
inside her treasures.

Every muscle in Bram’s body grew taut.

Of course, he would not fuck her.

He was a beast but he was not a goddamn beast.

No. He would and could control his libido and Katrina Hartford would leave here as the virgin she had arrived. There were many other things two people could do that did not involve the actual act of copulating.

Still, the desire had welled in him so strongly, it had taken every ounce of restraint he possessed not to rip off her drawers and plunge his cock up her cunny. Something told him she would have allowed it. Welcomed it even. Propriety be damned.

He had offered every opening for her to leave, to stop, but she had not. She had stayed. She had pulled off her clothes with the exception of her drawers, she had submitted to being spanked.

But he had not broken her will.

Not yet, anyway.

He glanced back at her just in time to see her fastening the last of the buttons at her throat. Here was his opportunity to tell her he knew her ruse, to send her back from whence she came. Instead, he could not believe the words he uttered. “Go find Mrs. Bush. She will instruct you as to your duties.”

Kitty started to drop into a curtsey and Bram could have kicked himself for what he said next. “Tell her to assign you to my private suite.”

Bram watched her eyes widen dramatically before he turned away from her again.

“Yes…Master,” she said, and then he heard the door close behind her.

* * * * *

Once she was outside Bram Barclay’s study, Kitty leaned against the wall and struggled to catch her breath. Her entire body quivered with what had just happened. She had been practically naked in front of a man who held the worst reputation in all of England and for the first time in her life, she had felt alive.

It was as if something inside her had taken over her body, had come to life, awakening her to sensations she could never have imagined.

Now she understood those faces the duchess had made. Those rounded lips and closed eyes were expressions of ecstasy. Bram had not been blackmailing her. Quite the contrary.

He had been pleasuring her.

An odd pang of envy rattled Kitty that Bram Barclay had bestowed his affections on another but still, Kitty’s channel spasmed at the thought of having inside her that steely flesh she had felt against her thigh…

Sudden shame flooded her cheeks. What was she thinking? Had she, in the span of half an hour, become a fallen woman given to coarse pleasures of the flesh?

She inhaled.

This was ridiculous. She was too intelligent and far too modern a woman to fall under the spell of Bram Barclay. She was here to collect information, not play his parlor games.

But then, she reminded herself, she hadn’t exactly been given a choice. Somehow that lessened her part in it and left her with pride intact.

Even modern novelists wrote about the taboos behind closed doors, and besides, Kitty knew she had to experience firsthand what Bram Barclay was all about so she could be thorough in her article.

She stood and straightened her clothes and hair and went to find the housekeeper, Mrs. Bush.

Bram was the son of a living duke and thus had not yet inherited his title, however, he was known as the Earl of Wiltshire, one of his father’s lesser titles. Rumors abounded that the duke had little, if nothing, to do with his son and would have cut him from his will were he not the only heir to the title.

Despite the duke’s opinion of his son, Bram lived in opulent surroundings. Kitty’s gaze traveled up the polished walls replete with portraits of grim-looking ancestors. Intricately woven tapestries hung here and there. An occasional vase or sculpture was displayed on an ornate pedestal.

Not even the Duke and Duchess of Blakemore lived on such a luxurious estate.

Kitty feared she would get lost or turned around in Bram’s manor but she managed to find her way to the servants’ area at the back of the house.

Mrs. Bush seemed surprised to see her again. “So, he took you on, did he?”

The way the old woman’s eyes narrowed as she perused her gave Kitty the distinct impression Mrs. Bush knew exactly what had transpired in the study. Had more than one potential servant opted not to remain in the earl’s service after that initial interview?

Kitty shifted from one foot to the other, reminded of the creamy wetness dampening her drawers. She swallowed. “Yes ma’am.”

“Hmph,” Mrs. Bush snorted. “You seem a bit impertinent to me but perhaps the master likes that in a servant. Did he say where he wanted you assigned?”

“His private chamber.” Kitty’s face flushed hot and she knew Mrs. Bush noticed.

“I shall speak with him about that,” she said. “For now, I am assigning you to the kitchen.”

Kitty’s lips parted but she did not dare say a word. Although kitchen placement was less prestigious, kitchen servants tended to be free to talk amongst themselves more. She would certainly be able to learn more about Bram there than picking up after him in the chamber.

Still, the idea of toiling in the kitchen instead of seeing the bed in which Bram Barclay slept sent a tendril of disappointment spiraling through Kitty.

“Come,” Mrs. Bush said tersely. And as she began a brisk walk toward the kitchen, she laid down the household rules. “When the master speaks to you, look at him. Keep your hands still and at your sides.”

Kitty’s insides tangled at the reference to “the master”.

“Never engage in idle chatter with other servants around the master. We are to be seen and not heard. Never engage in discourse with the master. If he drops an item, you are to return it on a silver salver—or however he instructs you.”

“Yes ma’am.” The unspoken meaning of Mrs. Bush’s last statement was not lost on Kitty.

“I take it he has informed you how you are to address him?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“If you forget it, you will be duly reprimanded.”

Kitty grew taut at the thought of being
reprimanded
by the master. Heat swelled in her bottom.

“The master is not interested in your opinions. Do not offer them. If he passes you in the hallway or anywhere else in the house, make yourself as indiscernible as possible. Avert your eyes. Do not speak to the master unless he speaks to you first. If you are required to carry something for him, walk a few paces behind him.”

Kitty struggled to match Mrs. Bush’s frantic pace.

“Punctuality is a must. While here, you will receive no visitors. There are few male employees here but fraternizing with them is strictly forbidden on charges of dismissal. Damages to household items will be deducted from your wages. Do you understand, Miss Hartley?”

“Yes ma’am,” Kitty said breathlessly.

Mrs. Bush suddenly stopped and turned to her. “And Miss Hartley, no matter what the master tells you or requires of you, know this—he is your better. Do not take on any childish hopes he will take you as his wife, or even as his mistress for that matter.”

Of course that was the furthest thing from Kitty’s mind but, oddly, Mrs. Bush’s statement angered her. She was not a maid. She was a member of the
ton
, albeit a lowly daughter of a baron. Still.

“Do you understand?” Mrs. Bush asked.

“Yes ma’am.” Kitty understood all too well. That was why she was here. Had Mrs. Bush’s warning lent truth to the rumor Bram had indeed used and left the Earl of Rochford’s daughter in a predicament?

“Good. I feel certain there will be no need for this conversation again then,” Mrs. Bush said before she descended the stairs into the bustling kitchen.

Kitty followed, at once surrounded by the aroma of meat roasting and the pungent fragrances of exotic spices. Heat radiated from the brick ovens and steam rose from a bubbling pot on the hearth.

The kitchen was one of Kitty’s favorite places at her uncle’s house. There, they only had two servants, Holt and Laura, whom Kitty loved like they were her own family. Here at the Earl of Wiltshire’s, Kitty counted at least twenty in the kitchen alone.

And she quickly saw why Mrs. Bush had placed her in the kitchen instead of in Bram’s private chamber. All but one of the kitchen staff were older, unattractive types. For some reason, Mrs. Bush sought to keep Kitty out of Bram’s clutches.

Kitty should have been grateful. Instead, she was irritated. She told herself it was because she would not be able to watch Bram Barclay herself, but the shadow side of her knew it was because her body longed for that all-encompassing feeling only he had ever tapped. In the short time he had known her, Bram had been able to strip her defenses until she was a mewling ninny bent naked over his desk.

After a brief introduction to the head cook, Mrs. Bush left.

“Alice will show you the ropes,” the cook said, gesturing with her knife toward a bright-faced girl who was chopping carrots.

Kitty nodded.

Alice wiped her hands on her apron. “I’m Alice. There’s a knife for you there,” she said, pushing half the carrots on the chopping block toward Kitty.

Kitty took her time, watching how Alice held and chopped the carrots. She had no experience in a kitchen and hoped she could pull this off. She doubted being reprimanded by the robust head cook would be as gratifying as the reprimand she had received from Bram.

Kitty knew Alice was watching her as she struggled to hold and chop the first carrot but, thankfully, by the time she picked up a third, she had grown adept enough not to draw too much attention to herself.

“So the master hired you on himself, did he?” Alice whispered.

Kitty nodded.

Alice wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. “That’s why you’re in the kitchen.”

Kitty quickly saw her opportunity to learn more. “The master wanted me on staff in his private suite.”

“All the more reason for Mrs. Bush to cast you into the kitchen,” Alice said. “She’s hoping he’ll forget about you.”

“But why?”

“She doesn’t care for anyone the master takes to.”

Heat flamed in the back of Kitty’s neck. The master had
taken
to her? Some part of her was thrilled. Another part tried to reason that a man like Bram Barclay was only
taken
with her the same way a cat was taken with a mouse.

“Does that include women like the Earl of Rochford’s daughter?” Kitty asked conspiratorially.

“Silence!” the head cook yelled.

Kitty jumped but did as she was told, disappointed that her first real source had been quashed.

Maybe the kitchen was not going to prove the fount of information she had originally thought. Somehow, she would have to get herself noticed by Bram again.

* * * * *

Bram stared blankly at the estate’s account books. Normally he had the figures ciphered and everything balanced in a matter of minutes. Now the day had waned as he’d agonized over the same column of numbers for hours—and still could not concentrate on anything but those thin cotton drawers concealing Katrina Hartford’s luscious behind.