Captured by the Count: An Abduction and Breeding Fantasy (2 page)

Sissy, as a house maid and then lady’s maid, certainly knew of the plight of the females in those cell like shacks, and had heard horrible stories about how they were treated – both by the overseer and the
males who were sent to breed with them.  Some of them, she knew, spent most of their time tied to the bed after trying to defy the master’s wishes and trying to physically rebel against being forcibly bred. 

The specter of such a fate weighed very heavily in Sissy’s mind.  She would do nearly anything to avoid ending up among those poor, pathetic women, who birthed baby after baby
, whether they wanted to or not. 

With shaking hands
and a horribly burning cheek
, she did her best to achieve the effect that Miss Cassie wanted, knowing that
that was no idle threat.  Finally, it seemed that she had met the mark, and Cassie smiled in the mirror.  Not at her, of course, but at her own reflection.

She stood and took her mask
and reticule
from Sissy, warning, “I’ll be late
, but I’ll need your help getting undressed, so don’
t you go to sleep on me
or I’ll take the strop to you.”  She had brought one of the
favorite, formidible
punishment implements with her – having made Sissy pack it for her – all the way from home, j
ust to make sure that she could keep Sissy in line, and she had never once – since Sissy had become hers when Sissy was eleven and Cassie was six or so – hesitated to use it
, or, almost worse, as far as Sissy was concern
ed, to slap her as she just had.

Despite the fact that some of the others at
Two Rivers
had encouraged her to escape while they were travelling through countries that had laws against slavery, Sissy knew herself for a coward, because
all
she could
do was
imagine just what would happe
n to her if she was ever caught whenever she considered that enticing idea.

No, she would stay right where she was.  Better the devil you know
...

The ball had been wonderful
–
just as she’d planned, all eyes had turned to her when she’d made her entrance, and there wasn’t a man there who hadn’t asked to dance with her.

Except one.

He was Count someone or other – Cassie had never been any goo
d at languages, but then, she blithely expected that everyone would speak – or at least understand enough to follow her orders – English, regardless o
f what country she was in.  And
he had remained quite stubb
ornly unimpressed by her beauty
which was a state of affairs that Cassie found quite unacceptable.
  The one time she’d seen him glance at her, it was her hair that caught his attention, and then only for a split second before he looked away.
  Still, she knew better than to show her consternation.  Instead, she avoided him just as casually as he was her, flirting and dancing to her heart’s content, but surreptitiously keeping an eye on him, unable to get him off her mind. 

Their introduction had been perfunctory at best, even a bit curt.  He had bowed over her hand,
kissed it once – a bare peck, as if he had better things to do –
then
immediately
excused himself to
greet a friend of his.
  There was st
ill a long line of men who were eager
for an introduction, so she assuaged her ruffled feathers with that, but still, her eyes sought him out wherever he was in the room as she danced and chatted and toyed with the
besotted young men that formed her coterie for the evening.

Cassie
– not having paid much attention to any of it while she was growing up -
had learned very quickly how to promise much but deliver nothing to the overeager entour
age that always grew around her, and, as far as she could tell, that was exactly what was expect
ed of her until she got engaged then married.

But she was having too much fun being the center of attention.  She knew her father had hoped she find an eligible Duke or other such titled
gentleman
– who would lend an impenetrable air of quality to their family by association
, but none of the simpering types that
continually
surrounded her
held any interest at all.
  They were just so many lap do
gs, as far as she was concerned to be teased and
tantalized with the faintest of affections for her own amusement.

The Count, however,
became more and more intriguing to her as the night wore on, and she became bored with the men who jumped at her every command. 
Cassie
succeeded in putting him from her mind – sometimes – but she always knew where he was, until, just before the last dance of the evening, he disappeared.  She tried to look aro
und for him without appearing to do so
, but he was nowhere to be found.
 

The thought that he might have gone out into the gardens – which were gaily lit with stunning brass lanterns that gleamed in the moonlight – with another woman annoyed her somehow, and for no discernable reason.

It had gotten so late that the majority of her hangers on had already left, but she c
ouldn’t quite pull herself away, despite the fact that she found herself feeling somewhat lightheaded and woozy.
 
In defiance – and denial – of those feelings, s
he rose, smiling vacantly as the three remaining devotees snapped to their feet as if she were their queen, then turned abruptly away from them an
d
took one determined step
towards the door
, right into the Count’s waiting arms.

Cassie stiffened, holding her body as far away from his as she could, pulling out of his em
brace and nearly stumbling back
because he did nothing at all to hold her.
  She didn’t have to fight against him in the least – he just let her go.  Damn the man!  He was acting contrarily to every other man in the room under fifty, and it was driving her crazy that he seemed to dismiss her as easily
as he would a trollop
i
n the street
.

“
A thousand pardons, mademoiselle,” he murmured, bowing low, but Cassie had the distinct feeling he was laughing at her as he did so
, which infuriated her to no end.

The fact that she was so irritated at this man and yet so equally attracted at the same time set her off kilter a bit.  Her response was brusque and
hard bitten.
“I nearly fell.  You
would do well to watch where you’re going
, Count.”
  She ma
de as if to go
around him, but he reached out quickly and grabbed her hand, kissing it again as he had when they were introduced – dry
ly and perfunctorily, like she imagined she would kiss
was his frail great-aunt.

“
I apologize, Mademoiselle Winthrop.  Sometimes I’m a clumsy oaf.”  His tone indicated that he in no way thought of himself as such.  “Would you do me the great honor of giving me this last dance?”

Cassie’s heart leapt into her throat and all of a sudden she found it hard to draw a breath.  The idea of being whirled around the dance floor in his arms – he was head and shoulders taller than she was, with broad shoulders that strained the seams of his
obviously well made coat, his trousers hugging well-muscled legs a bit more immodestly than was strictly proper, not that anyone w
ould ever confront him about it – had her feeling somewhat dizzy.

She opened her mouth and stammered, which was unheard of for her.  “I – I believe that Gilbert de Rothchilde has this dance, Sir.”

“He went home an hour ago,” o
ne of her admirers piped up
helpfully.

At a loss, she closed her mouth tightly
when she realized it had been hanging
open.

“Well, then, it seems our bumping into each other was fortuitous.”

He didn’t give her a chance to say no, really, but escorted her out onto the floor as the m
usicians struck up a slow waltz, holding her unacceptably close with an arm snaked around her waist, his hand splayed at her lower back, keeping her right where he wanted her
, which was much, much too close for her comfort – indecently close, if it came to that.  Cassie didn’t even bother to give him her usual fake smile as she reached behind her back to try to loosen his hold, which only got her hand trapped there by his.

Her eyes flashed angrily
, not that he seemed to notice beyond the slightest of upturns to the corners of his mouth, as if he found her attempts at extricating her to be mildy –
but
only mildly – amusing.

He ruthlessly used her disadvantage to his advantage, forcing her lower body even more tightly against him.

Cassie tried to regain control of her other hand, through which he had his gloved fingers
had
interlaced with hers as he waltzed them expertly around the room
that was graced by
only one or two other couples,
but no amount of elicit tugging – so as not to call attention to them and the scandalous position he had forced her into
–
did
the trick.

“Relax,” he leaned forward and whispered into her ear.  “I’
m not going to hurt you.  T
here a
re very few people left dancing
and even fewer around the room.  I promise you that
you will survive this dance with
your reputation entirely intact, Mademoiselle.”

Cassie clamped her mouth shut and narrowed her eyes at him, then looked away, vowing to herself not to react to him in any way
, despite the dizziness she felt that she churlishly attributed to him
.  The waltz would soon be over, and then, hopefully, she would never have to see the boorish oaf again.

Count
Victor
Andreiv Kaspersky Salkov
knew exactly what Cassie was doing and how she felt about being what she probably considered to be manhandled by him on the dance floor.  But this little flower obviously knew absolutely nothing about being manhandled, although when he implemented his plot she would become quite intimately familiar
with the term, whether she wanted to or not.

And he highly doubte
d she would want to . . .
at least at first.

“You have the most beautiful hair I have ever seen, Mademoiselle.  Is it a wig?”

Cassie would have vowed to her dying day that there was nothing this boor could say to her that would get her to talk to him or respond in any way
.  She was a
n old
master at giving the cold shoulder, and had once
, at the tender age o
f eight
, gone for nearly two months without
speaking to her Mother, despite the fact that Father required that the family eat both breakfast and dinner together. 
Alicia Moorhouse Win
throp had denied her daughter the opportunity to
buy the
horse
she wanted
– one that both of her parents had thought was much too spirited for her, although her father had left it up to her mother to make the final decision, as he often did in matters that concerned his daughter.

But
, as far as Cassie was concerned,
the C
ount’s
comment could not have been much more incendiary if he had questioned her virtue.

“Of course it’s not!” she replied in utter outrage, wishing she could – if not leave him entirely
-
then at least step back from him and stop the dance as she gave him the full effect of her wrath at his temerity.

But he continued to usher her around the fl
oor as if he had said nothing in the least
outrageous to her.  A small smile played about his lips as Cassie realized he was trying not to laugh at the vehemence of her response, and then favored her with yet another insulting question.  “Is it dyed?”

Victor watched her eyes go wide, then narrow to incensed slits.  This time she refused to grace his question with an answer of any sort at
all. 
Would this dance
never
end? She wondered
as she stood as stiffly as she could within his all to
o forward embrace, realizing suddenly that she felt quite dizzy.

After a few moments of complete silence between them, Victor ventured an apology that, l
ike a lot of
what he’d said to her, she felt was completely lacking in sincerity
.  “I am truly sorry if I’ve offended you, Mademoiselle Winthrop.  I only meant to discern if I should direct my
deepest
compliment
on that sumptuous mane of yours
to you, your wigmaker or your hairdresser.”