Sattler, Veronica (12 page)

A
whimper escaped her lips as she felt her knees buckle, but Brett was ready for
her; with a quick movement he bent to swoop her up in his arms and then turned
toward the bed. With a couple of easy strides he carried her there and
deposited her gently on the coverlet.

Ashleigh
thought to take this respite to try to reason with him, stop him, tell him that
somehow there'd been a terrible mistake, but he allowed her not a moment to do
so. All at once he was beside her on the bed, his big body stretching alongside
hers, then covering it as he again pulled her to him.

Now
Ashleigh fought with all her might, twisting, biting, kicking, doing whatever
she could to fend him off. This met with some success, for no one could have
been more surprised than Brett when he finally realized she was protesting in
earnest, and he loosened his hold on her to murmur, "What the
devil...?"

Ashleigh
seized the reprieve, rolling quickly off the bed and onto her feet. She stood
beside the bed, her black hair loosened from its pins, tumbling wildly about
her shoulders, her chest heaving, fire shooting from her sapphire eyes.
"Now, see here, Lord Westmont—Brett—whoever you are, I demand to
know—"

But
she got no further. Leaping from the bed, Brett was beside her in an instant,
and the look in his eyes stilled her tongue. "No,
you
look here,
Miss Sinclair! I don't know what game it is you play in that bawdy house you
come from, but I do happen to know my grandfather, the duke, paid good money
for your services, and I intend to see he receives full value for the
pound!" He jerked her to him, his mouth cruelly claiming hers while his
fingers worked at the fastenings of her dress. In spite of her struggles he
held her close for several long moments, then suddenly released her, but as he
did so, her dress fell from her shoulders and then, with brief assistance from
him, landed softly at her feet in a heap.

Ashleigh's
face went white with shock, and she stared at him in open disbelief, but Brett,
anxious now to get on with it, his lust whetted by the tempting curves he saw
revealed through the semitransparent fabric of her shift, drew her roughly to
him and again plundered her mouth with his.

Still
Ashleigh was determined to thwart him, her furiously racing brain all the while
trying to impart some sense to what was happening. She was just coming to terms
with the notion that she must have come up against a madman when she heard a loud
ripping sound and a second later, felt her shift fall from her body.

With
a shriek, she stepped away from him a pace, shock and fear registering in her
eyes as they met his. But only soft masculine laughter met her eyes as Brett
returned her look. Then she saw his eyes travel downward, coursing slowly over
the exposed flesh, looking for all the world as if he would devour everything
he saw.

Ashleigh
felt her face grow hot with shame, for no one, not even Dorcas, had ever seen
her woman's body naked, and she tried vainly to cover herself with her hands,
the pitifully useless movements making her feel all the more ashamed and
embarrassed beyond telling.

Then,
as she stood there gaping at him in astonished horror, he began to remove his
own clothing. His jacket hit the carpet, quickly followed by his cravat and
shirt. When his hands went to the fastening at his breeches, Ashleigh turned
her head, but this merely met with more soft laughter.

Screwing
up her courage, she fixed her eyes on a spot on the carpet and addressed him,
her words tumbling out in a breathy whisper. "My name is Ashleigh
Sinclair. I've been hired as a governess for the duke of Ravensford's grandson.
It's true, I resided in a—a house of light virtue for the past dozen years, but
my lord, you
must
believe me, I made an honest living there—as a servant
maid. My lord, I beg yon, I—I am not what you think!"

"A
pretty tale," Brett replied. "I commend you on your dramatic
abilities, m'dear. You play your part with consummate skill, but now I fear you
must leave center stage to
me! I
shall be the master of revels
tonight!"

Ashleigh
saw his breeches fall to the carpet, atop the boots he'd already removed, and
reluctantly raised her eyes to meet his. When she did, she was instantly sorry,
for she beheld a turquoise gaze burning with smoldering passion. Without
realizing what she was doing, she dropped her eyes, only to recoil in horrified
shock: it was her first sight of a man naked.

Instantly
she turned to flee, her cheeks burning with shame, but he reached out and
captured her easily, again swinging her up in his arms until she was nestled
against his bare chest.

"My
lord!" she gasped.
"Please!
I tell you,
you must not do
this!
It's all been some kind of horrible mistake!"

But
Brett was beyond listening or giving credence to what, he had made up his mind,
was a fantastic tale concocted by a highly experienced young whore for the sole
purpose of whetting a man's appetite. Tossing her lightly on the large
four-poster, he quickly joined her there, pinning her struggling body beneath
his. With a rapid movement, he drew her frantically waving arms above her head
and then secured them there by holding both her wrists with one hand. Then,
with the other, he began to explore her writhing, naked body.

Ashleigh
shut her eyes tight, wishing she could close out what was happening to her as
easily as she could the sight of it, but there was no dismissing the
devastating, intimate things he was doing to her body. His mouth covered hers
while his tongue probed between her lips, gained entrance, and slipped
seductively inside; his free hand found her breasts, softly stroking their
roundness, then lightly brushing their peaks. These actions, meanwhile, resulted
in the same strangely devastating reactions within her body as before. Deep
inside her center she felt as if a liquid fire were building, its wet warmth
stealing outward in ever increasing spirals until the very tips of her fingers
and toes felt deliciously weak.

She
lay in helpless, bewildered confusion as Brett's lips moved from her mouth to
her chin and on to the graceful arch of her throat, placing soft, nibbling
kisses where they went; and all the while the fire raged....

Then
his mouth trailed over her bare shoulder, moving steadily downward until it
reached one breast and closed over the aching peak. He curled his tongue around
and played and sucked and nibbled, and still the unbearable sensation in her
loins grew.

Somewhere
she thought she heard a moan, and when it came again, she realized it emanated
from her own throat! She at last opened her eyes, and then uttered a sharp,
helpless cry, for Brett's gaze was bent intently on hers, and he smiled, a look
of triumph on his face.

Then
she felt his knee between her thighs, forcing them apart, and before she could
think to protest, his body lowered on hers, and she felt the proof of his
manhood at the place where they joined. The shock of this intimate contact
brought her sharply to her senses; all languor fled, and she was about to cry
out for him to cease when a sharp, tearing pain shot up between her thighs,
deep inside her.

Her
cry of pain came directly on the heels of Brett's astonishment; he'd felt the
obstruction briefly before driving home his desire, and a look of stunned
surprise registered on his face. But he was far beyond stopping at this point,
himself a captive of his lust, and he began to move in her, rhythmically,
expertly, in and out, again and again, until finally his body convulsed in a
mighty heave, and it was done.

When
at last Brett was able to gather his wits and analyze what had just occurred,
he rolled off the still form beneath him, sat on the edge of the bed and turned
to look at her.

Ashleigh
felt his weight leave her body, and immediately turned on her side, away from
him. She curled herself into a tight little mass as the sobs began to rack her
body.

Brett
continued to stare at her, bewildered and amazed at what the past several
moments had revealed. His eyes traveled from the sobbing, huddled form on the
bed to the telltale smears of blood on the coverlet beside her.
"Christ!"
he muttered, running his fingers roughly through his hair. "How in
hell—" He broke off as the sobbing continued, now sounding to him even
more pitiful in the otherwise still chamber. He made an awkward gesture in the
direction of the girl, then thought better of it and turned instead to the foot
of the bed where an additional coverlet lay folded. This he quickly snatched,
giving it an impatient shake to unfold it, and placed it hurriedly over the
weeping girl.

Then,
with a muttered curse, Brett turned, strode to the secretary across the room
and quickly poured himself a glass of brandy; he downed its contents in one
gulp, welcoming the fiery sensation as it went down. As he poured himself
another and sipped it slowly, he began to sift through his turbulent thoughts,
trying to piece together something that made sense of what had occurred.

The
girl had been a
virgin,
yet she was a
whore! It didn't make sense!
Slowly
his mind sorted out what he knew of womankind's oldest profession. There were,
he knew, certain well-operated houses where those who ran them saw to it that
they were able to cater to every kind of taste and preference. Some of these
even found an occasional virgin to satisfy men with a preference for them,
though he himself had never been so inclined. Indeed, he'd rarely availed
himself of the talents of any kind of professional woman, finding he had a
more-than-willing assortment of females to pick and choose from among the
well-bred ladies of the
ton.
And in fact until tonight, he'd never
actually bedded a virgin—though he recognized well enough the signs of a
woman's having been one from boastful stories he'd heard over the years. Was
this Ashleigh Sinclair one of those professionally trained virgins? His
thoughts flew back to the brief time they'd spent together prior to her
deflowering. There'd certainly been little in her behavior to indicate she'd
been trained to please a man! In fact— what was that tale she'd tried to pass
off?
Had
it, indeed, been just a story, or... And why would Adams—or his
grandfather—have selected a virgin, even a trained one, if their
objective—misguided as it was—had been to see
him
tutored?

Finishing
the contents of his glass, he turned toward the bed. All was quiet there now,
and from the slight but steady rise and fall of the form beneath the coverlet,
he knew she'd fallen asleep.

Suddenly
Brett's lips curled into a grin. She had been the most tempting little piece of
baggage he'd seen in some time, and a true beauty. How was he to be blamed for
what had happened when all the circumstances were considered? He sighed. The
point was, now that he'd deflowered the chit, what was to be done next? And if
she wasn't what they'd thought, and there had been some sort of mistake or
mix-up as she'd claimed, would there be any nasty repercussions? An irate
father to be dealt with? A family honor to be righted? His mind was just
fastening on this last possibility—for he suddenly realized the girl had spoken
with the polished accent and correctness of the upper classes—when suddenly
there came a knock at the door.

"Yes?"
he called, reaching for his breeches.

"The
Lady Margaret wishes to know if you will be joining her at table this evening,
your lordship." It was the voice of Higgins, his manservant.

Brett
tossed the breeches onto a side chair as a new notion struck him. Glancing
briefly at the sleeping form on the bed, he answered his man. "No,
Higgins. My—ah—guest and I shall dine from a tray in this chamber. See to it,
will you? In about a half hour or so."

"Very
good, your lordship," replied the voice on the other side of the door, and
then there were soft footsteps going down the hallway.

Brett
walked over to the large bed and peered down at the sleeping girl on the far
side of it. There was little he could see of her face, for the dark, tumbled
mass of her hair hid it from his view, but merely the sight of those silken,
shiny tresses renewed the heat of his blood, and in seconds he was remembering
in detail how she'd felt in his arms.
Very well, little nymph,
he
thought as a wry grin worked across his features,
perhaps there has been a
terrible mistake, or even two,
he corrected, remembering the mistaken
assumption about him, on his grandfather's part, that had brought her here in
the first place.
But one thing is certain: One of us in this chamber could
benefit from a few "lessons," and I've just made up my mind to enjoy
that challenge!

With
a quick movement he was lying beside her on the bed, pressing his face into her
fragrant hair and running his hand lightly over her draped form.

Ashleigh
awoke slowly, a pleasant warmth infusing her body as she gradually moved into
consciousness. Then, as the last vestiges of slumber left her, she began to
remember where she was and what had happened to her here.

"You!"
she breathed as she turned to look at the man who hovered over her, entirely
too near.

"The
name's Brett," he answered with a lazy grin, just as his hand reached to
tuck an errant tendril of hair behind her ear.