The Westerfield Affair

The Westerfield Affair

By

Renee Rose

Copyright © 2013 by Stormy Night Publications and Renee Rose

Copyright © 2013 by Stormy Night Publications and Renee Rose

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Published by Stormy Night Publications and Design, LLC.

www.StormyNightPublications.com

Rose, Renee

The Westerfield Affair

Cover Design by Korey Mae Johnson

Images by Bigstock/Loren File, Bigstock/Dmitriy Cherevko, and

The Killion Group

This book is intended for
adults only
. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults.

Acknowledgments

I wish to thank Sue Aubrey for providing historical and British feedback and Carol Powney for answering my Regency Era related questions. I am so grateful to author Natasha Knight for critiquing my work.

Chapter One

London, 1835

Impossible.

He did not believe in love at first sight. Yet his heart was hammering in his chest as if he might be suffering some sort of attack. No, it couldn’t be. He was a numbers man, not into theatrics, not into emotions or personal dramas, or even women, really. Oh, he’d had his fair share of rolls in the hay, and he’d even courted a few when he was younger, but the idea of marriage had always been repugnant to him, despite the ongoing pressure from his mother to produce an heir.

But now, staring at the animated face of Miss Kitty Stanley, he was undeniably changed.

He’d succumbed to one of the Viscount Maurice Stanley’s numerous invitations to visit his London apartment. Though they knew each other from Parliament, they’d developed their friendship at Spencer’s, the gentleman’s club on St. James Street that catered to London’s rich and famous, where they often sat next to one another at the gambling tables. Maurice Stanley had a gambling problem. Perhaps they both did, because surely Harry’s interest in gambling was more than a passing fancy, it was a need—it fed him. Numbers were his best escape. But he didn’t consider his habit a problem because while Stanley always lost at the tables, he always won.

Which is why the Viscount Stanley had taken a great fancy to Harry—he wanted to change his luck. They were sitting in his den, drinking brandy and discussing numbers, when the door burst open and Harry’s entire world tilted so fully on its axis, that he imagined he might fall right off the settee and onto the Viscount’s worn Persian rug.

“Maury, guess what just—Oh!”

The most beautiful young lady he’d ever seen had burst into the room, waving what looked like an invitation. She had thick, mahogany hair, high cheekbones, and full, pouting lips the color of shiny red plums. It was easy to deduce that she was Maury’s younger sister, judging from the resemblance, but every way he was average, she was spectacular.

“Forgive me, I didn’t realize you had a guest,” she said, dropping a curtsy and flashing a brilliant smile at Harry. His heart stopped in his chest at the dazzling perfection of it—one deep dimple gave her an asymmetrical look that only enhanced her beauty. Her eyes danced with a spirit that could hardly be contained in her small frame.

He wanted to stay in the halo of that smile for the rest of his life.

Only when she looked back to her brother could he breathe again, and make his body move to rise from the settee.

“Yes, Kitty, there’s a reason why most people knock before they enter. I am conducting serious gentlemanly business here,” her brother drawled, swirling his brandy in its glass.

Once again the brilliant gaze turned upon him. Green eyes, with flecks of gray and yellow. Thick, dark lashes that curled alluringly at the tips. “This is where I would roll my eyes if you weren’t present,” she said to him in a conspiratorial tone.

The hairs stood up on his arms to be spoken to as if he were an intimate friend and not a perfect stranger. He ought to think it quite bold, perhaps even cheeky, but he didn’t. He found it utterly charming. He laughed at her joke, stepping forward to make her acquaintance. “Harry Westerfield,” he said with a small bow.

She curtsied. “Lord Westerfield, I’ve heard so much about you. What a pleasure to meet you in person.”

“My sister,” Stanley drawled.

“Miss Stanley. The pleasure is all mine.” He took the hand she offered, her dainty, un-gloved fingers feeling so small in his large hand. “Is that an invitation?” he queried, indicating the card in her other hand.

“Oh! Yes. Lady Maybury is having a ball, and I came to beg Maury to take me.” She turned big puppy eyes on her brother. “Will you? Please, Maury?”

Stanley’s lips curled in a fond, but nonchalant smile. He guessed it was a lazy guardianship Stanley kept of his sister, which accounted for her lack of restraint that Harry found so refreshing.

Stanley raised his brows at Harry. “You wouldn’t believe how time-consuming and expensive it is to have a sister who is ‘out’—the gowns, the balls, the evening promenade in Hyde Park.”

Harry considered whether Miss Stanley had any idea of the debt her brother had accumulated. If he had truly outfitted her in new gowns for the season, it had been on credit. The Viscount’s debts at Spencer’s alone were in excess of 20,000 pounds.

“I’d be rolling my eyes once more,” Miss Stanley confided again, giving him a wink. So quirky was her personality, it was almost as if the manners of a common fishwife had been overlaid with a ladylike accent, language, and fashionable beauty. “What say you, Maury? Please? I’ve been waiting for an invitation to Lady Maybury’s ball all season! You remember last year’s? It gave us fodder for gossip all season!”

How could anyone deny such a creature anything?
“Yes, I received an invite today as well. Let’s attend it, Stanley.”

The Viscount shot him a shocked look. Harry never attended balls or any other social function. Meeting available young ladies was not part of his habit, nor did he show any desire to socialize with the rest of the
ton
.

Stanley gave a careless shrug. “Certainly. Send our intentions to attend,” he told his sister.

Harry braced himself this time for the smile and it lit up the room as he’d remembered. She bobbed a curtsy to both of them. “Thank you, Maury. A pleasure to meet you, Lord Westerfield.”

“Indeed,” was all he could manage before she left the room.

And that was when he’d decided.

He would not stop until Kitty Stanley belonged to him.

* * *

She’d been looking forward to the Maybury ball since the moment she’d departed the event the year before. It provided all the entertainment she adored—important men and preening ladies—all in one place where she could observe their interactions like a scientist studies his favorite species.

All of the
ton
attended, milling about in the latest finery and jewels. The eligible young ladies had donned their finest gowns and there was a titillation in the air that fed Kitty’s sense of adventure. Her burnt-orange dress was in the latest fashion, with a revealing neckline open to her shoulders, and plumes of dark red satin ribbons adorning the poufy sleeves. A matching ribbon cut across her waist at a V and fell down the front of her skirts. She had a new corset with the shoulder straps removed to both lift her breasts and cinch her waist.

And yet all her efforts to impress were not to snare a husband. For her, the fascination was more in the artistry—like choosing a gown in too bold a color, but still absolutely flattering to her. Or using observation to deduce the desires and motivation of each person at the ball. She was a wallflower of sorts, but it was more by her own choosing.

Lord Westerfield’s attendance came as a surprise not only to her, but to most of the gathering. As far as she knew, he had not attended a society function in years. She observed his arrival with amusement, watching the twitter of excitement run through the unattached young ladies. Lord Westerfield’s name had been scratched from most lists of eligible men simply because he was impossible to meet. Yet here he was—the prize worth attracting—handsome, titled, and one of the wealthiest men in the peerage, primarily due to speculative investments and gambling. He was older, but not too old—perhaps in his mid-thirties, and she knew from Maury he was nothing short of brilliant when it came to numbers.

It took him a long time to make his way into the hall—he was waylaid by several mothers eager to introduce their daughters, then by a group of young gentlemen who looked anxious to impress him as well. He did not appear interested by any of it. He did not smile, nor did he speak much. In fact, he was looking around the ballroom in a bored sort of manner. His eye swept over her and she inadvertently locked gazes with him, caught in her observation. Sucking in her breath, she willed herself to look away, but couldn’t. She remained frozen, disbelieving, as he spoke to the men near him and began to move toward her, eyes still holding her own.

With effort, she looked away, heat creeping up her neck, which irritated her. It was not like her to become unnerved at a social function.

“Miss Stanley.” His voice had a rich, deep resonance that reverberated through her entire body, right down to her slippers.

“Lord Westerfield,” she said, the words tumbling out too quickly as she curtsied.

“Would you care to dance?”

It took her a full beat to recover from shock and place her gloved hand in his outstretched palm.

“Lord Westerfield,” she managed as he led her to the dance floor. “You’ve taken me by surprise.”

“How so?”

“You have ruined my entertainment.”

He gave her a quizzical look as he guided her gracefully into the dance.

“I was planning to spend the next hour observing the way the crowd fawned over you, but you caught me out. Now it seems
I
am to be observed fawning over the sought-after Lord Westerfield.”

She was pleased to see the expressionless mask break and his lips twist into a smile. “Are you?”

“Fawning? Clearly. Can you not tell? Should I bat my eyelashes a bit more? It’s a shame my mother is dead, else I could send her over posthaste to inquire after yours. How is your mother, by the way?”

Westerfield was chuckling, another unexpected reaction. Most gentlemen found her pert chatter to be gauche. Though she had been raised with proper manners, she often abandoned them in favor of producing shock. She enjoyed watching the effect of her bluntness on a conversation—the way people squirmed when she spoke some truth that should not be spoken.

“Are you sure I have a mother?”

“Oh, yes, quite. I know all your pertinent details—single, handsome, titled, wealthy. Progressive with politics, tends to vote reformist, though you rarely, if ever, speak out in Parliament. I know your mother, the dowager countess, currently resides in Stanbrook, at your country estate, but when she is in London, she vociferously laments your long delay in marrying—as do all the young ladies.”

“What else?” he prompted.

“You’re hard to meet—which distresses the ladies—and you’re even harder to know. You offer little to a conversation, particularly in a group setting, but you’re said to have one of the best minds in all of England, especially in mathematics and economics. You’ve made several investments that have profited nearly ten times the return.”

Westerfield was staring at her as if fascinated. She was so unused to such a reaction she almost lost her stride.

“Any more?” he asked softly, eyes intent on her face.

She cocked her head, moving in rhythm with him, noting the grace and athleticism to his movement, an ease that belied his large frame.

“You like to gamble and you always win. Maury thinks you have one of those trick memories so you can count every card.”

“Your brother discusses my gambling habits with you?” He looked displeased, which was the sort of fuel she was more familiar with igniting.

Satisfied, she grinned and leaned her head closer to his. “You’d be surprised all the secrets I know about you, my lord.”

But rather than take her bait, he grinned. “I know a bluff when I hear one, Miss Stanley.”

Dear God, Lord Westerfield was
charming
.

She stared at the angular planes of his face—the patrician nose, iron jaw, sharp, intelligent eyes. Without the smile, his visage was imposing; with it, he turned her knees to jelly. Or was it the fact that he’d read her so easily? Most people couldn’t, or didn’t bother.

“Well, secrets about other people, then,” she managed to say, though her voice sounded as if she were out of breath.