The Westerfield Affair (4 page)

Her squirms aroused him and he began to feel a heady thrill, realizing this beautiful creature would soon be his wife. His to take to his bed, and his to chastise when naughty. And, wickedly, he found himself hoping she would be often be naughty.

He spanked, falling into a rhythm of slapping one cheek then the other, watching the bounce of her resilient flesh under his hand.

“Ow, oh, please, Lord Westerfield!” she gasped. “I will not sass you again,” she promised.

“Thank you, Miss Stanley,” he said. “I am almost finished.”

He applied his hand firmly and after another interval of spanking, realized she had given up all fight and lay quietly over his lap, accepting her punishment. He looked at her face where it lay on the settee and then froze.

She had not submitted—she had swooned.

* * *

Kitty blinked up at the worried face of Lord Westerfield. She appeared to be on the floor, cradled in his arms. Her bottom was throbbing—a tingling burn to remind her of the humiliating position in which she had just been.

“You fainted,” he explained at once. “I opened your corset so you could breathe.”

“Oh,” she said, coming to a full realization of her new predicament. Though her dress was still on, the bodice was unhooked in the back, her corset was unlaced, and her drawers were still down around her thighs.

A hysterical giggle bubbled up in her throat.

“I’m sorry. I should have considered the effect of discipline on your breathing before I took you over my knee. That was very stupid of me.”

She peered up at him. She felt quite a bit more like herself now and was beginning to fully comprehend just how far this evening had diverged from normal. “Well, I’ve come around, will you let me up?”

“No.”

“Are you going to spank me again?”

His mouth twitched with what appeared to be humor. “No.”

“Then—?”

“I rather like holding you like this.”

She bit her lip, trying not to smile.

“We should not be in here alone.”

“No, we shouldn’t,” he agreed.

“So will you let me up?”

“No,” he refused flatly.

She rolled her eyes and reached up, plucking the end of his cravat and yanking it, so it came untied. It was bold to tease him now, considering he’d shown no compunction in turning her over his knee, but his eyes crinkled with amusement and he smiled down at her.

“Silly girl,” he murmured.

She caught her breath. She had never seen this expression on him—this tender warmth. He usually seemed so harsh and closed—the sharp angles of his face giving him a stern look. Now, in the lamplight, with his face open, he looked like an altogether different man. She grinned back at him. “I’m sorry, my lord, I was unforgivably rude to you tonight.”

He smiled fondly. “Not unforgivably.”

“I guess I know what to expect from you when I’m saucy, don’t I?” she said wryly.

He chuckled, still gazing with affection. Then his expression grew serious. “Kitty,” he said, and she felt the tiny thrill at his use of her given name. “I am truly sorry for the way things have gone between us. I do see that I went about this all the wrong way.”

She blinked at him, surprised at his admission. “You do?”

“Of course I do. And I would give anything if I could go back and do it properly—if I knew the right words to say to seduce you.” He shook his head impatiently. “I’ve just—well, I’ve never had any grace when it comes to women.”

That made her burst into laughter. “Surely that’s not true, my lord.”

He smiled his handsome smile. “You think not? I assure you, it’s a fact.”

She bit her lip and considered him. “Would you permit me to see the contract?”

He looked surprised. “The contract? Between Maury and me? Why?”

She lifted her chin. “Maury won’t let me see it, and I’d rather like to know how much I fetched for him.”

Regret showed in his face. “Kitty,” he moaned. “I made a mistake. Please, let’s put it behind us?”

“I just want to see it,” she said stubbornly.

He looked at her for a very long time. Then he said with the seriousness of swearing an oath, “I promise I will show it to you some day—but right now I am desperately hoping you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me.”

For some reason, her eyes filled with sudden tears and she turned in his arms to hide them. The boning of her corset twisted and poked her and she looked down, realizing one breast was peeping out. She hurriedly yanked it up, feeling her cheeks grow warm.

“I suppose you’re going to swear you didn’t peek at all when you unlaced me?” she demanded.

His mouth quirked into a smile. “I shall do no such thing.”

Her jaw dropped, eyes widening as a rush of heat pricked across her chest and up her neck. She was shocked that Lord Westerfield, who she expected to be the very essence of decorum, would make such rakish innuendos.

Holding the gaping corset closed, her eyes met his and her breath caught. They were darkened, hungry. Without thinking, she reached up to brush back the lock of hair that had fallen in his face and suddenly found herself lifted toward him, her lips crushed against his. She cried out in surprise and pushed against him, but his strong arms were immovable. One of his hands lifted to cup her face and the gesture was gentle, tender, even as his kiss was brutal. Something in her gave way and she circled her arms behind his neck, returning the kiss tenuously at first, then sensing encouragement in the way his arms pulled her even closer, with more enthusiasm.

His hand stroked down her neck, over her shoulder, and then cupped her bared breast. Helpless to resist him, she thrust it up at him, wanting him to possess it the way he’d possessed her mouth. He did—his hard kisses traveled the same pathway of his hand, down her neck, then directly to the exposed breast, where her nipple pointed enthusiastically. He sucked at the stiffened peak, creating a tightening in both breasts and a corresponding tug between her legs.

As if he knew about that tug, his large warm hand caressed lower, around her bottom, which still smarted from his spanking, shaming her with the memory, yet also spurring her desire to give herself over to him. His hand boldly came between her legs, rubbing the satin of her dress against the layers of petticoats and sending a lick of white fire right up her center core. She moaned.

“Yes,” he said hoarsely in response.

His hand plunged into her skirts, lifting them out of his way and settling on her hip, bared because her drawers were still lowered. She whimpered at her vulnerability—the thought of his fingers touching her bare sex both terrifying and arousing.

A knock at the door made her leap out of his arms and scramble to her feet in pure terror.

“Maury!” she whispered in panic, desperately pulling up her drawers and trying to fasten her corset.

“One more minute, Stanley,” he called out, pulled her toward him and spinning her around, his efficient fingers fastening her corset and gown. “It’s all right, I’ll take care of it,” he reassured her in a low voice.

She turned back around and her eyes widened at the sight of his untied cravat. Maury opened the door as Lord Westerfield was retying it.

“Westerfield,” Maury said coldly, “you are not married to my sister yet.”

Chapter Three

Kitty dashed off, leaving him in the study with Maury. What in God’s name had he been thinking, getting swept away in frenzied passion with an innocent girl? If Stanley hadn’t arrived, he might have fully taken his little fiancée right there.

Maury was glowering. “So, am I to assume she is coming around?”

The vision of how she’d looked only moments before floated into his mind—cheeks flushed, lips swollen from kissing, hair falling from its pins. Her rumpled disarray had been more erotic than a light-skirt prancing in nothing but stockings. He marshaled his thoughts and cleared his throat. “Ah, yes. Yes, she is coming around, I believe.”

Stanley relaxed. “Good. I’m glad to hear it.”

They joined the dinner party, for which Kitty was surprisingly pleasant and afterward he joined Fenton and Stanley in the study for brandy. They sat and made casual conversation about politics, and all the while he ran numbers in his head. Forty-nine days until Kitty was his wife. That meant six more weeks of resisting his mounting desire for her. So, even if he limited his contact with her to twice a week, it would still be a dozen meetings in which he’d have to suffer the agony of being near her and not yet sure she was his. Because even though he had a signed contract, he never counted his winnings until the play was actually over.

Wanting to another private word with Miss Stanley before he left, he was the first to leave the study, and hesitated outside the drawing room when he heard the topic of conversation.

“Arranged without even asking you,” Miss Fenton breathed. “Or courting. Unless you count the two dances at Maybury’s.”

“Apparently he thought that was enough to choose his life mate,” Kitty said drily.

“Well, it could be worse. Lord Westerfield is quite a catch, really,” her friend soothed.

“I know,” Kitty sighed and his heart leaped. “But I’m just not sure I can ever forgive the way they went about it.”

Stanley’s and Fenton’s voices behind him ended the ladies’ conversation and he took a breath and entered the drawing room, his heart beating an irregular rhythm at Kitty’s words.

“Miss Stanley, may I have a word?” he asked.

She stood up immediately, but looked wary, and he could hardly blame her, considering he’d just taken her over his knee.

He reached in his pocket and pulled out a small jewelry box. “Your ring,” he said, holding it out to her.

She opened the box without enthusiasm. He had chosen an enormous dome-shaped ruby, five carats in size, set in a circle of tiny diamonds. It was quite beautiful, and he hoped Kitty would like it. She did look surprised and he thought he saw her fingers tremble when she took the ring and slipped it on her finger. It spun around, too large to wear.

“They will size it for you at MacArthur’s. You can stop by anytime, or I can come to call for you and we can go together.”

“I can manage it,” she said immediately, disappointing him.

He pulled a handful of ornate cards and stationery from his pocket and handed them to her. “These are the invites that arrived after my appearance at the Maybury ball. I’d planned to ask you tonight which you’d like to attend. There’s one at Standish House in two weeks’ time—would you care to go?”

She took the cards without looking at them. “Thank you, I should like that, my lord,” she said, too formally.

“I’ll come around 7 p.m., then. Wear your orange gown.”

“Two balls in a row? It isn’t done.”

“Think of it as practice in obeying your new husband,” he dared, enjoying the color that rose to her cheeks. He picked up her hand and kissed it. “I don’t mean to anger you. Please wear the orange gown?”

Intelligent green eyes searched his face, and she gave a tiny nod. “As you wish,” she said lightly. He bid them all good night and made his escape, both exhausted and elated. He was not used to having his emotions so accentuated as they had been since he’d met Miss Kitty Stanley. In truth, he was not used to feeling emotions at all. It was as if laying eyes on her had wakened some part of him that had been dormant. And the new feelings were not altogether comfortable.

He made it a week without giving in to the temptation of calling on her. On the eighth day, she sent a note inviting him to call, and he immediately rang for his carriage. It was raining when he arrived, and he was shown into the parlor.

He stood when Kitty entered with her companion, Miss Anderson, and kissed her little gloved hand. She sat down with him and made conversation, but she frequently looked over at the companion, as if she wished they were alone. After a while, she stood up and paced to the window, staring out at the rain. “I wish the weather would permit a walk in Hyde Park or even a carriage drive,” she lamented.

“Indeed.”

“Why don’t you play the pianoforte for Lord Westerfield?” Miss Anderson suggested.

She sighed. “Do you wish to hear the pianoforte, my lord?”

He gestured toward the instrument. “By all means.”

She crossed the room, rolling her eyes in a private gesture to him, which made his heart swell. She sat down to play, and though she was very skilled, it was clearly not a passion for her. After two songs she stood and paced some more, glancing at Miss Anderson and finally dropping down next to him on the settee.

“Lord Westerfield,” she said in a low voice, her eyes darting to her companion. Miss Anderson took the hint and purposefully studied her needlepoint. “I was just wondering…is our engagement still on?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Of course it is; why should you ask?”

“You haven’t come courting. Are you still angry with me?” So charming was the way she peered up at him that he snatched up her hand, seeking the bare skin of her wrist, just beyond the edge of her glove. He rubbed a tiny circle over her pulse. “No, kitten,” he said softly. “I’m not the slightest bit angry with you.”

Her cheeks colored at his touch and her lips parted, the gold-flecked eyes searching his. “But why have you not come to call?”

Because I cannot keep my hands off you.

“It’s only been a week,” he said, making an attempt at sounding casual.

She pulled her hand away from him, her brows coming together. “A week,” she said coolly. “Indeed.”

She stood and walked back to the pianoforte, offering her back in what could only be interpreted as some form of female ire. She played three songs before she stood and said politely, “Well, thank you for coming to call, Lord Westerfield.”

He sighed. He’d ruined things again.

* * *

Kitty obeyed Lord Westerfield’s wishes and donned the orange gown, not willing to risk a row, and secretly pleased he liked the bold dress she’d had made to her own design. As it turned out, he’d had good reason. When she and Miss Anderson met him in the sitting room, he produced a stunning ruby necklace, which matched the engagement ring and the ribbons on her dress.