The Westerfield Affair (11 page)

My lord,

It seems to me we are better off apart. I will stay in Penrock until—

She paused. Until when? Until their reception ball? Or should she cancel that? She picked up the quill again:

until indefinitely. Please inform me of your intentions regarding the reception.

—Kitty

It seemed foolish to even mention the reception ball, but even if they were going to have a marriage in name only, the reception was necessary to help restore her honor. She may be willing to walk away from her marriage, but she’d rather not walk away from society as a whole. She left note with the butler, who deferentially protested that Lord Westerfield would not approve of her traveling without him.

“I have Violet to accompany me. If he does not approve, then he can come and fetch me,” she dared, realizing that was, in fact, the outcome she desperately hoped for.

The carriage was called and she and Violet set off, riding most of the day. She passed the time imagining the joy she would feel at seeing her old home and spending time with her brother and sister-in-law and their two children. But when she arrived, the niggling feelings of doubt over her decision to leave burst into full force.

Mrs. Baker, the housekeeper, came out to the carriage to greet her.

“Miss Kitty! I mean, Lady Westerfield, is it now? We heard of your betrothal, well, and then your marriage,” Mrs. Baker added hastily, and the shame of her elopement made her flush.

“Er, yes.”

Mrs. Baker craned to look past her. “Where is Lord Westerfield?”

“He’s not with me.”

“Oh, I see,” Mrs. Baker said, with so much sympathy in her face that Kitty protested immediately.

“It’s all right,” she said gaily. “I’ve been dying to see Frankie and John! How are my nephews?”

Mrs. Baker’s brows drew together. “Well, they’ve gone with their parents to visit Mrs. Stanley’s family in Yorkshire, didn’t you know?”

Kitty’s heart plummeted but she tried to show a cheerful face, which apparently didn’t fool Mrs. Baker for a moment. She patted her hand. “Don’t worry, dear. We’ll take excellent care of you until they return. A visit home is just what you need right now.”

Tears sprang to her eyes and she blinked them back, feeling ridiculous. Mrs. Baker’s sympathy was unnecessary. What was so horrible that she needed to run away? Now she’d made it seem as if Harry was the worst sort of husband—one whom she feared or hated, or had some other dramatic reason to want to run away. She followed Mrs. Baker into the house and sat in her childhood bedroom, with a stone in the pit of her stomach.

What was she doing there, really?

If she were honest with herself, she would admit it was to punish Harry, or to goad him into some kind of action. And that realization made her feel as small as the child who had once inhabited her room.

This was not where she wanted to be, especially not like this—as a shamed, runaway wife. She had made a terrible mistake. The best she could hope for—the only thing she could hope for—was that Harry would come for her. But she had no doubt that if he did, there would be a reckoning. A shiver ran up her spine.

Her pleasure at being home was eclipsed by a mounting anxiety over the position she’d put herself. She ate a light dinner and went to bed early, though she slept little. In the morning, she breakfasted and tried to read a book.

The sound of a carriage caused her to jump and run to the window. There was no mistaking her husband’s long legs emerging from the hired carriage. Terrified and thrilled at the same time, she rushed to the parlor, telling Baker, the butler, to show Lord Westerfield in when he arrived.

Though time seemed to stand still, it was only a few minutes before Baker was tapping on the door.

“Lord Westerfield, my lady,” he said with more formality than they normally used at Penrock.

She stood up and tried not to wring her hands. Harry’s eyes were burning with anger, his face pale and stony. “My lord,” she said softly.

“Er, my lady?” Baker hesitated at the doorway. “I don’t mean to interrupt, it’s just—to which room shall I bring Lord Westerfield’s trunk?”

Harry’s questioning gaze bore into her and she knew better than to play any games. “To my room, Baker. Thank you.”

Harry closed and locked the door after Mr. Baker. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, waving her note in her face.

She took in a breath, but found no words.

“Tell me—do you truly wish to leave me or is this another one of your games?”

She shrank under his glower. There was no answer to give but the truth. “One of my games,” she admitted in a tiny voice.

He took two long steps to reach her, sat upon the settee, and pulled her over his lap without a word.

* * *

Harry began spanking before she even settled on his lap. He’d driven straight through the night in a state of complete anguish, and to discover Kitty’s disappearance was just a manipulation was not something he was going to let go unpunished. He spanked with his full strength, using his opposite hand to wrest her skirts up out of the way. She jerked and wriggled in response, but did not attempt to get away. He paused only long enough to yank her drawers down, exposing the already reddening globes he intended to thoroughly smart.

He spanked all over the lower half of her bottom, concentrating on the juncture of thigh and cheek, imparting every moment of suffering he’d experienced into each slap. Her soft skin turned red and then darker plum, and blotches began to stand out. Kitty did not weep, but gave little cries and whimpers, her fingers clawing the cushion of the settee, her hips bobbing about in response to the punishment. He continued spanking until his arm grew tired and his palm was burning, and then he pulled up her drawers, tossed her skirts down and plunked her next to him on the settee. “You stay here. I’m going to go cut a switch.”

“A switch! Harry, no!” She lunged off the settee, catching his arm and digging her full weight into her heels to halt him. Her face was flushed, eyes wild.

“I warned you about playing games with me,” he minced.

“I know, I’m sorry. I know I deserve your punishment.” She shocked him by dropping to her knees, still clutching his arm. “But please…not a switch?” She ended her supplication at a whisper, her pleading eyes locked on his.

All his resolve melted. His proud and spirited bride was on her knees begging. It was one thing that had consistently surprised him about her—despite her temper and headstrong ways, she always bowed to his authority. He remembered how soft and pliant she’d been after the first spanking he’d given her. He cupped her face with one hand, stroking the velvety skin with his thumb.

“You’re afraid of the switch?”

A small but rapid nodding answered him.

“Come,” he sighed, helping her to her feet. “Take me to your room. You have a very long, hard spanking coming.”

“Yes, my lord,” she murmured, softening him further with her lack of protest. She bent into a low, grateful curtsy, providing him with the alluring view of her lifted breasts.

She led him upstairs to her small room where the vestiges of her childhood remained in the tattered rag doll on the shelf, and a Mother Goose tales book.

He closed and locked the door behind him, removing his waistcoat and cufflinks to roll up his sleeves. Kitty stood frozen, watching him. “Why did you leave me?” he asked, emotion closing his throat unexpectedly.

She gave him the same sort of pleading look she’d given in the parlor. He sank onto the edge of the bed.

“Come here,” he commanded, and she stepped obediently before him, her worried eyes searching his face. He gripped her hips, being careful not to squeeze as hard as his shaking hands sought to. Because now that he had her, now that he knew she still belonged to him, the desire to possess her in every way was overwhelming.

“Why did you leave me?” Tears unexpectedly burned his eyes and he blinked rapidly and cleared his throat. “What did I do this time that required you to take such desperate measures to gain my attention?”

She’d seen the tears and her fingers came up to his head, weaving into his hair and gripping there.

“Nothing! Nothing, I’m sorry. I just—I don’t understand why you haven’t… taken me.”

“Oh, God!” His heart hammered in his chest at the injustice of it and his cock surged to full painful length. He yanked her in closer, so she stood between his knees, flush against his body, then he dragged her down until she knelt at his feet. She gripped his thighs, her lower lip trembling.

“Kitty,” he rasped. “I was holding back for you—I didn’t think you wanted it. It’s been torture for me to live in the same house and never touch you.” Rather than continue that torture a second longer, he grasped the sleeves to her dress and yanked them down, tearing the dress as he pulled it to her waist.

He fell upon her, holding his hand behind her head as she toppled backward onto the rug. His mouth was at her throat, hands tearing at her corset to free the tender breasts beneath it. He squeezed both possessively as she gasped and arched into his hands.

“Foolish girl,” he growled in her ear, pinioning her wrists above her head. “It will be impossible for me to be gentle with you now.”

“Oh, Harry!” she gasped, driving him mad by undulating her hips.

She twisted in his grasp, but her face showed only desire as her knees bent to cradle his body between her legs. He pinched her nipples, rolling them as they pebbled up, sucking them until she whined with need.

“Kitty, my little kitten,” he rasped, his voice low and guttural. He pulled the corset off and her dress down over her hips. She went very still when his fingers reached into the waistband of her drawers, propping herself up on her elbows, watching hawk-like as he slowly bared the most intimate part of her.

He spread her trembling thighs, drinking in the tender pink of her sex, the silky tuft of dark curls adorning it. Lowering his head, he licked into her, causing her hips to jump. Grasping her pelvis and pinning it to the floor, he ducked under one leg to access her exotic heart, face on, using his tongue to part the lips and circle her entrance.

She gasped, sounding slightly alarmed. “Harry!”

“Shh, kitten. You belong to me and I’m going to do as I please.”

“Oh!” she cried, her sex pulsing and dripping moisture. She attempted to roll her pelvis, her thigh pressing him closer and then pushing him away as she resisted the caress.

“Shh. Open up for me, kitten. I’m going to pleasure you. It won’t be like last time, I promise.”

While he continued to circle with his tongue, he pushed a thumb into the small entry and thrust it in and out, then switched to two fingers, all the while pressing her wriggling hips back into the floor.

“Oh, oh, oh, Harry!” she exclaimed, her sex contracting, squeezing his fingers in spasmodic clutches as she pressed her pelvis upward.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “That’s it, kitten.”

She relaxed her entire body, her head rolling to the side as she recovered her breath. After a moment, she lifted onto her elbows and peered at him. “But that wasn’t
it
, was it? Oh, of course it wasn’t,” she said and blushed.

“I was warming you up for
it
,” he said with a smile.

She grasped his head and pulled him down to her mouth, kissing him with lips softer than a rose petal.

When they parted, he murmured, “Does that mean I satisfied you?”

“It means I’m ready, Harry.”

* * *

Harry climbed off her and helped her to her feet. “Get on the bed,” he commanded, already pulling off his starched white shirt and trousers. He had a large frame hung with taut muscles—a body that looked like it belonged more to a dockworker than a blueblood. His chest had a smattering of curling hair, his midriff tapering to narrow hips. She drew in her breath as she caught sight of his bobbing cock pointing at her. He advanced toward the bed, climbing up over her with a predatory look.

The climax had created a heaviness in her limbs, but her heart began to beat rapidly as he drew close. She wasn’t afraid. It had hurt the last time, but that was normal. Even if it hurt again, she was eager to try. But she didn’t know what to expect, or what to do.

“Why did you say you were holding back for me?” she asked just as he arrived. She instantly regretted it, because he paused, his brow furrowing. He settled over her, nudging her thighs apart, resting on his forearms, his face inches from hers. She could feel the slight pressure of his warm cock against her sex and it sent a zing of anticipation through her.

“I didn’t want to force myself on you again.”

“I didn’t mind the forcing so much,” she admitted. “I minded—” she stopped.

“You minded what, pussycat?” he prompted, kissing her neck.

“That you no longer wished to marry me afterward.”

“I no longer wished to—? Of course I wished to marry you, silly girl!”

Then he was suddenly upon her, kissing her with an open mouth, dragging it down her neck as he forcibly squeezed her bottom. With a single thrust he plowed into her, her tight channel welcoming him as he pressed fully into her. She gasped and he paused. “Are you all right?” he grunted.

“Yes,” she moaned, wrapping her legs around his waist and pulling him in even deeper.

He groaned and began to pump into her, the moisture and heat enveloping his full length, the slightly upward motion he made when deep within her stimulating her little bud of pleasure. Over and over he drove, building speed and velocity, stretching her small passage with each plunge. There was pain and there was pleasure, and the two mingled in a cascade of sensations until she felt as if she would burst into pieces.

And then she did.

Her entire body bucked and she cried out, wrapping arms and legs around him, drawing him even deeper as he continued his thrusting until his release met hers, the muscles of her sex closing tightly around his shaft. He remained pressed inside for her a long moment, his ragged breath at her ear gradually slowing. She inhaled the manly smell of him and of their coupling, amazed at how beautiful the act had been. Running her fingernails lightly up and down his shoulders, then wending her fingers in his dark hair, she explored his body. After a few moments, his shaft slipped out of her and he rolled to one side.