The Master Of Michaelmas Hall

by Vanessa Brooks

  She’d witnessed no cringing from the household staff nor from her devoted husband. In fact, she forgot all about the very thing she had spent the last five years obsessing over. She had been a complete fool, and her guilt felt palpable.

  At luncheon she could barely eat.

  “Is the meal not to your liking?” Gabriel enquired.

  She glanced up. “Oh yes, it is quite delicious, thank you.”

  He frowned at her. “Why then, do you toy with your food?” he asked.

  She shrugged. He put down his cutlery and requested the footmen leave them. She stared at him in surprise when he rose and came to sit beside her. He took the cutlery from her hands, putting them aside.

  He placed a hand upon her forehead. “Are you sickening for something?”

  She shook her head, eyes downcast.

  “How can you be sure? You have barely eaten a thing,” he pressed.

  She shook her head again, eyes filling with unshed tears. He was so good, and she so selfishly wicked. She allowed him to draw her hands between his own.

  “If this about your guilt, fear not, for I have no qualms about ridding you of such negative emotion,” he said gently.

  She raised her head and stared at him, astonished. “How did you know how I felt?”

  He lifted her wrist and turned her hand, pressing a kiss onto her palm. “Because I know you; in fact, I think I understand you better than I understand myself.” He smiled ruefully and shrugged. “Come now, eat your meal, Angele. You need your strength. Later I intend to take you up to our chamber where I shall mete out the first of five punishments, one for each year of our unnecessary separation. I wish them over and done with before our boy arrives, then we can begin a new chapter in our lives. I want us to start our family life with no recriminations.”

  Weeping openly, she reached for him. He pulled her into his embrace, murmuring endearments and soft words of reassurance. Then, after mopping her eyes with his kerchief, he took up her fork and fed her small morsels of food from her plate. He continued to feed her until her plate was almost empty.

  He rose to summon their next course and the return of the footmen.

  After luncheon, Gabriel disappeared into his study in order to write the difficult letter to Noelle Bellingham’s family, informing them of his wife’s sudden and unexpected return. Before he closed the door on his inner sanctum, he instructed her to meet him in his chamber at three of the clock. Heat suffused her face at the reminder of what was to come, but she’d dutifully nodded her assent. He’d kissed her forehead before disappearing behind the door.

  Angele decided to go to her chamber and sort through her old gowns. None had been removed from where she’d left them five years before. Not one of these had been modish enough at the time she’d left for Paris. She had taken her most fashionable gowns with her. Therefore, these dresses, laid down between camphor-protected sheets and enclosed in chests within her dressing room, were, five years on, completely outdated.

  Ivy was busy sorting through her mistress’s clothing when Angele arrived. Together they unwrapped each individual gown, assessing its potential. The fabrics were still as good as new and of excellent quality. Ivy assured her mistress that she was a fair needlewoman. She promised she would be able to make adjustments to some of the outmoded gowns. They would do for wearing about Michaelmas Hall, but come New Year she would need newer, more fashionable clothes, gowns up to the mark for a countess.”

  Gabriel slipped into the room. “As soon as the roads become passable we shall make a trip to your former modiste in order to acquire a more fashionable wardrobe. Thank you, Ivy, that will be all for now. Your mistress shall ring when she next requires your assistance.”

  Ivy bobbed a curtsy and, clutching a gown, she left the room, quietly closing the door behind her.

  “Mon Dieu, is it three of the clock already?” Angele turned to Gabriel, surprised by how quickly the last one and half hours had sped by.

  “It is. I wish you to strip completely and come to me in my chamber. I shall leave the door ajar. Do not dally. If you recall, I do not like to be kept waiting,” he commanded.

  “Since you so summarily dismissed my maid, perhaps you would assist me first with the pins and then with my gown?” she replied testily.

  “I suggest that you do not take that sharp tone with me, young lady, especially since you are about to go across my knee to have your bottom thoroughly smacked.”

  She felt the oddest sensation at his rebuke. Instead of his words cowing her, they thrilled her. She was tempted to goad him even further. “If you don’t like my tone, then perhaps you should have thought of that before you left me without the help of my abigail!”

  He did not reply to her inflammatory statement. Thin-lipped, he stepped forward, deftly pulling pins from either side of her bodice. Once her stomacher was removed, he unlaced her stays then slid out the small wooden pole pushed down the front of her décolleté in order to keep her posture straight. Then he spun her about and untied her skirt before he undid the bow to her petticoats. Once they had fallen in a puddle at her feet, he curtly ordered her to step out from them. By the time he’d reached her shift, she stood in anxious silence but not because she feared him. Angele did not want Gabriel to see what she knew was physical proof of her depravity. Embarrassingly, she was highly aroused. Her dew-soaked thighs were slick; she feared the scent of her arousal would reach him.

  “I had forgotten how stimulating you find chastisement, but fear not, my fallen angel, I shall endeavour to overcome your proclivity and deliver a well-deserved spanking. Come with me.”

  She flushed at his words—her secret was no secret to him after all.

  He led the way through to his chamber, closing the door. An implement she had forgotten he possessed had been placed upon the large bed—a flat-backed wooden hairbrush of prodigious size. She recalled that he had bought it from a summer fair in the second year of their marriage. It was not the usual brush a countess would use; she had pointed that out to him at the time. He had merely nodded and purchased it. Next she’d earned a trip across his knee and found out what he’d intended the beastly thing for.

  However, for the exacting punishment due to her for causing him a year of heartache, she agreed that it packed a salient punch. She hung back, hovering near the connecting door.

  “Do you still feel a burden of guilt?” He’d homed in on her weakness.

  She nodded.

  He seated himself upon the side of the bed and held out his hand. “Come then.” His voice brooked no dissent.

  She looked at his sturdy thighs spread apart and at the rounded bulge in between. She swallowed and licked her dry lips. A shiver ran down her spine, again not from fear.

  The slickness betwixt her thighs gushed dew at her thought of being overpowered by him, the man she could trust above all mankind not to harm her. A man she implicitly loved and trusted, her husband, her lover who took her to the very pinnacle of passion, always cradling her in his loving arms afterward.

  For Angele, a spanking followed by the possession of her body by his hard member were the ultimate in feminine submission. She loved the feeling of safety that his dominance brought.

  Stepping towards him now, she laid herself naked over his lap. She shifted as he adjusted his thighs, laying one long leg across the backs of her own. His arm cradled her waist.

  “Hands,” he reminded her.

  She offered him her wrists, which he held in one large hand, secure behind her back.

  “Are you feeling comfortable?” he asked.

  She marvelled at his insight. “Oui, merci, cherie.”

  “Very well. For the first year of our unnecessary separation, you shall receive twelve spanks with my hand for my twelve months of torment. That shall be followed by another twelve with the hairbrush. These are for the twelve months you denied me the pleasure of watching my son grow in that first year.”

  Her heart racing, she waited for the first spank to fall. Th
e smacks when they came were fast but not particularly hard. Twelve were delivered in under a minute. Angele lay boneless over his thighs. Her heart rate steadied, and she relaxed. This actually felt quite nice.

  She yelled in shock—a sudden stinging blow to her right buttock caught her unawares. Before she could register the full impact of the scalding pain, another blow landed upon her left cheek. This was more than she’d bargained for and she could not help but buck, not that it did her any good, for she was well and truly locked in place by his powerful hold. There was no room for manoeuvre. It was clear she was in for a proper chastening, but she found she couldn’t quite settle and submit to the punishment as she’d planned—after all, it hurt!

  “You knew this was to be a punishment. It is not as though you haven’t been spanked with the hairbrush before. Accept my retribution, Angele, or suffer another five added to the tally, it is up to you,” he scolded ruthlessly.

  Frantically, she snaked her hips in an attempt to escape, but he held on tightly, wielding the brush heavily against each of her tender orbs in turn. She let out a howl, churning her bottom. Scorching thwacks landed all over her rump but most painfully on the tops of her thighs. Those smacks incited the loudest shrieks.

  When she realised the spanking was finally over, her poor derriere felt twice its normal size—and singed. This was no seduction, yet she adored the fact he’d held her firmly in place and enforced his will upon her. Angele moved, becoming aware of the slickness between her thighs. Mon dieu, how embarrassing. Once again she was wringing wet.

  His hand swept across her hindquarters, caressing her heated posterior.

  “It is all over for today. Only four more sessions to go, and your slate will be wiped clean.”

  “Comment?”

  “It is an English saying, meaning that you shall be absolved of your sins,” he explained. “One year is atoned for. Goodness, if this is an indication of how the hairbrush affects you, perhaps I am not using it hard enough,” he exclaimed as his hand slipped betwixt her soaking thighs, cupping her drenched mound in his palm.

  She moaned and lost all sense of decorum at the feel of his hand there. She pushed her hips back to meet his touch.

  “So deliciously wet, my wanton angel? Such a crying shame that this is punishment and you will have to wait upon my pleasure to receive your release. I might be kind and bed you tonight, or who knows, perhaps I shall wait until the morrow.”

  She mewled helplessly; his fingers continued to arouse her. Perhaps she could crest and reach the dizzy heights of completion? She strained, panting with frustration towards a goal that eluded her. Suddenly, without warning, he tumbled her upright so she was seated upon his lap. Tears of vexation filled her eyes.

  “Do you feel any less guilty after your first year’s punishment?” he asked.

  “I would feel less guilty if you took me to bed and proved that you forgive me, mon amour,” she cajoled.

  He cocked his head, looking at her thoughtfully as if considering her suggestion. She held her breath, her desire increasing.

  “Or you could prove to me that you fully atone for that first year of our separation?”

  Her mouth turned down, and she huffed. “How?” she asked after a pause, not liking the glint in his eye.

  “On your knees, in the time-honoured way,” he replied, straightening his knees so she slid in an undignified heap to the floor.

  She scrambled to her knees, pushing the tumble of white-gold hair back from her flushed face.

  “How sweet, all four of your cheeks are of matching rosy hue,” he noted wickedly. “Come, unhook my fall and do your duty, show me your penance, sweet wife,” he ordered with mock severity.

  Angele quivered with lust, not only at his base command but at the thought of pleasuring him in this lewd way. It had always given her immense satisfaction to take his solid member between her lips. To suck his tumescent erection until he became incoherent with pleasure excited her. The spurting rush of release into her mouth made her feel powerful and munificent. She worked his fall open, pulling the white tails of his shirt free, and his cock sprang forth.

  She clasped the thick shaft in her hand and worked the soft skin back and forth over the iron core. She was rewarded with a gruff moan. Next she tasted him, suckling the swollen head before greedily drawing him deeper into the wet confines of her mouth. He spasmed, giving a loud gasp. She smiled about his shaft, loving the power she wielded. Tormenting him, she licked and toyed with his length until he grasped her hair, fashioning it into a long ponytail which he used to manoeuvre her head back and forth to his own satisfaction. She was no longer in control while he plundered her mouth, using her relentlessly to pleasure himself.

  Angele was soaked with excitement. She wore no clothing to mop up her body’s natural reaction to her titillation, so the fluid slid down her thighs unencumbered. The scent of her arousal reached her. Unconsciously, her hand dipped between her thighs into her slippery folds where her erect pearl welcomed her stimulation. Her wrist was suddenly clasped and pulled away from her body in an exorable hold.

  “Bad girl, you truly are a fallen angel,” he growled, clearly delighted.

  She retaliated by opening her mouth wide and refusing to suck. He chuckled at her antics and pushed his cock deep into her mouth with a thrust. Immediately, she attempted to force him out with her tongue.

  “Prepare to suck me, wench,” he ordered rhetorically.

  Floundering, her mouth so full of him she could not have replied if she’d wished to, she closed her mouth about him. He jerked backwards, allowing her a lungful of air. She complied and sucked him feverishly. She continued to pleasure his length until he swelled, the tightening of his rod indicating an imminent emission. His thighs stiffened against her chest, and he released a long moan of ecstasy, his cock pulsing on her tongue as he erupted into her mouth. Giving a shout, he cried her name—sweet song to her ears.

  He petted her hair then drew her to him, settling her back upon his lap. He placed a gentle kiss on her damaged shoulder where the sabre had cut deepest into her flesh. She moved about on his thigh and slipped.

  “By gad, you are wet! Lie back and let me see.” He tipped her backwards onto the bed and pushed her knees apart.

  She groaned with lust, his tongue sweeping up her inner thigh to where passion leaked from her core. He hummed his delight, and the spiral of tension that preceded her culmination began to unravel. His tongue touched her swollen nubbin. The final cog unwound.

  “Je t’aime, oui, je t’aime!” she cried.

  He explored her folds, rolling her engorged flesh betwixt his fingers, sending her into paroxysms of delight.

  “My angel, how can I resist you? Dear Lord, how I have missed you, my darling. That’s it; take the pleasure I offer. Good girl…yes, yes, take your bliss and come for me. Come for me now!”

  And with a tremendous wail of the sweetest relief, she did.

  Chapter 12

  A couple of days later there was an unexpected thaw overnight. The temperature rose, and rain fell. It was not enough to completely clear the mass of snow but it made the highway passable. Preparations were immediately set underway for the Yuletide ball held annually since time immemorial at Michaelmas Hall. The ball had been suspended for the first three years of Angele’s reported death.

  The first year it had been reinstated, Gabriel had mooched about the ballroom, finally hiding in the inner sanctum of his study where he’d found solace in the bottom of a brandy glass. Then last year he’d decided he needed an heir and had begun courting the delightfully shy Noelle Bellingham, a young blonde he thought he could successfully bed because she reminded him of his dead wife. Now that his wife was returned to him, a blessing that he had never in a million years expected, he realised what a disaster marriage to Noelle would have been. He would have become frustrated that she was not Angele and perhaps have felt guilty at bedding her. No, on reflection, he thought the young lady had had a lucky escape. Her marriage
prospects wouldn’t have been harmed by this unexpected turn of events—being courted by an earl would most certainly have upped her stakes on the marriage mart.

  Gabriel brooded on how he could help his wife feel comfortable out in society. He totally understood her wish to hide her face. What woman would not dread ridicule in such a situation? He decided to send out a message locally, explaining events and asking for their friends’ understanding and support. He accepted the London set could be cruel, and since he now avoided London for the most part, he would ensure that Angele was not exposed to that element of society. Local dignitaries were cut from a different cloth altogether. These were people the St. Nicholas family went back generations with, many among them he considered as friends.

  So letters were sent out, including the letter Gabriel had written to the Bellingham family, a task which meant a footman undertaking the arduous journey into the capital.

  While Gabriel was occupied in his study, Angele armed herself with a candle and took the opportunity to explore the attics. She was looking for masks. She knew there was a trunk stashed up there filled with various eye dominos from past masquerade balls, and it was right where she remembered, dusty with misuse. Gingerly, she swept the trunk clear of cobwebs, afraid that any moment a large spider might appear, but thankfully none did.

  Digging deep, she pulled forth various moth-eaten offerings, mostly conventional eye masks that were of no use to her. Discarding them one by one, she’d almost given up hope of finding something that would cover her scars completely, when she clasped the edge of something hard. Yanking the object out into the candlelight, she squealed with delight at her find, a harlequin mask that would cover the whole of one side of her face. It appeared to be made from thin sheets of silver overlaid with gold, hammered into a chequered diamond pattern. The ribbons that held the thing in place were threadbare but they were easily replaced.