by The Bargain
"It appears I may have been done a service after all. I suddenly find myself sequestered with as fetching a vision of Aphrodite as I've yet to encounter!" He grinned down at her as he closed the door behind him, and the combined action, together with his words, suddenly made Ashleigh feel afraid. Sequestered? What did he mean by that? And shouldn't the door have been left open during this interview?
Quickly swallowing to moisten a mouth suddenly gone dry, Ashleigh endeavored to steer the conversation into safe and sensible waters. "I—that is—ah—I'm pleased to meet you, Your Grace. I—I am Ashleigh Sinclair." She finished with a brief little curtsy.
A mirthless chuckle met her ears. "Do not elevate me to the dukedom yet, my pretty. My grandfather still lives."
"Your—your grandfather?" Ashleigh questioned. "B-But aren't you... I mean, I'd assumed..."
Her words trailed off into a bewildered silence, for the handsome stranger was obviously no longer listening to her. He had begun to peruse her person instead, slowly walking around her frozen form as she stood—perplexed and now even a bit alarmed—rooted to the carpet under her feet. Slowly, languidly, he circled, studying her body from every angle, thoroughly, expertly—totally, until she began to feel like some leg of mutton at the butcher's; indeed, she could scarcely remember ever selecting the choicest items on a shopping list for Madame's table, on market day, with more care than the infinite thoroughness this man brought to bear on this examination.
Brett, meanwhile, was amazed at his luck. What he'd expected when he arrived to do his grandfather's bidding he couldn't quite say, as he'd been intent on humoring the old man, but he was quite sure it hadn't been anything like the vision that now greeted his eyes. The creature was dazzling! As tempting and perfect a little bit of muslin as any he'd ever seen!
His gaze moved wonderingly over her slight, delicately curving form that appeared all at once fragile and slender, yet ripe and alluring. Although the high-waisted dress she wore fell in straight lines, the soft sheerness of its folds served more to emphasize her slender curves than to hide them, and the round, tempting fullness of the breasts above the waistline was more than accentuated by the Empire cut. His eyes traveled again down the flowing lines of her skirt, and he knew that despite her tiny, almost elfin frame, she possessed graceful legs that were long in proportion to the rest of her.
Soon his gaze moved upward again, until it found her face. And what a face it was! He sucked in his breath for a moment at its beauty, then slowly let it out, at the same time drinking in the perfection of those features and the heart-shaped elegance they graced: the delicate prominence of her cheekbones, her straight little nose and sweetly shaped mouth; the huge sapphire-blue eyes with their generous fringe of sooty black lashes matching the pile of shiny, raven-colored curls that peeked from beneath the ridiculous looking bonnet she wore.... Here he paused and pondered what he saw for a moment.... Yes, she was a rare beauty, flawless in every respect, but... something was wrong somewhere....
Quickly Brett's eyes went back to hers and lingered there, carefully assessing, until suddenly it came to him. Her eyes... he would swear they were guileless, innocent somehow; and yet he knew that couldn't be! This girl—for girl was what she was; she had to be very young, scarcely out of her teens, if that old—was a whore! How, then, did she come by such a look of purity and unsullied innocence? It would bear finding out, and so he decided to pursue a different tack.
Straightening, Brett gave her an engaging grin—one he'd known to charm the ladies at court and anywhere else he cared to bestow it—and followed this with the briefest of bows. "It would appear my manners need tutoring as well as... other things, ah—Miss Sinclair, isn't it? Forgive my rudeness at not inquiring after your comfort. Tell me, have you dined?" This was asked casually over one shoulder as he ambled over to a small secretary and, lowering its drop leaf, revealed a silver tray bearing several crystal decanters; these were filled with liquids ranging in color from pale amber to the deepest honey brown. From the tray he also produced a pair of finely cut crystal wineglasses, which he held as he looked at her questioningly.
Realizing belatedly that she had yet to answer his question, Ashleigh hurriedly cleared her throat and replied, "No, Your Gr—ah, my lord, I've not dined this evening, but I had a late-afternoon repast... with tea, that is, and I—ah—find I'm not all that hungry." The truth was that, up until the moment this man had entered the chamber, she had felt she was near starving, for "tea" at Hampton House had consisted of just that, a single cup, for she'd been too apprehensive over her forthcoming journey to avail herself of even a single crumb of any of the cakes and tarts Dorcas had pressed upon her.
At this moment, however, she found herself caring little about food and a great deal about the circumstances of her imminent employment. Who was this man? If not the duke, as he'd indicated, but his grandson, then just what was his relationship to the child, Brett, whom she was to have as her charge? Had the duke remarried at an advanced age, producing a second set of children much younger than the father or mother of this man, thus producing a later and much younger grandson as well? Or were the two grandsons simply born many years apart as occasionally happened in families?
She must have appeared puzzled while she pondered all this, for her companion chuckled as he handed her a half-filled glass of a pale-colored liquid saying, "You needn't look so perplexed, my dear. It's only sherry. I thought we might share a glass while we discuss your—ah—situation." This last was spoken with a decided inflection of amusement while at the same time his eyes roamed freely over her, and again Ashleigh experienced a sense of discomfort under his perusal.
When his eyes met hers, her discomfort grew so great, she quickly dropped her gaze, hearing him laugh softly as she did so. Then, remembering her manners, she accepted the glass he held out to her, made a murmur of thanks and took a sip.
When she at last dared to raise her eyes to him, she found him once again looking intently at her, those turquoise eyes piercing in their intensity. Slowly, he raised his glass to his mouth, his eyes never leaving hers as he drank. Then the glass was lowered and a slow, lazy smile curled his lips.
"Tell me, Miss Sinclair," he murmured languidly (for there was nothing rushed in his manner), "you're new at your profession, are you not?"
Ah, here it is, thought Ashleigh. He thinks me too young and inexperienced to be a governess for his brother... or half brother, or whatever. Well, I'll just have to show him otherwise! Drawing herself up as tall as she could, she fixed him with a bold look, saying, "I may be young for my chosen profession, my lord, but I believe you will find me well qualified. I have studied many years to attain my present level of proficiency."
Brett's eyebrows flew sharply upward at her proud response, and a broad grin spread across his features. With a rapid movement, he freed her wineglass from her hand and took both it and his own and set them down on the tray. Then, before she knew what was happening, Ashleigh found herself drawn up into his arms in a tight embrace as his mouth descended on hers.
Her first sensation was of a warm mouth covering her own, of a hard, well-muscled male body pressed ever so tightly against her softer, more pliant form. Dimly, in some nether part of her brain, she knew she must stop what was happening, but at the same time she felt herself being swept away by a host of new and incredible sensations. There was still his mouth meeting hers, but it was moving now, his lips gliding sensuously, his tongue sliding between, to tease and play until it had parted her lips, and then the feel of his tongue actually entering her mouth! A giddy weakness spread itself throughout her body, turning her knees to jelly, her limbs to water, and she wondered if it was the sherry she'd swallowed. She was faintly aware of his hands, which had begun to wander up and down her back, gliding over her quaking shoulders, then moving sensuously downward until they clasped her rounded buttocks and drew her impossibly closer... unthinkably, dangerously closer!
It was this last action that finally roused her from her benu
mbed and passive state. With a sharp gasp of outrage, she pulled her tingling lips from his and began to push at his chest with her hands, which, until now, had been gently imprisoned there.
"Sir! Your—your lordship—whoever you are, you must not—you must stop this at once!" she cried, even as his mouth searched hers again.
A low rumble of laughter met her ears as his hands easily caught hers and drew them behind her back while turquoise eyes bored into her own. "The name is Brett, my lovely, Brett Westmont, and I fail to see the problem. We're simply beginning my first—ah—lesson!"
Brett Westmont! her disbelieving mind cried out. This was her charge! Her brain reeled against this new piece of information, trying frantically to come to terms with its import, but then she suddenly had no time to think any further, for his mouth was against hers again, sucking the very breath from her body. She tried to free her hands, but he captured them easily with one of his while the other one worked at the ribbons of her bonnet, quickly untying them, sending it tumbling to the floor. Then she felt his lips at her throat where they nibbled and played with the tender flesh there, and seconds later his free hand slid to her breast where it cupped, then stroked, then lightly pinched the tip.
Now Ashleigh was assaulted by an even wilder sensation. It was as if a direct line existed between the peak of her breast and some place deep within her core, in the region of the juncture of her thighs. All was sensation—a rushing, then eddying, then spiraling sensation that hovered somewhere between need and longing. With a sharp cry, she twisted to one side, thinking to break this latest contact, but she only succeeded in rubbing her throbbing nipple more intensely against those caressing fingers, and the result was a white-hot heat assaulting her loins.
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 her
s, 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.