His Lordship's Little Bride (Little History Series Book 4)

by Ava Sinclair

  His Lordship’s Little Bride

  By

  Ava Sinclair

  Copyright © 2015 by Stormy Night Publications and Ava Sinclair

  Copyright © 2015 by Stormy Night Publications and Ava Sinclair

  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

  Sinclair, Ava

  His Lordship’s Little Bride

  Cover Design by Korey Mae Johnson

  Images by Hot Damn Stock and Bigstock/Matt_Collingwood

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

  Chapter One: Sticky Fingers

  They were such lovely jewels. And there were so many. She ran her hands across them, marveling at their worth. That one woman should possess them all seemed terribly unfair, even a bit obscene.

  She knew the lady who owned them was of great refinement and good breeding. It explained why some of the larger baubles had sat here in this case for so long, unworn, despite their value. They were the kind of jewels understated nobility didn’t wear, but passed down.

  Would one be missed? Her slim fingers reached out to graze the surfaces of a ring worth more than a simple maid would ever make in a lifetime. How many times a day did her ladyship’s eyes pass over it to select something more acceptable for daily wear, even for a ball? Would taking one really be so wrong?

  Her hand trembled as she picked up the sapphire ring. It was in want of a polish, but large. And wedged as it was in the blue velvet of the jewelry case, its absence would surely go undetected.

  She slipped it on. Ironically, it was a perfect fit, the elaborate setting spanning the width of her finger. She removed the ring and dropped it into her pocket, her heart quickening now by what she’d done. Carefully she closed the case and smoothed her crisp white linen apron before turning.

  A hand immediately covered her mouth, stifling a cry she was too shocked to emit. He was not gentle as he pulled her to him, his breath hot as he hissed into her ear.

  “Thief! I was right to follow you in here.”

  “P-please, Mr. Dobbs!” She began to struggle, whimpering as his hand moved to her pocket to extract the ring. He held it before her face, a symbol now of broken trust and unfathomable consequences.

  “Was it worth it?” he asked. “Was it worth it for what’s going to happen to you now?”

  “Oh, Mr. Dobbs. I shouldn’t have.” Her voice was shaking. Her body was shaking. He turned her to face him.

  “What else have you stolen, Aster?” His voice was low but demanding. As his lordship’s valet, Henry Dobbs—while not long in service at Darmley Hall—had already acquired a reputation for impeccable loyalty and service. He was more than a trusted servant; in many ways he was the eyes and ears of the huge manor house. Even something so simple as servants talking between rooms could earn an upbraiding if Dobbs made mention to Mr. Holloway, head of household staff.

  “I’ve not stolen anything else. I swear.” Aster felt her legs go weak, and she would have collapsed if he’d not had such a grip. Dobbs pulled her upright, but even at her full height, she only came up to his chest. Too afraid to raise her eyes, she stared at the polished buttons of his vest.

  “Look at me.”

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, summoning the courage. His brown eyes burned into her grey ones without an ounce of compassion. A cold smile played on his full lips. Aster knew she was helpless.

  “I don’t believe you,” he said. “All those jewels. I need to check.”

  “Oh, now. You don’t have to!” But he was pulling her to the bed now, and pushing her back—onto her ladyship’s very down comforter!—with his hands pushing beneath her skirts and skimming the rough stockings until he found her thighs.

  “You females have all sorts of secret hiding places,” he said, and now his fingers were between her legs. Aster gasped against the invasion then closed her eyes in humiliation when he laughed.

  “No chance of you hiding anything in here. It would just slide out, what with your being so slick.” He regarded her with a cool smirk. “A thief and a whore.”

  “I’m neither,” she said, shame and indignation in her voice. “I’m just a simple hard-working woman. Is it so wrong to want what you can’t have, Mr. Dobbs?”

  “I seldom find myself in that situation, my dear,” he said, pumping his fingers into her pussy. Her hips were following them, wantonly, and against her will. “That’s the benefit of being resourceful. You always get what you want. You just do it in a way that ensures discretion.” She moaned as he removed his fingers and shoved them in her mouth. “Now shut up,” he said, and she fell silent, afraid to do anything other than stare at him wide-eyed and trembling as her own musk coated her tongue.

  “Taste that?” he asked. “That’s the flavor of a bad girl. You like it?” He quirked an eyebrow. “Yes? Well, so do I. In fact, I’m going to have a little taste myself. And if you even think of making a peep, or coming, I’m going to haul you straightaway to Mr. Holloway.”

  He slid down her body, his large hands grasping her hips as he ran his tongue up the slit of her pussy. His mouth captured her throbbing clit, suckling on it until she saw starbursts of pleasure pain. Aster could feel her orgasm building, but she knew better than to disobey the valet as he feasted on her pussy. She dug her neatly trimmed nails into her palm and bit her lip until she tasted blood to keep the feelings overwhelming her at bay. Tears coursed down her cheeks from the efforts of self-denial, and when he’d had his way with her, he slid back up her body. His leering, handsome face was slick with her juices, but not a strand of his ebony hair was out of place.

  “Bad girls don’t get to come,” he said, training a finger down her jawline. She turned toward his hand, wanting to kiss it, to show her submission. But he was having none of it.

  “On your knees, girl,” he said, and Aster found herself on all fours on the bed, her maid’s skirt thrown up over her back. She could only imagine the picture she presented—white bottom, her hairless cunt split like a pale peach, her trembling thighs slick with her excitement.

  Dobbs reached out and grabbed a fistful of her thick chestnut hair, pulling her back until she was forced to look up at him.

  “I could have you turned out without a reference,” he said. “Or worse. But because I am merciful, I’m going to punish you myself. That’s fair, hmmm?”

  “Oh, don’t. Please don’t…” Aster pleaded with her eyes. “I’ll never steal again, Mr. Dobbs. I won’t even look at milady’s jewels.”

  “Oh, I’m afraid it’s gone too far for that now,” he said, and walked over to where her ladyship’s riding habit hung from the edge. Across the bench lay her riding whip, which Dobbs now picked up.

  “Mercy, Mr. Dobbs,” she cried. “You can’t beat me with that. I’ll not sit for a week.”

  “A week? You know little of me if you think I’m to be that lenient.” The handsome valet swished the riding crop through the air, and then drew back his arm. “You’ll not make a peep.”

  Aster looked back at him in disbelief. How could he possibly expect her to…

  “Aiiyyyeee!” she screamed, unable to control herself when the crop laid its first blazing line of agony across the fullness of her bottom, but she’d
screamed into the bedclothes, at least, so he did not scold. Dobbs did, however, order her back into position and the next blow fell on the tender crease of skin where buttocks met thighs.

  “Will we be going through her ladyship’s things again?”

  “Oh, no… oh, for the love of God, no.” Tears coursed down her face, dripping from her running nose onto the expensive coverlet. She rocked back and forth, murmuring incoherent pleas as the crop fell again. And again. And again.

  There were ten strokes altogether, leaving ten puffy welts that throbbed with their own individual hurt.

  “One thing left to do now,” Dobbs said, and he stepped back, opening the front of his tailored black pants to withdraw his thick, veiny cock. The valet began to pull on the length of it as he moved forward to position himself behind Aster. “It’s been my experience that only through complete submission can an immoral woman become properly obedient. And you do want to be obedient, don’t you?”

  “Oh, yes…”Aster moaned, looking back, her eyes brimming with both trepidation and excitement as she noted the girth of the thing springing from a bed of dark curls, the purple head already dripping with pre-cum.

  There was no preamble as he shoved it into her. Again she screamed into the pillow, trying to keep herself in position as Dobbs fucked her almost savagely, his pelvis slamming again and again into her sore ass, his thrusts so vigorous that she could feel his ball sack slapping the front of her pubis.

  She could feel her orgasm building.

  “Please! Please…” she cried.

  “Please, what, you thieving little strumpet?” He put his hand beneath her to pinch her clit. “Please what?”

  “Please let me come! Oh, please, Mr. Dobbs! I’ll be a good girl! I promise I will!”

  “No more sticky fingers?” he asked.

  “No… no… I promise! I promise, Mr. Dobbs.”

  “Then I’ll allow it. Come, you little baggage. Come on my cock… now!”

  It was all Aster needed. Her pussy began to convulse, gripping and milking the valet’s cock even as he pumped her, his hands squeezing her tender ass as he ejected his seed deep inside her pussy.

  Aster collapsed her chest onto the bed, feeling the welts on her bottom and her sore pussy throbbing in time with her heartbeat. The valet continued to grip her until a moment later when his cock slipped free of her sopping warmth.

  She stood, her legs shaky. She could hear him behind her, pouring water into the bowl on the washstand. A moment later, he was at her side.

  “Shall I help clean you, milady?” His tone was now all formal cordiality as he held out a piece of clean linen.

  “No, Dobbs. Thank you.” Lady Aster Darmley took the cloth, and Dobbs turned away as she wiped the combination of his spunk and her juices from her pussy and thighs. Nearby, the valet had settled into a chair. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. She could feel the intense brown eyes on her, watching as she removed the maid’s uniform and replaced it with a nightgown. The satin slid over her lush form with a hiss. Lady Aster raised her arms and, removing the half-cocked maid’s cap, unpinned what remained of her bun to allow her chestnut hair to fall down her back.

  “The hunt is coming up soon.” She walked over and took a cigarette from the case the valet laid on the table. Settling herself in the chair across from him, she wondered how he was able to look so impeccably put together after fucking her into a state of such dishevelment. “I suppose Lord Darmley will have you passing out the port.”

  “Of course,” he said. “You’re riding, I presume,” he said, glancing toward the habit.

  “I was,” she said, and winced as she shifted in her chair. “Now with my bottom… Was it necessary to be so hard on me, knowing how much it will hurt me to sit in the saddle?”

  Dobbs leaned forward, and the look he gave her made her pussy clench. His words made it clench even harder. “Why do you think I did it? I want your mind to be on me, on my control of you, every moment of every second we are not together, milady. Even as you’re sitting in elegant form atop your favorite hunter, looking down through your veil at your admirers, I want you to feel the burn of the stripes on your bottom and know that come tomorrow you will be whatever I command you to be, whether it’s a thieving maid, or my little girl, or yourself as you are, a highborn lady on your knees sucking my cock because it’s what I desire.”

  He stood and walked over to her. She drew nervously on her cigarette. How did he manage to ruffle her so? How was it that his dominance so effortlessly turned the tables, making him the master and her the servant?

  “You are mine, and always will be,” he said silkily. “Do you understand?”

  Lady Darmley felt her lips twitch with a smile of relief and gratitude at his reassurance.

  “Oh,” she said. “Would that it could be so.”

  Chapter Two: Head of Staff

  To the outside observer, Darmley Hall appeared to be exactly what it was—a grand house so long a fixture of the English landscape that it may have sprung from the same earth as the ivy climbing its walls.

  The huge manor—the grandest in the region—was home to Winston Darmley, sixth earl of Stonehurst, his wife, the Lady Aster Darmley, and their only son, Lord Garrett Darmley.

  The sprawling grounds of Darmley Hall boasted some of the most fertile grazing in England, and the green fields separated by low stone walls and hedges made it a favorite with the elite foxhunting set. The estate also was home to several thermal springs. It was a longstanding joke that the water of those warm springs contained mystical properties, although anyone seeing the Darmleys could have taken it seriously. At fifty-four and fifty years respectively, Lord and Lady Darmley could have each passed for twenty years younger; only Lord Darmley’s greying hair belied his status as a distinguished middle-aged man. Lady Darmley was similarly youthful, with an elegant, lean physique and breasts that, while softer, were still firm. She was the jewel of wifely perfection, gracing her adoring husband’s arm whenever a grand ball was hosted at their home. At the hunts, they cut the finest image, with the earl in his red coat and his wife in her black sidesaddle riding habit and small top hat. It was fair to say that Winston and Aster Darmley were the most admired couple in their green corner of England.

  Their only son had inherited the Darmley good looks. At thirty-one, Garrett, the sole heir to a great fortune, stood a stately 6′2″ and had his father’s broad shoulders and square jaw and his mother’s wavy chestnut hair and piercing grey eyes. He was a quiet man, and his stern demeanor sometimes put people off. However, despite the fact that he rarely smiled, Garrett saw no shortage of mothers eager to remind their marriageable daughters that personality wasn’t everything.

  But Garrett Darmley was picky—terribly picky in fact. He was in no rush to find a mate, at least not until he could select one who would fit in with a family that was nothing like its outside image.

  Darmley Hall was a place of secrets, and—fortunately—a very loyal staff dedicating to protecting them. Only those within its walls knew that the outwardly affectionate Lord and Lady Darmley had not had sex—at least not with one another—since her ladyship had dutifully produced an heir. After that, Lord Darmley had been free to follow his affections for other men—a proclivity known to his wife when they’d married—and her ladyship to indulge her healthy sexual appetite with handsome servants she handpicked for their good looks and prowess.

  Lord Darmley was now exclusively devoted to Rupert Holloway, the head of household staff. Lady Darmley was currently enjoying the affections of Mr. Dobbs, who had managed to hold her interest longer than most other lovers, although this was subject to change.

  For some young aristocrats, being raised by such unconventional parents may have been unsettling. But not so for Garrett Darmley; his parents never flaunted their open marriage, but a savvy young man is an observant one, and the young lord soon realized that while his parents cared for one another, they reserved their special attentions for others.
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  Ironically, this made things easier as he matured to manhood and found that his tastes, too, ran to the unconventional. Brightly arrayed young women, fresh to society, were eager to offer themselves as potential partners, but they held no attraction for him. When beautiful young women curtseyed low before him, hoping to offer a subtle display of décolletage, the heir to Darmley Hall imagined them out of their adult refinement and in the short, lace-trimmed frocks of their youth, their perfectly coiffed hair tumbling around their shoulders, the tresses adorned not with seed pearls, but a bow. He imagined their elegant hands curled as they sucked their thumbs while tears dried on their cheeks—tears caused by robust spanking delivered by the man who served as both husband and father figure.

  Being presented with a particularly beautiful hopeful always left him feeling a bit maudlin, for he knew his unusual desires would never fit what ladies of breeding had been taught to expect from a highborn marriage. Any woman hoping to marry into his family would expect to eventually be lady of the manor, to host fine balls and bear a child.

  But Garrett did not want to be a father, at least not in the traditional sense. He longed to shower all his paternal affection on the woman he wed. He didn’t want a child who would grow and leave him, but a wife who would live permanently as his physical and sexual ward—a wife who would yield to his love, correction, and carnal training he knew would push her to her limits.

  His full lips curved in a smile as he made his way down the wide second flight of stairs on his way to the parlor. He’d received word that morning that his father had some news regarding a potential wife. As he quickened his pace, he hoped the news would be good, so he was encouraged when he reached the parlor and found the earl in the company of Mr. Holloway, head of the Darmley staff.

  Holloway was like a second father to Garrett, who’d been in adolescence when he’d realized the two men had a relationship that went far deeper than master and servant. Garrett had been a precocious lad and had noted the longer-than-necessary glances that passed between his father and Mr. Holloway, and once when the servant had passed his father a message, he’d observed how the earl’s fingers had lingered for a moment on that gloved hand, a smile playing on his lips. His father’s eyes had met Holloway’s, and the look there had been knowing on both parts.