The Westerfield Trilogy

by Renee Rose

  “I beg your pardon?” he said, releasing her and stepping back, stunned. “Do you really believe so?”

  She blinked. “You refuse to marry me without my father’s blessing—” She trailed off, possibly because of the dark look on his face.

  He took several calming breaths and reason filtered in through the offense. Eliza had trouble believing in her own worth. It made sense she would doubt his intention, especially under her parents’ influence.

  “I will marry you, Eliza,” he asserted. “I will not give up until you are mine, I promise. And I will have you without your father’s consent if need be, but I prefer not to subject you to scandal or heartache with your family. I asked for your patience as I work out a plan to win your father’s approval, did I not?”

  He could see her reason had returned as well, a shameful look creeping across her countenance. “Yes, sir.”

  The contrition in her tone sent a bolt of heat through him with the reminder that as his wife, she would be his to chastise.

  “I believe I promised you the strap the next time you forgot your worth,” he said, making his voice silky.

  The black pupils of her eyes grew wider, rather than small, which he knew from his profession indicated desire rather than fear. Lust licked through him. He held out his hand to her. “Come here, Eliza. You have earned a spanking.”

  She hesitated for a half-second, then placed her little gloved hand in his, allowing him to escort her up the stairs to his bedroom.

  It was unseemly—his housekeeper would think he had taken a lover—but the rewards outweighed the risk.

  “Take off your drawers, Eliza,” he commanded after shutting the door.

  He strode to the dressing table to retrieve his razor strap and to give her the reprieve of his back as she obeyed. He turned to see her stepping out of the puddle of her abandoned underclothing.

  “Good girl.” He sat on the edge of the bed and patted his thighs. “Come.”

  She eyed him and the strap. “Are you angry with me?” she asked, her voice sounding strangled.

  He cocked his head, considering. “No. I am annoyed at your lack of faith in me, and resolved to teach you the lesson you beg to be taught.”

  “I think, sir, you enjoy spanking me,” she said, watching him with her intelligent gaze.

  It came as a surprise that he felt no shame at her accusation, though he had spent most of his life fearing his curiosity about chastising women. Somehow, with Eliza, it did not feel wrong. Her arousal at his punishments removed his guilt, just as her compliance now proved a willingness.

  “I might, Eliza,” he said with a small smile. “So you had better learn to obey your husband, else you will spend a great deal of time over my lap.”

  He saw heat in her eyes and cautioned, “Just because I enjoy it, does not mean you will. You were naughty today, Eliza, and I intend to make you sorry.”

  She took a step backward with apparent misgiving, so he lunged forward to catch her about the waist and pull her over his knees. He threw up her skirts and petticoats, drawing in his breath at the sight of her bare bottom. Never in the history of mankind had there been a more beautiful sight. Pale and shapely, her little moons begged to be punished.

  He snapped the razor strap across both her cheeks, eliciting a cry of pain. “I asked for your patience, did I not?” he asked as he slapped the thick leather down again. “Answer me,” he directed when she only offered a squeak.

  “Yes, sir!”

  The sound of her strangled breath reminded him to loosen her corset. He unbuttoned the back of her dress and pulled the laces loose on the constrictive stays. “I asked you to wait for me,” he said, picking up the strap to whip her flinching buttocks again.

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Did I not tell you I had a plan?”

  She attempted to roll off his lap, forcing him to clamp an arm around her waist to hold her steady as he continued to apply the strap several times in quick succession.

  “Noooo!” she wailed.

  “Yes, I did.”

  The leather left wide red stripes across her creamy skin.

  “Yes! I meant no more!”

  He smiled, having known perfectly well what she meant. “So you disobeyed me, did you not?”

  “Yes, sir. I am sorry!”

  “Thank you,” he said, continuing to whip her squirming bottom. “And what did I tell you when I spanked you in Westerfield’s library?”

  “You said you would teach me my worth!”

  “Exactly. Did you remember your worth today?”

  “Please, Darlington! Andrews! John!” she spluttered.

  “Did you?” he pressed, ignoring her begging.

  “No, sir!”

  “No. Because if you had, you would believe a man loves you for who you are, not for your father’s money.”

  “Please!” she said with a little sob. “I will never doubt it again! Please!”

  He stopped, the genuine distress in her voice making him unwilling to go on. Dropping the strap, he rubbed her chastened buttocks, the heat warming his palm. His fears of pushing her too far eased when he heard the timber of her panting as she pushed her twin orbs into his hand.

  “Eliza,” he said, his voice thick. “When you are naughty, there is a second kind of punishment I may, at times, deliver.”

  She did not answer, but lifted her head from the pillow of the settee to look over her shoulder.

  “Stand up, dear,” he said, helping her to ease to her feet. “Bend over the side of the bed, there.”

  Glassy-eyed, she stood, her loosened dress and corset falling to the floor near his feet like an offering. She stumbled forward to obey, folding her torso over the bed.

  He drank in the sight of her fully naked, the sensual curve of her back only making her buttocks all the more enticing. He massaged her reddened cheeks, repressing the groan rising in his throat. Sliding his fingers between her legs, her slick nectar drew him straight to her opening, where he teased her rosebud of pleasure.

  She whimpered, shifting on her feet, waggling her bottom. He could sense the trembling in her legs and he lowered to his knees, gripping one thigh in each hand and holding them apart. His tongue found her little slit, the tang of her essence exciting him. When her cries took on a desperate keen, he rose, opening his trousers to free his cock. Applying a generous amount of saliva to his hand to rub on its head, he parted her cheeks and pressed at her back entrance.

  “I want to save your maidenhead for our wedding night,” he murmured when she startled. “Besides, you misbehaved, which means you must take me back here.”

  “Ohhh,” she groaned.

  He reached around the front of her to cup her mons, pressing a finger inside her narrow channel at the same moment he pushed his cock into her back hole.

  She gave a little scream but her sex gushed, telling him to go forward.

  * * *

  Never in her life had she experienced such a mixture of wanton need and intensity at the same time. The sensation of John’s length filling her created an urgent desire for release.

  “Please!” She clawed at the quilt on the bed, thrashing her head and making a high-pitched keening noise. He moved in and out of her, too big for comfort, yet driving her wild with the sensation. “Please,” she repeated, though she knew not what she begged for.

  “Yes, sweet Eliza. You must take me here when you are punished.”

  “Yes!” she gasped, wanting nothing more than to be punished by him every second of the rest of her life. His smarting lash and his dominant thrusts cleansed her of the shards of inadequacy within her, as if he somehow expunged her of the original misperception that caused them.

  He gave a bark of victory, plunging deep within her and staying while his fingers thrust in her sex, tickling her inner wall until she toppled over the brink of ecstasy. She convulsed around his fingers with an incoherent cry. She hardly noticed when he eased out of her and moved away, returning with a moist cloth he use
d to clean her. She lay collapsed, scarcely able to move her heavy limbs, her post-climax relaxation so complete.

  He helped her to stand, where she blinked in a daze while he dressed her like a doll. She felt thoroughly his. Any doubt she had about their future had burned away in the possessive fire of his passion.

  “I love you, Eliza,” he murmured, pulling her limp body against his and kissing her mouth. She returned the kiss and when they parted, lifted her eyes to him, glowing in the warmth of his affection. “Darling girl.” He kissed her forehead. “Come, I want to show you something,” he said, picking up her hand and tugging her gently to the door.

  She followed docilely, still dazzled by their lovemaking. He led her down the stairs to the library, where he pulled out what appeared to be a leather-bound family bible. Opening it, he handed it to her.

  She drew in a breath as she read the last entry. Andrew Darlington, son of John Darlington, earl of Stenwick, and Jane Aster Darlington. She lifted her eyes questioningly.

  He nodded. “That is I.”

  She waited for him to elaborate.

  He led her to a chair, where he sat and pulled her onto his lap. “My father was a horrible man. Well, he was decent when sober, but most of the time he was in his cups. Spirits made him mean—abusive. He beat my mother with his fists. The first time he beat me that way, instead of with the rod to my backside, my mother packed our things and we ran away. We hid from him, not even staying with family when we came to London. One of her wealthy friends from finishing school gave us refuge and we changed our surname to Johnson. Our benefactors paid for an officer’s commission for me to enter the Navy when I was of age, and from there I became a spymaster, taking on the name of John Andrews.”

  “Thank you for confiding in me,” she said, twisting on his lap to touch his face with her hand.

  He covered it with his own. “My father died eight years ago, but I never planned to claim his title or his name. I wanted nothing to do with him.”

  “I understand.”

  He gave his head a little shake as if throwing off his dark thoughts. “For you, I will. You deserve to be part of the ton. And you deserve a husband who is unafraid to face his demons.”

  “The ton?” she repeated, offended. “I care nothing of the ton. I want only you. My arrival here today should prove so.”

  “I know, sweetheart,” he soothed. “I know. But your father wants better than a spymaster for a son-in-law and I aim to win his approval for our match. I have initiated the process of claiming the title. As soon as the title is mine, I will make my bid again with your father. This is my plan.”

  Her eyes watered. Words escaped her. She wished to tell him he need not do it for her, yet she felt he deserved his birthright, especially considering the difficulties he had faced.

  He kissed her forehead. “Come, dear. I will take you home before our scandal is complete.”

  She stood. “And if they already know where I have gone?”

  “We will face it together. If the damage is done, it is done. We will marry now without their blessing. But we must attempt to salvage the situation first.” He looked alarmed, as if something just occurred to him. “Would your father punish you?”

  She pursed her lips. “Why do you ask? Do you fear he would see you have been there first?”

  “I will not return you if you believe he would whip you,” he said, drawing himself up as if for a fight.

  “It is all right for you to whip me, but not my father?”

  “Will he or will he not?” he asked, growing agitated.

  “He will not,” she said, as she had never in her life been punished with more than a slap.

  John—no, Andrew, relaxed.

  “Why is it all right for you to whip me?” she repeated.

  He gave a wry smile. “You are mine to punish. The idea of anyone else laying a hand on you angers me.”

  Warmth filled her chest, but she rolled her eyes. “You lack logic.”

  “I know,” he grinned sheepishly. “But you do not seem to mind my quirk.” He stood and ushered her out onto the street where he hailed a carriage and gave directions to her home.

  They entered into the foyer and her mother came bustling out. “Eliza, where have you—oh!” she cried, seeing Darlington. “Oh, no. Oh, dear. Have you married?”

  Chapter Five

  Her father emerged behind her mother. “What in the blazes—?”

  “We have not married,” he said with exaggerated calm. “May I speak with you in private?”

  “Eliza, what is going—”

  “In private,” he repeated firmly.

  Hunt’s face shone red, his eyes bulging with anger, but he jerked his head toward the door, leading him to the parlour where they both sat down.

  “Mr. Hunt, as you may have gathered from today’s events, Eliza is willing to marry me without your blessing. I do not wish for her to strain her relations with you, but we are determined to wed. I meant to wait until things are in better order to approach you, but I want you to know I am the rightful, legitimate heir to the Darlington title, which I did not choose to claim upon my father’s death. I have initiated the process to claim it now, so I may offer your daughter the prestige you wish for her.”

  Hunt studied him, his eyes narrowed. “You truly are Lord Darlington?”

  “I will be soon.”

  “And what of your position as spymaster?”

  “I will give it up to manage my father’s estate, unless there is not enough income potential for me there. I do not know what state things were left in, as my father and I were estranged from the time I was a young boy.”

  Hunt folded his fingers together and sighed. “I see. Well, Darlington, I will have my solicitor look into your claim and the state of your inheritance.”

  He waited, hoping for more.

  “I have not yet changed my mind.”

  He nodded. “I appreciate your consideration—”

  An ear-splitting scream interrupted them.

  “Eliza!” he cried, leaping to his feet and charging from the room. The fear of his beloved in danger put his heart in his throat. “Eliza!” He dashed down the corridor in the direction of the scream.

  “Here,” Eliza croaked, stepping out of her father’s study, her face ashen, expression terror-stricken.

  “Oh, thank God,” he said, seeing her unharmed. She could not seem to speak, but pointed through the open door. He peered past her, taking in the scene while every sense remained alert to potential danger.

  Charlotte, Eliza’s missing maid, lay dead on the floor, her throat slit, a ring of blood soaked into the rug around her. He waited, stilling his own breath to listen for the smallest sound, but heard nothing.

  Eliza and her parents crowded behind him, along with a gaggle of servants. Without any care of propriety or what anyone would think, he drew Eliza’s trembling form into his arms to comfort her. “Do not look again, sweetheart,” he told her.

  She leaned her full weight against him.

  He held her up, in case she swooned. “You are safe,” he murmured. “I will not let anything happen to you—I am here.”

  “Is that… Lottie?” she managed.

  “Yes, dear. It was.”

  Hunt tried to push past them.

  “Do not enter the room,” he commanded. “Nothing may be moved or touched until I have examined it.”

  Amazingly, Hunt obeyed. “What do you think happened here?” he asked, sounding as shaken as his daughter.

  Without releasing Eliza, he stepped forward and shut the door, blocking the horrific sight from their view. “Hunt, would you send a servant to Billings Street and tell them I said to send three men at once?”

  “I will go, sir!” one of the men offered.

  “Thank you, Jones,” Hunt said to authorize the action.

  The young man took off down the stairs.

  “I would like the rest of the household staff and members to gather in the dining room,” he orde
red. “I must speak with everyone who works or lives here.”

  Hunt again authorized his command, saying, “You heard the man, everyone downstairs in the dining room. Everyone, please.”

  He reluctantly released Eliza, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze. “A bit of brandy might help for the shock,” he said to Hunt, looking pointedly at the ladies.

  The older man took the hint, offering his arm to both of them to help them downstairs.

  “I am going to search the house, though I suspect the intruder has gone.”

  Unless it was a member of the household.

  He rechecked the scene of the murder, then searched every possible hiding place in the large house, turning up nothing.

  Jenners, Smith, and a third man, Bartlett, arrived.

  “What happened?” Jenners demanded the moment they entered.

  “The maid showed up in Hunt’s study with her throat slit.”

  Smith whistled. “Do you think she came back looking for the plans?”

  He shrugged. “Could be. Or it could be whoever sent her with the plans to begin with brought her here to show him in, then killed her and searched for either the money or the plans.”

  “Why kill her?” Smith asked.

  “Perhaps he thinks she double-crossed him?” Jenners suggested.

  “Yes, perhaps. Well, Bartlett, you search the house, starting with the study. Jenners and Smith, please begin interviewing the household. I will examine the study first, then join you for interviews.”

  Circling around the body, he walked behind the desk. One of the drawers stood slightly ajar. He knelt beside it, examining the latch, which appeared broken.

  “Send Hunt back in here, please, Bartlett?”

  “Yes, sir,” Bartlett said, standing from where he had been crouched beside the dead woman. “No sign of a weapon.”

  He nodded.

  Hunt entered, looking squeamish about the dead body on his office floor.

  “Was this lock broken before, Mr. Hunt?”

  “No.” The man’s face sharpened and he walked around behind the desk to stand beside him.

  “What do you keep in here?”