12 Naughty Days of Christmas 2018

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12 Naughty Days of Christmas 2018 Page 62

by Isabella Kole


  “Antony Leaping’s balls are the talk of the county,” Lord Hawtry enthused into Cassandra’s musings. “How does he manage them, Lady Beatrice?”

  “He leaves them to me to oversee,” responded the dowager with a dry smile. “But he would be pleased to receive your generous compliment.”

  “And will the good lord be attending in person tonight?”

  Cassandra, who had been staring at a cluster of young women in the hope that the peer in question would be at its center, returned her attention to the dowager. “I do hope he will be here.”

  A shrewd look passed across the older woman’s features. “He’s has been called away on business, so I cannot say for sure. But Lady Cassandra, where is your fiancé tonight?”

  To conceal her disappointment at the lord’s absence, Cassandra made another visual sweep of the room. “Rupert is in the colonies,” she replied idly, now frustrated with the whole situation. “He won’t be here for Christmas.”

  “How disappointing for you not to have your beloved at your table. My son and I are to spend the festivities with the Marquess and Marchioness of Kilburn, and their daughter, Lady Isabel.”

  Evidently, the dowager intended her fornicating son to marry the Marquess’ eldest child. As Cassandra merely wanted to make use of the earl for a short time, she didn’t care a fig that he was taken. Besides, Lord Leaping was a bed hopper, which to Cassandra, precluded him as marriage material. She could not tolerate anything less than total devotion from a husband – hers or anyone else’s she might borrow.

  “How nice for you,” Cassandra said with a sigh.

  “Now, as for tonight,” Lady Beatrice continued briskly. “We must ensure you are occupied. There are many young men already looking at you. They will all want a dance.”

  “I do enjoy dancing,” Cassandra confessed halfheartedly. Damnation. Her evening was to be spend upright instead of under Lord Leaping. “It’s a pity he isn’t here. Perhaps he and Lady Isabel are dealing with a pressing matter.”

  The dowager’s lips pursed, but formed no words.

  “Did you know that today is my daughter’s nineteenth birthday?” Cassandra’s father burst out cheerfully. “Tonight is a celebration.”

  Lady Beatrice brightened. “Then we are especially thrilled to have you. And I see a handsome young officer coming this way to meet you.”

  Cassandra smiled without interest at the advancing man dressed in full military colors, sword at his side.

  “Lady Cassandra, it is wonderful to see you again.”

  She didn’t bother trying to remember where that might have been. “You have me at a disadvantage, sir. I do not remember you.”

  He bowed his head, the twinkle in his eye a shade too familiar. “Entirely understandable. We met briefly at the Barksmith’s garden party last year, but did not have an opportunity to further the acquaintance. I am Captain Crawsmith of the Royal Fusiliers.”

  Cassandra’s eyes turned heavenward at the awful memory of three Fusiliers fighting for her attention. How tiresome they had been.

  The captain proffered his arm. “Would you care to take a turn around the floor, Lady Cassandra?”

  Cassandra cast an eye to the dancers performing a vigorous polka. She counted at least ten lords leaping about to the music, but not the one she wanted.

  “Yes, that would be nice,” she muttered, resigned to an evening of pointless dancing and no tuition.

  Captain Crawsmith guided her into the throng and clasping her firmly, whisked her about the room at breathtaking speed. It did not please her. She was here for one thing and he was not here.

  The music stopped, but the captain kept her dancing until he had her positioned beneath a branch of mistletoe suspended from one of the chandeliers. “Captain, you are too forward,” she said, extricating herself from his arms as he tried to kiss her.

  “You are so lovely, Lady Cassandra.”

  “I am betrothed, Captain, so this is inappropriate.”

  As she now recalled, the captain was the most ardent of the Fusiliers. No, it would not do to be handled by him. It would have to be Lord Leaping or nobody. And in the absence of Lord Leaping, she might as well abandon the ballroom altogether and explore Rootham Castle while she could. She could not possibly survive another polka with Captain Crawsmith.

  “Is there anything I can do for you?” the captain asked keenly, his hand sneaking to the small of her back. “Anything at all?”

  “No, thank you, sir. In any case you have made me so warm with your dancing, I may need to lie down for a few minutes.”

  He barely disguised his eagerness. “Let me escort you upstairs.”

  “That would not do, Captain. I have my reputation to protect. I will speak to one of the servants. Now if you will excuse me…”

  The captain offered his arm. “I cannot abandon a lady. I must accompany you.”

  Bejabbers, he was a persistent one. “Perhaps you could fetch me something cool to drink so I will not need to lie down.” She pointed to a vacant chair near the ballroom’s entrance. “I will wait for you over there.”

  The captain bowed. “Of course.”

  The instant he turned away, Cassandra set a fast pace through the dancers toward the exit. On reaching the door, she looked back, dismayed to see the captain coming after her at full trot. Before he could gain ground, Cassandra took to her heels along a long corridor, up a set of stone steps, along another passageway and, pausing briefly to ensure she’d lost him, ducked into a room at the very end. Closing the door, she leaned back to catch her breath and gather her senses. She heard the faint sound of footsteps, but mercifully, they did not grow closer. No doubt the captain would return to her father to tittle-tattle about her disappearance, so it would be barely minutes before she was found. Father would assume she was ill and bundle her up for the immediate ride home. On reflection, that would probably be best considering it had been a wasted trip. Blast Lord Leaping.

  The room was in semi-darkness, so Cassandra stumbled her way to the drapes, drawing them back to look around the room. A bedroom, but judging by its sparseness, not one usually occupied. A guest room most likely. Opening a door onto a small balcony, she inhaled the frosty night air, grateful for the solitude. Immediately below she could see the empty carriages that had delivered the guests to the earl’s castle and beyond those, the stables where the horses would be enjoying the temporary warmth before their journey home. The castle itself sat in spectacular grounds set with ancient oaks, a lake, noisy winter geese and, in the distance, the outline of a family crypt that presumably housed the Leaping ancestors. Isabel would enjoy living here as the wife of an earl, afforded every comfort while being serviced by her apparently gifted husband.

  With a sigh, Cassandra closed the door and drapes and was about to find her way back across the room when she heard a soft click followed by the tread of a man’s foot. Assuming it was Captain Crawsmith, she concealed herself behind the drapes, waiting anxiously for him to depart. When he didn’t, it crossed her mind that she should consider him after all. An empty guest room, a bed, and an officer who presumably knew what to do. She didn’t much like him, but why go home empty handed?

  While she dithered, she heard the steps closing in on her, then stop.

  “Cassandra.”

  The voice was not Captain Crawsmith’s, nor was it the tone of a gentleman. This man’s tenor was aristocratic, yes, but it was low and commanding, almost fierce.

  Cassandra, who had inherited her father’s stubborn and overconfident disposition, and so, had never experienced trepidation, still shivered. Whoever this man was, or his level of dangerousness, there was nothing to be done but confront him. Stepping from her hiding place, she came face to face with the owner of the voice. It mattered not that she could not discern him clearly for it was plain he meant business as he held a riding crop which he tapped against his leg as though marking time.

  “Sir, I must ask you to leave my boudoir.”

  He backed up,
closed and locked the door, advanced again.

  “Sir,” she began again, but he slapped the riding crop against his thigh with a whack.

  “Your father and the dowager have been advised that you are unwell and have taken one of the guest quarters for the evening. A carriage will take you home in the morning.”

  For the first time in her young life, Cassandra was lost for words. She knew her mouth had flopped open in the manner of a gaping simpleton, because he was staring at it with considerable interest.

  “By then,” he continued, looking up. “You will be fully recovered.”

  “I do not know you, sir,” Cassandra retorted, her senses sufficiently restored to mount an offensive. “But whoever you are, I will not be held here against my will. I wish to leave.”

  The riding crop continued its beat. “You will not leave, madam, because I will not permit it. Nor is it what you desire.

  “Really?” she said, trying but failing to sound indifferent. “What could I possibly desire?”

  “A man between your legs. Isn’t that why you came here tonight?”

  “I-I…”

  He laughed, but not in a way that gave comfort. “Well?”

  “I…”

  He walked about the room, turning up the lamps before ripping back the bed’s coverlet, all the while swinging his crop. Cassandra had no doubt he would use it on her if she tried to bolt.

  When he had finished his preparations, he stood at the end of the bed, watching her quietly. He might be a brute but he did cut a fine figure. Tall and broad-shouldered, his dark tailcoat sat snug to his powerful frame, while his slim trousers could not conceal a set of thick thighs and, daring a quick look, she could see the ripening bulge at the buttoned front. His side whiskers were dark as was his luxurious hair, and his eyes held a steely determination.

  “I take it you are Antony Leaping?”

  His raffish gaze on her cleavage confirmed his identity. “Come here, Cassandra.”

  “Sir, as we have not been properly introduced, you will use my title.”

  “We will be introduced in the only way that matters. Come here.”

  The man was intolerable. However, she could hardly complain at getting what she wanted. The Earl of Rootham intended to service her and, from the gleam in his eyes, quite thoroughly. Regardless, she would not succumb without the show of a fight. She did, after all, enjoy the chase.

  “I will not be addressed in this manner—”

  In a single stride, the earl had her hooked into a powerful embrace.

  “Unhand me, sir.”

  Ignoring her protestation, he bent her back and kissed her. It was not the kind of tentative, drawing room kiss of a beau so much as a total requisition of her mouth. Shocking as it was, Cassandra found herself utterly helpless under its sensual authority. Undeniably, he knew his business as the heat of it spread to every corner of her body. Her plan to put up a fight had now become moot, as not only was she being kissed within an inch of her life, she was being steered backwards toward the bed.

  “Sit down,” he ordered when he eventually freed her mouth.

  “I don’t see why you must be so rude about this.”

  “You have no business wandering the castle unsupervised. Sit down.”

  Cassandra cast an eye on the riding crop, still in his hand. “Don’t presume you can use that on me,” she said, aghast at the prospect.

  “I will not tell you again, madam.”

  Cassandra sat.

  “Good,” he said with a twitch of the crop. Dropping to his knees, he set it to one side and ran his hands over her ankles. “You have my blood up, Cassandra Worthingstone. A man could spend a lifetime on you.”

  Knowing the lord’s reputation, it would be far shorter than that. Poor Isabel Kilburn would be lucky to get one ride of the earl before he’d be atop another woman.

  “Sir, is there a reason for admiring my ankles?” she enquired, flexing a dainty foot.

  “I intend to admire a lot more, my lovely,” he replied, looking into her eyes as he worked up her gown. “Lie back.”

  Cassandra complied, mostly out of curiosity but also fearful of the riding crop positioned close to his thigh. Pushing up on her elbows, she watched him lift the hem of her gown then to her astonishment, disappear beneath. She had never experienced anything like this before, so was uncertain of Lord Leaping’s purpose in burying himself in her undergarments, other than to remove them. She could feel him rummaging around, snapping at her silk stockings, pulling at the ties of her new drawers, the latest trend in fashion. She’d had them especially sent from France, so fervently hoped he wouldn’t damage them.

  Her drawers were tugged down to free a foot. She wriggled in anticipation as hands nudged her legs wide but received nothing for her trouble. Cassandra waited, wondering what had him so preoccupied. She felt fingers trace her fanny, open her, then the most wonderful feeling of her entire life. His tongue, warm and wet and leisurely in its movement, slid the length of her private area. It was then, she realized with a joyful sigh, that sexual pleasure did not need to be confined to the act itself, but could include everything either side.

  “Ooh,” she breathed as his lips sucked on her most sensitive part. When he worked his remarkably muscular tongue inside her, she scrunched her eyes closed to savor the lovely sensation.

  His tongue slid from her, to be replaced by a finger, gently probing while his thumb stroked her clitoris. Cassandra flopped back against the bed, flung her arms wide and pushed her hips into the mounting ecstasy. This would be her first real orgasm, as satisfying oneself while bathing didn’t really count.

  “Someone has been here before me!”

  At Lord Leaping’s roar, Cassandra snapped her head up to see his livid face emerge from under her gown, his eyes blazing, his mouth wet from her juices whilst his finger continued to occupy her alcove.

  “Does it matter?” Cassandra asked, genuinely confused.

  “I had intended to pop this cherry tonight,” came the furious response. He pushed further into her as though to confirm his assertion. “You have denied me.”

  Still confused, she muttered. “You will have Lady Isabel’s to pop, my lord.”

  “I demand to know who you have lain with!”

  She’d barely opened her mouth to deny all knowledge of the matter when the riding crop was in his other hand. “And don’t fence with me. Who was it?”

  “Nobody important,” she countered sulkily, squirming against the lord’s finger. “Father’s stable hand.”

  “You allowed a commoner to dip his wick first!” he thundered. “Who else?”

  Cassandra was more than annoyed, not only by his questions but by the fact his finger was making her hotter by the second. “A-a young gentleman,” she stammered, finding it difficult to focus. “I-I forget his name.”

  The earl withdrew, paced the room, the crop drumming hard against his leg like a metronome. “I understand that you are betrothed to Sir Rupert Swan. Have you no respect for him?”

  “Why should I respect him?” Cassandra said, lifting a shoulder to show her disdain at the question. “It will be a marriage of convenience. He has no interest in remaining in England and I have no interest in living in his intemperate climate. All he wants is an heir, after which I will end our relations and be free to spend his money.”

  “He’ll know of your indiscretions the moment he enters you.”

  “Of course he won’t,” Cassandra rejoined impatiently. “I’ll say it broke in a riding accident.”

  Lord Leaping looked at her grimly. “Madam, between that stable hand and adolescent buck, you have been well and truly despoiled. Believe me, he will know.”

  Cassandra huffed her annoyance. “You intended to go ahead of Sir Rupert yourself, so this conversation is ridiculous. I thought you wanted to… well, do whatever it is that men like you do.”

  “I can see you need a firm hand, although why I should care about your brazen infidelity is beyond me. Man
ifestly you are not a woman of moral standing.”

  Cassandra, tired of the insults, stood up to leave, then sat down again as the furious earl came at her. In one easy movement he tossed her on her back.

  “I am not finished with you,” he barked when she tried to scramble from his hold. He flipped her over to her stomach. Cassandra felt her gown, petticoat and crinoline being shoved up over her head, her drawers torn away, followed by the feel of the leather crop resting on her bottom. Mortified, she tried to escape by dragging herself across the bed only to be hauled back into position.

  “Dammit, woman, I may not be the first, but I will be the one to break you in.”

  With that he administered the crop to her bare flesh. The shock of the first whack had her rearing up, followed by a collapse as the next landed squarely in the middle of her seat. Considering the earl’s testiness, he could have been far more forceful, but still his slaps stung as though a million bees had landed on her derrière. Utterly helpless to escape her chastisement, she lay quaking, suppressing her moans so he could not gain additional enjoyment from her suffering.

  It was at the eighth wallop that the oddest thing happened to Cassandra. She could feel herself growing warmer and wetter with each paddle and by the time her assailant ceased his scolding at twelve strokes, which she had counted religiously, her entire body was as heated as her flaming posterior. Heavens, who would have thought anything so painful, not to say humiliating could be so strangely exhilarating?

  Reaching around, she tried to check the damage, but he flipped her over to her back, his hand thrusting between her legs. With her laid out, helpless under the constraints of gown and petticoats, he loomed large and menacing over her.

  “Evidently,” he said, studying her closely while his fingers skidded along her wetness, “my work pleases you.”

  Lord Leaping was right in his evaluation. Denial of the obvious would be fruitless anyway, as his fingers had now begun a pleasing expedition around her lady parts while his free hand sought her bodice. She watched him begin the arduous process of unlacing the front. As impatient as she was for the lovemaking to commence, she could not hold back a chortle.

 

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