12 Naughty Days of Christmas 2018

by Isabella Kole

  Cassandra sat down at her dressing table to brush her hair. “Father will probably want to discuss some minor matter to do with the estate,” she said, working the brush on a stubborn knot. “Now please dress my hair. Make it simple as I do not intend to receive visitors today.”

  Partridge began her task. “Mistress, you know what I’m saying.”

  Goodness, Partridge was acting strangely this morning. “What are you talking about now?”

  “Lady Cassandra,” Partridge began firmly. “I have long observed that you are destined for the earthier delights of the bedroom. I recognize this in you because I myself enjoy robust encounters from time to time. But you must be wise in how you conduct your affairs.”

  Cassandra jumped up, her hair not yet fully arranged. “I do not know where you get your impudence from.”

  “Your gold heart is missing, milady. Where is it?”

  Cassandra’s fingers touched her throat. “It must have come loose at the ball.”

  “Perhaps the maid will find it when she makes the bed,” Partridge said, blowing a resigned breath. “We can but hope.”

  Cassandra could not find a suitable retort, so sat again to button her boots. The heart could be anywhere in the bedroom. While the heaviness of the earl’s hand had eased as the night wore on, he had still dispensed a spanking prior to every coupling, and not always on the bed. To be honest, departing Rootham Caste this morning had come as a relief.

  “I do not wish to discuss this matter further.” Cassandra said, grabbing her woolen cloak and stalking to the door. “I’ll be in the library.”

  She left Partridge still holding the hairbrush. She found her father, the Viscount Hawtry, behind his vast desk, writing quill in one hand, the other delivering prunes to his mouth. As always, her father looked slightly disheveled. He’d looked that way ever since the death of Cassandra’s mother, the Viscountess Lady Annabel. Seven years on and he had not remarried, nor contemplated doing so. Cassandra would not have minded in the least, for it would have drawn her father’s attention from his only child. Like Partridge, he constantly fussed over Cassandra’s welfare.

  “Good morning, Father,” she said, placing herself on the sofa closest to the hearth to get warm. Cassandra had spent many happy hours reading in this room. She had never taken to embroidery, the piano, watercolor painting or anything else that occupied the time of genteel ladies. Her accomplishments lay in her mastery of Latin and French, her ability to ride the most spirited horses in her father’s stable, and her knowledge of politics and world affairs. These latter occupations were not considered fitting for a woman of the nobility, but Cassandra had no time for empty drawing room pastimes.

  “Good day to you, daughter. Have you recovered from last night’s frolic?”

  Cassandra had to take a second to process the question. “Oh, oh yes, Father. Quite recovered. I fainted, that’s all.”

  “I gather it was your polka with Captain Crawsmith that caused your vapors. By Gad, that whippersnapper cuts an energetic figure. But Lord Leaping’s valet assured me you were well looked after in one of the guest rooms. I thought it safer for you to stay at Rootham Castle rather than journey home in the cold. I hope you were not left alone.”

  “No, Father, I was not alone,” Cassandra explained with a weak smile. “There were servants.”

  Actually, a servant had helped her back into her tattered dress this morning before escorting her downstairs to a waiting carriage. Cassandra couldn’t help but feel a tinge of irritation at being bundled out of the place like a strumpet who had outstayed her welcome. Lord Leaping had spent the entire night making use of her body only to cut and run before sunrise. So typical of an aristocrat to be cavalier.

  “Anyhow, daughter, I hope you were not in too much discomfort.”

  Cassandra shifted her weight to ease her immediate discomfort. “None whatsoever. What do you know about Lord Antony Leaping?”

  Her father deposited a prune in his mouth before answering. “A scoundrel. The man was born with his breeches unbuttoned.”

  Cassandra giggled.

  The viscount cleared his throat. “Apologies for the crudeness, my dear. The earl gives the aristocracy a bad name.”

  “I thought it already had a bad name,” Cassandra observed. “The degenerate class, is it not?”

  “Now look here, Cassandra. This is not a suitable subject for a young woman, especially now that we have a Queen.”

  “How well do you know the earl, Father?”

  “I know that he was probably in a bordello last night, rather than attending to his guests.”

  Cassandra moved to adjust a cushion under her rump, acutely aware of the earl’s attendance. “I’m sure he had his reasons. Once he marries Lady Isobel, he might change.”

  The viscount laughed, his large belly wobbling under the effort. “Lady Beatrice is dreaming if she thinks she can curtail the earl’s habits through matrimony. Speaking of matrimony…”

  “What about it?” Cassandra asked uneasily.

  Her father stood to break wind. He did this frequently and at will, without any apology to those within earshot. As he was coming up to sixty, he’d earned the right, or that’s what he told anyone who dared to comment. When she ultimately departed Hawtry House for good, she would not miss Father’s vulgar habit.

  He strode to the hearth to look down at her fondly. “I have good tidings, daughter. Sir Rupert is to join us for Christmas. He will be here tomorrow for the celebrations.”

  Cassandra stared up at her father in horror. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course, I’m sure,” the viscount replied with a frown. “Aren’t you pleased that you will get to meet your fiancé for the first time? A jolly Christmas Day with Sir Rupert. Gifts, eggnog, a fine plump turkey. The timing could not be more opportune.”

  Gadzooks, the timing could not be worse. She had intended to write him a letter explaining her change of heart. Now she would have to tell Sir Rupert in person.

  “Father dearest, I really don’t feel confident about marriage at this time,” Cassandra said, choosing her words carefully. “I’m too inexperienced in life.”

  The viscount’s bushy brows rose. “Poppycock, girl. Your mother was still a lass when I married her.”

  “Yes, but she was devoted to you despite the twenty year age gap. I don’t know anything of Sir Rupert.”

  The viscount sailed on as if she had not spoken. “He’ll make a first rate husband. When I spoke to him, he showed much enthusiasm for the marriage. I must say he seats a horse well.”

  “He’s not a nobleman,” Cassandra argued hopelessly. “I cannot wed anyone who is not a peer.”

  Her father waved a dismissive hand. “The man’s family is littered with peerage. There’s even a dead duke buried in the line, although where I’m not exactly sure. Rupert Swan is a fine man with the means to support you in the way a woman of your position must be supported.”

  Cassandra stood up, feeling trapped and helpless under her father’s reasoning. “I’m rich,” she declared. “I don’t need to marry him.”

  “Your money and your inheritance will keep you in a home, gowns and jewels for a lifetime, Cassandra, but it will not secure you the finest house in England. Swan Manor sits on more acreage than even Rootham Castle. Sir Rupert is a formidable businessman with a wealth that most men could not accumulate in a hundred years. What’s more, he intends to return to England to enter politics. Within a dozen years, you could well be the wife of the Prime Minister. Does that not please your political mind?”

  Cassandra, out of argument, stamped her foot. “I will not marry him!”

  “Daughter, I have indulged you for most of your life, but this I do for your own good,” her father said patiently. “You are a willful young woman who needs to be taken care of.”

  “I can take care of myself, thank you very much.”

  Her father’s face reddened at her impertinence. “I will not countenance any refusal!” he bellowed. “W
hat’s more, I will personally see that the nuptials take place before the new year.”

  “No!” she shouted. “Never! Never! Never!”

  In that instant, the butler, a faithful old retainer of eighty plus years, opened the door, no doubt alarmed at the shouts emanating from the library. “Milord,” he said, dismay written all over his ancient features. “You asked for lunch to be served at one o’clock, not a minute past. Should I ask cook to serve?”

  One thing Cassandra could rely on was her father’s voracious appetite. Not only did he break wind whenever it suited, he maintained his stomach at capacity. Nothing kept Father from the dining table.

  “Yes of course, Piper. We will be along in a minute.”

  Not waiting for the minute to pass, Cassandra seized her cloak, fled the room and made her escape via the servants’ entrance at the back of the house. She marched to the stables, fuming at every step. She would have to wait until after supper to raise the subject again. It shouldn’t be difficult to bring Father round to her way of thinking as he adored her. He would also be under the mellowing effects of port and tonight’s serving of prime venison. Nevertheless, if he maintained his position, she would have to feign some ghastly ailment to postpone the ceremony. By then, she would have safely dispatched Sir Rupert.

  “Saddle Jasper,” she ordered the nearest stable boy.

  “Are you sure you should ride him in this weather?”

  Cassandra frowned, surprised by his concern. “Of course, I’m sure. The sky is clear, the snow light. Ensure he has a gentleman’s saddle.”

  “Yes, milady.”

  She wasn’t dressed for sidesaddle, nor did she wish for a leisurely canter through the countryside. Her mood demanded full gallop until both she and Jasper were exhausted.

  The stable hand, Drum, who had deflowered her in the tack room, appeared. “Lady Cassandra, are you well today?”

  Cassandra swirled her cloak about her shoulders, flipped the hood over her head. “Quite well.”

  “The boy said you want the stallion today,” Drum said with a leer. “Are you sure you can handle him between your legs?”

  She had been worse than foolish to accommodate this dullard. “Any insolence from you and I will have you dismissed.”

  His smirk faded. Everyone on the estate knew Cassandra had her father wrapped around her little finger. Everyone except her father, that is. She kept him in blissful ignorance.

  “Assist me,” she said when the stable boy produced her mount.

  The boy held the reins while Drum bent to lace his fingers together for Cassandra’s boot. As he hoisted her into the saddle, she swore she felt his fingers linger on her calf. If it were not for the fact Drum had a wife and eight children, she would gladly see his employment terminated before day’s end.

  With a doff of his cap, Drum released the reins. Cassandra set off at a fast trot, giving Jasper his head when they reached the expanse of countryside to the side of Hawtry House. She could feel her red dress billowing behind her, the hood of her cloak slip from her head and her hair streaming in the wind. Thundering across the fields and over the hills, she steered Jasper around and over every obstacle towards the estate’s summerhouse, where she intended to rest before the long ride back to the stables. She was within a hundred yards of the building when Jasper’s foot slipped. He dipped his shoulder, sending Cassandra flying from her saddle. Fortunately, the snow cushioned her fall, but as she moved, she cried out at the searing pain in her ankle. She tried to stand, fell back. Jasper, free of his burden, galloped away to leave her stranded. It could be hours before anyone noticed her missing. Her father would assume she had gone to her room to sulk. Partridge would assume she was in the library, reading. The idiot, Drum, wouldn’t assume anything. Her sole hope was that Jasper would find his way home, thus alerting the household.

  Wrapping her cloak tightly about her shivering frame, she looked around for somewhere to crawl for shelter. She was on her hands and knees, heading for a fallen tree trunk, when a sound from behind pulled her up short.

  “Now there’s a tempting sight.”

  Cassandra looked over her shoulder to see Lord Leaping strolling toward her, crop in hand while leading Jasper and his own mount.

  “Thank goodness you are here, my lord,” she said, sitting back up. “I cannot walk.”

  “So I notice. I saw you riding recklessly along the ridge, your dress a flame against the sky, your hair flying. You looked like an angel descended from heaven or perhaps a nymph sprung from the woods, I cannot decide which. Either way, you are lucky not to have snapped your neck. That horse is too powerful for you.”

  “I’ve never fallen before,” Cassandra said indignantly. “But I am grateful to see you.”

  He dropped to his haunches, inspected her ankle. “It’s not broken, but you will need to rest awhile.”

  “Why are you at Hawtry anyway?”

  “I wanted to make sure you arrived home safely.”

  “How did you know I would be here?”

  “I’ve been reliably informed that you often ride to the summerhouse. Now let us get out of this cold.”

  After tethering the horses beneath a tree, he lifted Cassandra into his arms as easily he would a bag of feathers. Carrying her to the summerhouse, he kicked open the door and deposited her by the fireplace. While she sat back to inspect her ankle, the earl set about building a fire. In spite of her continuing displeasure at his early departure this morning, she could not find fault with the sight before her. Lord Leaping was every bit as scrumptious as last night. He fitted his clothes superbly: his boots polished, his black coat immaculate, his riding breeches pulled pleasingly over his masculine thighs.

  “We will be snug soon,” the earl said, setting the wood to fire. He walked the room. “Who comes here?”

  “Only me,” Cassandra replied, removing her boots. “Father wanted to demolish it, but I begged him not to. I love this place.”

  The Hawtry summerhouse had been built by her grandfather for his new bride, but abandoned within a decade as it sat too far from the main house for regular use. Except for a fully stocked wood box, a hearthrug and a rocking chair, the place had nothing to offer by way of comfort. Cassandra did not mind. This was her place and now that she had her own money, she intended to have it restored to its former glory.

  “You come here to be alone?” the earl enquired into her thoughts.

  Cassandra lifted her skirt and petticoat to toast her feet by the fire. “That is right.”

  “Do you want to be alone now, Lady Casandra?” he asked, his eyes on her stockinged legs.

  “How could I expect solitude?” she answered coolly. “I cannot walk. I am at your mercy.”

  His gaze traveled up her dress to rest on her bosom. “True.” Returning to the hearth, he sat in the chair, rocking back and forth while he scrutinized her. “You are a vision in that red dress, I must say.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” she said with lowered lashes. When he leaned forward to take a lock of her hair in his fingers, Cassandra trembled. “I can but stay a minute or so, as Father will be wondering where I am.”

  The earl smiled. “I doubt he ever knows where you are. I’m told you ride the estate at will. You are as tempestuous and headstrong as that stallion out there.”

  Cassandra looked at the earl haughtily. “I don’t know that I like being compared to Jasper.”

  He chucked softly, sliding forward to slip his hand around her waist. Bringing her to his mouth, he brushed his lips along hers before claiming a kiss. In spite of her intention to be on her way as soon as possible, Cassandra gave herself over to the lushness of the earl’s mouth. His tongue explored every part of her, retreating to allow her to do the same. She could not say how long they remained thus, but however long, it was not enough to satisfy Cassandra for when they came apart, her body had turned to fire. Once again, the earl had her spellbound.

  “The moment I first saw you, my beauty, I knew you had a taste for what I
dispense,” he said with darkened eyes. “Perhaps we should resume our play.”

  Cassandra felt his hand slide down her back to drag up her skirts. This time she trembled, but not in fear of the earl’s discipline. This time she wanted his control more than she wanted breath in her lungs. She did not understand her curious craving and, given the residual pain in her seat, it would be hard to take. Yet how could she forego such divine pleasure?

  She looked about the room. “There is no bed,” she whispered as his hand worked into her drawers to slide between her legs. “Perhaps, the rug?”

  Lifting her, he deposited her face down across his knee. “A bed is not always required.”

  “Antony,” she whispered at the feel of his fingers spreading warm over her rear end. “I am confused.”

  His fingertips tapped lightly on her flesh. “I am aware of your confusion, Cassandra, but do not try to understand this. It is enough to know that your body will reward you.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  He worked up her dress to bare her completely. She tensed for the first smack, but the earl caressed her bruises as though to take them from her body. Lying in silence across his knee, Cassandra closed her eyes, scarcely able to draw breath, her mind in turmoil, her body aching for this most grueling of contact. After an eternity, he began to rock back and forth in the chair. Cassandra thought she would burst under the anticipation.

  He was still rocking when he delivered the first slap. Another quickly followed, then another. Cassandra trembled at the stings, but sobbed her joy when the earl’s fingers began to stroke between her legs. Thereafter, Lord Leaping settled into a tempo of rocks, slaps and strokes, leaving Cassandra little to do but ride the delicious fusion into an orgasm that spread through every part of her being, even to her fingertips, or so it felt.

  “Oh, my lord,” she sobbed, as he continued his regime until she careened over the cliff in another climax and even into a third. “This is too much.”