by The Bargain
Then, with a muttered curse, Brett turned, strode to the secretary across the room and quickly poured himself a glass of brandy; he downed its contents in one gulp, welcoming the fiery sensation as it went down. As he poured himself another and sipped it slowly, he began to sift through his turbulent thoughts, trying to piece together something that made sense of what had occurred.
The girl had been a virgin, yet she was a whore! It didn't make sense! Slowly his mind sorted out what he knew of womankind's oldest profession. There were, he knew, certain well-operated houses where those who ran them saw to it that they were able to cater to every kind of taste and preference. Some of these even found an occasional virgin to satisfy men with a preference for them, though he himself had never been so inclined. Indeed, he'd rarely availed himself of the talents of any kind of professional woman, finding he had a more-than-willing assortment of females to pick and choose from among the well-bred ladies of the ton. And in fact until tonight, he'd never actually bedded a virgin—though he recognized well enough the signs of a woman's having been one from boastful stories he'd heard over the years. Was this Ashleigh Sinclair one of those professionally trained virgins? His thoughts flew back to the brief time they'd spent together prior to her deflowering. There'd certainly been little in her behavior to indicate she'd been trained to please a man! In fact— what was that tale she'd tried to pass off? Had it, indeed, been just a story, or... And why would Adams—or his grandfather—have selected a virgin, even a trained one, if their objective—misguided as it was—had been to see him tutored?
Finishing the contents of his glass, he turned toward the bed. All was quiet there now, and from the slight but steady rise and fall of the form beneath the coverlet, he knew she'd fallen asleep.
Suddenly Brett's lips curled into a grin. She had been the most tempting little piece of baggage he'd seen in some time, and a true beauty. How was he to be blamed for what had happened when all the circumstances were considered? He sighed. The point was, now that he'd deflowered the chit, what was to be done next? And if she wasn't what they'd thought, and there had been some sort of mistake or mix-up as she'd claimed, would there be any nasty repercussions? An irate father to be dealt with? A family honor to be righted? His mind was just fastening on this last possibility—for he suddenly realized the girl had spoken with the polished accent and correctness of the upper classes—when suddenly there came a knock at the door.
"Yes?" he called, reaching for his breeches.
"The Lady Margaret wishes to know if you will be joining her at table this evening, your lordship." It was the voice of Higgins, his manservant.
Brett tossed the breeches onto a side chair as a new notion struck him. Glancing briefly at the sleeping form on the bed, he answered his man. "No, Higgins. My—ah—guest and I shall dine from a tray in this chamber. See to it, will you? In about a half hour or so."
"Very good, your lordship," replied the voice on the other side of the door, and then there were soft footsteps going down the hallway.
Brett walked over to the large bed and peered down at the sleeping girl on the far side of it. There was little he could see of her face, for the dark, tumbled mass of her hair hid it from his view, but merely the sight of those silken, shiny tresses renewed the heat of his blood, and in seconds he was remembering in detail how she'd felt in his arms. Very well, little nymph, he thought as a wry grin worked across his features, perhaps there has been a terrible mistake, or even two, he corrected, remembering the mistaken assumption about him, on his grandfather's part, that had brought her here in the first place. But one thing is certain: One of us in this chamber could benefit from a few "lessons," and I've just made up my mind to enjoy that challenge!
With a quick movement he was lying beside her on the bed, pressing his face into her fragrant hair and running his hand lightly over her draped form.
Ashleigh awoke slowly, a pleasant warmth infusing her body as she gradually moved into consciousness. Then, as the last vestiges of slumber left her, she began to remember where she was and what had happened to her here.
"You!" she breathed as she turned to look at the man who hovered over her, entirely too near.
"The name's Brett," he answered with a lazy grin, just as his hand reached to tuck an errant tendril of hair behind her ear.
The movement, especially the touch of his fingers on her delicate flesh, sent a shiver through her, and Ashleigh tried to pull away but found she was trapped, for part of her long hair was caught under his arm as he leaned on the mattress. "Wh-what are you doing, my lord?" she managed to whisper as she felt his finger trace the delicate line of her jaw, then move to brush her lips.
"Brett. The name is Brett," he said as his finger again grazed her bottom lip. "Say it, beautiful Ashleigh. Say my name."
"I... Brett..."
"That's better," he murmured, and his head slowly lowered until his mouth reached then lightly tasted where his finger had touched.
The kiss was soft and light at first, but then, as his lips lingered, it grew firmer, with a sensuous plying of her lips beneath his, until, before she knew it, her own were parting as the tip of his tongue slipped lightly between. Then she felt him pull softly at her bottom lip with his teeth while at the same time his hand caressed her shoulder, pushing the coverlet aside.
She was all at once reminded of the circumstances that had brought her here in the first place and drew breath to protest, but his mouth closed firmly over hers while his hand went lower to cup her bare breast. Alarmed now, and suddenly mindful of the shame and pain of their recent union, Ashleigh twisted her head to the side and pushed at his chest with her hands.
"No, little one, don't fight me," he murmured against her cheek. "I mean to give you pleasure this time."
"Pleasure!" she gasped, drawing back within the circle of his embrace to look at him. "Surely, my lord, you—you toy with me! You—oh, please—please don't hurt me again, I beg—"
Brett's soft laughter interrupted her plea as his turquoise eyes met her wide, fearful blue ones. "It doesn't hurt after the first time, little Ashleigh. Didn't they tell you that in your instructions?" Again his hand found her breast, and this time the thumb brushed expertly across the nipple, causing it to peak and harden instantly.
Ashleigh tried to ignore the answering response in her loins, concentrating on what he had just said. "In—instructions? I've had no instructions in—in this!" she insisted, and suddenly she felt the urge to weep, and the sharp sting of tears assailed her eyes. "Please, I—I beg of you, my l—Brett—let me go! I—I'll just return to—to where I came from. You—you needn't p-pay me. I—oh, just let me go... please!"
Brett watched her eyes fill up with tears as she spoke and almost relented, but then the echo of a refrain he'd heard a thousand times entered his head: Women are duplicitous and evil, bringing no man aught but ill... good for only one thing...
Suddenly Brett's embrace tightened, and he rolled until she was completely beneath him. "Hush!" he ordered, and his eyes bored into hers with a look of command. "This isn't going to hurt you, so be still. You might even come to enjoy it." All the while he spoke, his fingers played with her breasts, lightly stroking them, teasing their tips into hardened peaks. Then his head bent to follow where his fingers had been, his tongue working expertly until she began to writhe beneath him, soft little cries breaking from her throat as she succumbed.
Soon his hands were traveling lower, across the expanse of her soft, flat abdomen, then lower yet, his fingers tangling gently in the raven curls of the dark triangle below.
Ashleigh gave a gasp of surprise as one of them found the wet warmth of the crevice between her thighs, and before she could do more, his mouth closed over hers, and at the very moment his tongue entered her mouth, she felt his finger follow a similar course below. Slowly, and ever so gently, tongue and finger slipped in, then out again, then in, and then his thumb brushed the tiny bud above her opening, and all at once a shock of pleasure assaulted her.
Again, his thumb did its work, and now Ashleigh's entire body responded with a quivering shudder of pure pleasure.
Brett raised his head and recognized the glazed look in her eyes. He made yet one more pass with his thumb, and at her answering moan, he smiled with knowing satisfaction. "Now, my lovely one," he whispered. "Now I'll prove that pain is no longer a part of this for you."
With a quick shifting of his weight, he positioned her beneath him, parted her trembling thighs and thrust into the waiting warmth between.
Ashleigh's mind fled her body, and all that was left was pure sensation. From the throbbing core at the center of this, and where she now felt an incredibly satisfying pressure building, she sensed a spiraling outward, as ring after ring of sweet pleasure pulsed through her. Vaguely she realized the man who possessed her body was moving on it in a steady rhythm, and she had begun to move with him, caught up in the heady throes of it. And all the while a longing was building, growing steadily stronger, robbing her of her senses.
Brett's mouth found hers again and, without even a protest, she found herself accepting the sensual thrusting of his expert tongue, even as her body accepted the demanding thrusts below, and in the next instant, she felt his body tense and then convulse on hers.
Then there was a muted male groan and a final thrust before he released her lips, and all was suddenly still, except for their ragged breathing; she felt him bury his face in her hair, and knew another part of him still lay buried within her. They lay together this way for several long minutes, neither speaking, while their breathing returned to normal.
At last, when he was sure he could speak intelligibly, Brett rolled to one side, pulling her with him in an embrace. "You—you either learn very fast, little one, or you finally remembered what they taught you," he said.
To Ashleigh, who was barely recovering from the shock of this latest experience—not to mention her surprise at how it had differed from the first—his words were like a splash of ice water on her senses. She wrenched herself away from his arms and jerked herself into a sitting position on the bed. "You—you bastard!" she snarled, using a word she'd only heard till now, and had never uttered herself. "How dare you cling to that fabrication—or misconception—or—or whatever it was, that I—that I'm—that I was trained for something like this! I was trained as an academic, I tell you! As a governess! Or, at least, that's what I was hired for. Why won't you believe me?"
Brett watched her blue eyes sparkle in anger and was momentarily captivated. She was, by far, the loveliest creature he'd ever taken to bed, and right now she resembled a small, spitting kitten, caught up as she was, somewhere between sexual arousal and irate femininity. He doubted she even realized the fetching picture she made, either in those moments before, when she'd enticed him beyond telling with her lush, perfect little body, or now, as she sat with her shiny black hair charmingly tangled, her eyes huge and blue, her ripe lips bruised by the passion of his kisses. And suddenly Brett made up his mind as to what he would do about the situation. The girl, whatever her background, was a natural and superb bed-mate. He currently had a mistress in London—Lady Pamela Marlowe—but she was beginning to tire him, and who could be a more perfectly timed replacement than this tempting little piece of baggage? That was it! Of course, she required further training....
With a devilish grin, Brett suddenly hopped off the bed and bent to pick up Ashleigh's discarded shift and traveling dress. He gave the shift a quick glance, eyeing its shredded fabric, and immediately discarded it, but the dress he tossed to her on the bed.
"Dress," he told her. "I'm sorry about the chemise, but don't fret. We'll order you a dozen new ones tomorrow."
Ashleigh looked at him warily as she drew the dress toward her; then, realizing what he'd said, responded angrily. "I have no intention of remaining here long enough to—"
"Dress!" he commanded.
His tone brooked no argument, and so she hastily began to comply, doing her best to clothe herself in the single garment under such awkward circumstances.
When at last she had succeeded in the difficult business (made doubly so by having to do it all under his relenting gaze), she slipped off the bed and bent to retrieve her discarded stockings, garters and slippers from where he'd somehow removed and thrown them earlier.
At last she stood before him totally clothed, and she was about to head for her valise where she knew she'd packed a hairbrush and some extra pins, when she heard him say, "Now remove your clothes."
Thinking she hadn't heard correctly, Ashleigh turned to him with a puzzled look. "I beg your pardon?"
Brett's voice was firm with command as he looked her straight in the eyes. "Strip," he said.
Ashleigh's eyes widened in disbelief. "But, I—you just told me—"
"I know what I told you, my dear," came the response, "but now I am telling you something else. It is time for a broadening of your... education. Strip!"
Ashleigh quaked at the tone in his voice and knew she had no choice but to comply. With shaking fingers and a face gone red with embarrassment, she reached for the fastenings of her dress.
After some time, during which the room remained deadly silent, her dress once again fell to the floor. Without looking at the man next to her, she then dutifully bent to remove her slippers, but a sharp command from Brett stopped her.
"Stop!" he ordered. "We shall leave your slippers and stockings on this time."
Ashleigh straightened, but kept her eyes focused on the floor. She began, automatically, to cross her arms in another vain attempt at covering herself, but once more Brett's voice rang out to forestall her movements.
"No! Leave your arms at your sides. You have a beautiful body, and I would see all of it—unencumbered."
Ashleigh did as she was told, but the act cost her greatly. She felt her cheeks go hot with shame as she stood rigidly facing him.
"That's better," he murmured. "Now go to the bed and lie down."
Oh, God, he's some kind of cruel madman, I just know he is! she thought, but she turned and climbed onto the large bed, even as a pair of silent tears traced their way down her burning cheeks.
"No, not that way," came the strong voice behind her. "On your belly. It's not too soon to learn of a little variety."
Ashleigh detected a note of amusement in his tone, and the thought that her humiliation should so humor him sent a stab of white-hot anger through her. With a furious toss of her curls, she glanced at him over one shoulder and spat a sarcastic retort. "I'm so glad this sport amuses you, my lord!"
A low ripple of laughter met her ears, nothing more, and she had to satisfy herself with a withering glare as her answer. Then she turned on the bed, squirming to place herself in the position he'd demanded, little realizing that each wriggling movement of her small, curving derriere rendered her all the more appealing to the man who watched and waited.
When at last she lay face down in the prone position, Ashleigh felt her tears subside; in their place her anger returned, this time without any attendant words, but in full force. Duke's son, or no, she vowed, some day this man would be made to regret his behavior tonight. Just who did he think he was, anyway, to take her maidenhood from her so? Even the king or prince regent wouldn't treat a young woman of good family this way, she was sure of it. But then the thought came to her that she had no way of proving to him that she was such a one—a baronet's daughter. Why, he hadn't even believed her when she'd told him she was a virtuous servant girl!
But suddenly Ashleigh had no more time to contemplate her anger or the vagaries of Brett's treatment of her, for there was a soft footstep and then the feeling of a man's hands on her body. She sucked in her breath as they ran over her back and buttocks, then gasped as his fingers traced the crevice there before finally finding their way into the opening between her thighs. She moaned then, with humiliated resignation and abject shame, as she felt one strong finger enter her, and momentarily raised herself up on her elbows and tried to pull away.
; "Be still!" he commanded, even as his finger probed deeper.
But Ashleigh's misery was so complete by now, she no longer cared what happened. With a sharp twist of her hips, she wrenched away from the devastating touch of those fingers, only to cry out in pain as his hand came smartly down with a sharp, spanking slap on her buttocks.
"Be still, I said!" he ordered.
Then, just as she was wondering what he would do next, Ashleigh felt the bed sag and the weight of him on her back as he mounted her from behind. She tried to struggle, but only succeeded in pushing her squirming buttocks into a position of utmost vulnerability, and with a gasp of dismay, she felt him drive his shaft into the place he'd already violated.
"Oh!" cried Ashleigh, partly in surprise, mostly in shock, for never, in all her years at Hampton House, had any piece of information slipped down to her that this was a way a man could take a woman.
"Hush!" Brett rasped, even as he gave forth with another hard thrust. Then the thrusts came even harder and faster, and Ashleigh felt herself caught up in the same incredible whirlwind of longing as before. His arms wrapped around her from behind and his hands found her breasts, cupping them while the thrusting rhythm continued. Then Brett's face was buried in the mass of heavy hair at her neck and she felt him tense momentarily before one final assault of his body told her it was over.
Moments passed while the room echoed with Brett's ragged breathing, and then, finally, he rolled to his side, pulling her with him.
"An admirable pupil, my sweet," she thought she heard him whisper, as she was drifting off to sleep, exhausted and ashamed.
CHAPTER SIX
Robert Adams was annoyed. Had he been the kind of man given to excessive emotions, he might even have been said to be furious, but such was not Adams's manner. Nevertheless, it took him a great deal of control to assume the well-modulated voice and external appearance of calm he had always assumed—indeed, prided himself on assuming, when dealing with others—as he stuck his head out the door of his hired carriage to address the driver.
