by Bella Bryce
The Glass House
Waldorf Manor book IV
By
Bella Bryce
©2014 by Blushing Books® and Bella Bryce
All rights reserved.
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Bryce, Bella
The Glass House
Waldorf Manor, Book IV
eBook ISBN: 978-1-62750-4300
Cover Design by Marie MacGregor
This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults. Nothing in this book should be interpreted as Blushing Books' or the author's advocating any non-consensual spanking activity or the spanking of minors.
Table of Contents:
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Glossary of English Expressions
About the Author
Blushing Books Newsletter
Blushing Books
Chapter One
There were empty vodka bottles on the dingy floor as her foot caressed a path toward the light switch. Alice knew exactly how many steps it took to reach it because she'd counted those steps in the dark countless times before. But that night seemed different, it made her uneasy. Alice had never felt as uneasy as when her hand slid along the wall and she couldn't find the switch. She felt herself frown, but because it was pitch black there was no one to commiserate with her discomfort – not that anyone would have. Alice's mother, Sally, was far from being a compassionate or empathetic person and her ever-rotating boyfriends were even less so; they never stuck around long enough to feel anything but arousal and subsequent relief, in any case. They always disappeared after the latter.
Alice exhaled a frustrated and concerned breath as she tentatively pushed her hand further along the wall higher then lower to no avail. The sound of extraneous breathing caused her eyes to widen and search the blackness in front of her frantically.
"Mum?" she asked, worriedly.
The breathing intensified and became more drawn out as if to communicate indifference.
"Mum!" Alice demanded, as her hand abandoned the wall and reached out in front of herself.
She took a hesitant step forward in the direction of the breaths and soon felt a hot, steamy response against her palm. Alice gulped, and her own breath shook as she followed her left foot forward in response to her right. Her fingers found their way to a piece of flesh Alice thought was her mother's nose, but the monster-like breath seemed to translate into the features she felt beneath them. Alice took in a sharp gasp and began to whimper.
"Mum!" as hot tears spilled down her cheeks. "Is that you?"
Alice's other hand investigated the disfigured face-like thing, her fear intensified with each new nook and cranny when she realised the parts were in the wrong place. There was hair where eyes should be, an oversized nose where the mouth belonged, still spewing its steady, fervid exhale. She expected the mouth to have been responsible for such heavy vapours and her mind instantly recognised just how inhuman the thing before her was, whom she knew despite complete lack of proof in the pitch-black darkness. And she knew it was her mother. Perhaps the exhaling from its nose was intended to trick her because from where one cheek should have been, Alice discovered a mouth with jagged teeth. Before her mind took note of the danger, the mouth of vicious and knife-like teeth opened and then snapped closed, slicing down, straight through Alice's fingers.
A high-pitched and unrestrained scream escaped Alice's lips and didn't stop until her body was forced into an unexpected embrace.
"Alice!"
Her eyes bulged open, and she saw a pair of arms surrounding her body. She realised where she was and pulled away.
"Where's my father?" she asked, breathing heavily as tears akin to the ones in her dream began to fill her eyes.
"Alice?" Brayden called, as he strode across the massive, luxurious bedroom. Celia moved away from the bedside as Brayden took her place and pulled Alice into his arms. "Darling, you're shaking," he said, glancing up at Celia before he secured her more tightly against his suit.
She closed her eyes, always finding comfort against his waistcoat and blazer. His cologne drifted into her senses as she continued to inhale deeply. It was definitely a nightmare, and the familiarity of Brayden's touch and smell reminded her it was over. He was never part of her nightmares, only her mother was.
Alice hadn't seen her mother since November - for less than an hour - and prior to that, not since the night she left home to live with Brayden James at Waldorf Manor ten months before. Christmas and New Year had just passed, so if the nightmare was a reaction or realisation from the breakdown in November, Alice thought it was a rather late one. Or perhaps it was timely, considering the beginning of February was approaching and would mark one year since moving to Waldorf and being adopted as Brayden's 'ten-year-old' daughter.
He kissed Alice's forehead and stroked the relaxed ringlets from within her hair ribbon that had come loose over the course of the night. Brayden looked down and was tempted to ask why Celia hadn't French plaited Alice's hair, as it was his preference, but providing comfort to his daughter was by far of greater concern in that moment.
"She was a monster." Alice shoved the words out of her mouth as if, without serious effort, she mightn't speak them. She didn't really want to tell him about it but found herself doing so anyway.
Brayden watched her pull away from his embrace and meet his eyes.
"Her face was all contorted, and she sounded like a dragon," Alice breathed. "I couldn't find the light switch, but it was like she was waiting to frighten me." Alice's eyes emphasised her fear more than her voice did.
Brayden wouldn't have spoken ill of Sally Oliver in front of Alice or to anyone. He had been raised better than that. But his thoughts tempted him to correct Alice by saying, 'I'm not surprised. Your mother is quite a monster.' Brayden was a gentleman, and to remind himself of that, he dismissed the private thoughts which were just as incriminating as any verbal admission. He wanted Alice to learn that speaking ill of others was inappropriate behaviour. No matter who they were or what they'd done. Forgiveness was stronger than hate, and it always won.
"I'm sorry, my darling," Brayden said, pulling her back into an embrace. "I'm sorry you were frightened." He softly kissed her hair and stroked her back. "I'm glad to say it's over now."
Celia watched Brayden, her eyes still a little wider than normal at the idea of Alice being trapped inside of a scary dream only to be pulled out of it by her own terror.
"A bath for Miss Alice, please," Brayden requested quietly, without looking up at his head housekeeper.
"Sir," she replied, just as gently, and vacated the bedside to the luxurio
us en-suite marble bathroom.
Brayden closed his eyes and kissed Alice's head once more. It was inevitable that renewed feelings of anger began to rise, which he once again ignored. He reminded himself that Alice's life prior to Waldorf Manor was broken, abused, and neglected because her mother had been all those things. Sally Oliver hadn't been a whole person for most of her life and didn't know how to give her daughter a secure, disciplined, or loving childhood. Alice had often been left to her own devices and Sally left to hers – which had been alcohol. Sally would bring home a new boyfriend as often as once every week and consumed entire bottles of vodka four times that. The men always stayed longer than the alcohol.
"I will have Wellesley delay breakfast slightly. Celia will see you into the bath and help you dress."
Alice pulled away and looked up at the man she'd come to love as her father, and the only one she'd ever known.
"No." Alice frowned. It was far beyond customary for her to outwardly disagree with Brayden – he had laid out clear and rigid expectations for her behaviour in his household – none of which included disobedience or backchat.
"I don't want her to be the reason our routine changes," Alice clarified, as if her mother might hear the annoyance in her voice and somehow feel remorseful for being the cause of the nightmare or countless painful memories. Even if Sally Oliver had heard, she wouldn't have cared.
"Alice." Brayden's fatherly tone refocused her attention. "The routine of this household is not changing because of her. You had a nightmare, my darling, and I can see you're quite shaken. There is always grace in this household when it's needed."
"I'm fine," she said, wiping her eyes with both hands. "I'm hungry."
Brayden wanted to smile as her implied age reappeared. Alice's eighteen years were meaningless when she'd arrived at Waldorf in February the year before, due to the lack of proper upbringing. Brayden felt the best way to integrate her was both to adopt her as his own, and to regress her age to ten years.
Firstly, Alice originally had no frame of reference for how to behave as an eighteen-year-old under his expectations. She also hadn't understood the mechanics of a healthy upbringing – understandably – which included learning how to obey one's guardians or authority, being accountable for one's actions, receiving correction, and internalising it for the prevention of further misbehaviour. Lastly, that none of those former things were negative or that failure to adhere to such things made her 'bad.' Alice wasn't bad, she just hadn't been taught. So, Brayden removed those expectations from the beginning and promptly told Alice that she would be raised from the point where her behaviour reflected, which was ten years old. Brayden also realised that Alice hadn't needed an adult, platonic disciplinary relationship - such as the one they both understood her to be entering into – she needed a father. His grief for Alice's past and incredible lack of 'fill in the blank here' had moved him to care very deeply, very quickly for her. That was when he decided to adopt her.
Brayden had been raising Alice as his ten-year-old daughter for nearly a year, keenly aware that her chronological, nineteenth birthday was approaching. That made no difference to him. He would move her age up (or down, if required, although he hadn't thus far) when he'd seen appropriate growth, maturity, and trust where it was needed. Admittedly, he dreaded an increase to her age. Brayden loved Alice exactly as she was even when she looked at him with furrowed eyebrows and articulated in a tone that she had no business taking with him.
"Look at me, please, young lady," Brayden said.
Alice reluctantly removed her hands from her face and obeyed.
"Speak to me properly," he requested, in his usual fatherly tone.
"May I please forgo my bath, Sir and descend upon the dining room to digest my eggs benedict with joyful candour? Please? Father dearest?" she asked, her tone returning to the politeness Brayden expected. "I would prefer that more heartily than a bath."
He raised expectant eyebrows, extracting a small sigh from Alice.
"Sorry, Sir," she admitted.
"Thank you. I don't need to remind you what sarcasm earns," he warned, his expectant eyebrows doing all the reminding Alice needed.
"No, Sir."
"Right." He glanced at his watch. It was the one designed by his late parents and given to him the night they were killed, at his 26th birthday ball. "I will let Celia carry on as usual then. Would you like anything before you come down for breakfast? I can have Wellesley bring you something to drink," Brayden said, stroking her loose ringlets.
"May I have orange juice, please?"
"Of course," he replied, then stood up from her bedside and pressed the discrete button surrounded by a brass plate near the exquisite king-sized, four-poster bed. One press of the button from Alice's bedroom meant orange juice, two meant a tea tray, and three meant Wellesley reported to her bedroom to find out what she wanted. The chefs, who never left the kitchens, relayed the message after starting the kettle or preparing a tray, which Wellesley finished, then delivered. Each bedroom had a different bell system for ordering from the kitchens and Brayden's was one press for tea, two for cappuccino, and three for Wellesley.
"I'll put your dress for today behind the changing screen and see you in the dining room spot on time, then." Brayden kissed her forehead.
"Yes, Father."
He stroked Alice's cheek for a moment before crossing the spacious room to recall the bath.
Alice exhaled as she flopped back down onto the layers of luxurious bedding and stared up at the canopy above her head. She listened to the sound of Brayden politely informing the head housekeeper that his daughter would no longer require a bath and that he would choose her dress for the day and hang it behind the changing screen. The respectful and very typical response to Brayden by everyone who wasn't his equal, 'yes, Sir,' was genuine as Celia turned the water off. Alice listened to his sturdy, expensive shoes walking confidently out of the marbled floor en-suite bathroom several hundred feet on the opposite side of the room then crossing diagonally toward Alice lying on the bed before veering to the left and the beautiful four-door wardrobe situated between two massive windows.
He opened two doors at one time. Every single dress, blouse and skirt was made to measure and to particular design specifications; meaning they had to be prim, charmingly juvenile, (without being infantile) and inspired by vintage. Alice's wardrobe consisted mainly of sailor dresses, box pleat pinafores, Peter Pan and scallop-collared blouses, pleated skirts, kilts, tights, knee socks, ribbons and patent shoes in pastel and primary colours that would make any preppy girl drool, and then some. Alice always looked like a child model out of a vintage catalogue and carried off the look with incredible confidence, considering for eighteen years she'd dressed as society expected her to; copy her peers and the runway. At least, that was the fashion for English teenagers most of the time. The stores always sold runway knockoffs, and once out of school uniform, that's exactly where the girls turned for their inspiration.
Brayden was of a very different mind-set when it came to wardrobe compared to anyone outside of his social circle; he dressed every day in three piece suits of varying colour and design, embracing the sophisticated prints of stripes, crests and discrete dots as were prevalent amongst young millionaires (and a select crowd of discerning twenty to sixty-year-old working-class men). He had an entire wardrobe of shoes ranging from brogues, boots and loafers to classic shiny black and two-toned Oxfords, amongst an impressive selection of braces, belts, ties and pocket squares, so it was no question when Alice moved to Waldorf that she would have anything less in her own wardrobe. It also meant that his butler, domestic staff, and guards in the brick building at the end of the half-mile gravel drive also looked their best and wore a very smart gender-appropriate uniform every day.
"Celia will choose your tights and shoes."
"Can't I wear knee socks?" Alice asked through the pillow she'd placed over her face. She loved feeling the cold side of her 1,000 thread count Egyptian cotton pi
llowcases. They always felt divine, just to tempt her further back into its comfort.
"No," Brayden replied, his eyes scanning the meticulously ordered display of clothes for the precise dress he wanted to put her in. "It's still winter, and regardless of the countless number of fireplaces in this house, Alice, I won't have you catching cold. Your bare knees need to be covered up until spring," he said, as he turned around with a satin hanger and a navy blue and white two-piece woollen sailor dress with red necktie.
"Be a good girl and sit up, please. Wellesley will be here in a minute with your tray," Brayden said, as he walked across the large room and disappeared behind the extravagant twelve-foot high, six-foot long Victorian changing screen.
Below a set of intricate brass hooks on the wall was a diagonally positioned Louis XV chair where Alice either perched or was ushered, depending on how much dawdling Celia caught her doing in the mornings. Alice always had Celia's help doing up unreachable buttons and zips in the morning, and very often if Alice fussed about too much, Celia would hurry her to the chair behind the screen and kneel down to get the girl's knee socks or tights started. Having fully embraced her ten-year-old state from the beginning coupled with the attitude of 'I hate mornings', Alice never rejected the head housekeeper's sometimes rather motherly assistance.
Alice was responsible for getting downstairs to the dining room and into her chair at the table, on time. Meals were at set times, three times per day, and Celia had a job to do in ushering the girl out of the bedroom, properly dressed, groomed and tidy.
Waldorf's chefs cooked gourmet, multi-course menus for every meal. His butler and other staff were expected to serve and wait at table at coordinating times, so a handful of staff were effected when meals were delayed or changed. Brayden taught Alice to respect their domestic staff's schedules as they were paid for much more than serving meals and their own routines didn't allow for lateness. Celia also knew that if Alice was late, she would expect to hear from Brayden on the matter as she was also responsible for curling Alice's hair and tying in the hair ribbons before she left for breakfast in the morning, then tidying Alice up again before dinner in the evenings.
