Rival Desires
(Properly Spanked Legacy, Book One)
Annabel Joseph
Copyright 2019 Annabel Joseph
Smashwords Edition
* * * * *
Smashwords License Notes
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All romantically involved characters depicted in this work of fiction are 18 years of age or older.
Table of Contents
A Guide to the Properly Spanked Families
Chapter One: A Fire
Chapter Two: A Nightmare
Chapter Three: Morning’s Light
Chapter Four: Necessary Arrangements
Chapter Five: For Better or Worse
Chapter Six: Starting Tonight
Chapter Seven: Another Lesson
Chapter Eight: A Honeyed Moon
Chapter Nine: Afraid
Chapter Ten: Erotic Punishment
Chapter Eleven: Visitors
Chapter Twelve: Trying to Understand
Chapter Thirteen: Doomed
Chapter Fourteen: The Armory
Chapter Fifteen: Not So Afraid
Chapter Sixteen: Kidnapped
Chapter Seventeen: Rescued
Chapter Eighteen: In Love
A Final Note
Properly Spanked: The First Series
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About the Author
A Guide to the Properly Spanked Families
(and the characters you’ll meet in this new series)
The Marquess of Wescott
(the hero of this book)
eldest son of
The Duke and Duchess of Arlington,
aka Arlington and Gwen from
Under A Duke’s Hand
He is commonly called Wescott due to his title, although he is also known by his Christian name, John (or more usually Jack).
His two youngest sisters, Hazel and Elizabeth, appear in this book.
The Earl of Augustine
eldest son of
The Marquess and Marchioness of Barrymore
aka, Minette and Augustine from
My Naughty Minette
Now that the previous Lord Augustine has inherited his father’s title of Barrymore, his oldest son now bears the name and title of Augustine. His Christian name, Julian, is rarely used.
Viscount Marlow
eldest son of
The Earl and Countess of Warren
aka Warren and Josephine from
To Tame A Countess
His given name is George, but he goes by Marlow due to his inherited title.
The Marquess of Townsend
eldest son of
The Duke and Duchess of Lockridge
aka Hunter and Aurelia from
Training Lady Townsend
Now that Hunter has inherited his father’s dukedom of Lockridge, his oldest son now bears the name and title of Townsend. His Christian name, Edward, hasn’t been used since childhood.
Townsend’s sister Rosalind is close friends with Wescott’s sisters Hazel and Elizabeth.
Chapter One: A Fire
London, 1822
The Marquess of Wescott leaned away before his victim’s fuchsia-pink slipper could connect with his forehead. It caught the edge of his gold-blond hair instead, which had long since straggled free of its velvet tie.
“Don’t be naughty, Ellie,” he scolded, delivering a few more spanks to the quivering backside balanced upon his lap. “If you can’t behave yourself, I’ll have to tie you up.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t be so cruel, sir,” she cooed, twisting herself upright until she managed to straddle his thighs. She tugged one of his wavy locks, not at all intimidated by his stare.
“I think we both know I can be considerably crueler.” He taunted the buxom courtesan with a hard twist of her nipples, reveling in her pain-filled moan.
Across the room, his friend Viscount Marlow tightened his fingers in Berta’s hair, urging her to take his cock deeper in her humming throat. She wiggled her ample arse while she serviced him, showing off the cane welts he’d made minutes earlier.
“If only Lord Townsend was here, my sweet,” he said, thrusting between her lips. “He’d have been pleased to add a few more stripes to your bottom while you suck me off.”
“Ooh.” She paused long enough to simper with theatrical alarm. “He’d bugger me too, wouldn’t he, milord? Right up my sore arse, hard and rough like?”
“You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” Marlow pushed back his riotous, white-blond hair and favored her with a grin. “And Towns would love to do it. Too bad he’s off pining over someone.”
“Pining over who? Some society lady?” Ellie sniffed. “Such a faithless customer. He hasn’t been here in weeks.”
“Tedious, to be in love, and miss out on such glorious perversions,” said Wescott, arranging Ellie back over his lap.
“More tedious still to be in love with someone he can’t tell us about,” said August from the silk-draped bed. The dark-haired man was more formally known as the Earl of Augustine, but he didn’t look very formal now as he stroked his rigid cock, waiting his turn. “I bet he’s burning for Lady Pissy Pot.”
“Good God, not her.” Wescott spanked Ellie’s cheeks for emphasis, then pointed at his friend. “And it’s Lady Priscilla Pott to you, you perverse bull calf. She’s got money and class, even if she hasn’t the best temper. You wish you had half a chance at courting her.”
“I wish no such thing. Unlike you, I don’t have anyone on the hook, and I prefer it that way.”
Wescott rolled his eyes. Everyone in the ton knew he was all but betrothed to the beautiful Lady June, not that he wished to think about that now, with a famously lewd courtesan draped across his lap.
“If you ask me, Miss Priss would be perfect for Towns, with his love of proprieties,” said Marlow. “As for me, all I want is right here.” He fondled Berta’s full, round arse, then bent her over a chair for more caning. The lass danced and whined at each stroke, but also arched her back with the grace of a quality professional.
No, talk of engagements and marriages didn’t belong in high-class brothels like Pearl’s Erotic Emporium, where duties fell away and fantasy reigned. Townsend’s secret sweetheart might cut into his randy activities, breaking up their foursome for a while, but there was still plenty of fun to be had. Wescott sent Ellie over to tend to August’s waiting erection and settled in to watch Marlow flick a cane against Berta’s reddening arse. Why did he enjoy the frantic struggling and crying of women? Why did he enjoy punishing them, and watching them go wild?
And what would happen once he won the hand of Lady June, and settled down into a society marriage? All his life, women had thrown themselves at him with lusty abandon, earning him a reputation as a rake. His handsome features, combined with his bold height and stature, had been more a curse than blessing. His parents, the Duke and Duchess of Arlington, hoped a marriage would improve his reputation, but life would be dull without forays to the brothel.
At Marlow’s invitation, Wescott gave Berta a few stripes of his own, flicking the cane mercilessly against her already tender cheeks. She gave a tormented squeal at each stroke, her feigned agony rousing him to full staff for the third time that night.
“Go on and take her cu
nny, you horny bastard,” Marlow offered. “I’ll have her mouth.”
Wescott shoved into the courtesan’s soaked quim, fucking her steadily enough that she could still fellate his friend, but firmly enough to elicit some ball-tightening groans. Meanwhile, August alternated between spanking and diddling Ellie on the bed, until her giggles and cries rose to moans of ecstasy.
Suddenly, a gruff male voice interrupted them, and a fist pounded on the door. Charlie, one of the house bruisers from downstairs, shouldered it open and entered, gasping for breath.
“There’s a fire coming this way, milords, a terr’ble fire burning up Parker’s Lane,” he cried. “We’re getting everyone out, right now. Berta, Ellie, put on clothes and run for yer lives, quick like. Take yer money and yer coats!”
Wescott helped Berta to her feet while Marlow ran to the window. The women scrambled to grab gowns, perfume, and baubles, the pleasing erotic tableau of moments ago exploded into panicked activity.
“Don’t stop to collect things,” scolded Charlie. “Gents, you must go too, with the clothes on your back.” He waved the women out as August fumbled to button his shirt and Marlow did up his trousers.
“Leave your damn cravat,” Wescott shouted to August. “We’ve got to get away, get to the coach.”
They herded frightened, half-dressed harlots as they went, and avoided the eyes of their fellow customers, lords, and some ladies, who’d come to Pearl’s for a pleasurable night. When they made it down the stairs and through the door into the open air, a flood of people had already filled the streets, fleeing surrounding buildings. The dry, warm fall had primed London for a spark to catch flame. Smoke poured toward them, advancing like a wall.
“Such a fire,” a rasping man croaked beside them, “and the wind’s blowin’ toward Drury Lane.”
“We’ll take the horses,” Wescott said, his senses sharpened despite the smoke in his eyes.
August covered his mouth with his shirtsleeve, his words muffled. They’d left their tailored coats and waistcoats behind. “It’s spreading south,” he said. “No way to go home.”
“Getting away will be enough.” Wescott wove between panicked groups, pulling his friends to the side lane where his coach-and-four waited. His groom stood near the shifting horses, watching anxiously in the direction of Pearl’s.
“Release the horses,” Wescott shouted as they arrived. “We must get away quickly.”
The groom untethered the beasts with dexterous speed, aided by Wescott and his friends. They were finely trained stallions, standing still for the men to swing onto their backs, even amid the crowds and threatening flames. The groom paused at the last horse and shouted to Wescott. “I’ll take the reins now, my lord, and try to roll the coach home.”
“Nonsense. Ride the horse and leave the coach to burn.”
“But my lord—” He coughed through billowing smoke.
“You’ll never get the coach through the crowds, damn it. I can buy another. Go, and I’ll meet you at the house.”
The fire brigade clattered past, their massive carriages parting the crowds as they made their way back toward the flame and smoke. Men labored over pumps and levers, many of them half dressed and half asleep. Wescott’s friends were already away.
“Go on, then,” he yelled at his groom, and to his relief, the man obeyed, freeing the lead horse and riding him bareback through a break in the crowd.
Wescott patted his stallion’s mane, taking care to give the animal clear signals as he navigated the chaos. The fire advanced at a terrifying pace, so he was forced to turn east as another engine arrived with groaning cisterns of water. He urged his mount in the direction of Broad Street, leaving the straighter path of escape to those on foot, but the fire followed, crackling and hissing in the dry night air.
“The theaters,” a gentleman bellowed in the middle of the exodus. “If the brigade can’t stop the fires, they’ll burn.”
Indeed, the evening’s opera would just be ending at this hour. As Wescott came to Exeter Square, the crowds ballooned as London’s upper crust poured from the theaters’ ornate doorways into soot-filled roads. Many carriages had gotten away to rattle down the street, but others were abandoned by their owners, left to burn. He spared a thought for his luxurious coach, with its custom interior and painted doors. This very moment, the silk-paneled walls might be melting under the flames.
He patted his horse’s neck to calm him, keeping a firm, easy grip with his thighs. He’d learned to ride bareback on the wild Welsh moors of his mother’s childhood manor. He wished he were there now, in the open, fresh air, rather than this flame-choked corner of the city. People fled en masse, peers and commoners alike, their mouths covered and heads bowed against the smoke. Ladies pressed their pristine gloves to coughing lips, running, however unladylike, across crowded streets to cleaner air. The menfolk guided them, urging them forward when they wilted. This was no time to fall out in a swoon.
Amidst the clamor of exodus, Wescott noticed a woman cowering against one of the theater’s grand columns, as if she might find shelter there. She was a performer, perhaps an operatic actress, considering her bright, Italianate costume and hip-length black curly wig. She coughed, clutching at her clumsy skirts, looking about for rescue, but everyone around her had already fled. Behind him, he could hear the advancing crackle of fire and the shouts of the brigade. They were chasing the flames, which were still heading this way.
“Come with me,” he said, leaning down to offer his arm.
“I can’t,” she sobbed. “A driver is coming for me.”
“He won’t make it. He’s likely stuck somewhere.”
The poor, frantic actress was garishly made up. On closer perusal, he could see blonde wisps escaping the bounds of her heavy black wig. Her tears smudged the theatrical kohl lining around her eyes, lending her an otherworldly look.
“I don’t know where to go,” she said. “I was to meet the carriage here, by the stage door.”
“You can’t wait for it. The fire’s just behind me, and they haven’t yet got it in check.”
She stared at him, frightened to numbness. He imagined he looked less than trustworthy, with no coat or hat, and his clothes disarranged. His horse started to dance, so Wescott braced himself and leaned farther, and pulled the woman up, depositing her in his lap, gown, wig, and all. She clutched at his shoulders, then at her wig as he galloped across the now empty square toward Parker’s Lane. Once he arrived there, he found the fire had circled around, cutting off his path to the north. He turned south again, cursing beneath his breath. Whoever’d begun this damn fire was causing a terrible lot of destruction.
“I c-can’t br-breathe,” the woman cried, choking on the words.
“Turn your face into my chest,” he said. “Cover your mouth and nose with that hair if you must.”
He covered his face too, drawing his collar higher against the smoke and ash in the air. She mumbled something else about her carriage, but he couldn’t help her locate it now. He had to find somewhere the two of them could breathe, and where his faltering horse could take water and rest. He turned east when he was able, praying the flames would die down, and the fire extinguish itself in the Thames before it made its way to Charles Street.
“How are you doing?” he asked the woman.
She didn’t respond, but he could feel her breathing in and out against his chest. He held her with one arm, guiding the horse with the other, disregarding propriety in service of keeping her safe. Her long performer’s wig covered her back like a cloak, and reminded him she wasn’t precisely a lady, so propriety needn’t be foremost in his mind. Still, he was a gentleman, a peer of the realm. He wouldn’t take advantage of an actress in a desperate situation.
She lifted her face and tried to speak, her voice catching.
“What?” he asked.
“There’s so much smoke. Where are we going?”
“Hold on to me, miss. I won’t let you come to harm.”
He ro
de with his trembling, sniffling passenger for half an hour, urging his mount eastward, until the ringing bells and shouts of the fire brigade faded and they found calmer, cleaner night air. His horse rallied, and the actress didn’t cough as spasmodically as she had, but he didn’t know where he was, or where he should go. He only knew he couldn’t turn homeward, not with the fire still burning, covering the streets in smoke.
“Hell and the devil,” he said, pausing at a trough outside a quiet pub to water his horse.
The woman stirred against him, roused by clearer air.
“Pardon my language,” he said as she peeked up at him. “I believe we’re out of danger. How are you faring, miss?”
In answer, she burst into tears. He stared down at his half-buttoned shirt—of excellent quality—now ruined by the smeared stage paint she wore. Despite the paint, he could see she had a pretty face, with wide eyes and elegant cheekbones, and full, appealing lips. He also could not fail to notice she possessed particularly alluring curves. She must have found it easy to make the stage with such accoutrements, and wondered how many admirers she had. Perhaps, like many actresses, she had a gentleman sponsor who spoiled and kept her. The thought displeased him as soon as it crossed his mind.
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