The Officer's Little Rebel

by Ava Sinclair

For the rest of the day, Imogen’s only company was the maid who brought her lunch. Her solitude gave her plenty of time to think about all that had happened.

  The handsome Major Kingsley was making sport of her, she decided. He was toying with her by showing her tenderness and then turning stern or cold. She was sure now that his intention was to keep her unbalanced. Why else would he coax from her the details of her painful childhood and then rebuke her for asking about his life? Why else would he insist her past be laid bare to him while he remained a stranger?

  His decision to keep her as a child was no longer a puzzle. It was not for her protection, as he’d claimed, but for his. Major Kingsley wanted to do the noble thing while not being affected by her lowly social status. He was a great man of society, and she the stepdaughter of a drunken innkeeper. She wasn’t fit to be a proper wife; by keeping her tucked away as a child, she’d be neither seen nor heard.

  Their marriage would be a sham, and she just his plaything. It angered her, but to her horror, it also excited her. Imogen flushed as she recalled how her body responded to his touch, to his dominance—even to the dominance of Miss Quinn. Something about having her will stripped away, about being controlled, ignited a fire she could not ignore. But she now realized those urgings weakened her against a man who sought to confine her for his own selfish needs.

  She started as the door opened, the arrival of the nanny interrupting her thoughts. Miss Quinn was wearing a cape and a bonnet, both of which she removed as she directed the two servants trailing her to stack the boxes they were carrying by the wardrobe.

  “You’ll have proper clothes now, thanks to the town shops. It’s a good thing you’re so small; I was able to choose girl’s dresses that can be easily altered into frocks fitting for an even younger child. Mrs. Philbert says at least two of the maids are handy with a needle and thread; the bows and ribbons I’ve purchased are bound to adapt any dress to one that pleases Major Kingsley.”

  “Is he to wear them then?” The sharp-tongued question was out of Imogen’s mouth before she could stop it.

  “That is impudence!” The warning in the nanny’s voice was unmistakable. “He is your papa, and instructed me to spare no expense in the purchase of clothing for you.” Miss Quinn sniffed disapprovingly. “I can only imagine what filthy rags you were wearing when he found you. You should be grateful.”

  There it was again, Imogen thought—the haughty disdain for her class, for her. She wanted to tell the nanny that while she’d never owned fine clothes, what she’d worn had always been clean and respectable.

  “I have spoken to your papa.” Nanny was continuing on as she pulled a cream-colored dress with a light pink sash from one of the boxes. “We’ve agreed to a list of rules for you whilst you are in the nursery.

  “For starters, you will stay in bed each morning until someone comes for you. You’ll be dressed in what is selected for you. Your papa asked that I post an ad for a tutor, and I have done just that. Lessons will commence after breakfast. I assume you do not know how to read or write.” She arched a brow at Imogen, who shook her head in embarrassment.

  “Well, of course not,” the nanny continued briskly. “Your papa believes both playtime and proper maintenance are essential to your emotional and physical health, and lacking in your prior life. To that end, your nursery quarters, once finished, will include a variety of lovely books and toys, and you will be given time to indulge your fancy both in and out of doors. Playtime will commence each day after lessons, unless the tutor gives a bad report. Should that happen, you will be soundly spanked and put to bed while it is still light out.”

  Imogen found herself reeling from the words. A life of complete leisure with an opportunity to learn was something she’d never imagined for herself; however, the weight of her minder’s oversight seemed oppressive to a young woman who’d been largely left to her own devices.

  “You’ve revealed yourself to have a fretful nature,” the nanny continued. “This will be remedied by weekly internal cleansings.” She paused. “Have you ever had a cleansing? Oh, of course you haven’t, but you will soon enough.”

  Imogen started to ask her to explain, but before she could, the nanny had moved on.

  “You will be bathed daily, and kept denuded of hair as a little girl should. You will be expected to comport yourself as a good little girl, even though you are physically an adult. Your pleasure will be to your papa, as he intends to marry you. He will see to your carnal education. Any questions you have about urges should be put to him, and you will not touch yourself to alleviate these urges without his permission.”

  Imogen had never even considered touching herself, but with Miss Quinn’s words came a powerful epiphany. Her desire for Major Kingsley made her weak to him. If she could alleviate the throbbing need herself…

  “Poppycock!” she cried, standing. “I was given no choice but to come here and live this life. Your fancy man may control my days, but he will not control my nights alone, and certainly not my body, you horrid old witch! I’ll touch myself if I want!”

  “Oh, will you now?” Miss Quinn put down the dresses and walked slowly toward Imogen, who found herself regretting the words when the tall woman was looming over her. “Give me your hand, Imogen.”

  Imogen’s heart began to pound.

  “Why?”

  “Because I’ve said so, and if you do not, I will put you over my knee, raise your gown, and spank your bottom until it is cherry red and burning like that fire in the grate. Do you doubt me?”

  Imogen swallowed nervously. She was so very small, and the nanny was so large and strong. The notion of having her bottom bared and spanked by this woman was terrifying. Reluctantly, she placed her hand in Miss Quinn’s larger one. The nanny held it tightly, turning it palm up as she reached with her other hand into the roomy pocket of her apron.

  Imogen had barely a second to register what was about to happen before the ruler Miss Quinn held cracked across the inside of her hand.

  “Owwww!” She tried to pull her hand away but was unable to wrest it from the nanny’s grip. The ruler fell a second, third, and a fourth time until poor Imogen’s palm stung fiercely, and hot tears were coursing down her cheeks.

  Miss Quinn released her then and Imogen clutched one injured hand to her chest with the other as she looked at the nanny in disbelief.

  “So,” the older woman said quietly. “Will you be touching yourself now?”

  “No, ma’am,” Imogen tearfully replied.

  “Good.” The nanny took Imogen by her shoulders and turned her toward the bed. “I was going to dress you in your nice things, but given how naughty you just were, instead, I’m going to confine you to your bed for a nap. That’s the best thing for fractious little girls.” The nanny helped Imogen into the bed and tucked her in. “When I return, I fully expect you to be more cooperative. Is that clear?”

  Imogen nodded, watching through tear-stung eyes until the older woman had left the room. She heard the lock click, and knew she’d been shut in. Anger and resentment rose like a hot spring in her chest.

  Imogen stared at the door as she played Miss Quinn’s words over in her mind. Any questions you have about urges should be put to him, and you will not touch yourself to alleviate these urges without his permission.

  She thought of Major Kingsley. He was probably downstairs, poring over his accounts—a rich man home from the war intent on getting richer. And here she was, locked away in this room, his dirty little secret, ordered to remain unfulfilled until such time as he would lay his entitled hands on her.

  The thought of those hands had her pussy throbbing now, and that she should want him even now angered her even more. But if she could not control her desire for the man who controlled her, she could still defy him—she could defy them all. Staring angrily at the ceiling, Imogen pushed her punished hand between her legs. The heated palm pressed against the soft shaved mound of her pussy and she pushed, feeling the slickness of her arousal against the
welts left by nanny’s ruler. That she’d been punished like a naughty child excited her more for reasons she could not understand; Imogen only knew that the throbbing was more intense now, and she allowed her fingers to dip into the slit to stroke the inner folds, moaning quietly as she did so.

  She felt her hips move up toward her hand; it was as if her body knew where it needed to be touched, and she found her fingers positioned at the top of her cleft, where a triangle of slick skin covered a hard, sensitive kernel of flesh that seemed to be the epicenter of her tortured longing. Imogen closed her eyes, giving her mind free rein to run where it wanted. As her fingers stroked, her imaginings became fragmented before coming together in one cohesive fantasy. Major Kingsley, holding her tight. Major Kingsley, telling her to call him ‘papa.’ Major Kingsley, holding her over his knee, his one arm so tight around her waist as the other spanked her helpless, upturned bottom. Major Kingsley, gripping her hips as he shoved his cock into her, claiming her, owning her, oh!

  It was like starbursts behind her eyelids as waves of pleasure rippled outward from the throbbing bud her fingers pressed. She felt wetness flood the injured palm of her hand and she cried out, loudly, and then again as her thighs tightened along with the walls of her clenching pussy, leaving her panting in the afterglow of pleasure.

  It was just as Imogen opened her eyes that she heard the noise. The breath died in her throat as she eyed the door, frozen in fear. She could see the shadow just outside; someone was standing there. She couldn’t move, couldn’t make a sound. Whoever it was turned away. She could hear the footfalls on the runner, fading as they got further away.

  A servant likely, she thought, falling back on the bed. If the door had opened, she’d have told them it was a bad dream. Imogen smiled in the dark. It was not a bad dream she’d had, but a sweet reality, and a bit of a victory. No man would own her pleasure, not even one she desired.

  Chapter Seven: Soothing His Rebel

  There would be a reckoning for her disobedience. Royce would see to that. There would be consequences for the pleasure she’d defiantly taken as he stood just outside her door. He would teach her that he was not a man to be trifled with. He would correct her, and soundly.

  But not yet.

  At the moment, there was something more pressing on his mind. Royce stared at the letter in his hand, his face grim as he read it a second time. There was no kindness in his brother’s tone, no expressions of delight for Royce’s homecoming. William’s tone was—as always—arrogant and demanding. He was entitled to a portion of the estate, he said. His past indiscretions were just that, in the past, and he, William Kingsley, would not sit by and be judged by a man who killed for the crown. The holdings Royce had inherited were more than sufficient for both brothers to live comfortably, and William expected his younger sibling to share what their father had left behind. He was in need of money. He expected Royce to do the right thing and correct the wrong that had been perpetrated on the rightful heir of Stonehaven.

  “Title and lands,” William had written in shaky script of a man who was either drunk, angry, or both. “That is what I demand, and I will not give up. Give them to me. I am staying at the Crimson Stag Inn on the east side of London. I await your reply.”

  “You look vexed.” Mr. Plum had walked over with a tray and was putting it on the little table by Royce’s desk. “Might I presume the letter is from a prodigal member of this household?”

  “You know me too well, old boy,” Royce said, holding up the letter. “William has gone from demanding a living from the estate to demanding he be reinstated as full heir. He’s still angry with father, but my brother was never a moral man, even before he refused to do what was required to inherit.” He handed the letter to the butler. “Now he even equates my service in Africa with his particular sins.”

  “Balderdash.” The butler’s face grew red as he scanned the letter. “Your brother knows better, sir, and so do you.”

  “Of course I do,” Royce said. “I went where I was told to go, did what I had to do for service, for the love of England. William only serves himself. When I think of what he did to that girl…” He sat back in his chair, his fingers curled over his lips.

  “It was unfortunate, sir.”

  “Mr. Plum, unfortunate would have been a broken engagement on honorable grounds. My brother impregnated an innocent young woman and then abandoned her when he discovered her family’s fortune had dried up. She was such a fragile thing; he had to know how it would end.” He shook his head. “Marilyn Jennings’ blood will always be on his hands, and I will not lift up any man who does such a thing, not even a relation.”

  “That is because you value honor, sir. Look at what you’ve done for that young lady upstairs. It was the kindest form of charity to take her in at all.”

  “It’s not just charity, Mr. Plum,” Royce said. “Imogen is no different than a noblewoman. She has the same heart, the same spirit. She cannot be faulted for the circumstances of her birth. I saw past that the moment I realized the mistake I’d made with her, and recognized her as the kind of woman I could care for…” He looked up at the butler. “Just as father cared for mother.”

  Mr. Plum smiled. “So you knew?”

  “Oh, yes,” Royce chuckled, “although I don’t think I sussed it completely until I was older. The governess raised us. Mother was so small and pretty that when I was very little and saw my father’s way with her, I thought she was my sister. Father doted on her, and she called him papa. Only later did I realize the true nature of their relationship. As an adult, I decided I wanted what they had. Part of me believes my finding Imogen was a bit of serendipity.”

  “Provided you can settle her,” Mr. Plum said. “She has a spirit to her, that one.”

  “She does,” Royce agreed, “And that’s all the more reason to keep the likes of William as far from here as possible. He exemplifies what Imogen has come to loathe in men. He’s a cad, a drunk, and a gambler. I never want her to cross his path.”

  “That is wise, sir,” Mr. Plum said. “William is a most unsavory influence, and no longer your responsibility. He has cast his lot in life; it is not your responsibility to give him what he has not rightfully earned.”

  “Just so, and I’ll write him to that end,” Royce said, taking up his quill. “Thank you, Mr. Plum. I can always count on you for an ear.”

  “Very good, sir,” the older man said.

  Despite his disdain for his brother, it brought Royce no satisfaction to pen a reply to William denying him a dime.

  “Your defiance of our father can almost be excused,” he wrote. “Your treatment of Marilyn Jennings cannot. That you refused to face her family after her suicide only proves you more of a coward than your refusal to serve the crown ever did. You do not deserve your name, let alone a title. The answer is ‘no,’ William, and I say this with regret, for you have shamed us all by your actions and I will have nothing further to say to you.”

  Royce stared at the letter until the ink was dry, and then sealed and addressed it before handing it to a servant to drop in the post. He stood then, straightening his jacket. He’d been firm with his brother, now he would have to exercise firmness with his little Imogen.

  Nanny Quinn had told him what had happened in the room, and how she’d corrected the girl. Royce had been going to speak with her earlier when he’d heard the telltale signs of her passionate cries from behind the door. He’d started to go in, but had decided against it. For the girl to be so blatantly defiant suggested something deeper than just a strong will. He intended to get to the bottom of the problem, but not in a hasty manner that would alienate her.

  As he mounted the stairs, he was certain of what he would have to do. Halfway down the hall, he stopped by her door and rapped. When she didn’t answer, he removed the key he’d gotten from Miss Quinn and opened it. He was surprised to find Imogen still obediently in bed.

  “I’d have thought to find my little one up and running about,” he said.


  She had her back to him. “It wouldn’t do me much good to get up,” she said. “The minder you hired locked the door.” Now she did turn to face him. “Tell me, Major Kingsley, for I’m ignorant of the ways of fine people. Is it common practice to lock your children in their rooms?”

  The bitterness in her tone was unmistakable.

  “You’re angry,” he said.

  “Of course I’m bloody angry.” She started to turn her back to him again, but he reached out, grasping her gently but firmly enough to hold her on her back.

  “Nanny told me what happened,” he said. “She said she gave you a list of rules. Did you obey?”

  “Am I still in bed?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he replied, and then reached for her hand, which she immediately curled into a fist. He pried it open, staring down at the fading stripes left by the nanny’s ruler. Raising the hand to his mouth, he kissed the welts, then inhaled deeply, savoring the musky scent left on her palm. Running his tongue across one welt, he tasted the salty remnants of her dried arousal.

  “You stayed in bed, but you touched yourself.”

  She jerked her hand away so violently it took him by surprise. Pushing back, she sat up against the headboard, glaring.

  “Be honest with me, and with yourself,” she said. “You don’t want a wife. You don’t want a companion. You want a slave. And you think you can treat me as one because of… what is it you grand people say, my ‘station’?” Imogen shook her head, scoffing. “My stepfather was right. You think we are rubbish to be ground beneath your expensive boots.”

  He stared at her for a moment, stunned. “Imogen,” he said. “You could not be more wrong.”

  “Oh, really?” she asked. “Is that not why you keep me locked away, separate and apart? Is that not why Miss Quinn reminds me at every turn that I am lesser than you? She assumes me dirty, told me the fine clothes would be a change from the ‘filthy rags’ I wore when you found me.” Tears sprang to her eyes. “Was I wearing filthy rags when we met, Major Kingsley? Was I?” She raised her voice on the last question, and he realized now how she’d misinterpreted things, and how wounded he’d left her.