Punishing Miss Primrose Pt. 01

She raised a brow. "At all times?"

"Yes."

"Including the...when we..."

This time he looked at her. "Yes."

Her mouth dropped. This was not what she would have expected from a man who wanted to submit himself to a Mistress.

"And without fail, Miss Primrose."

She racked her brain to recall what Mistress Scarlet might have said about unorthodox behavior from a submissive. Mistress Scarlet had said that sometimes a submissive might deliberately misbehave in order to merit punishment. A brat, Mistress Scarlet had called them.

Feeling the need to assert her role, Beatrice said, "That does not suit me. If you will not provide a more appropriate name, you may remain nameless."

He stared at her as if he meant to pin her to her chair. "What did you prefer with Mr. Edelton?"

"My pet."

It was a term Mistress Scarlet often used with her partners.

"That, most assuredly, would not suit me," he said, glowering.

It was her turn to frown. It was not his position to set the terms. She decided not to pursue the matter. She required no name for him.

"If you are experiencing reservations or are reconsidering our arrangement," she said after a sorbet with sweetmeats was set before her, "do not worry of offending me, but know that your initial payment is forfeit."

She knew she risked upsetting him—and by the darkening of his eyes, she surmised she had—but she did not want him to entertain the belief that he could expect a return of his money.

"Our arrangement stands, Miss Primrose, but the second half of the payment is contingent upon your satisfactory completion."

"Were you able to convey my, er, implements from the Inn?"

"I have all that is required."

She met his gaze across the table. There was a hardness in his features that unsettled her, but he turned his attention to his dessert before she could examine it further.

"This is a delightful sorbet," she said to lighten the mood. "As good as any found at Gunter's."

His hand tightened about the spoon he held. He set it down and tossed his napkin upon the table but waited patiently for her to finish. She wondered what she had said to vex him.

"You may wait in your chamber until further notice," he said when she had finished her sorbet.

His command took her by surprise, but she obliged and headed back to her room. She could not help but feel disappointed. He had paid a good sum for her favors, yet behaved as if he wanted none of her company. Perhaps she had been too accustomed to the doting attentions of Nicholas. Or perhaps his lordship no longer found her appealing—an unusual circumstance for she had never before failed to garner a look of appreciation from the opposite sex. No doubt it was too much to expect that a man endowed with countenance, wealth, and peerage might also be in possession of charm and wit.

*****

Spencer paced the anteroom of his chambers before heading to the sideboard to pour himself a brandy.

My pet.

He shivered in disgust. Her mention of Gunter's had further incensed him for the tea shop was a favorite of Nicholas'. It was there that a friend had spotted Nicholas with a "mysterious young lady" who was not known in their circles. Spencer had paid no heed until he discovered those disturbing letters, the nature of which were so strange, he hired a former Bow Street Runner to follow Nicholas. The accounts of what the informant provided had appalled him. He wondered that Nicholas could allow a woman to treat him in such fashion.

Nothing in the letters Miss Primrose had written indicated she bore Nicholas any true affection. They only contained promises of bawdy carnality and demands for additional funds. It was clear Miss Primrose used Nicholas and William for money and to satisfy her own vulgar cravings to debase her fellow human beings. Spencer could not require her to return the money Nicholas had freely given to her, and as he could not have her imprisoned without exposing his brother and cousin, he decided he would give her a taste of her own medicine.

For a woman who had lured a considerable sum of money, however, she showed no evidence of it. Her gown tonight was passable—he had to admit she looked quite fetching in it—but she could have afforded better. He knew no woman who would not take the chance to spend a part of her allowance on new gowns, bonnets, baubles and the like. Why would a woman like that horde her funds?

It was none of his affair, he reminded himself as he downed the brandy. As he recalled the vision she presented upon entering the dining room, he could see how a man might succumb to her beauty. She had kept the shawl about her the whole of the evening, but it had slipped often from her shoulder, exposing the bareness of her upper chest. Given what he intended with her, he knew not if it was fortuitous or inauspicious that he should deem her attractive.

He poured himself another glass. He had not quite thought out the whole of his plans, but he knew he wanted her to appreciate the pain and humiliation she had put Nicholas through. He might demand that she write a letter of apology to Nicholas. Spencer hoped in some way to restore what she had taken from Nicholas. And punish her for what she had done. He had had a mind to make her his prisoner for the sennight for surely she belonged in Bridewell. She deserved to be locked in her room and served nothing but bread and water.

But he could not do it—yet. His brother and cousin were not blameless in the matter. If she had confined herself to milking them for money, he would not have been pleased, but he might have restrained himself to a stern talk with her and a warning to stay away from his family at her peril. But she had not. Rather, she had seen fit to demean Nicholas, tuse his lust against him and strip him of his manhood. The descriptions from the informant of the treatment Nicholas had received at her hands had made Spencer tremble with rage. No one treated a member of the Edelton family with such callous disregard.

No one.

*****

Having sat nearly an hour in her chamber with nothing to entertain herself but the mirror, Beatrice realized a Mistress would not sit idly waiting for word. A Mistress decided what was to come next. The unfamiliar circumstances—instead of the comfort of the Inn of the Red Chrysanthemum, she was a guest at his house—had momentarily jarred her from her character. Perhaps his lordship did not fully understand the roles they were to assume. Wrapping her shawl about her, Beatrice picked up a lamp and decided to explore the premises.

Expecting to find mostly bedchambers on the upper floor, she headed downstairs. The décor matched the master of the house: stately and not ostentatious. She passed through the hallway and a room she suspected to be the drawing room. Above the fireplace hung a painting of an older man and woman. A husband and wife, Beatrice suspected. Upon closer inspection, the man in the painting could very well have been the father of his lordship. Both men had a serious air to them. The woman, too, looked familiar, but for reasons Beatrice could not place.

After spending a few moments admiring the furniture, the silk wallpaper, and paintings of a country estate, she proceeded to the next room. It was a library. The low fire in the hearth suggested the room had been occupied earlier in the evening. The curtains had been drawn over the windows and the candelabras no longer lit. With sofas, winged armchairs, and alcoves brimming with pillows, the room offered many inviting places to sit and read. Beatrice approached a wall of books and looked at the various titles. She had not had the luxury of reading in some time. She was unacquainted with most of the works until she came to a novel by Daniel Defoe.

She removed the book from its perch. The Fortunes and Misfortunes of the Famous Moll Flanders, &c.

"I thought I told you to wait in your chambers."

The voice at the entrance startled her, and she dropped the book. Turning, she held up her lamp. His lordship stood with his hands at his hips. He had removed his coat, and his hair was slightly disheveled, as if he had run his hands through it several times. There was a gloss to his eyes that she had not noticed during dinner.

"A Mistress does not receive commands. She gives them," she informed him as if he were her student. She set the lamp on a table nearby.

The corner of his mouth twitched, as if he were about to smirk.

"And you take great pleasure in commanding others," he said as he advanced toward her.

Did he mean to accuse her? she wondered.

He stopped and picked up her book, noting its title. "How fitting."

She narrowed her eyes. "Your pardon?"

"Have you read it?"

"Some years ago."

"And do you find a kindred spirit in the heroine, a whore, thief, and felon?"

The antagonistic edge in his tone made her defensive. She snatched the book from him, though it was his property.

"Through Moll Flanders, the author has painted the plight of women with great sympathy. One cannot help but admire the determination and resourcefulness of Mrs. Flanders."

"A woman of loose virtue, dishonest, scheming—by her own admission. In the end, she and her husband live in sincere penitence for their wickedness."

"A luxury not afforded to many."

He paused in thought. "You believe her actions were compelled by her circumstances."

"A woman must make her own fortune and seek her own justice. She cannot expect these will be granted to her in any easy form. She may be the most moral and honest and intelligent creature, but these virtues are not always awarded. And if a wrong be done to her, who will defend her? Will it ever be made right?"

Seeing his look of surprise, she realized she must have spoken too vehemently. She glanced away to hide her emotion.

"An unfortunate reality," he said, after a pause, with more compassion than she expected. "But one's circumstances, no matter how dire, do not absolve a man of wrongdoing."

"You would that a beggar submit to starvation rather than steal a loaf of bread?"

"Are your circumstances comparable to that of a beggar?"

She stared at him. Why would he ask such a question? What a strange evening this had become! Though she was partly excited to be engaging in a discussion on the merits of virtue—she could think of no one of late with whom she had had such interesting discourse, and he had listened to her opinions without hastily dismissing them—it was wholly unexpected, leaving her perplexed and a little rattled.

"My circumstances are no affair of yours," she said.

Hoping to place some distance between them so that she could compose her thoughts, she turned away from him, but he reached for the bookshelf beside her, blocking her path with his right arm. He was now closer to her than ever, and she detected the aroma of brandy upon him. Her pulse quickened. She had neglected to devise a strategy for her engagement with this patron, and she sensed the danger of not having done her due diligence, especially as she found herself responding in a most inconvenient fashion to his nearness.

"And if I make it my affair?" he breathed upon her.

Steeling her nerves, she turned to face him, her back pressed against the bookcase. "Surely you did not pay a hundred pounds to hear me tell a tale of woe?"

He was close enough that if he lowered his head, their lips could touch, and for a second, curious if he might prove a good lover, she wished he would kiss her. His right hand came off the bookcase and cupped the side of her face. With his thumb, he tilted her chin up. His fingers came to rest upon the nape of her neck. She became acutely aware of her vulnerability and the difference in their size and strength.

His gaze swept over her physiognomy. "How many men have you ensnared with your loveliness?"

"What does it matter?" she managed to say between uneven breaths. A wealth of sensations began to percolate from low and inside her body, sensations that had lain dormant while she pursued her retribution against Nicholas. Released from their cage, they now threatened to overtake her, and she was not unwilling to give them the reins.

"You have my attention at present," she prompted, her voice becoming husky of its own accord.

He shook his head. "You'll not fool me, Miss Primrose."

His hand tightened upon her, and for a moment, she wondered if she ought to be more frightened. The lust in his eyes was something she was accustomed to seeing, but the influence of liquor could make a man unpredictable.

"But I'll take your favors all the same," he finished, stepping into her. His leg grazed hers.

Surrounded by the heat and hardness of his body, she felt a familiar agitation warming her loins. She closed her eyes for a moment and took a calming breath. The sensations had come upon her faster and stronger than she had been prepared for.

When she opened her eyes, she assumed her proper stance as Mistress. "When and if I am ready to grant those favors."

"My money. My rules."

He was leaning further into her, and she felt the need to come up for air. Desire pooled low and hot within her.

"Fair enough, but if I am your Mistress—"

"You," he growled, "are the mistress of nothing. You are mine. To command. To enjoy. To torment."

Torment? She thought she heard the word above the beating of her heart.

"In short, to do as I wish, Miss Primrose."

*****

He could see the wild confusion, a little clouded by lust, in her eyes. His blood was pounding too fiercely for him to have the patience to explain anything to her. There was too much of her in his sight, his nose, his touch. She had intoxicated his every sense. Even if she were not the object of his vengeance, he had to have her at this moment. To prove his point, he shoved his hips at her as his mouth descended over hers. The pressure between his legs grew tenfold as the taste of her, the moistness between her soft and yielding lips, enflamed his desire.

She allowed the assault upon her mouth. Her lips parted—or perhaps he had forced them—for his tongue to plumb the depths behind them. He was vaguely conscious of his crushing force, but the more he tasted of her, the more his appetite grew. More overpowering than the strongest of liquors or the most potent of opiates, the feel of her, the scent of her, had an effect upon him that he could not fight. He pressed his body into hers, feeling her hips, her breasts, her thighs against him. She shifted the angle of her hips, and her tongue met his several times. The encouragement cast off all remaining reservation.

His hand dropped from her neck to her breast. Without relinquishing her mouth, he pushed his hand beneath her décolletage to pry one of the full, smooth orbs from the stiffness of her stays. His fervor must have startled her, for she pushed his hand away and tore herself from him. She stumbled and the book fell to the floor once more. He could see her attempting to establish her breath and put some order to her thoughts. In the light of the lamp, he could see the area about her lips flush from his attentions.

Though flustered, she managed to assert, "I am Mistress Primrose. No other proposition was agreed upon."

His body protested her departure. He almost marveled at the effect she had upon him. Either his desire for revenge had augmented his ardor or she possessed some witchcraft. No wonder Nicholas and William had succumbed to her.

"Does it matter?" he returned, advancing toward her.

"Yes," she replied, but she had hesitated first. She took a step back to maintain the distance between them. "If you discovered me through Nicholas, you would have been aware of that—"

"I was aware," he acknowledged brusquely, the mention of his brother prompting his ire, "but it was inconsequential."

The back of her legs bumped into the ledge of a bay window. "Then I think we need to discuss our arrangement."

"As I said, Miss Primrose, you are mine. For a sennight at least."

He saw her look to the opening to her left, and when she moved in that direction, he lunged and caught her about the waist. She landed against the cushions of the alcove with one leg over a pillow and the other foot still upon the floor. Placing a knee between her legs, he pinned her in her place. The better part of him, a sense of noblesse oblige that she had provoked with what she had said earlier, the manner in which she spoke about the injustices facing women, objected to his treatment of her. But he had sensed her arousal. She was not without desires of her own. To confirm his suspicions, he reached beneath the hem of her skirts and pushed them up her leg. She fought him, but he fit both her wrists in one hand. Holding her arms above her by the wrists, he continued his ascent with his free hand. She twisted and bucked against him—unfortunate motions for they only fanned the heat coursing through his veins and amassing in his groin.

"The servants!" she tried.

"Dismissed for the evening."

She groaned. His hand had passed the tops of her stockings to the bare part of her leg. His head swam at the softness of her upper thigh, the proximity to that most private paradise of womanhood. With his leg kneeling between hers, she could not bar him access. Slipping his fingers over the curve of her thigh, he triumphed to find her wet, quite wet, between the legs. He brushed a finger against the small nub of flesh there. She let out a shaky moan, then tried once more to free herself, but with only half the energy.

She succumbed.

*****

What a muddle he had made of her. She could not think properly with him stroking her there. His forefinger, coated with the moistness of her betraying desire, slid easily against her, eliciting tremors of pleasure throughout her nether region. But this was not how it was all supposed to happen. She knew only the role of a Mistress at the Red Chrysanthemum. If she had known he intended something else, she might not have acquiesced to his proposal.

But her body cared for nothing but his caresses at present. Helpless as he hovered over her and held her wrists above her head, she could not stop his languid teasing of her clitoris. She wished he would hurry and finish the damned torture. Or not. She could not deny how delightful it felt. He rubbed both his forefinger and middle finger against her, the greater surface area making her moan. The tension inside her mounted. Soon she was writhing, but this time, it was not to escape.

"Ahhh," she gasped when he slid the fingers inside her and his thumb took over working her clitoris.

Her cunnie flexed about the intrusion, but the circling of his thumb was nearly as distracting. She shut her eyes against the intensity of his stare. She knew her desire was written upon her face. Her body had a will of its own, and right now, it wanted to spend more than anything. The valley and peaks of sensation, coaxed masterfully by his fondling, had come to a head. She ground herself into his hand, greedily wanting more of his touch. Her back arched. Every nerve within her now screamed for release. Sensing this, he quickened his ministrations and bore down harder upon her.

She exploded, her body shuddering uncontrollably, her limbs jerking as the most exquisite waves of sensation wracked over her again and again. He softened his caress until the last of the paroxysm had been released. She could feel her blood throbbing in every extremity, her cunnie pulsing. And for several moments, she remained still for fear that any movement might devastate her body further. Only when she felt she could breathe again did she realize how painful his grasp upon her wrists had been. She opened her eyes and saw that he had sat back against the opposite side of the alcove. Lust gleamed in his eyes, and the erection at his crotch was very apparent.