Читать книгу Sexual Secrets - Melissa MacNeal - Страница 13

Lord Bentley’s bulk blocked the pale light that came in through the open door, yet he had no trouble seeing the situation for what it was. “And why did you leave the house unescorted, late in the evening, and without my permission, Lady Bentley?” he demanded.

“And how did you know I was here?” she retorted. There’d be hell to pay for her sass, but she was too incensed to care.

Rutledge inhaled noisily. “You should be grateful to those who feel compelled to look after you, wife! But we’ll address that when we return home. Right now my concern is this character you’re consorting with in total darkness. Another man, is it not? Charlie, hand me that lantern!”

The jealous footman had probably been caught with his ear to the keyhole, so had spilled the juicy details of this rendezvous to his employer, hoping for that reward she’d tantalized him with. She couldn’t argue with what her husband saw when he thrust the carriage lantern into the shop, however.

“And who are you? And why are you here in my wife’s dressmaking shop, when it’s obvious neither of you came here to sew?” Lord Bentley demanded.

“Wild oats, sir!” the footman piped up. “That’s Rubio Palladino, the famous medium, a man known for sowing wild oats amongst the gentry and—”

“And you,” Rubio cut in, pointing a finger at the cheeky footman, “will be taken to task for eavesdropping and running off at the mouth! You, lad, will soon be looking for employment elsewhere, the spirits tell me!”

Charlie’s eyes widened. He glanced around the dark shop as though expecting those spirits to pounce on him from the shadows, but Rutledge was unimpressed. “And do you know who you’re dealing with, Mr. Palladino? Besides the irate husband of the woman beside you, that is?”

The medium smiled politely and extended his hand. “I’m most honored to see you again, Lord Bentley. I can explain why I’ve been talking with your beloved Camille—”

“I’ve heard and seen enough, Palladino! My membership in the Society for Psychical Research has exposed me to all manner of fraudulence connected to mediums and Spiritualism,” he replied with a sneer, “and your name has come up in our meetings, I assure you! Why are you here? With my wife? Wearing nothing but a wrapper?”

Camille scowled. “I asked him to advise me about—”

“My studio is in this building, my lord, in the adjacent storefront, and I live above it. Next door to your wife’s seamstress, Alice.” Rubio stepped forward, directing his gaze at her husband’s unbecoming sneer as though to cast a spell…or to read Rutledge’s mind. “I lived here when you procured this building for LeChaud Soeurs, and my presence was no cause for alarm then. I should think you’d appreciate my protecting your dear wife from the likes of that untrustworthy footman who accompanied her. The way he talks about you, Lord Bentley, is most unflattering.”

Charlie’s gasp echoed in the high-ceilinged room. “You’ve got no call to insinuate—”

“Oh, enough!” Camille glared at Charlie and then Rubio and her husband. “I’ll obviously make no progress on the gowns I came to work on this evening, so I might as well return home.”

“The most sensible idea I’ve heard,” Rutledge muttered as he took her elbow. “You’ll be riding back with me, as any proper wife would. Good evening, Mr. Palladino. I advise you not to darken my wife’s door again! And you!” he barked at Charlie. “You shall return the brougham to the estate and collect your belongings! I’ll not tolerate such insubordination from an employee who should’ve notified me of my wife’s departure under such questionable circumstances!”

With that, Rutledge steered Camille unceremoniously out the door to the large black carriage parked behind the one she had commandeered. He allowed Manfred Sterne, his valet, to assist her into his carriage, closed its door, and then conferred with his manservant in animated whispers outside.

As she watched their gesticulating, Camille wondered why her husband had felt compelled to have the ferret-faced valet accompany him, rather than her sister—except that Manfred, in most ways, had been Lord Bentley’s closest confidant over the years. Certainly more informed of household matters and Rutledge’s personal preferences than she would ever be…and that was a telling detail about their marriage, wasn’t it? The men’s conversation concluded with knowing looks and laughter, yet another way to make her feel excluded, as though she were a mere ornament in Lord Bentley’s home. Once Manfred had swung up to ride with the driver, her husband landed on the opposite carriage seat with a whumph. The creases between his eyes suggested he was ready to resume their unpleasant discussion.

But Rutledge just looked at her. The brougham’s interior grew dark once they left the streets of London behind, but even when his deep-set eyes no longer caught the shine from the gaslights Camille felt the weight of his gaze. It was awkward, this silence, but she preferred it to the high-handed tone he’d used in the shop. And it was better than defending Rubio all the way home, or hearing her husband’s discourse on fraudulent mediums and the Society for Psychical Research. The way Lord Bentley saw it, anyone displaying unusual sensory perception of any kind was suspect, in this age when spirit sightings and séances were all the rage.

When they arrived at Briarcliffe, Camille prepared to scurry into the house ahead of him, but Rutledge had other ideas. “Because you insist on behaving like a child, I shall have to punish you like one,” he stated as the footman opened the door. His valet stood by, as well, wearing the conspiratorial grin she’d come to despise. “Manfred, call the family and the entire staff together in the music room. Ten minutes.”

“Very well, my lord.”

Camille’s pulse pounded in her ears. As the footman helped her down, she had the distinct impression Manfred had done this sort of thing before.

She yanked her elbow from her husband’s grasp, but he grabbed it again to usher her through the mansion’s double doors. Their footsteps echoed in an uneven rhythm as he marched her through the vestibule. “What the—what do you think you’re doing to me?” she demanded.

“I meant what I said, my dear. Those who disobey must be corrected…used as an example to all, lest anyone doubt my standards of behavior.”

What on earth did he mean by that? Camille thought back to their strained conversation at LeChaud Soeurs…to his insinuations about what she and Rubio Palladino had been doing there in the darkness. But what a silly idea, assuming the medium would take indecent liberties with her!

The lamps glimmered in the music room as servants hurriedly lit them to accommodate her husband’s whim. Soon their shine glowed on the surface of the grand piano and the harp, and reflected in the numerous mirrors, where she could watch the scullery maids and the new cook enter, along with Daisy and Mrs. Douthit, the stable hands, and the groundskeepers. Their expressions remained serious, yet the occasional twitch of a lip…the knowing glint in their eyes…told her they relished what was about to take place in this opulent room. Her husband settled his bulk in a large upholstered chair, leaving her to stand beside him while he still grasped her wrist.

“Remove your shoes.” His low voice carried around the room, silencing the onlookers.

Camille blinked. Something told her not to challenge him as her maid stepped dutifully through the crowd.

“Might I help you off with your pumps, milady?” Mrs. Douthit offered. Her steely gray hair matched her demeanor: efficient to a fault, she rarely expressed her opinions or emotions—which might explain why she’d remained in Lord Bentley’s employ longer than the rest of the staff.

Rutledge waved her away. “My wife will take full responsibility for her actions this evening,” he replied in a pedantic tone. He surveyed the growing audience, his smile widening at the sight of a disheveled Colette and her husband, Heath.

Camille’s cheeks flared. “What’s going on here?” she demanded beneath the buzz of voices. As she stepped out of one shoe and then the other, her toes curled instinctively in the rug, as though testing what grip they might have.

“Hand me one of your slippers, my dear. And then you will lean over my knees.”

“I will do no such—”

When Rutledge’s arm tightened around Camille’s waist, her twin rushed through the crowd of domestics who stood around them in great anticipation. “What is the meaning of this? My sister—”

Lord Bentley’s glare stopped Colette a few feet away. “My wife has misbehaved by venturing into town without an escort, and without my permission,” he announced to the roomful of onlookers. “I’m taking this opportunity to assure all within my household that I am in control, and that I will be obeyed.”

With more speed than Camille anticipated, he pressed her against the outside of his thigh. “You will now bend over, Camille. And you will lower your drawers, after you hand me a shoe.”

Her heart dropped into her stomach. “You can’t be serious about—”

“Oh, but I am.” Rutledge calmly looked about the room, at the servants, his son, and her twin. “Most in this parlor who have lived here longer than you, dear wife, have not only witnessed such an event as this, but have been the recipient of my discipline. Am I correct?”

All around her nodded, barely concealing their glee.

This had to be a hoax. There had to be a way out of this embarrassing situation. “Then why did you dismiss Charlie by telling him to collect his belongings? Why isn’t he to receive—”

“He’s got a flat ass. Not enough flesh there to make a lasting impression—nor is that flesh as…attractive as yours.” Rutledge’s expression softened, yet he was deadly serious. “Discipline and humiliation are effective means of keeping you on the leash, my love. It’s time you learned that lesson.”

She wanted to bolt from the room, yet she sensed he’d double his punishment once she was caught. “Wasn’t it enough humiliation, pushing me down on the table after dinner, while the kitchen staff looked on?”

“Lean over, or I shall lick your slit again after I’ve spanked your naughty bottom.” His grip tightened on her wrist, and yet he was choking back laughter. Rutledge was enjoying this spectacle, as though she were a child about to receive her annual spanking at a birthday party.

She handed him a shoe. The skin on her backside prickled and her throat went dry.

“Thank you, Camille. You’ll be a better wife for this.” He flashed the kindest smile she’d seen all day. “Now lean over and show me your assets.”

Stifled snickers. More of those eager gazes, which barely concealed her observers’ glee.

Closing her eyes, Camille lowered her lacy drawers to her knees. She stifled a whimper as her husband bent her over his lap. He yanked her drawers to her ankles to remove them over one foot at a time, and then slowly raised her skirt. First he exposed her lower legs, pausing to allow those in the room a full glimpse before he continued his slow, tortuous treatment. “Isn’t she a sight?” he asked proudly. “Have we ever witnessed such shapely calves—and such succulent thighs?”

Camille’s backside quivered as appreciative murmurs filled the room. Her only recourse was to grasp Rutledge’s stout legs and duck her head so no one would see her inflamed face.

“And at last we reveal the seat of our affections,” her husband teased. His palm tenderly circled first one cheek and then the other. “So soft and firm and rounded,” he murmured. “So sweet and pale, soon to be awakened to a sacred purpose…a higher virtue than Camille displayed when she left Briarcliffe unattended this evening.”

She cringed at his touch now, wishing he’d perform his onerous punishment and be done with it. Bad enough that every maid and manservant witnessed her humiliation: Rutledge vibrated beneath her with an energy she’d never felt before. He relished every nuance, every morsel of mortification she could suffer.

Smack!

Camille cried out, more from surprise than pain, when the sole of her shoe met her tender flesh.

Smack! Smack! Again he found the roundest, most vulnerable spot on each cheek to spank, eliciting two more shrieks. Her bottom stung, to be sure, but it was nothing compared to the burn in her face…in her soul. While Rutledge was not reacting in anger to her evening’s misdemeanor, it was his restraint—his damned gentility—that irked her as he continued his disciplinary display.

“Ah, behold the roses in her cheeks,” he crooned. “See the way her body quivers in anticipation, wondering where the next slap shall fall…how many more…and whether this initial pain shall lead to exquisite pleasure. A remorse that might redeem her wayward inclinations and even lead Camille to beg for more.”

“More!” someone suggested eagerly.

“Oh, yes, Lord Bentley! Your wife seems to be calling out—silently yet surely—for more!” one of the maids agreed.

Camille nipped her lip. Oh, but she’d make Daisy pay for that remark!

Smack! Smack!

She sucked in her breath and braced herself, clenching her bottom against his stinging assault. Would this never end? Hadn’t her husband proven his point?

Several seconds passed. While no one around her spoke, Camille detected the furtive rustling of fingers inside clothing…skin whispering against skin. Just as Daisy had done after catching her at her sister’s door, these lascivious servants were scratching an intimate itch that now permeated the room. But she would not look—would not let them see her exasperation, either! How could she ever face them again if she gave in to embarrassment? She had no choice but to endure Lord Bentley’s punishment, but if she lost control of her emotions, the staff would never respect her again.

Smack! Smack!

Camille writhed on her husband’s thighs, feeling the rumble of his laughter and despising him for it. He’d set aside her shoe to spank her with his hot, fleshy palm now, a more personal affront…

Smack! Smack! SMACK!

As his hand met her backside, she arched upward. “Please! Stop!” she rasped. “I’m sorry I upset—sorry I left without your permission!”

“Ah, but I have no need of your apology, dear Camille,” Rutledge crooned. He leaned across her so the heavy warmth of his body held her in its grip. “I need nothing from you, don’t you understand? I’m simply raising your awareness. Broadening your horizons, as to the full spectrum of sensations to be experienced.”

Smack! Again his hand landed on her throbbing skin, but this time his fingers swept surreptitiously between her parted thighs.

Camille flinched, but he didn’t remove his hand. The heat of his palm penetrated the irritated skin of her ass while his fingers…the tips of them teased at her nether lips.

“You’re wet.” His whisper filled the music room and although her eyes were clenched shut, Camille sensed a moving forward—a closing in of the crowd as their own intimate caresses continued.

“Wet,” came the echo.

And across the room someone else amplified it, “Wet!”

“Yes, wet, and so open. So pink and soft and…wanting.”

Someone gasped with need. Camille then recognized her own sister’s murmur among the sibilant sighs around her. It was the ultimate betrayal, however, when her thighs parted for his hand rather than closing against them. Camille heard a whistling noise and then realized she was sucking air between her teeth as Rutledge rubbed her most intimate parts.

And yes. She was wet. Wantonly, wantingly wet.

Her breath left her in a rush when a finger probed her opening. This was so lewd, so wrong! Yet her body had responded. Rutledge had awakened her dismay, distracting her with pain and mortification only to tease her into another revelation entirely: the aching pleasure he had hinted at was taking affect. She didn’t resist the finger he inserted.

“Ohhhhhhhh,” those around her breathed, anticipating their own release.

Rutledge slipped his finger out, but when he penetrated her again Camille felt two additional fingers…thick, inquisitive fingers that stroked her deep down inside. Without warning, he pulled them out.

When Camille groaned, her body’s betrayal became complete. Then suddenly, Rutledge plugged her with his thumb. Thick and blunt, it plumbed her wet depth until it found a spot where all her nerves connected, jangling her core to make her limbs vibrate wildly, as well. Camille clung to Lord Bentley’s leg. Sharp spasms made her hips buck against his hand, insisting—no, begging—that he drive his thumb deeper.

And like a sly puppeteer, Rutledge pulled physical and emotional strings that made her jerk and writhe and cry out until she forgot she had an audience. Camille wiggled helplessly on her husband’s lap, driven by intense inner need that fanned the flames of her climax. As the currents jolted her from the inside out, she shuddered and bucked until the pleasure exploded within her.

She went limp. Mindless. Oblivious. For delicious moments, his thumb remained inside her, poised to provide more pleasure.

Rutledge chuckled. When he eased his thumb from her cunt, warm honey trickled out. “No doubt some of you would love to lap her juices, but your wishes shall be denied. My wife’s surrender is complete.”

Camille bit back a retort. Once again she became aware of her spectators…their unfulfilled longings…an acute embarrassment that throbbed within her. Her ass stung so badly, it might be days before she could sit on it.

“You are to back away now,” he told their spectators in that irritatingly controlled tone. “And when Camille has dressed herself, you are to remain in your places as she returns to her room.”

Damn that animal! Instead of dismissing them, he was allowing them to witness her final degradation: not only would they watch her dress, they would see how she shook as she covered herself…would observe the rivulets running down her legs and know that Rutledge Bentley had had his way with her even though he’d remained fully clothed.

And fully in control! That part grated her nerves as much as the way he’d bared her private parts to the servants—as though he believed her on their level rather than anywhere near his. Once more he’d reminded her that he’d saved her from the squalor of Parisian alleyways. Even though she shared his name, she would never attain his social status.

“Bastard!” she muttered. Camille rolled from his lap, wadded her drawers between her quaking hands, and fled the music room. Snickers followed her, taunting her long after she closed her bedroom door.