Punishing His Ward (Domestic Discipline 3)

Sitting upright on the bench with her back to him, she'd gently swayed back and forth as her fingers danced over the keys. It had surprised him that she was playing a rather melancholy piece, when she was so very often the very picture of amiable cheerfulness. But it was incredibly beautiful and he'd become as lost in the music as she obviously was.

Eventually he realized that he'd been standing there for far too long and he'd crept away, back the way he'd come. If he did marry the chit, he'd make it his business to take her to the opera. And the theater.

He also realized that playing the pianoforte was one of the few things that Cynthia was willing to do that involved sitting down and staying still. Any other time that she was required to do so, she quickly became rather squirmy. When he asked his mother about it, she said that Cynthia did much better out on the estates where she could ride and walk about outside rather than have to concentrate on things like embroidery.

And, of course, the overwhelming reason he might marry her was her response to discipline. Add that to her natural sensuality, and she might just be able to satisfy him on all fronts. He realized, with some chagrin, that even when he thought about other women, none of them held the temptations that Cynthia did. Sure, there were women in London that he could return to, sate his appetite with, but he'd rather be here torturing himself with a young miss that was out of bounds for seduction. It was as appalling as it was entertaining.

It was a rainy Tuesday when he'd realized just how much she hated being cooped up indoors. He was sitting in the library, reading through some of his letters, when she came wandering in. When he looked up, they nodded acknowledgement at each other and then he went back to his letters while Cynthia wandered around the room.

And wandered.

And wandered.

"I know this library isn't as big as the one on the estate, but it has plenty of books to choose from," he

said finally, without looking up. "Surely there must be one that catches your eye."

Cynthia sighed and he heard her wandering back in his direction. A moment later she was plopping down in the seat across from him, slumping back into the cushy chair. Hardly proper for a young lady. She'd looked more like a sulky school girl, if it wasn't for her luscious curves which were snugly cupped by the dark green fabric of her day dress.

"I've read all the ones I'm interested in."

Wesley raised his eyebrow. "There can't be very many you were interested in then."

"There aren't."

He laughed and looked up to see her smiling at him, eyes twinkling merrily. "Then why did you come in here?"

"There wasn't anything else to do. I played the piano for hours this morning and then your mother tried to make me practice embroidering. She's in bed now with a megrim, by the way," Cynthia said, waving her hand with exasperation. The Countess was probably laid low just from the effort of dealing with a bored Cynthia. Although Wesley was starting to worry about his mother's megrims; she had them quite often and he wondered if they were occurring even more often than she admitted. It seemed as though she only relinquished her watch over Cynthia when she was sure that Wesley was there to take over. "There's nothing to do in the house and no one to leave the house with me." She smiled brightly at him. "Unless you'd like to?"

"No thank you." Wesley had absolutely no desire to take a bored Cynthia out in a closed carriage in the rain. He wasn't such a fool as to enclose the two of them in such a situation when he had enough trouble keeping his hands off of her while there were witnesses around.

"Blast."

She slumped again as Wesley looked up, glaring at her. "Watch your language."

For a moment he thought she was going to argue or say something else, and his pulse began to pick up at the thought of having an excuse to punish her - what better way to spend a rainy afternoon? - but then she subsided again. He went back to his letters.

Scrape.

Scrape.

Scrape.

Wesley looked up. She was sitting back far enough in the chair that she could swing her feet, but her shoes were scraping over the carpet as she did so. With her head tilted back to stare up at the ceiling, she couldn't be very comfortable. She would stop soon.

At least, that's what he told himself.

Scrape.

Scrape.

Scrape.

Scrape.

"Isn't there another room you could go to?"

"There's no one in the other rooms to entertain me."