Read Chosen to Be His Little Angeline Online
Authors: Zoe Blake
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Erotica, #Bdsm, #Historical, #Victorian, #Romantic Erotica
Chosen To Be His Little Angeline
©2015 by Blushing Books® and Zoe Blake
All rights reserved.
No part of the book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Chosen To Be His Little Angeline
Cover Design by ABCD Graphics & Design
This book is intended for
. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults. Nothing in this book should be interpreted as Blushing Books' or the author's advocating any non-consensual spanking activity or the spanking of minors.
Table of Contents:
Chapter One - A Very Foolish Gir
Chapter Two - Her First Punishment
Chapter Three – Meanwhile In The Parlor
Chapter Four - Lady Shackelton Gets Shackled
Chapter Five – A Picnic With Her Future Papa
Chapter Six - A Painful Adventure
Chapter Seven - The Maiden And The Minotaur
Chapter Eight - A Lesson In Swallowing
Chapter Nine - Forced To Become His Little One
Chapter Eleven - Playtime With Papa
Chapter Twelve – Lick Your Lips
Chapter Thirteen - A New Adventure
He was staring at her again. Angeline nervously took a large sip of the bubbly drink the hostess called
. The cool liquid tickled her nose as it slid down her throat. She could not help but giggle, the inappropriate laugh bringing a blush to her cheek as she once again felt the stranger's intense gaze.
Angeline risked another shy glimpse in his direction. Tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in unrelenting black right down to his cravat, he cut an imposing figure. The tension in his body belied the practiced ease of his casual pose against the pianoforte, his strong angular features made all the fiercer by the dark scowl trained on her. Her heart raced. Everything about him screamed power, money, and disapproval. He knew she was a fraud.
Lord Jasper Blackhurst watched as the girl's cheeks flushed pink, giving her already animated features a pretty glow. The girl had captured his attention from the moment she'd entered the room. It was painfully obvious she did not belong at this jaded gathering. Blackhurst's sharp eyes took in the ill-fitting gown dwarfing her small frame. On an older, more curvaceous woman, the dark purple silk dress with the deep cut bodice would have looked suggestive at best, perhaps even seductive. On this petite sprite with her springy bright blonde curls and large childlike eyes it looked garish.
She was standing in the corner, partially obscured by the fronds of a plant. Her heart-shaped face dipped low, she peeked at the guests through thick eyelashes. From his stance across the room, he could not discern the exact color of her eyes. They were big and dark. Combined with her blonde, ringlet hair and delicate pale skin, they gave her an almost ethereal quality. She was innocence personified, made all the more so by the cynical, inebriated and extremely carnal company surrounding her. Like wolves encircling a lamb, he thought with an equally cynical and carnal smirk.
Blackhurst watched as she took another sip of champagne. He would allow her a little more of the intoxicating drink before he took it away. From the flush on her cheek, the champagne was already having an effect; to imbibe anymore would put her in a dangerous position among these particular guests. Blackhurst grasped his own glass till he heard it crack, feeling his protective instincts rise with his anger.
Lady Shackelton's house parties were infamous for a reason. Once a year, select members of the ton gathered to indulge in a few days of decadent debauchery. After the stifling formality of the season, it was a welcome respite. Unique fantasies and wishes were entertained, guests often switched bed partners and the only rule was discretion. Lady Shackelton had been hosting these little fetes since the death of her much older husband several seasons back.
In a break with ton protocol, Lady Shackelton preferred an informal light repast of champagne, sugared fruit and cheese served in the parlor the first evening with a formal dinner on the second. This created a more intimate setting from the start and allowed guests to approach one another for an introduction without having to stand upon ceremony. The point was moot of course, since most of the guests were acquainted from either their position within the ton or their appearance at this house party over the years.
The real purpose for the informal setting was for guests to choose their first - and probably not their last - bed partner for the evening. Formal dinners lasted for hours and most of the guests were more interested in fellatio and ménage a trios than they were in pheasant and meringue pavlova.
Which begged the question: Who would be foolish enough to bring such an ingénue? Blackhurst surveyed the remaining guests milling about the parlor. He needed to find the fool so he could inform them of their change in bed partners.
Whoever the girl was, she was now his.
* * * * *
"Keep scowling like that and the only skirt you'll flip this eve is Lady Prunella's."
Blackhurst turned a sardonic smile on his longtime friend, Lord Duncan Fairfax. While countless whippings at the hands of English headmasters had long ago broken Duncan of his brogue, his Scottish heritage was still evidenced through his large, almost brutish, body and unruly reddish brown hair.
"There is a better chance of Lady Shackelton finally parting her fair thighs for your hairy arse than there would ever be of me laying with that prune faced dowd," grimaced Blackhurst.
Fairfax ignored the jibe and gestured towards the woman who had captured his friend's attention. "Her name is Angeline Fay."
"You jest," stated an incredulous Blackhurst, marveling at the perfectly suited name -
"I do not," assured Fairfax.
"French?" asked Blackhurst.
"Non," responded Fairfax good-naturedly. "Not according to the rumors, at least. Mother was a bit of a light-skirt who fled to Paris for a bit of fun and returned in the family way crying widow. She kept her French affectations in the naming of the daughter."
"That ass, Herrington, brought her," Fairfax helpfully supplied, indicating an effeminate man across the room.
Blackhurst glanced over to where Herrington was stroking the lapel of a footman. It was common knowledge the man was a puff - well, common knowledge to everyone but the man's domineering mother. With a nod of his head, he motioned to Fairfax. Both men sauntered towards Herrington.
"How are you old boy!" exclaimed Blackhurst as he clapped a shocked Herrington on the back.
Fairfax crowded in on his other side. "Looking good, Herrington," he complimented as he pulled on the end of Herrington's intricately tied cravat.
"Good evening, Blackhurst…Fairfax." Herrington nervously stepped back, adjusting his askew cravat. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" he sneered.
Blackhurst once again crowded Herrington in. "Angeline Fay, why are you here with her?"
"Who?" asked Herrington.
"The woman you brought to the house party," Fairfax slowly elaborated, as if speaking to an imbecile.
"Oh, that bother," scoffed Herrington. "Mama is threatening to not pay my tailor unless I prove my manhood or some such nonsense," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I guess Lady Shackelton's little house party is one of the worst kept secrets in the ton because Mama found out about it and saddled me with the little baggage. She figures my deflowering a virgin of the fairer sex will make the rounds faster if there was audience."
"So you plan to place her on display for your own amusement and the amusement of others - is that it?" asked Blackhurst through clenched teeth, trying to keep a tight rein on his anger.
Herrington snorted. "Well, I doubt I have the stamina to pull off the same display you and Fairfax did with that pretty little redhead at last year's event, and of course I will have to close my eyes and pretend she has a cock but…"
The rest of his sentence was cut off as Blackhurst twisted his hand around Herrington's precious cravat. "Listen very carefully, Herrington. You are going to call for your carriage and leave this instant. I will have your luggage sent to your London town house."
"Are you insane, Blackhurst?" cried Herrington as he desperately grabbed at the wrist holding his cravat. "You know all is fair game the next few days!"
Herrington was not far off the mark. Perhaps he was just a little insane. He had not even spoken to the woman and already he was threatening a man over her. These were not the actions of a rational man. He himself was not above a little voyeuristic fun, and it was true anyone at the house party was fair game, but the thought of anyone else touching Angeline sent him into a haze of fury.
"I would go, Herrington, before your cravat isn't the only thing twisted and bent," said Fairfax over his friend's shoulder. He had been dutifully blocking the altercation from the view of prying eyes.
"But…but what about my tailor?" whined Herrington.
"Fuck your tailor," said Blackhurst.
Herrington's eyes lit up. "I hadn't thought of that as a solution." He left without another murmur.
Blackhurst turned to once again face the room, his eyes instantly searching for his angelic fairy.
At Blackhurst's alarmed look, Fairfax motioned to a doorway leading to the entrance hall. "Through there, not two moments ago."
Blackhurst stalked through the doorway, off to claim what he already considered his…rational or not.
* * * * *
Angeline fled the confinement of the parlor. Walking down the massive marble hallway, she tried several doors till she found an open one. Slipping inside the dark, quiet room, she paused to take a deep breath to clear her head. Moving further into the room, Angeline took in her surroundings. Judging by the massive, mahogany desk, shelves of books and large comfortable chairs in front of the fireplace, she was in the estate's study. She walked over to the roaring fire to warm her hands. Staring into the comforting glow of the flames, she tried to take stock of the dizzying turn of events her life had taken in the just the last few hours.
That morning she had been a lowly seamstress at one of London's more fashionable dressmakers, Madam Forneau's. It was a mean existence of long hours, hard work and low wages. Most days, her only comfort was a cup of weak tea and a biscuit shared at the end of the night with her grandmama in their single room tenement. But her grandmama had passed away a few months ago, leaving her alone in the world. Angeline brushed a tear away at the still fresh, painful memory. She could not pay the rent alone, and her sweet landlady had been forgiving for as long as she could, but finally had to force Angeline out. Then she had lost her position at Madam Forneau's.
She'd been sitting alone and desolate in a coffeehouse, wondering where to go and what to do next, when Lady Herrington had approached her. A privileged client of Madam Forneau's, the forthright lady had always intimidated Angeline, but she could not help but be intrigued by the woman's strange offer of help.
If Angeline would agree to accompany Lady Herrington's son to a house party in the country just outside of London, then Lady Herrington would give her one hundred pounds - a staggering sum - and arrange for an apprenticeship with an actual French dressmaker, not just an English woman posing as a French woman like Madam Forneau, whose real name was the very-English Bertha Crawford.
Angeline was thrilled with the prospect of such an adventure. To think of it! Why, she had never even been out of London! Now she would attend a house party filled with lords and ladies of the ton! All the beautiful gowns, the wine, the decadent food…handsome lords.
Angeline secretly yearned for a grand passion; at four and twenty she had led a dreadfully dull existence - not like her mother's. Her grandmama had refused to speak of her, but Angeline had heard the whispers. Her mother had lived for pleasure. She'd run off to France when she was barely sixteen and returned several years later alone and pregnant with Angeline. Her mother claimed she had married her father - a man named Henri Fay - but he had died tragically. No one believed her. It was too fanciful. Angeline did not care. Her mother died of consumption when Angeline was barely six, but she still remembered the stories. Her mother's eyes would light up with love as she spoke of Angeline's big, strong father - how he would have spoiled and coddle her, how he would have picked her up in his arms and twirled her around till she was dizzy with delight and wonder.
Angeline felt a dull aching disappointment as she realized she was not her mother's daughter after all. She would not have her grand passionate adventure. From the moment she agreed to the ill-advised scheme, nothing had been as expected.
The beautiful wardrobe Lady Herrington promised felt tawdry and coarse. Angeline had done her best to tack and pin to assist the fit, but there was nothing she could do about the material and colors, all of which seemed too bright and unrefined. Angeline was under no disillusion she would be mistaken for one of the elite. Lady Herrington assured her that there would be other commoners at what was supposed to be an unceremonious country house party. Angeline was told to keep to herself and stay by Lady Herrington's son.
Angeline had hoped that an elegant wardrobe would smooth over the rest. Quite the contrary, the ill-fitting dresses made her feel more like an impostor than if she had showed up in her seamstress' garb! At least in her usual attire, she would have fit in with the estate's extensive staff, she thought forlornly.
Lord Herrington was an even bigger disappointment. He had barely spared her a glance from the moment she entered the carriage for the two hour trip from London out to the estate. He seemed more interested in talking with his valet then with her. When they'd arrived, he could not even remember her name to introduce her to their hostess, Lady Shackelton. Angeline sighed. So much for her girlish fantasy that he would fall madly in love with her.
But the absolute worst thing of all…the thing she would never forgive or forget for all her life had nothing to do with ugly dresses or boring uninterested lords. It was the realization that it wasn't her life that was dreadfully dull; it was she who was dreadfully dull! Moments ago she had been standing amidst glittering candlelit splendor with a glass of champagne in her hand and instead of captivating them all with her laughter and witty
like she often imagined she would, she cowered in a corner - behind a plant no less! Intimidated as she was by the upper crust crowd, truthfully it was the powerful scrutiny of one gentleman in particular that had sent her fleeing to the safety of a quiet nook.