My Naughty Minette

• Chapter One: Despicable
  
• Chapter Two: Mary
  
• Chapter Three: Minette
  
• Chapter Four: The Thing About Swans
  
• Chapter Five: The Worst Wedding Night Ever
  
• Chapter Six: Inquietude
  
• Chapter Seven: Minuet
  
• Chapter Eight: Tempt and Tease
  
• Chapter Nine: Frustrated
  
• Chapter Ten: Books
  
• Chapter Eleven: Disturbed
  
• Chapter Twelve: Trouble
  
• Chapter Thirteen: A Complex Melody
  
• Chapter Fourteen: Lost
  
• Chapter Fifteen: Coming To Terms
  
• Chapter Sixteen: My Naughty Minette
  
• Chapter Seventeen: Love
  
• Chapter Eighteen: Epilogue
  
• A Final Note
  
• Coming Soon from Annabel Joseph
  
• About the Author
  

MY NAUGHTY MINETTE

Copyright 2015 by Annabel Joseph

Cover design by Bad Star Media.

badstarmedia.com

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, shared, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This work contains acts of sado-masochism, punishment and discipline, and other sexual practices.

This work and its contents are for the sole purpose of fantasy and enjoyment, and not meant to advance or typify any of the activities or lifestyles therein. Please exercise caution in entering into or attempting to imitate any fictional relationships or activities.

England, 1793

August, more formally known as the sixth Earl of Augustine, never expected to spend his twenty-eighth birthday at a tame house party in Berkshire. Since two of his three best friends had married, this sort of thing had become his life.

“Now, Townsend, get your teeth into it.” Gentlemen and ladies cried out encouragements as the dark-haired host went underwater again, bobbing for apples in traditional Hallowe’en fashion.

“Open wide,” said another. “If you must, use your tongue!”

Perhaps not so tame a party. The Marquess of Townsend and his wife, Aurelia, had gathered a merry crowd of friends and acquaintances to Somerton, their country manor. It would be their last opportunity to entertain for some time, as Lady Townsend expected a child in February. His friend Lord Warren’s wife was expecting as well, in March, so the lot of them had gathered for one last hurrah, along with Warren’s younger sister Minette and her companion Mrs. Everly, and his friend Arlington, the “Viking duke,” who indeed resembled a Viking at times.

August’s mother was in attendance too, along with his sisters Catherine and Eliza, and their husbands and children. The Townsends had also invited the Earl and Countess of Colton, whose daughter, Lady Priscilla, was often linked to August in gossip.

Truth be told, Priscilla was practically planning their wedding, with encouragement from his mother, and hers.

During the bonfire at dusk, Lady Priscilla had stood by his side in a wholly proprietary manner, and when the breezy autumn night had blown smoke in their direction, she’d hidden behind him and cried, “Lord Augustine, how heroic you are.” He didn’t know what was heroic about shielding someone from a bit of smoke. He supposed delicate, china-doll ladies like Priscilla wilted beneath the horrors of flame and soot, which made him wonder why she came down to the bonfire at all.

Priscilla was beautiful and genteel, with her sleek brunette hair and striking blue eyes, but the smallest things she did irritated him. Really, he ought to have stayed in town. He always spent Hallowe’en night—his birthday night—in the company of the famed Dirty Esmeralda. Half-witch, half-wanton, Esme had become his favored outlet for lustful dissolution. When he was in London he visited her three or four times a week, and on his birthday, she always bestowed “special favors.”

If he married Lady Priscilla, as he was expected to do, he might have to reduce his association with Esme, or stop seeing her all together. He wondered if Priscilla would find
that
heroic. He wondered if he cared. His only chance at birthday fun this year was the buxom, blonde chambermaid who made eyes at him every morning when she brought his bathing water. Perhaps he ought to seek her out later and have a word with her, though he wasn’t sure Townsend would appreciate him sleeping with the help.

“Huzzah!” Cheers rang out from the assembled company, drawing August from these glum thoughts. Townsend had come up with an apple between his teeth. Aurelia laughed and swabbed at his soaked hair and face with a towel. Water dripped onto his shirt; the linen clung to him at his neckline. His cravat and collar had been undone, of course, before he took the first dive. This apple-bobbing ritual provided the younger men the excuse of disrobing—at least partially—before the ladies, and a great many of them waited their turn to experience this masculine thrill. The ladies blushed and whispered behind their fans, and ate ginger and pumpkin cakes, and drank black currant tea.

August sat on the outskirts, leaving them to it. He was not exactly sulking. He was only tired of doing what everyone expected, particularly Lady Priscilla, who doubtless wished him to untie his cravat, take off his coat and waistcoat, and undo his top button so she might simper over him to her friends. Once he’d gotten the apple in his teeth—and he was excellent at this, since he had a big mouth—she would also expect to be the one to dab his black hair dry with a towel. She’d expect him to hand his apple over to her with a smile, bite marks and all. Such a gesture would be tantamount to an engagement announcement.

He found all of this distasteful.

He did not wish to marry Lady Priscilla. At all.

The ginger-haired Lord Robert went next. The amiable young buck had been paying special attention to Minette ever since the house party convened the week before. August searched the room for his friend’s little sister and found her sitting near Lady Warren and some other friends. Blast, she was looking right at him. He quickly looked away; he’d long ago learned not to encourage Minette in her childish infatuation. Not that Minette was a child anymore. Goodness, she must be twenty now, if he was turning twenty-eight.

August sighed and stood, and retreated to the other end of the room to sit at the pianoforte. Some of the older houseguests sat at card tables or snored in tufted chairs, keeping their distance from the apple-bobbing merriment on the terrace. His mother smiled at him from a chaise, where she visited with Lady Colton. These blasted Oxfordshire family dynasties, and these china-doll marriageable daughters.

Another great cheer rose from the other side of the room. August sifted through the music at the piano. Bland stuff, suitable for company.

“Play something for us, would you?” his mother asked.

“Oh, yes. Something haunting, in the spirit of the season,” suggested Lady Colton with a smile.

August shuffled through a few more selections. “I’m afraid there’s nothing haunting here, and besides, everyone’s preoccupied with the game at the moment.” He looked over toward the terrace, and found that Minette had escaped her group of friends and was headed his way.

“Good evening, Lady Colton,” she said. “And Lady Barrymore.” Minette embraced his mother warmly. The blonde-curled chit had always been charmingly polite. Since Minette had lost her parents at a young age, many of the Oxfordshire ladies had acted as mother to her over the years. Spoiled her, even. He half-listened as Minette chattered on in her typical happy way about the past season in London, and her brother’s marriage to Josephine, and the Warren baby to be born before Easter. He traced fingers along the keys as the ladies asked after Minette’s winter plans. They hinted sweetly that marriage and children should not be far off in her future.

Ah, God. Minette, married with children? It seemed only yesterday Warren was fretting about whether to dress her in ankle skirts. Lady Colton continued to discourse upon the blissful state of matrimony in a voice loud enough for him to overhear. He would not be drawn into the conversation, no matter how loudly they talked. Another cheer from the terrace, and the ladies moved on to the topic of the Townsends’ lovely party, the grand bonfire, and the rosemary-pumpkin tarts.

“Well, perhaps Lord Augustine will agree to play if I play with him,” said Minette.

August looked up at that. Lord help him, Minette meant to join him at the pianoforte. He might have sent her—good-naturedly, of course—to re-join the other young people, but at that moment he noticed Priscilla and some of her friends heading over. So, instead, he slid sideways on the bench and placed the great, disorganized pile of sheet music on her lap.

“This shall be a treat,” said his mother. “Lady Minette has always played so prettily.”

Minette did not play prettily at all. August knew this, but he told her to pick something she liked. Of course, being Minette, she liked them all.

“Well,
Flowers of August
might be perfect for the season, and perfect for your name,” she said, “but then Lady Millicent sang this other piece at the Denham’s dinner and it was beautiful too. It’s new and oh so lovely, but it takes rather more of a soprano than I’ve got. Oh, here is
The Clock Shall Chime
, have you heard it?”

Before he could answer, she went on.

“It’s a rather sober piece for a fun night. I don’t think it will do. Oh, here is a whole suite of baroque arrangements. The Townsends have the most capital collection of songs, don’t they?”

“Perhaps you should pick one,” he said in as polite a voice as he could muster. “We can play a duet.” Priscilla was hovering, ready to draw him off to some tiresome circle of conversation, and more guests were making their way over from the terrace.

“Here is
Poggle and Woggle
. Oh, that’s a dreadful noise, we’ll put that one on the bottom. And
Holly on the Green
, but it’s not even the holidays yet, only Hallowe’en, and oh!” She turned to him with an accusing gaze. “That means it’s your birthday, doesn’t it, Lord Augustine? How could we all have forgotten?”

It was too late to shush her, and he probably shouldn’t anyway, in front of all these people.

“I say, it
is
your birthday, isn’t it?” said Townsend, who had come over with Arlington to the pianoforte. “We ought to celebrate. What would you like? A champagne toast? Some cake?”

August didn’t dare think about what he wanted—Dirty Esme. His friends gave him a sympathetic look. They knew where August usually spent his birthday, just as they knew August was only at Somerton because of Lady Priscilla, and parental pressure.

“We must have a song, at any rate, Minette,” Arlington said in a brisk voice. “What will the two of you play?”

“Oh, yes, play something,” said Aurelia. “A bright song, for celebrating.”

Minette smiled and looked up at him, pink cheeked. “It should be
Flowers of August
most certainly, since it’s Lord August’s birthday.”

Everyone agreed that would be lovely, except for Warren, who was giving August dire looks. It wasn’t August’s fault that Warren’s silly sister had nurtured an infatuation with him for the last decade or so. Given the choice between Minette’s blushing or Lady Priscilla’s aggressive and proprietary hovering, he would take Minette. He scowled back at Warren, shrugged, and arranged the music atop the stand.

“Are you sure you want to play the high end?” he asked, scanning the piece. “It’s the more difficult part.”

“I’m sure,” she said, nodding her head. “I’ve been practicing my piano.”

As soon as they began the piece, it became apparent Minette had not practiced hard enough. There was a great deal of pausing as she searched for the correct notes. Once or twice, August was obliged to reach over her and strike them himself, at which she giggled.

“Tempo, my dear... A little faster,” he said when she nearly came to a stop. She did have a lovely voice, strong, melodious, and clear. He supposed her voice got plenty of exercise, with all the chattering she did. She held a sustained note as she searched for the right keys again. Some of the guests laughed, and when August reached around her to strike the chord, there were guffaws and bemused applause.

Goodness, Minette was silly, but it was impossible not to smile when she was around. Although he had learned not to smile at her too hard. Warren was still sending him warning glances.

They muddled through the rest of the song, his shoulder pressed to hers. He joined in on the last chorus, his baritone steady if out of practice. Minette stared up at him, forgetting to play completely until he nudged her hand. They banged out the song’s finale, although Minette missed a few of the necessary notes. Their ragged effort was met by enthusiastic applause and wishes for a happy birthday.