A stronger oath went through him. He grabbed her and crushed her to him. She emitted half a yelp before his mouth descended upon hers, his lips harshly roving over hers. His hand went into her coiffure, yanking her head back by the hair.
“If we are to proceed, I will have none of your impudence,” he growled. “You will abide by all that I say. Failure to do so will entail punishment. Do you understand, Millie?”
Her eyes were wide, but she nodded. “Yes, Alastair.”
“You may address me only as ‘my lord.’”
“Yes, my lord.”
“You may expect no leniency from me merely because you are my cousin and new here.”
“Of course, my lord.”
“But you will have the use of a word that will serve to protect you from that which you find too much to bear.”
“If you wish it, my lord.”
“It is required for all those who wish to play at Château Follet.”
“What is the word, my lord?”
He looked at her necklace. “Pearls.”
“Pearls. Thank you, my lord.”
She was a quick student. He supposed he should have expected no less. His pulse quickened.
Whirling her around, he bent her over the edge of the table. His hand still entwined in her hair, he held her in place. “Ever been spanked?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“By that stable hand?”
She nodded.
He shook his head. A goddamn stable hand.
“Did you enjoy it?” he asked.
“I did, my lord.”
“You may or may not enjoy the spanking I am about to administer, but, regardless, you will thank me when done.”
“Yes, Al—my lord.”
He released her hair and stood back to unbutton his cuffs and roll his sleeves. She remained where she was. He untied his cravat and used the neckcloth to tie her hands behind her back—tight. He would either deliver all that she had hoped for or deter her from ever returning to the château.
“Thank you, my lord.”
Without ceremony, he threw her skirts over her hips and was surprised to find a most charming derrière. The buttocks were fuller, as were her thighs and the rest of her, but they were still shapely and pleasant to behold. He put a hand to one cheek, palming its smooth softness. The blood seemed to course more strongly through him.
God help him. He should not be doing this. Not with Millie.
He shook his head. From whence did this bothersome conscience appear? Rather, what did he care? The chit wanted what the château offered.
“Alastair?” she voiced.
He slapped her rump. The contact made a delightful sound. “My lord,” he reminded her.