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Zander pursed his lips as he studied her and the sensible part of her regretted her caustic response.
“Off with it.”
“What?”
“You heard me.” He stomped to her wardrobe and opened it, pulling out dresses, examining them and then tossing them onto a pile on the bed. Finally he handed her a lavender dress that she knew was a particular favorite of his. “This one,” he grunted at her. “Now.”
Tallie clutched the gown and took a step back. Never had she seen Zander in such a fit of temper. Though she was a bit frightened, the anger only added to his dark and commanding appeal. Why could he not see her as a woman?
“I-if you will send Grace back in to assist me, I shall change gowns.”
“No, I do not have time for you to pull any more pranks. You’ll not leave my sight until Lord Banyon and his mother complete their call.” Grasping her shoulders, he spun her around and dispatched the closures on her gown with surety and deftness, which left her in no doubt that he was accustomed to removing the clothes of many a finely dressed lady. His fingertip scraped the area between her shoulder blades and she gasped at the intimate touch.
If he was affected by any of these activities, he did not show it. His determination to have her change her gown gave him singular focus.
Without preamble, he had tugged her old dress down until the sleeves and bodice were off and hanging over the front of her skirt. Through the sheer fabric of her chemise, her bosom was visible and prickles of self-consciousness skittered over her flesh. When he glanced at her, however, there was not even the slightest recognition in his eyes that she was anything more interesting than a dressmaker’s dummy.
Dummy. That was what she felt like.
“Step out,” he commanded, and she realized her entire gown was pooled around her feet. She did as he bid, holding back tears of humiliation. She, in her scandalously semi-nude state, had no effect on him whatsoever. She felt an utter fool.
Well, she would not tolerate it.
Tossing the gown he had selected aside, she stood straight and pulled the pins from her hair, allowing it to cascade down her back.
“And what of my hair, Zander? Are you equally skilled in the arrangement of ladies’ hair as you are at undressing them?”
He paused in his actions and held her gaze, a sense of womanliness moving through her as his eyes traveled down her body, certain now he would acknowledge an attraction to her.
Without saying a word, he went to her dressing table, collected her hairbrush, and returned to where she stood.
“Thank you for the reminder, Tallie.” He took her by the arm and instead of seating her in front of a mirror in order to style her hair, or to even do something, anything to show an appreciation for her in a womanly way, he bent her over the footboard of her bed, her hips pressed against the wooden rail, forcing her up onto her tiptoes.
“What the blazes are you doing, Zander?”
He pushed the fabric of her chemise up, and spread wide the opening of her pantalets, baring the entirety of her privates to his view.
“I am doing my duty,” he said through gritted teeth. “The application of a ruler to your stubborn arse had no long-term effect on your behavior so we shall see if this works better to get my point across.” Thereupon he set about punishing her backside with the flat of her hairbrush.
“Holy hell!” It took only a few fast swats for heat to spread across the length and breadth of her bottom, leaving her dancing upon her toes.
“Zander! Stop, stop this instant.”
“I do not take orders from you.” He smacked down her left thigh with the brush while she clutched at the bedclothes. “Furthermore,” he added while continuing to inflict stinging swats, “you no longer have my permission to call me by my Christian name, though I have no recollection of ever giving it in the first place. I am Mr. Thwaite to you. Or sir. Do you understand?”
What was happening? Who was this man? And what had he done to the Zander who was her friend, her soulmate?
A hard smack screeched across the crack of her arse. “Answer me, you spoiled brat.”
“Y-yes, sir,” she said, tears pricking the corners of her eyes, whether from the pain of his discipline or the crushing disappointment of him calling her a brat, she could not determine.
She was no brat, was she?
“Good,” he said, though he continued to punish the stinging cheeks of her bottom.
“Zan—Mr. Th-thwaite, I will not be able to sit comfortably if you do not cease this instant!”
“Whether you are comfortable or not is of no concern to me. In fact, a sting in your bum will serve to remind you of the consequences should you decide on further shenanigans.”
