Bought By The Billionaire - BDSM 18 novel Chapter 47

Uncle Al pats my knee. “You got what should always have been yours, Princess.” He slides a look sidelong across the room. “Don't mind your father. He doesn't get it yet. Doesn't understand who you've married.” He taps the side of his nose. “But I do. He’ll come round. You’ve done good, Princess.”

“Thanks, but…”

A shadow falls over us. “Elizabeth, my Love. Won't you introduce us?”

I shuffle up to make space. “Richard, this is my Uncle Al. Um, please excuse him. He can't stand very well.”

My Master raises brows. “Of course.” He moves to take the next seat along, but my old uncle struggles up, weaving slightly on his feet. “Mr Haswell, I'm pleased to meet my niece's new husband.”

“Please, it's Richard.” He offers his hand. “We're family now, aren't we? May I call you Albert?”

My uncle takes the hand, but the shake is stiff, almost reluctant. “I prefer Mr Kimberley if you don't mind, Mr Haswell.”

What the hell…?

My Master blinks, exchanging a glance with me. “Of… course… Mr Kimberley. If that's what you prefer. Can I ask…?”

Whatever he was going to say is interrupted. “Dad…” It's Stephen, with a glass of wine, offering it to my uncle. “I brought you a drink. And I'll get you something to eat.” He waves toward the piled buffet table. “You name it. It's on there. Chicken. Beef. Fish. Salad. What would you like?”

“Oh, just pick me out a few bits and pieces. You know I don't eat a lot these days.”

“I’ll do that. Back in a minute.” He strides off again toward the buffet table.

My Master starts to speak again, but once more is interrupted, this time by David, offering his hand. “Mr Haswell…”

“It’s Richard.”

“Richard. Great to meet you properly, at last. I always knew Beth would find the right man for her. What do you say, Dad?” The last is addressed, grinning, toward Uncle Al, but the old man is watching across the room, rheumy eyes fixed.

I follow the gaze…

My father…

Some guest I don’t know, a woman spilling blather and gossip, nodding toward my Master…

And my father’s head, swivelling toward us, toward me, his jaw drooping, his face gaping and slack.

Gotcha.

My Master shoots a glance that darts between me and my father. His voice neutral, “My Love, another glass of champagne?”

I offer him my empty flute. “I’d love one, thank you.”

*****

Still in my bathrobe, roughly towelling my hair dry, I consider my options for the morning.

My new home.

My wedding gift.

I'm still agog at what my Master… My husband… has given me.

So, he had to leave me alone for a while. What of it? I have so much to do. And see. And explore.

And I want to see it all. The whirlwind tour my Master gave me the previous day isn't enough. Not nearly enough.

Inside or out?

From windows Mackintosh could have designed, I’m looking out over the rear view. Brick-built walls frame a glorious garden. A great rectangle of… What? It has to be a couple of acres… stretches ahead of me.

Angling to look straight down, a paved terrace is set with chairs and a table in what could be wrought ironwork. Beyond that, lawns, dotted with rose beds. Some low hedging shrub is laid out and trimmed to form an intricate knot garden.

And way beyond all of that, mature trees, brilliantly green in the sunshine, wave in the slight breeze, concealing the view beyond.

Just now, the weather's glorious, but rain is forecast for later.

Outside first.

Slipping into sensible clothes; jeans, sneakers, a pullover; I set out.

Stepping out from my new front door, stone columns to left and right support the kind of portico I associate with TV historical dramas. Mr Darcy should come strolling by. Or maybe Maxim de Winter. Some dark and brooding hero of page and screen.

Who am I kidding?

He married me…

Leading away, a gravelled drive, bounded by railings and neatly weeded borders, curves through a turning circle, then passes under an arched gate rambling with roses and honeysuckle. The gate probably once admitted carriages or horses with their riders. But if we have anything sizable delivered, furniture perhaps, the delivery van will have to park outside.

Not that it would be a burden on the driver. Beyond the arch, the drive, set in clipped lawns, curves down a gentle slope between lines of what I think are cherry trees, then on toward the main gate. When those trees bloom…

It must look stunning in Spring…

Strolling out under the arch, looking right and left, lawns stretch beyond my line of sight, vanishing over the contours of a gently rolling landscape.

Turning right at random, I set off for my walk.

An hour later, I've made a great circle around the land. The grassed areas form a rough crescent around the walled garden, mown lawns fading into rougher turf a little distance away. Clipped short by rabbits, the slopes are dotted with burrows, vanishing into scrub and briars at the boundaries. A distant rumble of traffic testifies to the main highway a mile or so away.

Looping back around the house, I make my way into the walled garden.

The wall itself draws the eye. It’s just beautiful. It needs some attention; old bricks, surely two centuries or more, crumble in places. The pointing, again the old lime-mortar type, needs repair. Nonetheless, in warm shades of terracotta and burnt umber, the graceful structure frames the garden in a way nothing else could. And, high as it is, the whole world could be contained within its bounds. Nothing can be seen beyond except blue skies and scudding clouds.