A Promise of Passion Read online

  A PROMISE OF PASSION

  Act One & Two

  Act One

  Saved by Submission

  Act Two

  The Dominant’s Dilemma

  by

  Maggie Carpenter

  A PROMISE OF PASSION Act One, Copyright © 2014, 2016 Maggie Carpenter

  A PROMISE OF PASSION Act Two, Copyright © 2016 Maggie Carpenter

  ADULT ADVISORY

  This book is for adults only, and contains scenes of spanking, graphic sex, bondage, sensory deprivation, and are fantasies only, intended for adults. This book is not for children, nor does it condone corporal punishment of children. This book contains scenes of nonconsensual activities, BDSM and other nonconsensual activities. This book does not support nonconsensual spanking or any other nonconsensual activities, sexual or otherwise.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Published by

  Dark Secrets Press

  Ebook Cover Design

  Ashley@ Redbird Designs

  Formatting

  Polgarus Studio

  www.MaggieCarpenter.com

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  A PROMISE OF PASSION

  Act One

  Saved by Submission

  “There are times in life when it seems the hand of fate steps in and grabs us by the heart. Isn’t it strange when that happens?”

  CHAPTER ONE

  LONDON

  Vivien McKay stood perfectly still as the dressmaker and her assistants fluttered around her; the wedding dress had to be perfect and the white lace bodice wasn’t cooperating. Vivien was very good at standing still. It came from practice. Standing still was a requirement, an expectation, and it was an art she had mastered.

  “It’s too high under the arm, that’s causing the ripple,” one assistant declared.

  “No, it’s because this lace is too stiff, we need to find a softer one.”

  The words spun around her like spider’s silk, and her unblinking eyes remained focused on the rain hitting the window. The droplets running down the glass seemed to be caught in a free flowing dance, and as one would leave, another would take its place.

  She frowned, concerned about the time. She was supposed to meet Robson at precisely 5 p.m. at the Austrian Embassy, and Robson did not tolerate tardiness. Her life had been an endless series of appointments and schedules; being on time was mandatory for the modeling elite, so his demand seemed perfectly reasonable to her.

  “I think you’re right Anne, I think we do need a softer lace. All right Miss McKay, I think we’re finished for now,” the dressmaker decreed, sliding the zipper down the back.

  Stepping from the multilayered gown, left in only her bra and panties, Vivien headed to the changing room. After years in endless dressing rooms and sitting through hundreds of fittings, there was no modesty left in her.

  Glancing down at her gold Rolex, the first gift Robson had given her, she saw that she had an hour to travel to his house, change, and get to the Embassy. She had a collection of expensive, bejeweled watches, some of which she’d bought herself, but Robson preferred she wore the Rolex when in his company.

  “It commemorates the first birthday I shared with you,” he’d told her the day she’d worn her Jaeger Le Coultre reversible instead. “It feeds the romance in my soul when I see it on your wrist.”

  It was such a sweet sentiment there was no plausible response, and the soft demand made her feel warm inside, so it was the gold Rolex that graced her wrist whenever they were together, which was almost always.

  A town car would be taking her to the Embassy. Robson would already be there, and he didn’t like them leaving in separate vehicles. He was particular about these things but Vivien didn’t mind, she liked his control; it gave her a sense of security and an odd satisfaction.

  Dressing quickly, she said her goodbyes to the dressmaker and her staff, then doing her best to avoid the wet stuff by holding a magazine over her head, she hurried outside and climbed into the waiting car. Robson didn’t like her driving in the rain. He also didn’t like her driving at night, or on the highways.

  “If anything happened to you, my beauty, I would never forgive myself,” he’d declared, so Vivien was driven almost everywhere.

  As the limousine snaked its way through the heavy London traffic, she stared down at the huge, glittering rock on her finger. Soon she would be Mrs. Vivien Parker-Jones, wife of a businessman, a diplomat, a philanthropist, and an aristocrat: Robson was a Viscount.

  Was it a thrilling, passionate romance? No. When he kissed her did she feel the stirring in her stomach she’d read about, or did goosebumps spring to life at his touch? Not really, but she hadn’t felt those things with anyone else either, and she’d finally decided such delights only existed on the big screen, or in the romance novels she’d occasionally peruse. Robson was, however, kind, generous, and protective, and she knew her father would have approved.

  Both her parents were enamored with the golden years of Hollywood, and he would sit her on his knee and show her pictures of Grace Kelly marrying Prince Rainier of Monaco, explaining how she was just as pretty as Grace Kelly, and would one day find her own Prince.

  “You have been blessed with beauty, Vivien,” he’d said softly as she’d sat by his bedside in his last hours. “Use your blessings wisely. Marry well and create passion in your life. Search for passion in everything you do, and it will make you happy.”

  “I will, poppa,” she’d replied as tears had rolled down her cheeks.

  “Promise me, Vivien, marry well, and seek great passion.”

  “I promise, poppa.”

  She smiled sadly at the memory; she was about to make his dying wish a reality. Great passion may not scorch the sheets with Robson, but she was certainly marrying well, and she had passion for her work, and was sure she would have just as much passion as a mother.

  The car pulled through the gates and up to the front doors of Robson’s house. Vivien dashed inside and hurried up the stairs. As was his practice, Robson had left the dress of his choice on the settee in the dressing room that housed her winter wardrobe, and as she stared down at the designer gown, the warm, familiar rush spread through her sex; she couldn’t deny how much she enjoyed wearing the clothes he selected.

  It was one she’d not worn before; black, long and sleek, with a rhinestone encrusted, plunging cowl neck. Black satin pumps with rhinestones gracing the tall heel would be the finishing touch, and wandering to the jewelry box, she selected her favorite; a sapphire and diamond teardrop pendant and matching earrings.

  The jewelry available to her was a small sampling of the Parker-Jones family collection, and the choice he left to her. On the odd occasion when the piece was not to his liking, he would scowl slightly, and once home, show her the item he thought would have been better suited. Gently removing the piece she’d chosen, he would turn her to the mirror, laying his preference in its place, explaining why his would have been preferable.

  A thrill would slither through her, and invariably she would turn into his arms seeking his kiss. There were times she would purposely p
ick a necklace she knew was wrong, just for the moment of correction once they were home.

  Hair and makeup was an easy, quick affair, and as she grabbed her Chanel evening bag and Versace coat, she paused to take a deep breath, mentally preparing herself for the evening ahead; cocktails, dinner, after-dinner cocktails, home. The Austrian Embassy was playing host to a number of dignitaries with whom she would have to chat, feigning interest in their particular topic of conversation. It was something she did well, and Robson had been copious in his compliments of her social aptitude.

  “You can talk to a doorknob and make it feel special,” he’d once remarked.

  Most of these people are doorknobs, so it’s just as well, she’d thought.

  As she traveled down the stairs, Chambers, Robson’s longtime butler, was waiting by the front door with a very large umbrella.

  “Good evening, Miss McKay, the car is here.”

  “Thank you, Henry,” she smiled, and as he held the umbrella over her head, she moved carefully down the steps and into the waiting vehicle, without having a drop of water land upon her finery.

  Though the Embassy was relatively close to the house, she knew at that hour it would be at least a twenty minute drive, and her thoughts turned to her upcoming nuptials. The wedding was only three months away, and there had been a whirlwind of activities at the house. Designers, florists and caterers came and went on a regular basis, and though Robson was in charge of the entire affair, she had been affected by the stressful energy permeating the staff and the house itself.

  Of one thing she was sure; she was determined to travel home and spend time with her family before the big day.

  Vivien could imagine her mother pottering around the kitchen, preparing dinner for her younger brother, Will. He was a sweet, smart young man who had earned an Agricultural degree, and was turning the family’s small farm into a modern day success story. That he was still at home Vivien found a blessing; she couldn’t stand the thought of her mother living by herself.

  Faith McKay was a simple woman, and though Vivien had offered to fly her in for the big event, after seeing the photographs and reading the articles in the society magazines Vivien had sent her, Faith was still undecided. It wasn’t that she was afraid she wouldn’t fit in, that was a given; she simply didn’t want to embarrass her daughter.

  Glancing out the car window, Vivien saw the tall gates of the Embassy swing open. The car crawled to a stop under the portico that fronted the Embassy entrance, and as she stepped out, taking the hand of the chauffeur, she spied Robson just inside the doors awaiting her arrival. He broke into a smile and hurried down to escort her into the gathering.

  “You look ravishing,” he whispered as he led her through the foyer.

  “Thank you, Robson,” she replied, relieved he liked the teardrop pendant.

  “I have a surprise for you,” he continued, walking into the reception room.

  She felt the eyes of the other guests fall upon her. It happened wherever she went, and it wasn’t just her fame; it was her regal bearing and stunning looks.

  “Really? What on earth could you surprise me with here?” she asked.

  “It’s not a what, it’s who, and there he is,” Robson announced.

  A tall, dark-haired man slowly turned, smiled, and began to glide towards them. He had the walk of a great cat, and as he neared, his eyes locked on hers with a scrutinizing gaze.

  Who is this guy? Why am I meeting him? Actually, I don’t care why I’m meeting him, I’m just glad I am. Damn, he’s cute.

  “Vivien, I’d like you to meet Dominic Dubois,” Robson smiled. “I have commissioned Dominic to paint your portrait, if he agrees, of course.”

  “You are even lovelier than the many photographs I have seen,” the man declared.

  “My portrait? How very exciting.”

  “I see Lord Montrose gesturing,” Robson remarked, unexpectedly frowning. “I do apologize, I must have a word with him. Please, become acquainted. I’ll return shortly.”

  “Your future husband wishes a portrait similar to that of our most unfortunate Princess Diana,” the handsome stranger declared. “Two portraits to be precise. One in formal attire, such as you’re wearing now,” he commented, his eyes continuing to study her, “and another in your wedding gown.”

  “A portrait,” she repeated, picturing the many paintings of Robson’s family gracing the walls of his house. I guess I’m going to be up there too.

  “Are you not pleased?” he inquired, raising his eyebrows.

  She was struck by his manner, and had the odd thought that he would have been a wonderful James Bond. He had the cool, confident air of Roger Moore, the good looks of Pierce Brosnan, the lean body of Daniel Craig, and the roguishness of Sean Connery. His unique accent made him even more intriguing, and though she’d traveled through Europe extensively, it wasn’t one she could place.

  “Pleased? Yes, of course I am,” she nodded, though the thought of sitting painfully still for hours while the gorgeous man was painting her picture, seemed all a bit surreal. “I don’t recognize your accent,” she said, hoping the change in subject would stop his judicious gaze.

  Unfazed, he tilted his head to one side, and his dark brown eyes remained unwavering.

  “I was born in Luxembourg, educated for a short time as a child in an English boarding school, attended ENS des Beaux-Arts in Lyon, and then lived in Paris for some years. I still have a home in Hesperange, that’s a small town near Luxembourg, but my studio is in Paris,” he replied. “Does that answer your curiosity and make you feel better?”

  She felt the heat wash across her face. His soliloquy and oddly phrased question made it obvious he’d sensed her discomfort and understood exactly why she’d asked about his accent.

  “I’ve never visited your country, but I hear it’s beautiful,” she remarked, ignoring his question and pretending an ease she didn’t feel.

  “We have castle ruins, misty forests, deep lakes, and many tales from the past. It is a country of ghosts and history.”

  His eyes came alive as he spoke, and she found herself wishing she could pack a suitcase, jump on a plane, and take him along as her tour guide.

  “You said, you have a studio in Paris where you paint. Does that mean I’ll have to travel there for the sittings?”

  “It does,” he nodded, “unless I find inspiration elsewhere, as I did with the Ambassador. I have spoken to Robson and he understands this, but nothing has been definitely decided.”

  “I see,” she murmured. Paris, I do love Paris.

  “He has asked for my services,” he said softly, his smile abruptly changing to a frown, “but…”

  “But?” she pressed.

  “But if I am to paint you, I must know you,” he murmured, his eyes twinkling, “and there are many layers around you, Vivien McKay.”

  The heat in her face washed through her being, and a sparking energy sent a thrill through her stomach.

  “Know me? Layers?” she managed. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Ah, Vivien,” he sighed, shaking his head, “will you not let me in? If I am to paint you, it must be so.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Robson had an insatiable appetite for beauty, and standing in the elegant reception room, staring across at his bride as she chatted with the artist, he felt a great sense of pride. She looked like a Princess, carried herself like a Princess, and possessed the genteel manners of a young woman who had attended the finest finishing schools in Europe. That she had been born on an anonymous plot of land in the middle of Nowheresville, USA, was confounding to him.

  “She is lovely.”

  Lord Alfred Montrose, Robson’s best friend, leaned his body forward as he stared.

  “Yes,” Robson sighed, “she is.”

  “She may be a commoner, but she’ll make an eminently suitable spouse,” Alfred continued, “and bear you as many little Robsons as you want, I’m sure.”

  “All right, A
lfred,” Robson said testily, “that’s quite enough. Will I see you at the club tomorrow night?”

  “Of course, my dear boy. Where else would I be?”

  “Don’t drink too much, Alfie, it’s not good for your liver, or your disposition,” Robson quipped, staring at the scotch in his hand.

  The reception room was slowly filling with guests, and ambling back to towards his wife-to-be, he watched as endless covert glances darted in her direction. He thought she resembled a beautifully hand-painted, porcelain statuette.

  You are a lovely thing. On our wedding day I am sure you will be breathtaking.

  “So, Dominic, has Vivien won your approval?” he asked as he joined them. “Will you paint the most beautiful woman in all of England for me?”

  “I will leave that up to her,” the artist replied smoothly. “Will I be taking my brush to my canvas, Vivien?”

  “It would be an honor, of course,” she responded, not sure what else she could possibly say. The painter’s comments had caused a shiver of apprehension, and the manner in which he’d stared at her had been seriously unnerving.

  “Then it has been decided,” Dominic smiled, and nodding his head in a slight bow, he placed his hands behind his back. “I look forward to having you at my studio.”

  “Excellent,” Robson exclaimed, delighted at the outcome.

  “Monsieur, we will speak soon,” Dominic continued, turning to face Robson.

  “Yes, we will, Dominic,” Robson replied. “Thank you.”

  Vivien stood perfectly still as Dominic moved behind her, but as he passed, his hand lightly slid across the small of her back, and for the briefest of moments she couldn’t breathe; his feathered touch had sent a sparking energy through her entire body.