Please Lend Me 50 Million - Chapter 7

On any other day, Asha would have whined and thrown herself into Cecile’s arms with delight at the gesture—but not now. From her still-flushed cheeks to her flustered expression, there was far too much to fire Cecile’s imagination.

And above all—her disordered clothing! Cecile, who helped Asha dress every single day, could not possibly fail to notice a disheveled appearance.

Asha threw her arms across her chest and sprang to her feet in a rush. The movement was so sharp that Cecile—reaching out to offer the shawl—startled and stumbled back two steps.

“Cecile, I’m going to sleep.”

“At this early hour?”

Cecile’s gaze drifted to the window, where the sun had not yet fully set—but Asha pressed forward without slowing. With sheer force of will, she burrowed into the bed before Cecile had even prepared it, balling the thick duvet around herself into a nest. The display was so adamant that Cecile couldn’t bring herself to pull her mistress back out.

Still, the questions couldn’t be entirely suppressed. Cecile leaned slightly toward her and asked:

“What about dinner, my lady?”

“I’m fine.”

“What about your bath, then? You always loved a bubble bath.”

“—!”

At Cecile’s words, Asha’s hair practically stood on end. If she took a bath with Cecile attending her, the ink stain that hadn’t yet faded would be discovered—and the consequences of that were too horrifying to even imagine.

Rumor would spread through the entire manor that the Countess of Bellstein had the bizarre hobby of smearing stamp ink on her b****t! And the moment anyone connected that to the sum of money exchanged between husband and wife, it would only be a matter of time before Harriet’s reputation—and her own—crashed into the gutter.

And the contract with the imprint on it—

‘Look at this, my lady. It came out quite vividly. Someone who didn’t know might mistake it for a brand-new seal.’

His lips had curved into that lovely arc. The smile she had always admired was demoted to the smirk of a cunning weasel in a single instant.

‘In any case—I will keep this contract in my possession until it is dissolved.’

His voice still seemed to ring in her ears, and the tip of her n****e—where the stamp pad had grazed—felt like it was burning hot all over again.

“My lady?”

“I-I’m fine! Hahhh, I can’t imagine why I’m so sleepy. I’m so exhausted, I just want to sleep.”

She made a valiant attempt at acting, and having buried herself so thoroughly in the duvet that not even a strand of hair was visible, Cecile could push no further.

No one knew better than Asha herself how dreadful her acting was, and her heart hammered with the fear that Cecile wouldn’t be fooled at all—that she might pry the duvet away out of suspicion. She felt exactly like a child who’d told a transparent lie.

“Very well. Good night, my lady.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Cecile tilted her head slightly and stepped out of the room—not forgetting to snuff the candle so her mistress might sleep in peace. As the heavy door swung shut with a solid thud, Asha rubbed her face furiously against the duvet.

Ugh—Harriet. Harriet!

She thrashed around like a rambunctious puppy. She was certain she could not shed the tension any other way. Of course, mixed into these movements was no small measure of genuine anger at Harriet.

Her body, which had been rolling across the duvet like an unbroken foal, came to an abrupt halt.

But what exactly was he planning to do to her at night? Every s****l encounter they’d had up until now had gone like this: lights out, modest and shy, one climax in bed. Politely put—conventional. Uncharitably put—boring. And yet those stiff, proper nights had been rather delirious in their own way… so what would a new kind of lovemaking be like…?

Asha’s mind began to slowly unfurl the wings of imagination.

He said he wanted to spank my a*s. Would he threaten not to stop even if I cried? Or, or….

I should have read it more carefully. Asha deeply lamented not having finished <The Duchess’s Night>, which had been making the rounds among the ladies of society. If she’d read the “sixteenth position” that the noblewomen had raved was absolutely filthy, she’d have had a much easier time imagining things now.

But isn’t it said that imagination about an unknown world is even more vivid in those who haven’t experienced it than in those who have? Having known nothing but courteous lovemaking in which she was handled like something made of feathers, Asha let her mind conjure images that would have made a fainting smelling salt necessary.

Acrobatic positions worthy of a circus performer. Scenes that, if revealed, would invite nothing but scandal. Her imagination ran a wild, varied course. And at the deepest point of that strange reverie, where Asha’s thoughts finally arrived—was the image of Harriet, savoring every moment.

Through his shirt, I’d be able to see his body. Taut and firm. And….

That large thing below.

A peculiar heat bloomed low in her belly. Even Asha, for all her ignorance about such matters, could not mistake what the sensation was. Feeling the slickness gathering between her thighs, she squeezed her eyes shut. Even though the man she was growing wet imagining was her own lawfully wedded husband, the feeling of transgression wouldn’t leave her.

It felt like… violating someone she had only ever admired from afar….

Without quite realizing it, Asha gave a slight roll of her hips and pulled a pillow tight against her chest.