*** Innocent governess is helped from the clutches of one bad man just to be raped by another

Rosalie is harassed by a man in dark London streets. Lord Randall Berkeley rescues her - but only with the intention to use her himself. He takes the witless girl to his apartment and, when she comes around the following morning, demands her sexual favors as a thank you for helping her.

Where Passion Leads (1987) by Lisa Kleypas, chapter 2. Exerpt from an eBook.

"Don't," she finally said in a cry that sounded smothered under his mouth, aware that the masculine body so close to hers was powerful enough to break her in two. Inexorably he dragged her to the bed and tossed his robe to the floor. She gave a little squeak as she realized that he was naked. "I am personal maid to Lady Winthrop, companion to her daughter! I—"

"I don't care if you're femme de chambre to the Princess of Wales," he muttered, flinging her across the mattress and spreading her arms wide. Her wrists strained against the confinement of his warm hands until her fingers were numb. Rosalie could feel every detail of him through the thin material of her under­clothes. The solid heaviness of his chest and shoulders was a burdensome weight on her breasts, and she writhed in discomfort. Quaking, she shrank from the taut pull of muscle across his waist and stomach, the resilient strength of the legs that eased hers apart. Most unfamiliar of all was the bold heat that branded her as his hips pressed into the cradle of hers. Fear spread through every pore like a delicate liquid, causing her pulse to rocket, her thoughts to crash against each other.

"Don't do this to me. You could have anyone," Rosalie panted, trying to escape the heat of him between her legs. Rand responded by settling more deeply against her, hard and impatient for the softness of her body. The light feminine scent of her, the young warmth of her flesh caused a hunger inside him that he had not felt in a long time. It was unexpected, the strength of this desire for a reluctant maid. "Please . . . I've never been with a man," she whispered, pulling out her last card, and he stilled. Hazel eyes met brilliant blue in a split second of challenge. Momentarily Rand allowed himself to wonder if what she claimed was true. But it couldn't be. Someone in her position and with her looks would have lost her innocence years ago. Comely housemaids were readily accessible and very desirable targets for men of almost any means and station.

"I don't believe you," Rand replied flatly.

"It's true, damn you!"

Prompted by painful arousal and the inexplicable necessity to have her, Rand closed his mind to the possibility that she was not lying. It must be, he reasoned, that she was afraid he would not recompense her well for her favors, or perhaps she was merely playing the tease to heighten his desire for her. He was well used to that game.

"Then," he drawled insouciantly, "it seems I'm called upon to find proof of your claim." He trans­ferred both of her wrists into one hand. Her fingernails curved into fragile, translucent claws. Desperately Ro­salie fought, but even in her fury there was little she could do to stop him. He stripped her garments off easily, with an offhand attitude that was as much an indignity as a physical violation. Her naked body quiv­ered in reaction to the cool air and the unfamiliar experience of being revealed completely in the day­light. Sickly Rosalie closed her eyes as Rand inhaled slowly. He placed a warm, gentle hand on her finely structured rib cage, his reverent touch drifting upward along the velvet skin to the fullness of her breast. As he took its weight in his palm, the expert caress of his thumb brought the tender softness of her nipple to complete arousal. At the same time he bent over her other breast and took it into his mouth, the heated flick of his tongue sweeping over her again and again. Her soft skin, her quivering flesh . . . was so sweet . . .

As Rosalie struggled against him she realized he was ten times stronger. His body was hard and invulnera­ble, built for aggression, so very different from her own. The hair on his chest brushed against her skin like rough silk, the abrasion feeling unutterably strange. I don't believe it is happening, Rosalie thought, frozen with shame as she pictured the scene from above. Herself, pale-skinned in the morning light, stretched out on the rumpled luxury of the bed, the man devoting his attention to the most private parts of her body as if he owned them. His dark amber hair gleaming immaculately, his large hands cupped around her, one of his legs insinuated between her tense and parted knees. She could barely hear through the labored rushing of her breathing and the drumming of her heart.

"This is disgusting," she choked, and he dragged his mouth up to the fragile line of her jaw, careful not to disarrange the silk kerchief around her neck.

"A wounding observation. Usually my services are more highly recommended," Rand said, his mouth curving in a momentary touch of humor. She turned her face away from him, clenching every muscle in rejection of what was occurring. She merely succeeded in imprisoning his leg more securely between hers. Then her breath caught in her throat as his hand stroked over the lowest part of her abdomen. "If you would relax, I believe this would all be more . . . tolerable to you," he suggested gently, and Rosalie thought she would die of shock as his fingertips drifted in an idle pattern through her soft, light curls. The world was spinning crazily, its humming whirl resonat­ing in her head. The scents of bare masculine skin and sandalwood soap drifted seductively to her nostrils.

"Don't!" she choked, yet still the strange undreamed­of caress continued while she lay under him like a block of ice. It deepened, intensified until he was stroking the snug, shrinking tenderness of her virgin flesh, watching her stiff expression curiously. He continued until two wavering tears of humiliation wound their way down the sides of her face, yet still he did not appear satisfied with her response. "When are you going to stop?" The words fitfully issued from her lips, and Rand's mouth thinned. He discarded all efforts to make the act more pleasurable for her.

"You would prefer a fast-paced finale? I'll endeavor to oblige you," he said, and before she could take another breath he thrust into her, hard and demand­ing, rending her feminine softness without restraint. Rosalie cried out in surprise and pain, her body arching sharply into his in immediate reaction. The disembod­ied feeling returned as she realized that he had pene­trated inside of her, that he remained there and was suddenly still as he stared into her dazed face. Rand whispered something, a trace of some undefinable emotion in his tone. He remained unmoving as Rosalie endured the uncomfortable sensation of being filled, too much and too deep. He held her face between his hands, but she would not meet his eyes or accept the touch of his mouth. She had not wanted to be possessed by him, neither did she want his consolation. Patiently he let her adjust to the feel of his body, allowing the first shock to wear off before he began to ease in and out of her with exquisite care.

As remorse mingled with his desire, Rand's manner changed entirely. He was extraordinarily gentle, trying to soften the stiffness of her body with his touch, brushing the lightest of kisses across her face. Although she lay underneath him like a stone, he continued to make love to her in a way that ordinarily would have given a woman unimaginable pleasure. But she was a virgin, and not only her body but also her spirit was wounded. She felt no gratification from his touch, only degradation.

Rosalie's arms, freed now, drifted down to her sides as she felt the control and the power of his movements echo through her body. Each thrust aggravated the burning discomfort between her legs, and she felt as if she had been scorched by some inner fire. Now I know what it's like, she thought dully, her quivering thighs locked on either side of his. It was just what Amille had predicted it to be, full of pain, embarrassment, the baseness of physical desire. She had been told that women were created to serve man's needs, to give pleasure with their bodies. But how, Rosalie wondered miserably, did a man find pleasure in this? She doubted now that she would ever submit to someone voluntari­ly, not to this kind of invasion, this insult to her innocence, her dignity.

Finally, mercifully, he stopped, tensing as he pressed into the feminine sheath of her, then breathing out with a taut sigh. Exhausted, Rosalie lay beside him in misery, turning away as soon as he moved off her. She could feel rather than see the unnerving gaze that swept up and down her body. Rand glanced at the sheet, shaking his head slightly at the fresh stain of bright red. Even with such obvious proof, it was difficult to believe that she had been an innocent. He had never taken a woman's virginity until now. Baffled and disquieted, he rose on one elbow and contemplated her forlorn figure silently. At age twenty-eight Rand had known a considerable number of women, yet not one of them had provided such acute pleasure as he had just experienced. Somewhere in the midst of possessing her, his lusty enjoyment of her body had changed into awareness of her fragility. How vulnera­ble she was, how delicate the feel of her body clasping him, how crude his pleasure had been in comparison to her tender inexperience. She should not have been used so, and he felt a shame in the realization, a shame he covered up with his customary brusqueness.

"You were telling the truth," he admitted quietly, and as Rosalie quivered with hatred, she refused to look at him.