“I believe the punishment was for throwing my punch over you at the Yuletide masquerade, the year you danced twice with that frightful harlot, Eve Bassiley-Browning.”
“That was extremely ill-advised of you as I recall,” he chided, giving a bass chuckle.
Her stomach lurched with delight.
“I was coerced by the blasted woman, finally escaping her clutches only to find myself doused with an odious mix of juices that permanently ruined my grey silk coat.”
He sounded so piqued she thought it funny. She tried to repress her giggle and failed.
“Angele,” he scolded gently. “I recall you took twenty very well on that occasion, but I think ten sufficient for the crime of yesterday. You have a deal more punishment to come by my hand over the next few days; you will need some respite in between.”
She jumped at his touch, his hands roving over her behind, shifting her dress and petticoats aside, while continuing to caress her buttocks. Her breath hitched as he slowly inched his way down to the divide between her legs.
“Always so wet, so ready for me, thank goodness that has not changed. You are still my perfect little strumpet,” he murmured, almost to himself.
Her wicked response slipped from her quim onto his questing fingers. She moaned. Angele loved it when he spoke to her in such lewd terms. His manipulations elicited sounds of moist seduction. He made an appreciative noise deep in his throat. Then his body heat was gone from behind, and she braced herself for the first strike to fall. Instead of the strap, his hand landed swift and true on her left buttock, followed by a slap to her right. The spanking continued, fast and furious. Angele found this strangely reassuring. She understood that he was warming her flesh ready for the strap. Gabriel had never once harmed her during a chastisement, unlike many gentlemen of his generation who treated their wives worse than their hunting hounds, either ignoring them completely, other than to beget an heir, or beating them insensible whenever they felt liverish. St. Nicholas had always remained fair and consistent in his dealings with her, generous to a fault and openly loving whatever the situation. Unfashionable it may be to love one’s spouse, but what cared they for society’s scorn, yet now Angele shuddered at the thought of society’s whispered comments and hurtful asides should any one of them see her face.
A sudden blaze of pain streaked across her bottom. He had taken up the strap. It was difficult for her to remain still. In reaction to each strike, she dipped on her toes and wagged her bottom. He did not condemn her action but continued to wield the strap, landing each line of fire consistently across her backside.
Tears slid down her cheeks; gasps became groans of discomfort, even though she tried to remain silent. She’d always had a love hate relationship with punishment. In the five years apart she had missed the feel of his strap across her arse as much as she’d missed his passionate embraces.
“Do not try to be brave, my love. I will think no less of you for weeping. As soon as we are done here, I shall take you up to our chambers and place you in a warm bath. Brace yourself, I am about to lay down the final six.”
He did, in quick succession. She cried out—how could she not? Her weeping did not halt the rise and fall of his arm. Her scorched bottom stung, and she wept, wailing healing tears. She felt alive, the pain familiar and welcome. Her body recalled that after the blazing of pain there came bliss. The slickness of her quim increased with every blow of the strap.
When it was over, he placed the strip of leather back into the drawer. She remained where she was, hoping now he would pleasure her.
“Stand and come to me, my angel,” he ordered gruffly.
Although disappointed not to feel his hands upon her, she did as he’d asked. He gathered her close in his embrace, comforting her. She wriggled impatiently. He chuckled and, bending his knees, he scooped her up into his arms. She squealed.
“I know what you were hoping for, but these sessions are punishment for your foolish notions. You will have to wait until I determine when to pleasure you, but now it is time for your bath, my sweet.”
Angele buried her head into his shoulder to hide her embarrassment as he carried her with ease through the house, up the stairs, and along the corridor that led to their chamber. How she had missed his commanding tone, his control, his hard, masculine beauty, his domination and his strength. She would need her bath if the musky slickness between her legs was any indication of her desire. She hoped that he, or, God forbid, the servants could not smell the scent of her arousal.
When they entered the chamber, they found Ivy awaiting them. The girl dropped into a low curtsy.
Gabriel set Angele on her feet, and she approached her maid.
“I am sorry it was necessary to deceive you as to my identity, Ivy. I hope that you might consider remaining with me as my permanent lady’s maid?”
The young woman smiled. “T’would be my pleasure, milady, but what of my mistress at Churchton?”
“You have no reason to worry on that score, Ivy. I shall write and inform my sister as to your change of employment,” Gabriel interjected.
“I have your bath prepared as requested.” Ivy gestured towards the screen, where steam arose indicating the copper bath lay ready and waiting.
“I shall see to your mistress’s needs from here. You may leave us, Ivy.” Gabriel dismissed her.
“A moment, Ivy. Has Mrs. Berry found a chamber to your liking?” Angele enquired, concerned for the loyal young woman she had become quite fond of over the last few days.
“Oh yes, thank you, milady!”
“Good. Well, if there is anything not to your liking, please feel free to talk to me.”
“Thank you kindly, milady. Will that be all?”
“Yes, for now. Thank you, Ivy, you may go.”
“You have become less autocratic and more concerned for the servants,” Gabriel observed after the maid had departed.
She turned to smile at him.
“That is partially my cousin’s influence. Their Italian servants are treated like family and seem to voice their opinions about everything, from what we ate to what we wore. At first, I was shocked by such informality, but when Alessandro explained that these people had given their family many years of devoted service, continuing through generations, from grandfather to grandson and grandmother to granddaughter, I realised how special the bond is between man and his servant. The revolution in France also reinforced my belief that society needs to revalue their attitude to those who help and serve us.”
He gave her an approving nod and kissed her damaged cheek so casually, it was clear to her he had not even noticed her scar. She rapidly covered the spot with her palm. He frowned.
“The scar is barely noticeable, Angele. If you stop obsessing about it, then it will become as nothing to you and those about you.”
“Do you imply that I should not wear my veil in public?” she asked, shocked by the suggestion.
He said nothing for a few moments as he helped her disrobe. Once he had divested her of the pins that held the bodice of her dress in place, he cupped her face in his palms.
“I understand that especially for a beautiful woman such as you, it must be hard to reconcile going into society, braving the inevitable remarks which would initially abound. I concede to the veil on two conditions.”
She met his determined gaze. “And they are?”
“You put aside the black, it does not suit you, and you are no longer in mourning. Your family died five years ago.”
“I only wore black initially for my family. I kept on wearing it to mourn my loss of you.”
He leant forward, kissing her lips swift and hard. “Then we are agreed, the widow’s weeds shall go.”
She gave a nod of agreement. “The second condition?” she prompted.
“That after you have worn the veil in company, that on the next occasion you meet with those same people, you leave the veil aside.”
She gasped a protest.
“Yes, Ange
le. I insist. I shall stand beside you every time you are without the protection of the veil. No one would dare to make an unkind remark in my presence, but in any case, I do not see the friends we associate with doing so.”
He was adamant, even though she argued heatedly, explaining that she needed to cover her face at functions where the guest list was wider than family and friends.
“I agree initially,” he finally conceded, “but eventually I hope that you will become confident enough to leave the wretched thing off altogether.” He dropped his hands to her hips and lifted her over his shoulder.
She giggled. Walking behind the screen, he deposited her into the warm water.
Angele relaxed into the cloth-covered bath, the linen softening the hard edges of the metal. She bent her knees and sank up to her chin, luxuriating in the heat. She pondered Gabriel’s words about her veil, relieved she had his understanding. Perhaps with her beloved’s support she might one day feel confident enough to appear in public unveiled, but somehow she doubted it.
Chapter 10
After luncheon, they retired to their chamber. Gabriel gave strict instructions that they were not to be disturbed until they rang for assistance. He undressed her and placed her gently onto the four-poster bed.
“You are exhausted. Sleep. I shall awaken you in good time to dress for dinner.”
She smiled up at him wearily. “Oui, I am fatigued, but please join me and hold me. I have longed for your embrace for such a very long a time.”
“I shall hold you until you fall asleep, but that is all for now. You need your rest. I shall awaken you with kisses on both your sets of lips.”
She giggled. “You are outrageous!”
He winked. “You, madam, are delightful!” He lay on top of the bed and gathered her close, her head nestled on his shoulder. “Close your eyes.”
She obeyed, and he leaned down to kiss each of her eyelids in turn.
“The first thing you shall see next you open your eyes, will be my face.”
She gave a sweet smile and curled about his large frame. Moments later, she slept.
He must have slept, too, because he was having the most delicious dream, one where he was making love to Angele and at the point of culmination. He awoke. The amazing sensations continued. He groaned, feeling the tide of his sap rising. He snapped his eyes open. He was lying upon his back, a cascade of blonde hair spread across his flanks. His wife’s head bobbed licentiously at his crotch. With bulging eyes, he realised that this was no dream. He was about to spend. The wonderful, wet warmth drawing him to completion was caused by the heat from Angele’s mouth. It was clear to him she had not lost her touch. There was nothing he could do to stem the rise of his seed. Within seconds, his back bowed with the heady rush of pleasure that surged up his swollen rod, filling his wife’s sweet mouth with his copious essence.
“Witch!” he accused, once capable of speech.
She slid sinuously up his body, leaning upon his chest, giving a saucy twitch of her lips. Her dancing blue eyes studied him.
“Christopher calls me that for an entirely different reason,” she told him.
He raised a questioning brow as he placed his hands beneath his head so he could gaze into her eyes more easily.
“Are you going to explain?” he prompted.
“He thinks I look like a witch because of my black veil.”
“He is absolutely right, you do,” he agreed.
She unexpectedly yanked the pillow from beneath his head and walloped his face with the soft plumpness. He gave a shout and grabbed her, rolling them both so she ended up trapped beneath him.
“So, my son and I are agreed that his mother, my wife, is a witch, therefore, I decree it must be so,” he drawled.
She gasped, struggling, attempting to smack his cheek, but he caught her wrists, holding them high above her head.
“Yet looking down upon this fair lady, with her halo of golden hair and wide blue eyes, I realise that surely I must be mistaken? For what witch has the face and hair of an angel? I think I am actually holding something unusually precious, a woman who possesses the face of an angel yet has the delightfully skilful mouth of a strumpet.”
“Mon amour, you have not changed, you still enjoy combining beautiful words with a baser meaning; you who are named for an archangel are indeed a wicked man.”
He chuckled. “And you love it when I am wicked, don’t you, my minx.” He tickled her ribs.
She snorted gleefully.
He stilled, casting her an expression of intense lust. Laughter died in her throat. They stared at one another for a long, drawn-out moment.
“Angele,” he finally whispered huskily, before lowering his mouth to cover hers.
A turmoil of emotion ripped through him as he crushed her to him. His lips seared hers. Her arms wrapped sinuously about his neck. She murmured his name against his lips. The deep kiss, succour to them both, continued for an eternity, each whispering occasional words of love in a confused jumble of French and English.
The heat built between them, the kiss becoming prolonged, their tongues mating. The tangy musk of her arousal hit him. A great need to taste her enveloped him. He pulled away from the nectar of her lips to kiss his way down her throat to her breasts, where he made a greedy meal of the ripe fruit that tipped her softly rounded flesh.
She made small delightful sounds while he sucked and nibbled her budding nipples. He noted the changes that the birth of their son had caused—the fuller orbs of her breasts, the slight paunch of her abdomen, crisscrossed by tiny silver scars. He drew his tongue over each thin line, and she fussed a little. Gabriel gently assured her that he viewed them as battle scars from her fight for the safe delivery of their son. She quietened; he hoped she digested his words.
He finally reached his destination, her honey-thatched mound, once so familiar, yet today her body felt like a fresh discovery. His own excitement was evident in his erect member which had recovered from her earlier ministrations. His cock now reared, throbbing, demanding attention and a return to home port. Well, his shaft would have to wait; he was on a mission, irresistibly drawn to her uniquely female scent, a heady mix that smelt to him of musky, scythed grass.
He had no need to part her thighs; her knees dropped open, allowing him access. Her folds were of a deeper hue than he recalled. Her labia were thicker, no doubt due to childbirth. He deftly explored the soft petals of her flesh with his fingers, revealing a familiar sight, unchanged and just as alluring to him as it had always been. Her pearl peeked shyly from beneath the pale protection of its little flesh cap. Licking his lips, he groaned at the provocative sight.
Making himself comfortable between her thighs, he leaned in to feast. First he licked her slit then rolled his tongue into a small, hardened shaft and penetrated her channel, repeating the action rapidly. She bucked, and he placed restraining hands upon her trembling thighs, continuing to pillage her. As he ran his tongue in hard circles about her inner folds, she cried out to him. He made soothing sounds deep within his throat, finally touching her hardened nubbin with his rasping tongue.
Her reaction was so violent she nearly unseated him. He sucked the miniscule scrap of flesh into his mouth, pressing it against his upper teeth. Her heels arched, her toes curled. She keened her completion shrilly. He felt certain the upper house servants would know he was pleasuring his wife. A smile of smug satisfaction slid briefly across his face—brief because he was soon back to using his mouth on his wife, bringing her to yet another crest, and a powerful wave of euphoria overtook her small frame.
He waited until the aftershocks were over before shifting up her body. Elbows either side of her head, he positioned himself at her entrance, nudging, tormenting, until she begged him to take her.
It was what he’d hoped for, how he’d loved it when she had pleaded for him to ravish her just as she did now, her voice husky, sexily raw from recent release. He ground his hips against her pelvis, and without a guiding hand, his cock f
ound its way home. He gasped with pleasure at her hot sheath enveloping him, drawing him into the heated ingress of her body. He muttered an expletive under his breath.
“Hmm?” she queried dreamily.
He snapped his hips, sinking into her, his full length and girth sheathed to the hilt. She fell silent. Her legs lifted, clasping him eagerly about the waist. He anchored her and, grasping her buttocks, plundered her furrow, until the only sound he was aware of was the succulent resonance of their mating.
Suddenly she clenched about him. Her legs gripped him like a vice, hands clawing his shoulders, her sheath sucking his length greedily. He knew she was about to succumb to a powerful orgasm. He drove himself home with renewed vigour and felt her shudder as her world imploded.
Her cries echoed about the chamber, and with a shout, he joined her in release. He roared, his emission rose from his sac, up through his straining cock, and he spilled with exquisite pleasure. Gabriel thought he might expire. He recalled the French eloquent description which covered exactly this moment. La petite mort.
Chapter 11
The following day was spent together in the drawing room, playing whist before the fire, fully catching up on the last five years they had spent apart. Gabriel answered her questions about friends, family, and staff members. In return, Angele answered his questions about her daily life in Italy with Christopher.
Although they were both anxious to be reunited with their son, the inclement weather prohibited them from sending for him. There had been some snow melt, but not nearly enough to allow such a journey.
As the day wore on, Angele became more and more despondent. Her heart was heavy with regret at her decision to play dead. She now realised how foolish she had been to put them through such torment.
The previous evening when Ivy had helped her to dress for dinner, Angele had gone downstairs without her veil. She had not thought about her scarred face after Gabriel had taken her to bed that afternoon.
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