by Anna Edwards
“Elizabeth Sandford was the most honest. She won’t be punished as she doesn’t need it. Amelia Rushbrooke, though she answered ‘yes’, I feel would be hesitant in obeying the order. Therefore, she’ll be locked in her room for twenty-four hours with no food.” He pauses, and my heart leaps into my mouth. “Victoria Hamilton was insolent and rude. She wouldn’t obey my order and will get a harsh correction. She’ll be whipped, here and now, twenty times. That would be my right as her husband.”
I can barely take in his words. I expected a punishment but this? Whipping? It’s cruel and degrading, not to mention will leave me scarred for life and in so much pain. Is this the sort of man Nicholas truly is? I was a fool to believe he might have kindness in him. He’s lost — lost to the devil that is his father. I’m going to die. I’m twenty-one years old, a baby, and my life’s over.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
NICHOLAS
My shoulders slump in defeat, but the anger in me bubbles below the surface. I don’t want to do this to Victoria, but she’s forcing my hand. Why does she have to be so stubborn? I’ve told her just to comply with the rules, and I’ll choose her as my wife. I’ll save her life. What happens now is her fault, not mine. I have to do these punishments — they’re prescribed in the founding documentation. She could be going to her room to rest and read her books, like Elizabeth and Amelia are, but no, she had to open her mouth again and spout a load of abuse. I’m not a liar. This is my right, to have a wife chosen for me this way. She should obey me.
I hold my right hand out, and a birch is placed in it. The bunch of thick twigs is the weapon of choice of the upper classes. In eighteenth-century schools, it was used to punish naughty boys. Girl’s didn’t attend schools. Their duty was to learn how to be a wife. I remember when I was eight years old my father took a birch to me. This particular one is handed down through the generations of our family. I can’t remember exactly what I’d done, but it was something silly‒like refusing to eat my dinner of brussel sprouts. Needless to say after getting hit a few times, I have eaten the rotten vegetable ever since. I’ve experienced what Victoria’s about to receive. I was only hit a few times, though. She’ll be left broken and bruised, after twenty hard hits. I can’t temper my aim or strength with everyone watching. My father will know that I’ve gone easy on her and use it against me. He’ll demand blood, and he’ll want to hear screaming. Blood, sweat, and tears, a misinterpretation of the saying, are the things he likes to witness coming from a woman the most.
Two of my father’s assistants step forward and grab both of Victoria’s arms. She’s shocked and tries to struggle against them, but they’re too strong for her. She’s ushered, reluctantly, forward on the tips of her toes and bent over a table. The position leaves her pussy exposed for everyone to see. I step in front of her to block the view from the rest of the assembled society members. I don’t want anyone else seeing her that way.
“I’d keep as still as you can. I can’t guarantee my aim if you’re moving around.” I offer her advice in a helpful whisper.
“Fuck you,” is her response. It angers me even more, and I bring the birch up and strike down on her pert bottom. She screams, and the flesh reddens.
“One.” I count and raise my arm ready to strike her again.
“Stop.” My father’s voice fills the cavernous room.
“Your Grace.” I turn and face him.
“I’ve just remembered something.” The malevolent grin, which fills his face, has me shudder in anticipation. I’m glad that Victoria can’t see him. “There aren’t three punishments on the binding documentation. There are four.” He strides confidently over to a box in the corner of the room. “The fourth has only been used once before on my grandmother. She was insolent and rude up until that point, but after this punishment, she became the perfect broken wife.”
The men either side of Victoria let go of her — she stands up and rubs her bottom where I’ve just hit her with the birch. She turns and scowls at me. I return the look of contempt with all the anger still boiling inside of me and re-focus my attention on my father. He opens the box and pulls out an iron mask.
“Fuck,” I exclaim, when I realize what he holds, and drop the birch. Victoria presses closer to me.
“What is it?” she asks with a tremble in her voice.
“A scold’s bridle.” I gulp the same time as my stomach clenches in disbelief.
“My grandmother was placed in this and humiliated in front of the society. She was beaten and berated with no method of response that wouldn’t cut her tongue.” My father steps forward holding the bridle. He's deliberately malicious.
“I’ve already chosen her punishment.” I push Victoria aside and stand up to him.
“It’s too tame for this heathen.” My father grits his teeth together as he speaks. He shoves the bridle into my hands. It’s heavy and the ironwork rusted from its age. “Put it on her.”
“No. I chose the twenty lashes.”
“The Duchess of Oakfield needs to be subservient. Twenty lashes won’t cure Victoria Hamilton of her tongue — only humiliation will. You put her in this position, do it, or are you too weak to warrant the title of the Duke of Oakfield?” he sneers, and I want to punch him on his self-righteous chin. He knows full well that I’ll submit to what he orders of me. I want the position to get rid of him, to provide a better life for William. I’m changing, and the man I was a few days ago is dying.
The bridle weighs heavy in my hands. I look down at it. The hinged iron framework encloses the head, and a bit fits into the mouth to suppress the tongue. Many have a smooth bit, but this one has a metal spike on it. If Victoria tries to speak while wearing it, the spike will rip into her tongue.
“Put. It. On. Her.” My father’s words are slow and menacing.
I’m wavering and want to run.
I feel the warmth of another hand over mine. It’s Victoria’s. She steps in front of me and takes the bridle. She places it over her own head and takes the bit into her mouth. She gags and whimpers when the spike must hit her tongue. She bows her head, so that I can fasten the contraption up.
“Excellent.” My father steps forward clapping. “Maybe, the little bitch finally realizes that the word of man is law.”
“The word of man is all lies,” I comment quietly, and Victoria’s eyes flash up to mine in understanding.
A clinking of metal has me flick my head around quickly. My father holds a chain.
“Time to walk your dog, my son.”
He hands me the chain, and without looking at Victoria again, I attach it to her collar. This torture’s all about humiliation for the victim. In olden times, the woman was walked around the village and abuse was actively encouraged, sexual and physical. She was called a variety of degrading names and left without food or water for hours. She was humiliated in every way, shape, or form for gossiping or talking back. Men sometimes suffered the same fate, but this was primarily a punishment for women.
“Gentlemen. In the box, there are horse whips. All marks must be confined to her back. You aren’t to touch her sexually. Call her as many names as you wish, while Earl Lullington walks her in front of you. This woman has too much spirit, and, as you’re all married, I’m sure you’ll understand how harmful that can be to a man. It needs to be broken. Nicholas, proceed.”
My feet feel like lead weights as I take the chain in my hand and step one foot in front of the other. I can’t turn around and look at the pain being inflicted on Victoria. I’m a coward and not ashamed to admit it. The taunts she’s receiving are enough for me.
“Whore.”
“Bitch.”
“Cock tease.”
“Cunt.”
“Slut.”
“Virago.”
I wince at every word, and the comments are even worse.
“Learn your place.”
“On your knees and worship my feet.”
“Cut her tongue out if she doesn’t stop.”
“O
nly good for fucking.”
“Stick your dick in her mouth to shut her up.”
“Women need to learn silence.”
I make three passes. My father tells me to go for a fourth, but I feel the chain go taut over my shoulder. I turn around, and Victoria has slumped down onto the floor. I let it go and check on her. She's unconscious — her back bleeding and raw. One of the men steps forward with his whip held high.
“Enough,” I snap.
He inclines his head in a bow and returns to the line.
“You, and you.” I point to two of the guards. “Get this thing off her and return her to her room. Touch her intimately, while she’s naked, and I’ll use that sword” ‒I point to a massive metal blade hanging ominously on the wall‒ “to personally remove your hands.”
They scramble to attention, and Victoria’s limp body is removed from the room. I make a mental note that, as soon as I leave here, I’ll have my personal doctor called to tend to her wounds, not the horrendous Dr. Fredrick Fallen. The other members of the society head to the bar to pour themselves a congratulatory round of brandies.
“Happy?” I face down my father who’s picked up the bridle and is running his finger over the bit. Blood coats his digit where it must’ve dug into Victoria’s tongue.
“Indeed. Although, it’s yet to be seen whether she’s actually learned her lesson or not. If you make her Duchess the way she currently is, it’ll be the downfall of this family.”
I laugh. I can’t help it. I don’t know where it comes from. It's probably the most natural reaction that I’ve ever had in my life.
“Or she might just be the savior of it.”
I don’t wait to hear his answer because my feet are propelling me toward the door and the woman I fear I’ve just destroyed.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
VICTORIA
I don’t want to open my eyes. Am I dead? No, surely I wouldn’t be in this much pain if I were. I try to shift on the bed from my front to my back but freeze the second that I experience a ricochet of agony so blinding, it shoots through my body. I cry out. I can’t help it, which aggravates the wound on my tongue. The metallic taste of blood fills my mouth — I’ve opened a laceration.
“Wait, I’ll help you” ‒a gentle feminine voice offers ‒ “you’re still very bruised.”
“Amelia?” I recognize her soft tones at once.
“Yes,” she replies, and I feel the cover’s being shifted from my back. “Do you want to sit up?”
“Please,” I respond, and she helps me to turn over and sit. She places a soft cushion under my bottom despite the fact that I’m on my bed. I feel sick from the pain, and it makes my head spin. “What happened?” My mind feels foggy. I have a vague recollection of a mask and name calling.
I retch. The names were so cruel. Amelia puts a small bowl in front of me, and I dry heave over it. Every jolt of my body sends aches through me. I have nothing to bring up as I haven’t eaten or drunk for what seems like ages. I look down at my hand and see a cannula in it. I look up at Amelia and try to speak, but I’m breaking down.
“Breathe. It’s alright. You're safe.” She touches my hand. “Do you remember the punishment they gave you?”
I look into the haze that is my brain and remember the scold’s bridle and the horsewhips. I blank the name calling. I’m not going to remember that again.
“Yes, they whipped me.”
She nods.
“You were in bad shape. We thought you may die. The Earl called for his doctor. You have some deep wounds, which were stitched up. They gave you morphine to help with the pain and fluid to keep you hydrated. That’s why you have this.” She looks at the device in my hand. “It was thought best to let you sleep for a few days to allow your body to start healing. They stopped all the drugs this morning. I have some extra strength painkillers here if you need them.” This time, she holds up a bottle.
“Yes, please.” I don’t hesitate. Give me all the drugs you can to numb the agony in my body. The morphine drip sounds good. Maybe I could get hooked back up on that.
Amelia hands me two pills and helps me sit forward to drink some water. My throat is raw, and the water mixes with the blood in my mouth. It’s not a pleasant experience.
“They’ve advised you not to talk too much. The bridle had a spike on it, and when you passed out, it cut your tongue. It was rusty due to its age, and they feared you may lose your tongue to infection, but it seems alright. You need to rest it to let it heal.” I take her advice and nod my response rather than speak it.
I collapse my head back against the headboard of the bed, I’m grateful for the plethora of cushions that cocoon me. I already feel tired from moving just a few times.
“How long?” I ask, keeping my words to a minimum, trying not to move my tongue. I think Amelia understands me, even if I do sound stupid.
“You’ve been asleep for three days. They’ve allowed me to look after you. Well, Nicholas said I could. The Duke, he said to leave you in your own filth. I don’t like that man.” She slaps her hand over her mouth. “Sorry,” she whispers.
“I agree with you. Don’t be sorry.”
“I shouldn’t say it, though.” She looks up and around the room.
“Cameras,” I say.
“Yes. The other brother told me to be careful.”
“Other brother?” I’m confused.
She leans forward and whispers into my ear,
“William.”
“You’ve seen him.” I’m still trying not to move my tongue when I speak.
“He’s been helping me look after you. He keeps to the side, so he can’t be seen. He seems nice. A little inappropriate, the first thing he told me was that I had a bottom like a Kardashian. I’m assuming that’s a nice compliment. He was smiling politely when he said it.”
I try to stifle the laugh I feel, but when a little escapes, I regret it instantly. Damn, this pain’s terrible.
“I don’t think he’s that good with social etiquette. He’s nice, though.” I give up on the no talking. The more I do it, the looser my mouth’s feeling, and the taste of blood has gone. Of course, it could be that the painkillers have kicked in because my bottom suddenly seems to be less painful as well. “I can assure you that a Kardashian's bottom is a good one. Don’t you know who they are?”
“Not really. I’m guessing they’re celebrities, but I didn’t really have a chance to follow all that growing up. My father made sure I was prepared for being Nicholas’ wife.”
“You knew this would happen?” I ask.
“Yes. Didn’t you?” I shake my head. “It must’ve been such a shock.”
“Just a little. I’ve always been kept hidden away, but I didn’t know why, until I came here. Makes perfect sense now.”
She rolls her eyes.
“Yes, evidently, as women we’re sexually wanton. Even allowing us to go to the library on our own will risk our virginity because of all the orgies we are likely to have on the way.”
I laugh again — it hurts.
“Oh don’t make me laugh.”
“Sorry. The tasks are all prescribed in the documentation of this society — my father made me practice them, all my life. I went through every alternative.” She goes quiet and looks at the striped rug on my bedroom floor.
“You’ve had this done to you.” It hits me. “Every alternative. No punishment, locked in your room without food and water” ‒I gulp‒ “hit twenty times with a birch and the bridle?”
“He didn’t use a birch. We didn’t have one. He had a cane, though. It’s only one stick instead of a few.” She holds my hand.
“Still doesn’t stop it from hurting any less or make it any more right. It angers me that these men think they can get away with doing this.” I want to jump up from the bed and rant and rage. I want to storm to the nearest man with a horse whip, whack him across the back hundreds of times, and see how he likes it.
“Stay calm,” Amelia pleads.
&
nbsp; “We'll get through this. They won’t always win.” I move my hand so that it wraps around hers.
“I appreciate the sentiment, but I know what comes next. You don’t.”
Shit, I hadn’t thought of that.
“Amelia?”
“We're lucky because we only have to do one task, but the original wife had to do all three. Fire, sex, death.”
“Fire, sex, death,” I repeat.
She looks up to where the camera is and shuts her eyes. I shuffle forward, ignoring the pain. If I can get some insight into what happens next, then I might be able to plan for it.
“You’ll be fine. He won't give the one to you that’ll destroy you. He loves you too much.”
“What?” I’m baffled by her comment. “Amelia, what do you mean?”
She doesn’t have a chance to answer me as the secret door in my room opens, and William appears from the shadows. His face is flushed red, and he is carrying a torch.
“You have to come now.” He makes a grab for Amelia’s hand.
“William?” She shakes him off.
“There’s no time for arguments,” he commands. “He knows she’s awake.”
Both of them look at me.
“What? Who knows I’m awake?”
“Good luck.” Amelia allows William to lead her into the secret corridor.
“Good luck? With what? With whom?” I shout at them and wish I wasn’t trapped in this bed, but my battered body won’t allow me to move.
My bedroom door bursts open, and there’s Nicholas. His brows are furrowed, and he looks like he’s about to explode with anger.
“Cowards,” I whisper to myself about William and Amelia and say a little pray to the pain gods to let me pass out again. I curse them in the next breath when I’m still awake. Oh well.
“Earl Lullington. What can I do for you?
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
NICHOLAS
