by Viola Morne
"It's the gossip I can't stomach. Pack of nosy old women." Snow signaled a footman for his own glass.
Frost took a sip. "Can't blame them. You've given them so much to natter about. The elusive Earl of Snow weds the Widow of Woe. That's what Grub Street called her. Quite the scandal in its day."
"Don't call her that." Snow picked up the Times and leafed through it.
Frost lifted a brow. "Do I detect a frisson of dare I say it, loove?"
Snow snorted. "Love? I swore off that long ago. Call it convenience with a touch of lust."
He remembered Isabelle's lush curves in her bath this morning. He'd gone back to his room to spend himself, helpless with desire.
"More than a touch."
"Ah, I'd heard she was handsome. Thought she must be, to tempt you. Any money?"
Snow shrugged. "Her portion was moderate. I need an heir and she's an enticing piece. She was living with her brother, practically a prisoner. She wanted an escape and I wanted her."
"And yet, I feel you are leaving so much out." Frost looked him over shrewdly. "You've chosen your shackles. I suppose you'll learn to live with them."
"I haven't tried shackles yet." Snow grinned. "Silk scarves...now that might be more appropriate."
"You intrigue me. Is she docile?"
"Where would be the fun in that? Her obedience is something we're working on."
Frost gave a wistful sigh. "Almost you convince me to take the plunge myself. You must allow me to meet your paragon."
Snow eyed him thoughtfully. "Soon, but not yet, I think."
"You know how I always like to share your enthusiasms, my dear Snow." Frost ran an elegant finger around the rim of his brandy glass.
"I remember." Their eyes met. Snow was the first to look away.
* * * * *
Isabelle stared at the guest list with increasing dismay. The elite of the ton were all there, including many people she had known during her first marriage. Lord and Lady Merritt. No, it was too much.
"You asked to see me, Lady Snow?"
Her husband's secretary, Nigel Trent, portfolio overflowing with papers, bowed awkwardly.
"Thank you, Mr. Trent. I have a question regarding the guests for our evening reception. There is someone on that list whom I do not wish to invite."
Trent frowned. "I'm afraid his lordship himself has already approved the list."
"Do you mean you will not honor my request?"
Trent blinked. "No, my lady, of course I am only too happy to serve you. The dilemma is that only his lordship can make changes. Those were his instructions."
Isabelle pressed her lips together. "Thank you for your time, sir."
Trent stiffened slightly at the obvious dismissal. "It was my pleasure, Countess." He bowed again and left the room. Isabelle marched over to the bell pull.
"Warwick, is my husband at home?"
"I believe he is in the study, my lady."
"Very well, don't bother to announce me." She stomped down the hall and hammered on the heavy oak door.
"Enter."
Snow looked up from his desk. "My dear, what a pleasant surprise. You do not usually beard the lion in his den."
Isabelle stood in front of Snow's desk. He remained seated, which made her feel like a schoolgirl about to be chastised.
She clutched her skirts. "It's about the guest list for the reception. There is someone on it whom I never want to see again."
Snow leaned back in his chair. "Pray enlighten me, my love."
"It's Lady Merritt. She was my sister-in-law and she, well, she despises me. I don't want her coming here."
Snow set down his pen. "And yet I plan to invite her. Her husband is an old friend of mine, as well as some sort of second cousin. I'm sorry."
Isabelle sucked in a breath. "I won't have it. I won't have that odious woman here, spreading her poison and ruining the evening."
Snow picked up his pen and made a notation on the paper in front of him. "I don't believe I asked for a debate on the matter. The invitation will stand."
Isabelle ground her teeth. "No! You cannot invite that woman!"
Snow looked up. "I beg your pardon?" he said in a soft voice that frightened her.
Isabelle clenched her fists and paced in an agitated circle. "You don't understand! How she treated me when I was married to Charlie, how cruel she is. I will not allow it."
Her husband stood up. Isabelle swallowed. The glint in his eye was disquieting.
"As I said, I am sorry that this woman's presence will be an inconvenience. However, in view of my close relationship with her husband, they will be invited. Now we will address your lack of respect in speaking to me in this extraordinary fashion. Madam, you will be punished for your insolence."
Snow brushed past her and locked the door. He placed a heavy chair in front of his desk and turned it around, leaving a good distance between the back and his desk.
"Bend over the chair and lift your skirt."
"I will not!"
"So much heat. I have warned you that bad behavior will be treated accordingly. Over the chair, now."
Isabelle stood without moving for several seconds, before she sighed and bent herself into position. She pulled up her skirt.
"Your petticoat as well."
She started to speak, but he cut her off.
"Don't bother to argue, it fatigues me."
She sighed and shimmied up her slip, bunching both skirts around her waist, feeling horribly exposed.
"Place your hands on the seat." One hard hand stroked over her buttocks, while the other was placed firmly on her lower back. Smack! The impact shook her frame. Another smack on the other cheek. She braced her hands. The slaps came quickly after that, until she had to bite her lip to keep from crying out. Finally the blows stopped. She heard Snow move away.
"Maintain your position. I have a few more letters to write."
"But..."
"Silence is also a requirement."
She heard the scratching of his pen. She stood there, bent awkwardly over the chair, with her sore, heated bottom in the air. At times, Snow paused his writing and she could feel his eyes on her. A wave of humiliation made her face feel as red as her buttocks must be. The pen stopped again. She heard a drawer being opened and closed, and sensed his warmth behind her. His hand closed possessively on her bottom and squeezed. She flinched. Snow laughed softly. He walked around the chair to stand in front of her.
"I had this made especially for you, my love." He brandished a thin oval paddle made of a light-colored wood. "I'm sure you will find the sensation...stimulating."
He stood behind her once more, rubbing her back. Dread of the paddle warred with the soothing sensation of his hand. The paddle suddenly descended with a sharp sting. Isabelle hissed. That hurt. The punishment started in earnest then, raining down on her already smarting backside. Just as she reached the screaming point, he stopped. He caressed her cheeks again before lowering her skirts and assisting her to stand up. She felt a little dizzy and very sore.
Snow lifted her chin. "No tears, my brave one?"
Isabelle gritted her teeth. "I never cry."
Snow kissed her lightly before whispering, “But never is such a very long time, isn't it?" He patted her cheek. "I believe we are expecting callers. I will see you in the parlor shortly."
Isabelle clenched her fists, torn between pain and outrage. "You can't possibly expect me to entertain visitors like this?"
"I certainly do. It is your duty as my wife." He slapped her smartly on her bottom once more and unlocked the door.
She swept past him without a glance and stormed off down the hall, accompanied by his low chuckle.
* * * * *
The evening was a dazzling success, judging by the number of people crushed into the Earl of Snow's Audley Street mansion. Isabelle, a smile pasted on her face, stood stoically by her husband's side as she greeted the seemingly endless stream of guests who mounted the stairs. Snow's connection
s boasted some of the bluest blood in England. They were all uniformly cordial, if not warm, in welcoming her to the family. Snow's sister, Lucy, now married to diplomat some years her senior, was one exception. The earl's friend, Leighton Frost, was another.
Lucy had embraced her with affection.
"Isabelle, you've altered scarcely a whit since school! How delightful it is to see you again."
This was accompanied by a mischievous smile. Isabelle smiled nervously in turn. Her husband had evidently primed his sister about their fictitious relationship. Lucy winked and moved down the receiving line.
Mr. Frost, whom Snow presented as one of his oldest friends, was generally accounted the handsomest man in London. From the top of his golden head to his immaculate evening pumps, he was perfection. Sensuous lips, a slightly aquiline nose and the coldest blue eyes Isabelle had ever seen, accompanied a well-cut figure, slightly above medium height.
"Lady Snow, it's a pleasure to finally meet you. Your husband has kept you hidden away for far too long."
Frost bowed over her hand. He surveyed her thoroughly, and then his gaze dropped to the expanse of bosom displayed by the low-cut gown the modiste had insisted was all the rage.
He pressed a kiss into her palm. "I hope to become more...intimately acquainted with you in the future."
Isabelle stepped back and Frost immediately released her. He smiled and passed down the line, greeting her husband and exchanging a few pleasantries with the other guests.
The Beaufort sapphires her husband had given her before the ball glittered in the candlelight, their weight a brand of possession. Isabelle chatted and danced, ignoring the headache which kept growing in proportion to the noise in the ballroom. She turned from listening to a discussion of family bloodlines with two of Snow's elderly aunts to encounter the hard stare of Lady Merritt, her former sister-in-law.
"You've certainly fallen on your feet, my dear sister," she said, with a hard smile.
"Leticia, thank you so much for coming. You look lovely." Isabelle clutched her fan.
"Spare me your hypocrisy. I don't want to be here anymore than you want me to be. If my husband hadn't insisted, I would be home with a glass of wine, toasting my dear Charlie. How quickly you've forgotten him."
"I've forgotten nothing," Isabelle said, "nor forgiven."
"You jumped-up little whore! Charlie was worth ten of you. But you made him wallow down in the mud with you. He would still be alive if not for you!"
The ivory spines of Isabelle's fan snapped audibly.
"You were always blind about your brother. He was a drunkard and a cheat who did his best to ruin my life!"
Leticia's slap resounded through the ballroom, followed by a shocked silence.
"I will never forgive you, you worthless slut. I wish you were as dead as Charlie." Leticia's raised arm was halted in mid-swing by Snow.
"I believe we've had enough excitement for one night, ladies." He dropped Leticia's arm and beckoned to Lord Merritt. "Your husband will escort you out. I believe you are suffering from a migraine and need to leave." Leticia sputtered, but Merritt arrived to pull her away.
Snow turned to Isabelle and offered his arm. "May I escort you into supper, madam?"
She placed her fingers on his sleeve, his large warm hand closing over her cold one. What a disaster. She prayed her husband would forgive her for creating such a sordid scene.
* * * * *
Isabelle watched with relief as the last of their guests straggled towards the stairs. Her face ached from smiling. She curtsied to the Beaufort aunts, her husband's arm rigid beneath her fingers. He was still angry.
"Lord Snow, what a lovely evening, quite the success." The lovely Mrs. Meldrum leaned forward to tap Snow's free arm with a flourish worthy of a younger coquette, affording any interested party a clear view of her extravagant cleavage.
Snow thanked her with a smile while Isabelle ground her teeth inaudibly. Madam Meldrum was not the first attractive woman to single out her husband this evening, but quite possible the rudest. She had barely acknowledged Isabelle throughout the evening and now attempted to pass by her with the briefest of nods.
Isabelle extended her own fan with a graceful gesture. "Thank you so much for attending, Mrs. Meldrum. I'm sure the view was enjoyed by all." She dropped her gaze to the neckline of that lady's gown, where her large breasts threatened to escape their confinement.
Mrs. Meldrum gasped, and Isabelle turned to address the next guest, leaving her to flounder in outrage.
"Sheathe your claws, little cat," Snow murmured in her ear. Isabelle pretended not to hear him as she watched Mrs. Meldrum flounce away.
"A palpable hit, countess." Leighton Frost bowed over her hand. "I look forward to our next encounter."
Isabelle smiled but did not reply. Mr. Frost made her feel uneasy, with his predatory gaze and cold eyes. She wondered at his friendship with Snow. What could they possibly have in common?
And then it was over. Warwick closed the door on the last of the guests. Isabelle heaved a sigh and pressed a hand to her aching head.
"Tired, my love?"
"Merely a slight headache, my lord." Isabelle looked up her husband. Snow's expression was the stern one which filled her heart with dismay.
"Come and let me attend to it." Isabelle protested but he would not be gainsaid. Snow led her down the stairs and through the hall to his study. Isabelle trailed after him.
"Sit down." Snow pressed her into a chair. He walked over to a large cupboard, and opened the lock with a key retrieved from his vest pocket. He retrieved a small square bottle containing a milky-colored liquid. He filled a glass half full with water and carefully added a few drops of the liquid. He stirred it for several seconds.
"Here, drink this down. It should help with your headache."
Isabelle took the proffered glass. "What is it?"
"Just a small dose of laudanum."
Isabelle recoiled. "I don't drug myself."
Snow raised a brow.
"Ever."
"Very well. I won't force you. I sought merely to make you feel better."
"Quite the sea change for you, isn't it? These little trips to your study usually end in me feeling much worse."
Snow's face froze and Isabelle swallowed. Blast her unruly tongue. He set down the glass with a thump.
"Over the desk, madam."
"What?"
"I thought to spare your punishment tonight because you are tired, but you have managed to change my mind with this astonishing display of insolence." Snow turned her around and urged her over the desk. She attempted to rise, but he forced her down.
"That's enough, Isabelle. Now grasp the edge with your hands. Do not let go or you will be very sorry."
Isabelle heaved a sigh. "I already am."
He pushed up her skirts up around her waist, tucking them under her body.
"Now what implement to use? The hand seems barely sufficient based on all your offenses, and I believe you are developing quite a fondness for your paddle." Snow turned to the cupboard again. "Perfect."
Isabelle sensed him approaching, heard a whoosh of displaced air before a rattan cane smacked onto the desk beside her. She jumped off with a scream.
"Not so hasty, my love."
He pressed her back down, and re-arranged her skirts to bare her bottom once again. One large warm hand pressed on her lower back while the other insinuated itself between her legs, parting her and sliding a long finger inside her. She tried wiggle away from his questing hand, but Snow held her firmly in place. He pulled his finger out, and pushed it back, thrusting firmly. Isabelle's legs fell open. She moaned. Snow leaned over her, pressing another finger inside.
"So wet already, my wanton little wife."
She writhed, captured by his rhythm in spite of herself. A warm weight grew inside her, building, building, until Snow removed his fingers. She heard that horrible swishing sound again, and the cane cracked against her buttocks. Red hot agony lanc
ed across her skin. A pause as if he were waiting for her to absorb the pain, followed by four more swift strokes.
"Stop!" she screamed.
"No." Her husband's voice, cool, implacable.
Five more strokes landed on her shrinking skin.
"Have you anything to say for yourself?"
Isabelle turned her head. "Have you fucked every woman that was here tonight?" She heard Snow's swift intake of breath.
"Five more, I think."
The final strokes hurt so much that Isabelle thought she might faint. She struggled against the pain, unwilling to give Snow the satisfaction. He leaned over her, the pressure on her smarting buttocks nigh unbearable.
"The only woman I fuck now is you," he said in her ear.
She heard the cane clatter to the floor and Snow's footsteps walking away from her. He opened the cupboard again and walked back. A pungent herbal aroma. Snow soothed an ointment over her tender flesh.
"This is arnica; it should help with the pain and bruising."
Isabelle lay quiescent, all fight gone out of her for the moment. He pulled her skirts back down and helped her gain her feet. She staggered slightly and he grasped her arm. He raised her face.
"Still no tears, my love."
A sound, somewhere between a laugh and a howl stuck in her throat.
"I never cry."
"I am beginning to believe you."
Holding her arm, Snow assisted her down the hall and up to her rooms on the first floor. He dismissed her maid, shut the door and undressed her himself. He took down her hair and brushed it, pulled a night rail over her head and bent her over the end of the bed.
Snow pushed up her gown, fondling the welts he had inflicted. He parted her legs, touching and stroking her until an inadvertent moan escaped her. A pause. His rigid member replaced his fingers, rubbing along her, thrusting gently just inside and then leaving, until pleasure mixed with pain.
As her tension ebbed, he grasped her thighs, opened them widely and slid inside. She burned, inside and out, as he drove into her without tenderness. Her defenses shattered, she opened to him eagerly, knowing nothing but the glide of wet, hot flesh and the wicked ecstasy of completion. He held himself immobile while his seed emptied into her and then withdrew, all without saying a word. He pulled down her night rail and helped her under the covers, then kissed her forehead lightly and left the room.
