“It’s supposed to hurt.”
She peered back at him in a panic, beating her arms upon the floor. His expression was stern, his bearing upright. Her new, spacious dressing room had become a very painful and unfriendly place. She’d certainly never be able to sit in this chair after being spanked like this.
“You must stop, my lord, please. I can’t bear anymore.”
“Remember why you’re being punished. It must hurt a little, don’t you think, in light of your shame and regret?”
“It hurts a lot.” She kicked a leg back at an especially hard smack. Oh, she must look a sight with her bare bottom exposed to his gaze, and her carefully arranged hair going tousled as she bucked upon his lap. “Please, I can’t survive anymore. A husband...a husband should not hurt his wife like this.”
The smacks stopped, but he didn’t release her. She was breathing hard, almost crying.
“Lower your feet, if you please.” His stern voice was the antipathy of all her pleading. “You nearly kicked me, Ophelia. Put your toes on the floor.”
“I can’t,” she sobbed. “Why are you doing this? It’s our wedding night.”
She twitched, then trembled, as his warm hand cupped her arse. His palm rubbed back and forth, replacing the stinging pain of the hairbrush. His gentle touch only seemed to intensify the lingering sting. “Indeed, it’s our wedding night, Lady Wescott,” he said in that same stern voice. “And as your husband, it’s my right to discipline you when you require it. I shall take that charge seriously and guide you when I need to. You all but begged for punishment to expiate your guilt.”
It was true she’d felt trapped by guilt, stuck in a never-ending spiral of anxiety about the way they’d met. But how could this help? She hung her head and squeezed her eyes shut.
“Once you’ve been punished,” he went on, “you’ll find it easier to move past your guilty feelings. Now, you must submit to the rest of your spanking so you can feel better afterward.”
“How...how much longer will it be?”
“I’ll stop when you feel punished enough. You must trust me, now that we’re wed.”
God save her. Of all the men to marry, why did it have to be him? Now she must submit to his discipline, because screaming or crying for help wouldn’t work, not in his house, where the servants were loyal to him. With an aggrieved sigh, she lowered her feet to the floor as he’d instructed her.
“That’s better,” he said. “Hold this position, if you please.”
“I don’t please.” She braced herself for the pain to begin again. “But I don’t suppose I have a choice.”
A moment later, the spanking resumed. Oh, the hairbrush stung so badly. Perhaps it would be possible to wash away her sinful behavior through this agony alone, for it was the worst pain she’d ever felt. Another blow, and another. Sometimes he alternated cheeks, landing a sharp smack right in the middle, and she’d smother a shriek and think how much she despised him. Some servant, somewhere, had to be hearing this spanking, and her crying, which only added to her punishment’s shame.
* * * * *
Wescott shifted in the chair so his new wife couldn’t feel his jutting erection. He was spanking her for earnest reasons, to mitigate her guilt, but he was enjoying himself in the process. Her pert, round arse was so perfectly formed, he was half tempted to lift her and impale her immediately upon his cock.
But no, that would be bad form. He was punishing her for a reason, and he had to take care to do it right. He had to hold her just so, enough to support her, but not restrain her in a frightening way. He had to temper each spank to a specific degree, for if he spanked her too hard, her arse would go numb, and the pain would be less effective. Too softly, and she wouldn’t receive the punishment she needed in order to feel changed.
Her hairbrush was the perfect tool for the occasion, just the right weight for a proper spanking. Now and again, his bride kicked and struggled, but for the most part, she submitted, and he began to hope their marriage might work out after all.
When her bottom reached a uniform, splotchy red, he noticed her sobs growing less resentful and more pitiable. When she cried without decorum or reservation, he knew she’d been punished enough. He put down the hairbrush and gave her a few final spanks with his palm, just to experience the feeling of doing so. Her arse cheeks were so soft, so hot. There would be bruises tomorrow to remind her of her punishment. He’d show them to her in a mirror if she said anything else about feeling guilty. Now, definitely, she’d paid her price.
As for his part in their encounter at the inn, he did not feel guilty. He’d married her, for God’s sake. He would take care of her, be a good husband as far as he was able, and that was his punishment—the lack of his former freedom, and the loss of Townsend’s friendship. It was a heavy price, but one he was obliged to pay.
He brushed her nightgown back down over her scarlet bottom and hoped he hadn’t gone too hard this first night. He helped her to her feet, then drew her into his lap when she tried to back away.
“A proper spanking’s not over until we talk about it,” he said.
She turned her head against his shoulder. “I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Why? Because I punished you? You needed it.” He rubbed her back as she still shuddered with the occasional sob.
“It hasn’t worked as you said,” she accused. “I still don’t want to be married, and I’m still ashamed you took away my virtue. I wish you’d leave me alone.”
He shushed her and pushed her hair from her eyes. She looked a mess, tearful and red-faced and messy-haired, ready to scream at him if only she had the courage to do it. “There, now,” he murmured. “It’s over. You must calm down.”
She squirmed on his lap, his hard thighs doubtless increasing the pain in her spanked bottom. He told her to be calm, but he knew she wouldn’t be for some time. A woman’s first punishment took a bit of time to digest.
As for spanking his own wife, instead of a painted courtesan in a flagellation parlor, that was an entirely new thing. A rather interesting thing. Her disordered gown, her pouting, trembling lips, her indignant expression...all of it was true and real, and incredibly arousing. His cock ached for her, pounded with a more intense desire than he’d ever felt after spanking the harlots at Pearl’s.
“Enough squirming and sniveling, Ophelia.” He guided her against his chest, stroking her back and shoulders. “You took your punishment well for a beginner. You are a beginner, aren’t you?”
She sniffled, her cheek sliding against his robe. “Of course I’m a beginner. I’ve never been spanked before, because I’ve always been very good. I’m sure I didn’t need to be spanked by you, of all people. I don’t feel better, or less guilty, and I think... I think you merely enjoyed hurting me.”
“Shall I spank you again?” He joked, but she jerked back and stared at him. She didn’t recognize his dry humor. How little they knew one another.
“What is your favorite color?” he asked, because he thought he ought to know something, anything, about his wife.
She shifted with a grimace. “Pale yellow, I suppose. The color of daffodils.”
“Ah, the color of your gown today. That’s exactly what I thought when I first saw it—daffodils. And you wore it to become my bride. How wonderful.” He touched her chin, then her cheek, meaning to comfort her. “I’m sorry today was difficult for you. I’m sorry you had to submit to a spanking on your wedding night, but you mustn’t say it was because I enjoy hurting you. If I truly enjoyed hurting you, I wouldn’t have married you at all.”
“You had no choice,” she said peevishly. “Nor did I.”
“I had more choice than you. I could have made it seem you were the responsible one, rather than taking responsibility myself.”
She crossed her arms over her chest, hunching her shoulders. “No one would have believed you, since you’re the acknowledged rake.”
“I wish you wouldn’t call me names, Ophelia. If you make a habi
t of it, I shall have to make a habit of taking this hairbrush to your bottom.”
She gave him a look of icy reproof. “How uncivilized you are. I wish I could have married Lord Townsend. He’d never think of spanking me.”
It took all Wescott’s strength not to laugh at that, since out of all of them, Townsend had the greatest fondness for exacting strict discipline.
“Lord Townsend is not your husband,” he told her. “I am, with all the rights and privileges that entails. So, dear wife...” He set her on her feet. “I believe we ought to be getting to bed.”
She followed him into her bedroom calmly enough, and got under her covers to await him, but when he started to remove his robe, she burst into tears.
“Must we do that?” she asked. “Must we lie together and repeat what we did at the inn?”
He froze, surprised by her outburst. “Why wouldn’t we?”
“I can’t. Not yet, please. My bottom hurts. You just spanked me, and you married me when I didn’t want to get married, and now...now you want to do that to me again?”
“Curse you, woman, you enjoyed it before.” His memories of that night were scattered at best, after all that had come afterward, but he was certain she’d enjoyed herself in the moment. He remembered her shaking in his arms, not the bad, frightened shaking she was doing now, but warm, wild shaking. “Do you remember how things went that night? You clung to me, flush with satisfaction.”
“Please don’t remind me of that. I didn’t know how sinful it was.”
Sinful. Wescott’s spirits sank. She felt guilty as ever, spanking or no.
“See here,” he said, raising his voice. “What happened that night was a mistake, yes, but we’ve moved past it. We’re married. I’m your husband, you’re my wife.”
“I know.” Her tears increased, her voice rasping as it rose. “But I can’t... I can’t yet. Not tonight. I don’t know how I would manage it. Please, you must understand that I’m not ready. I just...can’t.”
Scoundrel and pervert that he was, his tastes did not extend to rape. His erection ebbed, because these weren’t the type of tears that aroused him.
“What can I do to soothe you?” he asked, tying his robe closed.
“You can leave me alone. Please, you must understand. I did not want this marriage.”
“So you’ve said several times, but it’s happened, so what shall we do now? Sleep apart, as if we aren’t married at all?”
“Yes. At least for now. At least...tonight.”
She was crying, practically weeping, for fear he would exercise his marital rights. How his friends would laugh if they could see him now.
“Very well,” he said, not very kindly. “I’ll leave you alone if that’s what you wish.”
“It is what I wish, especially since we must travel tomorrow. Thank you.”
He had more to say on the subject, and many misgivings to express, but he held his tongue and left the room. He’d been trained in statecraft and governance since birth, due to his father’s high station, and one thing he’d learned early on was when to stay silent and bide his time. She would not be swayed tonight, it seemed, especially since he’d taken a hairbrush to her arse.
For now, he would retreat and consider his options, and take solace in the fact that he was the husband, and at some point in the near future, he would eventually get his way.
Chapter Seven: Another Lesson
Ophelia came awake to the sounds of a large house preparing for travel. Servants called to one another downstairs, loading baggage carts that would go before them to Wescott Abbey, her husband’s country estate.
She sank down beneath the covers, pulling them over her head. If she was quiet enough, and hid here in the bedroom, might they all leave without her?
“Lady Wescott?”
Her new maid’s voice quashed that daydream. Rochelle was English, not French, and while French maids were considered more fashionable, her own had run off and deserted her, so Ophelia was glad for Rochelle’s English manners and kindly smile. Jacqueline had been a bit tart in her interactions, as if she hadn’t found Ophelia worthy of her service.
Jacqueline is gone now, she reminded herself, and you’re a married woman. She was Lady Wescott, rather than Lady Ophelia. She was stuck with her husband’s name forever and ever, which was unfortunate, since she didn’t like him very much. He’d spanked her on their wedding night, which had to make him one of the worst husbands of all time.
“Lord Wescott has sent you a note, my lady,” Rochelle said, presenting it to her in bed, propped on a shiny silver platter.
She took the folded card, embellished with a gold-embossed W, and opened it with some trepidation. Would he scold her for last night? Would he threaten more spankings? Would he be pleasant, as a husband should?
Dear Ophelia,
I trust you’ve slept well. I’d like to leave by noon.
Wescott
So he would do neither thing, but be so bland and polite that it unsettled her.
“Could you have a breakfast tray brought up?” she asked Rochelle. “I’d rather not go down.”
“Indeed, my lady. I’ll send a footman at once.”
Her husband wished to leave by noon, did he? Perhaps she’d dawdle over breakfast until 11:59. Perhaps she’d ask the maid for an intricate chignon that would take the better part of an hour to execute, and then be indecisive over which gown to wear.
But the memory of the previous night’s punishment came to her when she shifted her still-sore hindquarters, and she sighed and rose to get ready. After picking at her breakfast tray with little appetite, she donned a pale blue gown with a matching bonnet. Rochelle kept her to schedule, her agile hands pinning hair and fetching gloves with none of Jacqueline’s sullenness.
So Ophelia found herself handed up into the carriage a full hour before noon. Her husband greeted her in all his handsome, despicable glory, having already taken up a place on the forward facing seat. There was nothing to do but sit beside him, like a true, happily married couple headed to their country honeymoon.
“Good morning,” he said, as she settled beside him, not quite touching him.
“Good morning, my lord.”
“Still ‘my lording’ me?”
She had the distinct impression he might have rolled his eyes.
“Pardon me,” she said. “I was attempting to be polite.”
He thumped the carriage’s roof, signaling the groomsmen they were ready to set off. It would take hours to reach the Abbey, as it was situated beyond the Arlington country estate in Oxfordshire, hours to be alone together in strained companionship. At least Lord Wescott’s carriage was comfortable. This was not the one they’d ridden home in yesterday, after the wedding. The seats were plusher, and the light-colored interior gave an expansive feel to the enclosed space. The windows were large enough to provide distraction.
“Do you like it?” he said, waving an arm at the compartment.
“It’s a fine carriage. Very modern and new.”
“Just delivered this morning, to replace the one I lost in the fire. I’m quite pleased with it.”
She squeezed her gloved hands together in her lap and withheld a sigh.
“It barely jostles,” he said in the silence. “It’s got the newest suspension system, and larger wheels for rutted country roads.”
“How lovely.”
“Do you enjoy the country, Ophelia?”
Would he persist in this stilted chatter the entire trip?
“I haven’t spent much time in the country,” she said, turning to the window. “When I was home from school, we stayed in town. My mother preferred it.” She inched another fraction away from him. He was so large, and felt even larger in the closed compartment.
In answer, he crossed one of his long legs over the other and heaved a sigh, not having the manners to withhold it as she had.
“What else shall we converse about?” he asked. “We’ve a long way to travel. Perhaps we can ge
t to know one another better.”
“Like a courting couple?” She twisted the wedding ring on her finger. “A bit late for that.”
He sighed again, even more loudly. “Will you hold it against me forever?”
“Hold what against you?” The despoilment at the inn? The marriage? The spanking last night? “Of what do you speak? You’ve wronged me in so many ways.”
He gave a tight, pointed laugh. “I saved your life, if you’ll be so kind to remember it.”
“Someone else would have, if you hadn’t.” She liked to believe that, anyway.
“And I’m sure you would have shown an equal lack of gratitude to whoever that poor fool was,” he said.
“I would show more gratitude to you for saving me if you hadn’t ruined me at the same time.”
“For God’s sake!” His loud exclamation startled her, as did his expression as he uncrossed his legs and fixed her with a glare. “If you had said one word to stop me, one word of caution or hesitation, none of this would have happened. If you’d uttered one word of who you were, one word imploring me to leave you alone—”
“I have told you, I did not realize what you intended.” She matched his strident voice, so much that it hurt her throat. “I knew nothing that night of loveplay and seduction, and you—” She drew a sharp breath. “From your talents, it’s clear you knew too much.”
“You disparage my ‘talents,’ wife? You took such pleasure in them.”
“As have many women, from what I understand. I suppose it’s difficult to move from London and leave all your bachelor conquests behind.”
“If you mean Lady June, the woman I intended to marry, she’s already moved on to someone else. She’s to wed Lord Braxton within the month.”
“I mean those other women, who are not ladies. The type of woman you thought I was.” His eyes darkened as she spoke. She should have stopped, but her high emotions carried her past reason. “I overheard my brother talking to my father after we were engaged, about your many assignations and adventures in brothels.”
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