How she struggled then, kicking and arching, pretending she hated this invasion when she only wanted more. She needed more, to assuage the growing pressure in her middle. He held her down, whispering lurid suggestions she only half heard. She was more concerned with reaching the peak that had started building the moment he lay atop her. I want. I need.
“I need...” she cried.
She couldn’t express what she needed, but he stroked her cheek and said, “I know.” He buried his face in her neck and grasped a fistful of her hair. It hurt when he pulled it, but it excited her too.
This was so hot, so active. His strength no longer frightened her. No, his strength made this all the more spectacular. His power, his will, and her surrender to the way he made her feel. Each time he pushed inside her, the visceral slide triggered more waves of pleasure, until they built to a shivering peak.
“It’s all right,” he said. “Let go, Guinevere. Let it come.”
She had never in a thousand years imagined their joining would feel like this. She wanted to let go, but what would happen then?
How easy it was to become lost in another person’s body. She had done it in the meadow, to an extent, but this was so much more powerful, because he held her down and forced himself inside her again and again. Her body clasped around him where he filled her. Her need exploded amidst his raw words and the stretching pressure, and the world fell away. Marriage, anger, love, rebellion, fear, all of it fell away, replaced by spiraling physical bliss.
Her sisters-in-law had told her nothing about this. She wondered for a moment if this was not supposed to happen, if this was some failure in her, but then she was too transported to care. She gasped because she hadn’t the energy to scream, and hooked her trembling legs around his. He was still buried within her, pumping and jerking. He let out a deep groan which ended in a shudder, and then he came to rest.
Gwen lay beneath him, staring at the ceiling and hearing the occasional rumbling shout from downstairs. At last the duke raised up on his elbows and gazed at her, his blue eyes burning with a new intensity.
“That’s done then,” he said. “I’ve been inside you. You’re officially mine.” His voice was light, as if he jested still about marauders and consummation, but Gwen thought of his earlier words, when his voice had been resolute and deep. I own your wealth, I own your property, I own the children you have yet to bear...
If I ask you to join me in bed, you will put aside whatever impedes you and join me in bed. Do you understand?
Just like that, all her pleasure fled. She couldn’t bear his weight upon her. “I can’t breathe,” she lied, pushing at his chest.
He drew back and lay down beside her. When he moved as if to stroke her cheek, she turned away and pulled up the sheets, wishing to cover herself.
“I’m cold.” Lies. So many lies.
He moved again so she could hide herself beneath the ivory linens. “Are you all right?” he asked after a moment. “Is there anything you require?”
“No. Nothing. I’m very tired now.”
He made a soft sound that might have been mockery. “I imagine you are.”
She pressed her fingers against her eyes. After his sneering and haughty lectures, after all his hateful behavior, he had had his way with her and she hadn’t said a word to stop him, nor governed her own lewd impulses. He had taken her, all of her, and she’d reveled in his commanding possession. It made her so ashamed.
“Are you all right?” he asked again, slipping under the sheets beside her. The bed dipped, so she rolled closer to him. His arms came around her before she could scoot away. “Are you hungry or thirsty? Would you like some wine?”
“Perhaps a bath,” she said, although she felt too wrung out to rise from the bed.
“No bath,” he said gently. “No washing it away.”
It. His seed and her own lascivious spendings, and the humiliation that burned beneath her skin.
“You may have a bath in the morning,” he said. “For now, you must sleep. We’ve a long journey tomorrow.”
That did it. Tears rose again, and no amount of pressing on her eyelids would stop them. She held the sheets to her face and lay very still so he wouldn’t notice. But the duke noticed everything.
“Are you crying?” he asked. “England will not be so bad.”
England? As if she worried about England, with this fearsome man pressed against her back. He murmured soothing words and she pretended not to hear as her tears overflowed. Liar. Wanton. Captive princess.
“Don’t cry,” he said in the dim light. “It makes me want you again. And we shouldn’t, tonight.”
“No, not again.” She bawled the words, as if he was threatening to whip her, or torture her. He gathered her to his chest and settled her head against his shoulder.
“Sleep now,” he whispered. “It will get easier in time.”
Next Gwen knew, it was bright morning, with banging and raised voices at the door. Her father reeled in, along with two of her brothers, the local constable, and the village vicar.
“We’ve come to look at the sheets then, and see that everything’s in order,” her father drawled. Gwen gasped as he dragged the top coverlet aside, exposing her to the cool air. She clutched her arms before her, thinking herself naked, but at some point, someone had put back on her shift. She stared down at the blood smeared on the linens. There wasn’t a lot, but enough to mollify her father, who drunkenly saluted the duke and staggered back toward the door.
As for the duke, he stood fully dressed by the window. The day’s light glinted in his golden hair and reflected off his tailored gray riding coat. His lips made a moue, then relaxed into something that was not quite a smile. “It’s time to leave for Oxfordshire, my darling. Rise and put yourself in order, if you can manage it, and say your goodbyes.”
Chapter Four: Finished
Aidan rode beside the coach until they stopped to stage the horses at midday. He didn’t sit inside with her because he assumed she would want privacy to grieve. She was leaving an entire life behind with her removal to Arlington Hall. She was losing a family, a home, a secret meadow, even a much-loved horse that was too old and feeble to endure the trip. He was not the only one who’d made sacrifices for this marriage, he reminded himself. He doubted they would visit Wales very much.
But with patience and fortitude—a great deal of fortitude—he knew he could make her happy in England. She’d be impressed with the luxuries of Arlington Hall, his country manor, not to be confused with Arlington House, his Berkeley Street mansion in town.
His new duchess would socialize in kingly circles, make the acquaintance of highly regarded persons, and be invited to the ton’s most exclusive events. Aidan would dress her like a princess, ordering gowns so ornate and ostentatious that ladies would gossip behind their fans about the expense. He’d buy her a new horse, the best that could be had, and shower his bride with jewels until they overflowed from her trunks.
She would have a built-in social set too. His best friends would help launch Guinevere in society. Townsend and his wife Aurelia, Warren and Josephine, Barrymore and Minette. The ladies would take his new wife under their wings, and by the time the season commenced in the spring, all would be functioning smoothly. Jewels and trusted female friends to prattle with. That was all any respectable woman needed to be happy. Everything would be fine.
Then why are you avoiding her? Why is she riding in the carriage alone the day after your wedding?
After they stopped and stretched their legs, and took a bit of refreshment, he climbed into the coach with her and sat on the opposite bench. She met his eyes for a moment, then looked down at her lap. She should not be so afraid of him. He wanted her respect, yes, but not her terror. He took off his gloves and hat and placed them on the seat, thinking how quiet and still she could be, like a prey animal caught in a predator’s stare. He was that predator.
“It’s a few hours yet to Dryesdale,” he said. “We’ll take dinner the
re, and spend the night.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
He wondered how long she would persist in calling him “Your Grace” now that they were married. “Have you stayed at an inn before?” he asked out of curiosity.
“No, I haven’t traveled much.”
“You ought to look at me when you speak, and not mumble.”
She gave him a sharp glance, a Guinevere glance, full of conflict and loathing. It would not do.
“Come here,” he said. “Come sit with me.”
She hesitated a moment, as if waiting for him to slide over on the bench. Instead he pulled her into his lap. She fit perfectly there, her head beneath his chin and her back against his chest. He’d held her like this in the meadow, but she wasn’t that same woman anymore. She draped her legs to the side, pressed primly together. He drew a fingertip across the bodice of her tragically sensible gown, then teased the tip of one of her nipples. Her hands came up to impede him.
“Don’t,” he said. “Let me touch you.”
“But—”
He put his hands over hers and set them down upon her thighs. “Leave them there.”
He must train his bride to trust him, using the only weapon at his command—pleasure. After a moment, he felt her capitulate. Her gloved fingers spread open over the dark beige fabric of her skirts.
“That’s better,” he said.
He traced over her nipple again, then searched for the other to give it the same teasing stimulation. It wasn’t difficult to find it. Both of them stood out in little points against her fitted bodice. She was utterly silent, so still he couldn’t even feel her breathe. Her only outward reaction to his caresses was the occasional twitch of her fingers. When he’d teased her enough, he slid a hand beneath the fabric and took one of her nipples between his fingertips. She moved her hands again as if to stop him. At his sharp sound, she returned her palms to her thighs.
“What do you think of this?” he murmured in her ear.
“It hurts when you pinch me.”
“Do you like it?”
“No, Sir.”
He slid his hand over to torment the other sensitive peak. He could see her biting her cheek against a cry, or a moan. With a secret smile, he withdrew his hand from her bodice and started gathering up her skirts. She wore pretty silk stockings, not as pretty as the ones he would buy her, but still very elegant upon her long, well-formed legs. “Hold your skirts here,” he said, placing her hands over the bunched fabric. “Hold them up here at your waist.”
“Why?”
“Open your legs for me, darling.”
“What are you going to—”
“Open your legs.”
His insistent tone silenced her questions. She inched her thighs apart.
“Wider.” He put his hands on her knees and spread them open, and draped them over either side of his legs. “Are you holding up your skirts?”
“Y-yes,” she stammered, gathering them up again where she’d let go. “But...”
He parted her curls and slid his fingers into the velvety folds of her quim. He felt her go tense again, but he had no intention of hurting her. On the contrary, he meant to enjoy her reactions, even bring her off if she could manage it in her agitated state.
“Relax,” he said. “I want to make you feel good.”
“Now? In the coach?”
“Why not? It’s only us here.” Her hips moved ever so delicately as he located her hidden pearl.
“But...you shouldn’t,” she said. “You can’t simply molest me at your whim.”
“Can’t I?” He pressed his cheek closer to hers. She smelled sweet and flowery from her morning ablutions. “It’s a pleasant enough way to pass the time. Besides, you like it.” He could feel moisture gathering as he stroked her. He drew the slickness upward, swirling it around the swelling flower of her sex.
“This isn’t proper,” she said.
“I’m not concerned with propriety at the moment. Nor should you be, my wet and wanting wife.”
“I’m not wanting.” She could not deny the wetness, poor lady. Her body betrayed her, turning liquid beneath his fingers.
He made a gentle sound to soothe her. “It’s a fine thing to enjoy your husband’s caresses. This wetness is a natural reaction. Don’t be ashamed.”
Her hands had curled into fists around her skirts. He played with her as the coach rumbled on, exploring her pussy, discovering what made her go limp and quivery against his chest. “That’s a good girl. Keep those legs open for your husband’s pleasure.”
She made a small, choking sound. He went back to teasing her nipples through her bodice, while simultaneously flicking, stroking, and massaging her pussy’s folds. The more excited she got, the more tightly she squeezed her hands. “Take off your gloves,” he said when her fingers began to tremble. “I want you to touch yourself too.”
She shook her head in a very decisive way. “I can’t possibly do that.”
He gave her pearl a sharp pinch. “Yes, Sir is the correct answer. We discussed this yesterday. Now, take off your gloves. Just one, if you prefer.”
With a sigh of irritation, she took off one glove and laid it aside. He collected her hand and guided it beneath his, down to her damp and heated flesh. “Touch yourself where it feels the best. Stroke yourself. See if you can make yourself come.”
She didn’t ask what he meant. Surely she remembered that delectable peak from last night, when she’d tossed beneath him in the throes of ecstasy. Though she resisted at first, he pressed her until she uncurled her fingers and joined him in stroking her sex. He helped her at first, until he could feel sensation take her over. Her eyes closed, her lips going soft as she leaned her head back.
“Yes, that’s it. This sort of touching feels lovely, doesn’t it? I’ll teach you to pleasure me too, my fairy queen. There’s so much for us to learn about each other.”
“I’m not a fairy queen,” she murmured, distracted.
“You’re whatever I say you are, darling, and I’ll teach you to do all sorts of things proper ladies don’t do. I’ll teach you to use that lovely mouth of yours on my earlobes and my neck, and my balls, and my cock.” He pushed this last against her backside, so she could feel how rigid he was.
She inched forward. “I can’t... You shouldn’t...”
“Yes, Sir, I am eager to learn what pleases you.” He pulled her back against the hard evidence of his arousal. “And so I shall teach you, my dear. I’ll show you how to caress me in different ways. Light, soft, rough, teasing.” As he said this, he demonstrated on her pussy, and then thrust a pair of fingers inside her. “If you’re a good wife, and learn all the things I like, I’ll give you more pleasure than you can imagine. Does this feel good?”
“Yes,” she breathed. “It does.”
“Do you want to come for me?”
She tried to turn into him, to hide her face. “Oh, please. I can’t.”
“You can. I want you to.” He eased his fingers in and out while she continued to stroke her pussy. His other hand squeezed her breasts and teased her nipples, caressing them, maintaining them in permanent, aroused points. “That’s it. Make yourself feel good. Let your whole body come alive with pleasure, and when you’re ready, finish it.”
“How will I know—when—?”
“You’ll know.”
Her hips moved with her exertions, and his fingers surged into her sheath with a mounting, steady rhythm. He watched her face, saw her bite her lip hard. He wanted to kiss that poor, bitten lip. He wanted to kiss every inch of her and bury himself inside her, but this erotic show was too magical to interrupt. She gave a gasping cry, and the walls of her sex contracted around his fingers. He pressed them deep inside her, massaging, encouraging her climax to full fruition. Her feet curled around his calves and her spine arched against his front. Then she fell boneless in his lap, her ecstasy spent.
“I told you that you would know,” he whispered against her ear. He lifted her hand and
drew her fingers into his mouth, licking them, savoring her feminine scent. She stared up at him with a combination of horror and shock.
“You’re delicious,” he said. “You ought to take a taste.”
And like the world’s most innocent courtesan, she opened her mouth and accepted the tips of his lust-slickened fingers, licking them off until his cock was far past aching, and his hand clean enough to thrust back into his glove.
* * * * *
Gwen sat in their private dining room at the Dryesdale Inn, sneaking glances at her husband, uncertain how she ought to feel. She wished she felt in love, but she did not feel that, not in the slightest. She felt something more akin to anxiety, and disbelief that she was actually his wife. Since they’d arrived, the staff had done nothing but scrape and bow to the duke, and hover, and bustle about bringing things and taking things away before one could even ask them to do it. May I freshen your wine, Your Grace? Is the duck to your liking, Your Grace? Shall we bring more cranberry sauce, Your Grace?
Gwen wanted to hate her husband, but somehow she found herself in the same sickening thrall as the servants and staff. How grand he was, how effortlessly commanding. His manners were so smooth and all his glances were the speaking type.
She wanted to defy his authority and stand up to him, but she feared she hadn’t the power to do it. She was terrified to make an enemy of him. For goodness sake, she’d licked her own spendings off his fingers in the coach because he told her to. He’d said scandalous things and described scandalous acts, and she’d thought, I know I will do them. It seemed the whole world bowed to his will, every groom, every servant, every lady and gentleman. They all fluttered and nodded and murmured Yes, Your Grace, and she knew she would do it too.
“Your Grace. Your Grace?”
The endless groveling. Gwen shut her eyes, wishing she could clap her hands over her ears and disappear.
Under A Duke's Hand Page 5
