Under A Duke's Hand

by Annabel Joseph

  “They’re talking to you, dear,” came the duke’s voice. “You’re a ‘Grace’ now too.”

  She opened her eyes and blinked at the liveried servant. “I’m sorry. What did you ask?”

  “He asked if you would like some smoked eel and black pudding.”

  “No,” she said quickly. She’d barely touched what was already on her plate.

  He waved a lazy, lace-cuffed wrist and the eel dish was whisked away. “You should eat more of your dinner,” he said when the servant was gone.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “You’ll be hungry later. I’d like you to eat.”

  That’s precisely why I choose not to eat. Gwen knew she was being childish with these petty rebellions. Even if she could find the appetite to eat, she was sure he’d find her table manners lacking. He constantly scrutinized her—and constantly found flaws. She took a small bite of duck so he would stop staring at her.

  “You must cut with your knife and eat with your fork,” he said. “Not stab the flesh and gouge it from the bone. I don’t see any cave fires about.”

  She wanted to stab him. She wanted to poke her fork right into his eye. Instead she cut another piece of duck with exaggerated gentility, then left it to congeal on her plate.

  “Much more prettily done,” he said. “No, don’t frown at me that way. You must understand that life in London will not be like life in Wales. You’ll only earn the regard of the ton with the finest social graces and impeccable manners.” He looked her up and down, with that cool, dissecting gaze. “I suppose you’ll do well enough once we get you a proper wardrobe and some finishing lessons.”

  “I don’t need finishing lessons,” she said. “I’m already finished. I’m twenty-two years old.”

  “Even so, you’ll be obliged to improve yourself if I wish. Now that you’re a duchess, you’ll have to move within the highest echelons of society.”

  “Oh, must I?” Irritation gave her an unruly tongue. “Perhaps it would be more appropriate to keep me in the barn with the pigs and chickens.”

  His gaze didn’t waver. “Why would I do that?”

  “Why indeed? You behave as if I’m no more cultured than an animal, wallowing in the mud and eating from a trough.”

  “I mentioned a cave, not a trough.”

  The abominable man mocked her. “A barn. A trough. A cave,” she snapped. “You might stow me anywhere out of the way, so long as I don’t offend your aristocratic sensibilities. Why, it would make the most sense to set me loose in the field with the brood mares. They’d understand me perfectly.”

  His lips tightened. “Are you done with your tantrum? Have a bit more duck.”

  “I don’t want any duck. I don’t like duck.” She put down her silverware and glared at him. A servant came bustling in to take her plate but the duke waved him off.

  “She’s not finished.”

  “I am finished,” she told the servant. “You may take my plate.”

  The servant stared between them, goggle-eyed. The glint in her husband’s eyes had frozen to hard blue ice.

  “Do not think to engage in a battle of wills with me, Guinevere,” he said. “Not now or ever. You’ll always lose.”

  “Do you believe so? I’m awfully willful,” she retorted. “That’s why no one else would marry me.”

  “No one else would marry you because your father is an ambitious opportunist who was wise enough to save you for better things. I’m sorry if you were led to believe otherwise.”

  He said these words calmly, and studied her reaction as he studied everything else. Gwen wondered if he spoke the truth. For so many years, no man had courted her. She’d believed it was her appearance, her uncommon height, or her poor skill at conversation. But according to the duke, her father had kept her lonely and marginalized in order to fulfill his ambitions.

  “Statecraft,” he said as she glowered down at her plate. “It makes pawns of us all.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “You do, but it’s all right to deny it.” He gave her a sympathetic look. “I know this is difficult, and that you are being fractious as a form of protest. No matter. I’ll have cured you of such tendencies within a few days. Eat something.”

  Gwen gripped her silverware in rigid fingers and very properly cut the wee tiniest, most miniscule sliver of duck any person ever carved, and brought the speck of meat to her lips.

  The duke watched her chew it with wee, tiny little bites, then beckoned the innkeeper, who hovered right beside the door. The portly man hurried over and sketched an obsequious bow. “How may I assist you, Your Grace?”

  He turned and smiled at the man. “If you’ve a fresh birch rod anywhere on the premises, I’d like it delivered to Her Grace’s rooms at the first opportunity.”

  The man nodded and bowed even lower. “I’ll have one assembled, Your Grace, right now, fresh as anything. One birch to Her Grace’s room without delay.”

  “Splendid.”

  Gwen found the bit of duck had lodged itself in her throat.

  Her husband turned back to her as the innkeeper scuttled away. “If you’re certain you’re completely finished, darling,” he said with daunting emphasis, “then let us retire upstairs.”

  Chapter Five: Discipline

  Aidan felt rather proud to have made it one full day of marriage before spanking his wife. In this, of course, he outlasted his friend Townsend, who had spanked his wife on their wedding night, before he even bedded the woman.

  Ah, well. Disorderly wives craved orderly consequences. Acting out was a plea to be taken in hand. Guinevere’s stunt with the tiny piece of duck was funny, yes. He might have laughed, but there was nothing amusing about a power struggle within a marriage. By nature, he must lead and she must follow. He must rule and she must obey. He must discipline, and she must bend and take it. It wasn’t anything she hadn’t earned.

  While the inn staff assembled the necessary birch rod, Aidan’s valet freshened him up, scraping away stubble, applying cologne, and offering a somber-hued dressing gown that was perfect for the occasion. The man was excellent at reading his moods.

  Aidan dismissed the servant for the night, and passed through to the adjoining chamber. He found his wife in a chair by the fire, still dressed in her traveling clothes. He regarded her a moment, then crossed to stand by the mantel.

  “I brought a lady’s maid on the journey specifically for your use,” he said. “She would have helped you dress for bed.”

  “I can dress myself.”

  “Her name is Pascale. She’s French, and came highly recommended from the Duchess of Winningham’s service.”

  He received no thanks for procuring this most desirable of servants, the French lady’s maid, who must now be stewing in the servants’ chambers. He received nothing but a vitriolic stare.

  “Why are you so angry?” he asked. “What have I done to you, to make you dislike me with such fervor?”

  “What have you done?” She got to her feet, her hands in fists. “You questioned my virtue, repeatedly, when you were the one dallying with village girls a mere day before we were to meet.”

  “One village girl, who happened to be you, so I don’t see how that counts.”

  “You’ve also sneered at my family and their hospitality, forced me to perform unnatural acts in your traveling coach—”

  “I don’t know if I forced you, darling.”

  “—criticized my table manners, and humiliated me before the innkeeper by asking for a birch rod to be delivered to my room.”

  “What else was I to do? I needed one.”

  As if on cue, a knock came at the door. Aidan opened it and accepted the fresh birch from a blushing maidservant. He inspected the bundle of slim, straight withes, then tapped it against his palm to test its mettle.

  “Undress,” he said to his wife. “Let’s get this unpleasantness over with.”

  She stared at him. “You don’t really mean you are going to... I thought you only me
ant to...to threaten me.”

  “I never threaten, Guinevere. I decide upon consequences, and then I act. Now, will you undress, or shall I do it for you?”

  She answered with a bit less bravado. “I don’t want to undress. I don’t want you to punish me. I haven’t been birched since I was a child.”

  “That probably explains the extent of your willfulness. As I said, I’ll train it out of you.”

  When it became apparent she wouldn’t undress on her own, he crossed to her and turned her about, and began working at her laces. One good thing about his lustful bachelorhood: he was very quick at managing ladies’ clothing. He unlaced her bodice and pulled her heavy, voluminous gown over her head, disregarding her half-hearted attempts to impede him. He stripped off her petticoats next, and her underthings, her shift and stockings.

  “You will tear them,” she said, as he bent to tug the latter off her kicking legs.

  “I’ll buy you more. Better ones, befitting a duchess.”

  “I despise you.”

  He straightened and gazed at her. She glared back, her arms covering her breasts.

  “All I did was ask you to eat something,” he said. “It was a simple request I made for your well-being. Your peevish behavior has nothing at all to do with my actions, and everything to do with your frustration and determination to annoy me.” He took her arm and led her over toward the bed. “Since I dislike being annoyed, I shall teach you not to do it again.”

  “You’re not going to teach me anything,” she cried, pulling away from him. “Except to hate you more.”

  “If you don’t learn anything, then the lesson will be repeated until you do. Bend over, darling.”

  As expected, his hellion refused. With a sigh, he forced her down over the mattress, drawing her flailing hands behind her back. Pressing her to the ticking with one hand, he lifted the birch with the other and gave her a smart whack across her bottom. She made a muffled sound into the sheets, her muscles held rigidly tight. She was trying to be brave, he supposed, and remain unaffected.

  But it was very difficult to pretend a birching didn’t hurt.

  * * * * *

  Gwen bit the inside of her lip as the birch connected again. It hurt so much worse than she imagined. Each blow felt like a thousand pin-pricks spreading out across her backside. Before she could recover from the sting, he swatted her again. She was determined not to give him the satisfaction of hearing her beg for mercy. He was bigger than her, much bigger, so he could bend her over this bed and punish her with his godforsaken birch rod, but he couldn’t make her change her attitude. He couldn’t make her stop hating him. It would take much more than a birching to accomplish that.

  But oh, it hurt so badly. She tried to be still, but her body jerked and squirmed instinctively. Ow, ow, oww. First she would hear a swish, and then a horrible whack as pain exploded in spreading heat. Then she’d wait, trembling and fearing the next.

  “How many times are you going to strike me?” she asked after an especially smarting blow.

  “As many times as it takes to break you, my dear.”

  A soft whimper escaped her, and she hated the sound of that whimper. It was her first show of weakness. Now he knew he was hurting her. Of course he knows he’s hurting you, Gwen. Her bottom must be beet red by now, striped all over with livid birch lines. She bit her lip harder. She would not, would not give him the satisfaction of hearing her mewl and weep, although she wanted to mewl and weep more than anything. She went up on her toes as he whacked the underside of her buttocks.

  “Not feeling it yet?” he asked.

  Good God, she was feeling more pain than she’d ever felt in her life. The sting’s intensity built with each stroke, or perhaps he hit her harder. The birch caught her under her bottom again and her legs kicked up in agony. How long would this go on? He would not ease his hold on her wrists, even when she began to struggle. Another whack. That one was definitely harder.

  “Feeling it now?” he asked.

  “No,” she said stubbornly, but it came out like noooo...

  “I suppose your punishment will continue then,” he said.

  Oh, how she hated him. But he would get his way eventually, she knew. She couldn’t hold out much longer. Her bottom radiated heat, her buttocks clenching at each tormenting stripe of the birch. Moisture squeezed from her eyes, as much as she didn’t want to cry. The tears fell anyway, dripping down until the blanket beneath her was damp. She lost the battle to be quiet. A shriek erupted from her lips, a rough, desperate squawk. Not no, or stop. She would not beg. But she cried because it hurt, and because he wasn’t going to stop until she bent to his will. Swish, whack. Swish, whack. Swish, whack.

  He owns you. He controls you. Give up and accept your fate.

  She tried to steel herself, tried to keep the sobs inside, but they burst out anyway. How would she sit in the carriage tomorrow? Why was she enduring all this only for refusing to eat?

  But it was not only that. She was being punished for refusing to respect his authority. Much good it had done.

  “I won’t— I won’t—” she began.

  He paused. “You won’t what?”

  “I won’t...” She could barely talk, she was crying so hard. “I won’t be peevish anymore. I’ll be...respectful.”

  She told herself it was not capitulation. She only said it to make the punishment end. But in her heart, she knew she would guard her temper around him now, lest this sort of punishment be repeated. And so he had broken her after all, and taught her a lesson, and it made her want to scream and spit and throw things.

  “Very well,” he said. “Three more strokes, and then a bit of corner time so you can think about what you’ve just said.”

  She hoped the last three might be gentler, now that she had given in to him, but they were the hardest yet. She shuddered at each one, bawling into the sheets. At last he placed the birch rod on the bed and lifted her upright. Her bottom throbbed as he led her to the corner closest to the fire.

  “Put your hands on the wall,” he said as he positioned her. “No rubbing your backside. That sting you feel is part of your punishment.”

  As he said it, Gwen realized her buttocks felt almost as hot now as they had felt under the birch. Perhaps even hotter. Fresh agony bloomed every time she shifted. She put her hands on the wall and leaned her forehead against the back of them.

  “While you wait there for the next few minutes, think about how you’ll do better next time.”

  I’m going to think about how much I hate you, she said to herself.

  While she endured this humiliating “corner time,” she heard the duke moving about the room. He stowed the birch rod in one of the trunks, poked at the fire, and put out the candles.

  I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, she thought.

  And I feel so very sad.

  I miss my family, and my home in Wales.

  I’ll never love you, and I have always dreamed of a loving marriage.

  My bottom hurts almost as much as my heart right now.

  After what seemed like an hour, but was probably only ten minutes, he said, “Come here.”

  She turned, but she didn’t want to go to him. He stood by the bed, still in his rich, dark dressing gown. She felt very naked and ashamed as she crossed to his side. The worst part was the way he looked at her, as if he pitied her.

  She could not bear to be his object of scorn. She wanted to go home and curl up in her childhood bed, and escape all of this. She broke down in ugly tears as his arms came around her. She didn’t want him to hold her but there was no one else to do it, and she was so sad.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “Let it out, all your misery and frustration. You’ve had a trying pair of days.”

  “I want to go home!”

  He held her closer and rubbed her back. His dressing gown felt smooth beneath her cheek.

  “I know it’s been a difficult adjustment,” he said. “Cry for a while. Let those feelings go.�
��

  So she cried, and cried, and cried until she felt too wrung out to cry anymore, and then he sat on the bed and pulled her into his lap, and she cried some more against the curve of his neck. She felt utterly demoralized. Defeated. How depressing, to yearn her entire life for love and closeness, and end up with this.

  “There now,” he said, when she finally ran out of tears. “I suppose that birching wasn’t much fun for either of us, but we’ve straightened some things out. You’ve learned that revolt and disrespect won’t be tolerated, and you’ve had a good cry. May I kiss you?”

  Gwen sat unmoving, her face hidden in his neck.

  “Very well,” he said. “But I’m still going to take you to bed. You can expect to accommodate me every night. It’s the best way, you know, if we wish to start a family. Heirs are important to a dukedom. Are you eager to have children?”

  She blinked at his friendly, conversational tone, as if he hadn’t just birched her so awfully. Yes, I would like to have children. No, not with you.

  He slid his palms down over her shoulders and to her chest, and cupped her breasts. “Are you eager for children?” he asked again.

  “I don’t know.”

  He rolled her nipples between his fingertips with a thoughtful expression. She hated that it felt good, that he was arousing her when she did not wish to become aroused. He pressed kisses beneath her earlobe, and on her neck. He pinched her nipples again. “Spread your legs for me.”

  She felt too worn out to fight him, so she obeyed. He placed his palm right over the place that most liked to be touched, and teased her sensitive spot with the tip of a finger. She bit her lip again, this time to hold back sounds of pleasure. She would not make those sounds for him. She would not.

  But it became very hard to maintain her control as he slipped his fingertip over and around that little nub of flesh. The teasing tingles set her whole body trembling. She wanted to protest and say no to him, but it would be ridiculous. She was wet as a river. Her head fell back against his shoulder as he stimulated her, urging her toward release.