“Yes, you see,” he said. “These sorts of activities are very important. Not only for making children, but for encouraging intimacy between us. I like making you feel good.”
“Then why did you punish me?” she moaned.
“Because you deserved it.” He stood and lifted her, and laid her back on the bed. She winced as her tender bottom contacted the wool coverlet.
“Does it smart too much?” he asked. “Let’s try this instead.” He took her about the waist and turned her over, setting her on her hands and knees. “No, don’t lie down. Stay just like this. Spread your legs wider.”
Gwen swallowed hard, holding the lewd pose. Behind her, the duke removed his dressing gown and threw it across a chair. When he returned, he pressed his thick shaft at her entrance, and she realized how badly her body wanted him, even through the pain and the shame.
“There,” he said as he slid inside her. “That’s what you needed to feel better, isn’t it? Answer me. Yes, Sir.”
She made a negative sound, not because she didn’t agree, but because she didn’t want to say it. He gave her aching backside a slap and she blurted out the words. “Yes, Sir.”
“Yes, Sir, I need it. Answer me properly.” He slid deeper inside, stretching her open. “Say it, my naughty, punished girl.”
“Yes, Sir, I need it,” she cried, as he smacked her bottom again. “I need it.”
“And you shall have it.” He drove into her with sudden forcefulness. It should have felt bad, but instead it felt marvelous and exciting. Her nipples tightened as her breasts bounced from his jolting thrusts. He pounded into her from behind, hurting her tender cheeks each time he contacted them, but her arousal grew, somehow, from the depths of this discomfort. She clenched around his driving length as he reached beneath her to stroke her quim.
“I suppose you would like to have your release,” he said.
She jerked her hips against him in answer, moaning as he tugged her hair with his other hand. “Yes. Please, Sir. I would like to.”
“Unfortunately, I don’t think you deserve it.” His delightful caresses stopped. He moved his hands to her hips and held her there, and thrust in her as before.
“I am not...allowed?” she asked.
“Not tonight. Just stay in position and let me take my pleasure. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll permit you to come, if you display a more convivial demeanor.”
She stared down at the bed, shocked. Why, did he think he could control her, even in this? She would show him. But as she tried to regain those heights of arousal, she found the ability had passed. Perhaps it was his command to the contrary, or his displeasure with her, or the fear of more punishment if she disobeyed him.
Whatever it was, it left her unable to continue to that needful peak. More tears dropped onto the sheets as the duke completed his business and pressed into her, spilling his seed. He was still for a moment, then withdrew and turned her about to face him. He tipped her chin up when she wouldn’t meet his gaze.
“Do not pout,” he said. “Show me you’ve learned something from that thrashing you took earlier. Be biddable, Guinevere. Kiss me now, and smile.”
She offered her lips and accepted his kiss as coolly as she dared. The demanded smile was weak, very weak, but she managed.
“I’ll let you in on a secret,” he said, as he drew her down beside him on the bed. “Good wives get all sorts of gratifying things.” He stroked her nipple. With her lingering, unsatisfied arousal, it caused a particular sort of pain. “Bad wives get bad things. Whippings and lectures. Disciplinary sodomizations.”
She shivered. “What is that? Sodomization?”
“A cock up your arsehole. It’s an excellent method of teaching submission to rebellious wives.”
Her mouth fell open. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“Well, now you have. Lie on your front, please. Leave your birched bottom exposed to the air a while longer.”
She soon realized he asked this for his own benefit, as he squeezed and toyed with her sore cheeks, and left her to fidget in helpless need. She was still wet as a well, with no hope of release. She understood now why everyone bowed and scraped to her husband. He was not to be trifled with. His cock in her arsehole? Shocking. Repulsive. She hoped he was only trying to frighten her with an empty threat.
I never threaten, Guinevere. I decide upon consequences, and then I act.
No, it was not a threat. He would do it if he thought she deserved it, and she would have no choice but to submit.
“We’ll arrive at Arlington Hall tomorrow,” he said, drawing her into his arms. “And I don’t wish us to begin in tension and misery, so I suggest you brighten up, and resign yourself to this marriage before then.”
Chapter Six: Good Girl
Her husband didn’t ride in the carriage at all the second day, which was just as well, since Gwen spent the entire journey alternately fidgeting and crying.
She had put away her traveling clothes and donned one of the finer gowns her father had ordered over the summer. It was pale green silk, with ruching and rosettes, and a matching fan and gloves. She took the gloves on and off and fussed with the fan, and avoided looking out the window lest she see him.
No matter how she sat, her bottom ached and reminded her of the punishment he’d dealt her. Her sex ached too, for he’d left her wanting. Those unassuaged echoes of desire still needled her. After tossing and turning all night, she decided she must act in self-preservation, and be the perfect and subservient wife until she developed some workable strategy to survive this marriage.
Then they arrived at Arlington Hall, and all her thoughts became this: God save me. What am I to do?
The duke’s country estate was shockingly vast, with forests and meadows, and acres of manicured gardens, and a long meandering roadway of cobblestones that curved between a line of trees and led right up to the house. Not the house. The palace. She could not imagine the king’s own residence was so fine. There was a circle-shaped courtyard at the front with a fountain in the middle, the same fountain from his sketch book. She gawked at it as the groom helped her alight from the carriage.
The duke strode across the courtyard to take her hand. “Welcome home,” he said.
Lines of servants assembled in arcs beside the front doorway. Her husband approached a stern-faced man at the bottom of the stairs.
“Greetings, Dorset. The staff looks smart. Thank you for the welcome. I’m honored to introduce my wife, the Duchess of Arlington.”
The butler bowed to her. “May you find great happiness at Arlington Hall, Your Grace. We are at your service.”
“Mrs. Haverford,” the duke said, turning to the housekeeper, “please ask the cook if she knows how to make any Welsh dishes. My wife is already homesick.”
He said it lightly, but Gwen knew the housekeeper was noticing her red, swollen eyes. Gwen lowered her gaze as her husband relayed a litany of orders to the butler. Bring the modiste at once, contact Mr. Beaumont in London, summon Lord and Lady Langton for tea, and oh, has my sister written while I was away? Gwen hadn’t even known he had a sister, but she apparently lived in Leicestershire, had four children, and didn’t write often enough.
“Shall we see the house, and your new rooms?” he asked, turning to her.
“Yes, I’d like that,” she mumbled. She felt utterly overwhelmed.
They proceeded up the stairs together, as each of the servants bowed or curtsied. They were all more refined than she could ever hope to be. The double front doors, which had looked so huge from the carriage, were even larger when one stood before them. The butler pushed them open and bowed again—so much bowing!—and Gwen stepped inside.
The large entry hall soared in every direction, decorated with ornate molding. A massive staircase dominated the middle, curving up and away to a second floor. The ceiling arched overhead, to a dramatic apex painted with figures of gods and angels. One hallway went to the right as far as she could see, and another to the left, a
nd another down the center behind the stairs. The duke called these “wings” as he explained the layout of the house. The east wing, the west wing, the south wing. Her own home had been a rectangular box with battlements on top, and rough gray walls, and dirty fireplaces. There had been no wings or curved staircases. There had been no angels painted on the ceiling.
“It’s very beautiful,” she said. The echoing walls collected her voice and sent it back at her as if to say, we don’t want you. You don’t belong here.
He showed her some of the first floor rooms: the cavernous ballroom, the library with row after row of shelves, the first parlor, which was green, the second parlor, which was gray, the study, the card room, the third parlor, which was blue, and the conservatory, which really just looked like a smaller ballroom with more windows. Hundreds of candles lent each room a warm glow. He must have servants whose only job was tending all these candles. She couldn’t imagine the luxury of it, the expense.
They went upstairs next, to three more hallways again, each of them lined with suites of rooms. Each and every room was aired and furnished with linens, and each had at least one large, curtained window. Today’s light was fading, but on a sunny day, Gwen imagined the house was wonderfully bright. The ducal chambers—his and hers—dominated the central hall. A pair of footmen stood by the stairs, not moving a muscle as they passed. Gwen could almost imagine they were statues.
“Why are they standing there?” she whispered.
“Because they’re supposed to be,” he whispered back. “If you need anything, you tell them, and they’ll help you.”
“Oh.” Her father’s house had servants, but you needed to pull the bell to have them come. They weren’t the sort who stood around awaiting your pleasure. What did these men do when the duke was away?
They entered a room on the right, a grand suite of chambers too huge and masculine to belong to anyone but the master of the house. The sitting room boasted deep, upholstered sofas and a writing desk the size of four of her writing desks back home. Beyond the sitting room lay his bedroom, with a wide poster bed of deep green velvet, and massive pieces of French-style furniture with carving and gold leaf. A door on the right led to a dressing room, and, as he showed her, a bathing room beyond.
She stared in wonder at the gleaming fixtures and oversized tub. “You can get hot water from below,” he said. “An ingenious new system with pumps and pipes. If you wish, I’ll have them outfit your bathing room too.”
“I have a bathing room?” She thought of her rooms back at her father’s house, her sensible bedroom with her sensible, homemade furniture, and her dressing room you could barely turn about in.
“Come, I’ll show you.”
He led her across the hallway to a room with the same oak doors, and doorknobs made of crystal. There was another sitting room, this one outfitted for a lady, with ivory and gilt furnishings and vases of daffodils to match the pale yellow drapes. The bedroom was an airy, feminine space dominated by a pale yellow poster bed. Two tall windows rose above cushioned window seats, and a marble mantel framed the fireplace. That mantel was taller than her, perhaps as tall as the duke. Above it hung a lifelike portrait of a man who looked very much like her husband, and a smiling woman in an elegant lavender gown.
“My parents,” he said when he saw her staring at it. “You would have liked to know them. My mother died like yours, from the fever, and my father a few years later, of too much drink and an ill-thought brawl.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. They enjoyed life while they lived it.” He gazed at his parents’ painting with a reverent expression. “We’ll have our portrait made when we go to London. I’ve already engaged the artist. What else is there to do, when most everyone is rusticating in the country?”
Gwen studied the portrait, thinking what a handsome couple his parents made. She wondered if the lavender duchess had loved her drinking, brawling husband, or only pretended to with her contented smile.
“Why don’t you paint our portrait?” she said, turning to the duke. “You’re an artist.”
He laughed. “Ah, but it’s very hard to paint yourself. I’ll leave the portraiture to the masters.” He moved closer and placed a finger beneath her chin. “I’m not talented enough to do justice to your beauty. I want someone who’ll capture the fascinating shade of your eyes, and the perfection of your lips. And those tiny freckles across your nose.”
“I don’t have freckles.”
“You do.” He brushed a finger across her cheeks. “I see them very clearly.”
He guided her back into the sitting room, and led her to a pair of glass doors. They opened onto a stone patio with carved balusters, overlooking a gorgeous private garden with box hedges and flowers, and miniature sized trees.
“Would you like to go down?” he asked.
“Oh, yes. Please.”
He helped her down the smooth stone stairs into the garden. How pretty it looked in twilight, how peaceful and lush.
“This was my mother’s favorite place,” he said. “She could make anything grow. The servants have preserved it in her honor, and they plant new flowers every year. Your rooms used to be her rooms, of course, although no one has lived in them for years now. The linens and draperies are new, because the old ones were fusty. I thought you would want to have new things.”
“This is all...very...” Her voice trailed off. Such luxury, and this beautiful garden just outside her window. “May I plant things too? May I tend this garden?”
“Of course. It’s yours.” He smiled at her, that warm smile that sometimes made her forget she hated him. “You may muck in the dirt all you like, but not this evening. A modiste is coming to measure you for your wardrobe. No, don’t frown. I didn’t expect you to come to me in possession of a London trousseau. It’s good that you waited. We can order things in the latest fashion and style.”
She didn’t have the heart to tell him that she hadn’t waited, that her meager selection of gowns was the best they had been able to afford. How could he understand that anyway, here in this house with a thousand candles, and crystal doorknobs, and a patio leading down to a private garden?
“Come back inside,” he said. “I’ve one more thing to show you.”
He led her through the bedroom to the dressing room, an intimate space with mirrors and shelves and little varnished chests. He lit a lamp and began opening drawers until he found what he was looking for. He turned to her, his hands full of glittering gems, a diamond and emerald necklace with matching ear clips, and a diamond bracelet, and a gaudy diamond ring. They could not be real, these jewels, or they would have been worth an entire nation’s fortune. He held the necklace up to her neck. The ornate design lay heavy against her skin and covered her entire chest.
“I didn’t want to travel with these, but they are yours now. I thought you might wear them for our wedding portrait, with your silver embroidered wedding gown. Or if you’d like more color...” He turned back to the chests and brought out a ruby strand, then thought better of it and held out a pale green one. “This tourmaline bauble would look very well with your eyes. I don’t know if there are earrings. Your lady’s maid has recorded all the sets and organized them, so she’ll know.”
Gwen thought her lady’s maid would be irritated that His Grace had pawed through all the jewelry she’d organized, and then she thought, so many jewels. A king’s ransom in jewels, right here in her dressing room, and he doubtless had many more sets of his own.
“Well,” he said, when she didn’t respond to the proffered choices. “I’m sure Pascale will know the best way to outfit you for the portrait.”
Oh. Pascale. The frowning, thin-lipped French woman she had sent away at the inn last night. Pascale would probably make her look as awful as possible in order to have her revenge. She stared at the duke as he tucked all the jewelry away, back into their wooden boxes.
“Your Grace?”
He sighed. “You might call me Arli
ngton now that we’re married, or Aidan, when we’re alone together.”
“Aidan.” She tested the unfamiliar name on her lips. “Aidan, why didn’t you marry someone more...suitable...to your social station?”
“You know why. The same reason you weren’t married three or four years ago to some honest Welsh lad.” He closed the last of the drawers and turned to her. “Was there someone in Cairwyn you loved? Tommy, perhaps?” he added with a note of mockery.
“There was never a Tommy,” she admitted.
“I know. But was there someone else?”
The mockery dissipated, until he regarded her with a very serious look. She wished she could answer him yes, that she had loved someone. She picked at one of her fingernails, then hid it in the folds of her dress. “I left no one behind,” she said. “But it would have been nice to marry for love. I always dreamed of it.”
“Don’t let anyone in London hear you say such things. They believe it’s the worst thing, to marry for love.”
“Do you believe that too?” She didn’t know why she asked. She supposed she wanted to hear him admit it, that he was rich and cold and lofty, and without a heart.
“I’m not sure what love is,” he answered with a shrug. “Is it intimacy, or familiarity? Is it what I felt when I saw you in that meadow? Is it what I feel now, that I would kill someone before I would let you come to harm? That I don’t wish you to be...”
“To be what?” she asked when his voice trailed off.
“Ridiculed,” he said. “I don’t want you to be made fun of, Guinevere. That’s why I correct you and annoy you, and why I will make you endure a course of finishing lessons with Lady Langton. I never thought to marry for love, but now that I’m married, my every care is for your security and happiness. Make of that what you will.”
That was not what she’d expected him to say. She felt her heart ease a little as she stood blinking at him, then she said, “My close friends and family call me Gwen. It’s easier to say than Guinevere.”
Under A Duke's Hand Page 7
