Under A Duke's Hand

by Annabel Joseph

  She wished she was a better writer, so she could explain how devastating this was. She felt like she was losing herself.

  Papa, I don’t know how much longer I can survive his exacting authority. He is impossible to please. Sometimes I believe he truly despises me, and when I do not behave as he wishes, he punishes me in a brutal and unfeeling manner.

  Well, perhaps that was making things sound more dire than they were, but she must convince her father to come to her rescue. The duke did punish her with the birch that once, and the marks had stayed for three whole days.

  Even worse than the punishments is the way my husband subjects me to his lewd whims. He commands me to do things which no gently reared woman should endure. I cannot describe them here; decency will not allow it. When I try to resist his advances, he forces me to his will.

  She stopped again. He’s never forced you to do a thing, her conscience whispered. She was the weak, wanton one who melted whenever he touched her. But he was indecent with her. That was not in question, and if her father knew it, perhaps he would find some way to extricate her from this match. They were leaving very soon to go to London, and once they were there, she knew she would never get away. They would attend an audience with the king and queen, and the duke would paint a rosy picture of their marriage and expect her to do the same.

  And that would be that. A lifetime with this haughty, unfeeling aristocrat who didn’t love her.

  Somewhere out there, she knew there was a man who would love her, a man who would treasure her for who she was. She was not a bad person; she was only in a bad marriage. She couldn’t bear to think this was her eternal lot in life.

  Papa, if there is any way you can free me from this nightmare and bring me home, I beseech you to do it.

  With much love (and desperation),

  Your only daughter Guinevere

  Perhaps it was a little over the top. There was nothing to do for it now. She must post it before her husband discovered what she was about. Even if it was written in Welsh, he would find a way to read it. She made sure it was well sealed and went to find the housekeeper with the missive secreted in her skirts.

  * * * * *

  Aidan looked down at the note in his hands, then back at his servant. “You’re certain that’s what it says?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  The man’s tone sounded apologetic; he’d blushed red to his collar. Aidan had been blindsided by the contents of his wife’s letter, and having this man witness it made it even worse.

  “That will be all,” he said by way of dismissal, and the footman—who had been recently hired for his knowledge of the Welsh language—bowed and left the room.

  Aidan stared down at her swirling text, and then at the translation penned by his man. He could not pick out the part that disturbed him most. The entire letter devastated him, and the fact that she had attempted to send it in secret devastated him more. He’d only just returned from acquiring a gorgeous horse for his duchess, but all the pleasure and anticipation of gifting the horse had flown. He didn’t want to give it to her now.

  “Your Grace?”

  “I do not wish to be disturbed,” he told his butler. “Close the door.”

  “Yes, Your Grace. Shall I tell Lord Warren and Lord Barrymore to call at another time?”

  Aidan lifted his head and blinked, and shoved the offending pages beneath some other papers on his desk. “No, I would like to see the gentlemen. Are they in the first parlor?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  Warren and Barrymore, thank God. He needed some friendly faces right now. By the time he reached the most sumptuous of the three parlors, his friends had already helped themselves to the brandy.

  “Arlington!” they exclaimed when he crossed to shake their hands. The men waved off his handshake and gave him back-pounding hugs, congratulating him on his marriage.

  “Don’t spill your drinks on me,” he said with feigned irritation. “It’s barely three in the afternoon.”

  “There’s the proper fellow we know and love,” joked the white-blond Earl of Warren.

  His other friend, the Marquess of Barrymore, was as dark-haired as Warren was light. Both men looked at him in expectation.

  “Well? Tell us everything,” said Barrymore. “Are you enjoying the married state? How is your wife? Is she pretty? How was Wales? How was your wedding?”

  “Is she a hellion?” asked Warren. “Does she think you’re grand as anything? Is she short or tall? Have you spanked her yet?”

  Aidan crossed to pour his own drink. “Sorry. I’ve already forgotten all your questions.”

  Barrymore jabbed Warren. “He’s forgetful. You see? I’m guessing it’s due to lack of sleep.”

  “Let’s hope so,” Warren concurred in a suggestive tone.

  Aidan turned back to his friends. “What are you two doing here?”

  “We stayed away a week, so as not to disturb your honeymoon,” said Warren. “Although the ladies begged us to come sooner.”

  Barrymore nodded. “We could barely hold them off. They’re back at Somerton with Townsend and Aurelia, and have charged us to tell them everything about your new wife since they couldn’t travel with the young ones.”

  “And Minette is to have her own babe soon,” said Warren. “Barrymore revealed that bit of news last week.”

  “Goodness, Minette to be a mother. Congratulations, Barrymore.” Aidan could hear the strain in his voice. His friends studied him as they took seats before the fire. “I suppose you’ve come to terms with it by now, eh, Warren?”

  “I’m working on it,” the earl replied in a grim tone. Warren had always been devilishly protective of his sister, only to lose her in marriage to his equally devilish best friend. Aidan had watched last year’s dramas and agitations with smug amusement, never realizing he’d be in the midst of his own wedded drama so soon.

  “Can we meet her?” asked Warren. “Where is she? Have you hidden her away? Is she ugly as sin?”

  “She’s not ugly, and I haven’t hidden her,” said Aidan. “She does a fine enough job of that herself.”

  “She hides from him,” Barrymore said to Warren. “I can’t say it sounds promising.”

  “We’ve only been married a week,” Aidan said in his defense. “And my bride was not as willing as I’d hoped.”

  “Bother.” Warren tilted his head. “I’m sorry.”

  “If anyone can bring her around, you can,” said Barrymore.

  Aidan would have thought so until an hour ago, when he’d intercepted her letter.

  “If things are uncomfortable, we needn’t meet her now,” said Warren. “The ladies can wait for their gossip about your new duchess, like everyone else.”

  “No, you can meet her. She spends most afternoons in my mother’s garden. We’ll go look for her there.”

  A servant informed him that Her Grace was indeed strolling in the garden, so Aidan led his friends out to the walled sanctuary. “Guinevere?” he called. He heard a rustling, and saw her peek from a behind a row of shrubs in the corner. She’d taken off her bonnet and gloves to attack an overgrown flowerbed.

  “Oh,” she said as the men walked up. She brushed a bit of hair off her face, leaving behind a smudge. “I was just... Well. These plants are too close together. I was clearing some out.”

  “With your fingers?” Aidan asked. “You might ask the groundskeeper for the appropriate gardening tools. Or enlist his help.”

  “Oh,” she said again, and this time she brushed her hands on the silk skirt of one of her new gowns. He set his teeth against the impulse to scold her, and considered whether he ought to dust the dirt off her face.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt you,” he said. “Two of my best friends in the world have come to call, and they would like to meet you. This is the Earl of Warren and the Marquess of Barrymore.” He indicated each man, and Guinevere made a curtsy. “Warren, Barrymore, it’s my pleasure to introduce my wife Guinevere, the Duchess of Arlingt
on.” Not exactly my pleasure, he thought to himself, because I’m angry at her for her letter, and she generally hates me. But manners were manners, so he stuck to the accepted script.

  His friends stuck to the script too. Both of them exclaimed how honored they were to meet her, and took her bare, dirty hand without any indication she was soiling their fingers. Gwen ought to have spoken next, to offer tea, or inquire if they would like to stay for dinner, but instead she stood in silence, her cheeks blushing pink.

  “This seems a lovely garden,” said Warren. “I always wanted to come in here when I was a boy. Will you show us around?”

  Aidan silently blessed his friend for easing the awkward moment. That was normally his forte, but he did not feel up to it at present. He studied his wife as she walked around the garden between his friends. She seemed nervous but polite. She gave no indication that she’d just written her father a letter of scurrilous accusations about his behavior. She did not know yet that he’d read the letter.

  Oh, but he would tell her later, when he punished her for her damnable deceit.

  * * * * *

  The duke’s friends stayed to tea and then dinner, telling engaging stories and drawing conversation from Gwen in such a natural way that she did not feel self-conscious. They were so easy to get along with, she could barely comprehend that they had grown up together with Arlington. Her husband occasionally gave her looks that made her think he was angry. She supposed she annoyed him with her manners and conversation, and he was unable to chastise her in front of company. In fact, his friends kept him busy the entire night, as the men stayed at drink and conversation long past the time the duke normally visited her rooms.

  What a relief, not having to submit to his carnal demands. She wished his friends would stay for a week and distract him from her company, but they left the following day just after luncheon in order to return to their wives.

  Gwen prayed she would be leaving soon too. She had given her sealed letter to the housekeeper, beseeching her to send it at once, and the lady had bustled off to do so. That was one benefit of being a duchess—servants listened to you and did what you asked. Now she chewed her finger and paced her sitting room. With luck, the letter would reach Cairwyn and her papa’s hands by week’s end, so he could come to her aid before they removed to London.

  A brisk knock sounded at the door. Since she had dismissed her lady’s maid, Gwen answered herself. A footman held out a silver tray with a gilded notecard. Gwen unfolded it and read the bold script.

  I require your presence in my chambers at once.

  Arlington

  She glanced at the footman, her stomach fluttering with a frisson of unease. Was it time for the duke to berate her for all her missteps, now that his friends had left?

  “I... Well... I wonder if you would tell him I am not feeling well?” It was not a lie. She didn’t want to face him, not with the curt tone of that note.

  The footman bowed and disappeared across the hall. Gwen closed the door and leaned back against it, and let out a long breath. She had just started toward her bed chamber when the door opened and Arlington himself appeared. He said nothing, only took her arm and pulled her from her room, yanking her across the hall to his chambers in full view of the servants.

  “Do not drag me about,” she complained as he forced her into his sitting room.

  “When I say I require your presence at once, that means I require your presence at once. We have something to discuss.” She watched in horror as he went to his desk and picked up her letter. “Do you recognize this?”

  She couldn’t believe he had it, and that it was not on the way to Cairwyn at all. “How did you get that?”

  “Nothing goes out of this house that I don’t look at.”

  “It was sealed. It wasn’t meant for you to read.”

  “That seems patently obvious.” His sharp voice ricocheted off the walls. “Nothing goes out of this house that I don’t look at,” he repeated with irate emphasis. “And thank God for that, because if your father had gotten this letter, there would have been a great deal of trouble for everyone involved. It’s taken me a full day just to believe that you wrote it, that you could have been so reckless as to put these words on the page.”

  “Everything in that letter is true,” she cried.

  “None of it is true. These are the melodramatic ravings of a spoiled, self-centered child. How dare you write these things, when I have shown you nothing but kindness? When you have wanted for nothing? When I have given you my title and my husbandly care, and pleasure every night? ‘Lewd whims,’ Guinevere?”

  She quailed at the cold strength of his fury. “You are lewd to me,” she said. “I don’t like it.”

  “That’s a damnable lie. It’s a lie to say I treat you like a savage. It’s a lie to say that I punish you in a brutal and unfeeling manner, or force you to my will. This letter is full of false accusations and disparagement to my character.”

  He was not only angry, he was hurt and insulted. She couldn’t bear to look at him, because she knew the letter was full of lies and exaggerations. “I don’t want to be married to you,” she said, the only excuse she had for her actions.

  He put his hands aside his head and then threw them out in exasperation. “How many times must I explain this to you? This isn’t a marriage of choice. It’s a state marriage and it has nothing to do with your happiness. You’re not married to me. You’re married to England and Wales, and the goddamned will of the crown.”

  “You’re not happy either,” she said, shrinking away from him. “I know you don’t want to be married to me any more than I want to be married to you. We don’t suit one another.”

  “And so you write a letter full of false accusations and try to send it behind my back? Do you have any idea what would have happened if this missive had made its way into your father’s hands?” He threw the letter down and advanced on her, his blue eyes glinting like tempered steel. “I’ll tell you what would have happened. I would have cleared my name, darling. There are limits to what honor can take. I would have branded you a liar and shamed you and your family before the king. Your father would have been ruined for challenging me, and you would have become a despised object of scorn. Your family would have lost everything, all because you don’t want to be married to me.”

  He spit out these last words as if they disgusted him. Gwen twisted her hands together.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, her eyes clouding with tears. “I’m sorry I did it.”

  “You’re sorry you did it, or you’re sorry you got caught?”

  “I’m sorry I did it. I knew it was wrong, but I... You’re right. I behaved as a spoiled child who wished to have her way.”

  He took her arm and leaned down so they were nose to nose. “I have servants who read Welsh, you little deceiver. In case you think to do any such thing again.”

  She had thought she had his scorn before, but it was nothing to the scorn he showed her now. “I’m sorry. It’s only that I want so badly to go home.”

  He gave her a shake. “You’re not going home. You’re stuck in this hell of a marriage, just as I am.” He turned at a tap on the door and said, “Come.”

  The door opened to a servant bearing a silver-lidded tray.

  “Put it there,” said Arlington, pointing to a side table.

  The servant complied and left. The duke regarded her another moment or two, his hand still gripping her arm.

  “I believe you feel remorseful. I also believe you want to go home. But you’re not going home, not now, not ever. You’re married to me and you are going to bear the Arlington heirs. This is your life, no matter how you struggle against it. Tell me you understand that.”

  “I understand it,” she said, wiping her cheeks.

  “And no matter how much you hate me, no matter how much you abhor my company and my ‘lewd whims,’ I’m going to remain your husband until one of us dies.”

  “That’s such a grim way to put it,”
she said miserably.

  “Grim or not, it’s the truth. I will reiterate now that I require your respect in this marriage, as well as appropriate, obedient behavior, which you have not displayed.” He pulled her over to the upholstered chair flanking the side table. “You’re going to be punished, not ‘brutally or unfeelingly,’ but as befits a wife who has written a letter sorely defaming her husband’s honor.”

  He sat in the chair and forced her down over his lap before she could gather the wherewithal to resist. His arm circled tightly about her waist as he flipped up her skirts.

  “Don’t, please,” she begged. “I’m sorry. I know what I did was wrong.”

  “Then you know you deserve this spanking. Keep your legs still or I’ll go for the cane.”

  Gwen didn’t want to be caned, or even spanked, but she supposed she deserved it. She hadn’t really thought about the trouble her letter might have caused. If it had come to strife between her father and the duke—or her father and the king—she knew who would have ended up on the losing side.

  She braced for the spanking to begin, but instead she heard the clink of the tray. He parted her bottom cheeks, and pressed something cool and slick against her nether hole. She squirmed and tried to turn to him.

  “No,” he said. “Be still. You’re going to have a peeled root of ginger in your bottom for this spanking.”

  “Why?” she cried.

  “Because you’ve committed an especially egregious offense. The ginger will intensify your punishment by making your arsehole sting. Bad wives get bad things, if you’ll remember.”

  It did not seem correct to do such a thing to one’s wife; it seemed lewd again, and too intimate. She couldn’t help but clench around the intrusion. A few moments later, she began to feel the promised sting. It felt wicked and shameful. She hid her face in her hands, trembling beneath her tossed-up skirts.

  “I don’t think you should do this,” she said between her fingers. “It’s wrong.”