“Better I spank you than wring your neck,” he snapped in reply. He adjusted her on his lap, over his hard, muscular thighs. The ginger hurt worse with every passing moment, and she felt so exposed and vulnerable. Then he spanked her and the burn intensified tenfold.
“Oh! Ouch!” She bit her lip as he spanked her again, and again.
“Don’t squirm. You’ve earned this.”
He pulled her closer to him and rearranged her until her bottom was stuck right up in the air, completely at his mercy. She kicked her legs but there was no way to get away. That’s when he began to spank her in earnest.
She’d expected this spanking would feel something like the spanking he’d given her in the meadow, but it was not at all the same. The spanking in the meadow had provided a certain degree of wicked pleasure. This spanking was nothing but pain.
Firm smacks rained down on her bottom, each more heated than the last. A throbbing ache suffused her bottom, but when she reached to rub it away, he took her hand and trapped it at her waist.
“We’re only getting started,” he said. “By the time this spanking is over, you’re going to feel like a very punished girl.”
“I already feel very punished.” She wailed at an especially sharp crack. Each time he spanked her, she wiggled and tensed, and the ginger in her bottom stung worse.
“Oh. Ow, it burns.” She kicked her legs harder but it made no difference to him. He only tightened his grip on her waist and kept spanking. Now and again his hand strayed lower, punishing the tender, sensitive skin at the backs of her thighs. Soon her entire backside felt as if it had caught fire.
How she wished she’d never written that note. She wasn’t going to get out of this marriage, and there was no telling how long he’d stay angry with her, or when he would trust her again. “Oh, please,” she begged. Spank, spank, spank, no break, no respite from his stinging palm. “Please, Sir. I’m sure I’ve had enough. I’ve learned my lesson.”
“You’ve had enough when I say you’ve had enough. I don’t think you know the meaning of a lesson yet.” He paused and put his palm on her heated arse, then worked the ginger in and out. “Do you feel that ache, Guinevere?”
“Yes,” she sobbed.
“That ache is for wives who behave badly. Do you feel ashamed? You feel hurt?”
“Yes!”
“Good. Because I felt hurt when I read your letter.” The spanking resumed, mercilessly hard. Her cheeks throbbed and the ginger stung hotter than ever now that he’d repositioned it.
“Please. It smarts so much.”
“I hope it does,” he said without any pity whatsoever. “This isn’t a game, Guinevere. You’re my responsibility, my wife. When you earn a spanking, you’re going to be spanked well enough that you remember it.”
She whimpered and tugged at her hand but he’d caught her wrist tight, and there was no escaping his palm as it cracked against her pained cheeks. The noise of the spanks mixed with her cries and pleas until she thought the servants must come and save her. But of course, they never would.
Nothing would save her but the duke’s estimation that she had had enough, and Gwen began to fear that moment would never come. She struggled over his thighs and cried silent, shuddering tears until he finally stopped.
She lay still, her bottom clenched from the pain. She hated ginger, and spankings. She hated the duke.
It’s too bad, that. Because you’re stuck with him forever. What had he said? Until one of us dies...
Gwen felt like she might die from the torturous fire of his spanking. It felt worse than the birching, or perhaps it had only gone on longer, until her skin felt raw. “Am I...” She swallowed past the miserable tension in her throat. “Am I to stand in the corner again?”
“Yes. But first...” He righted her, and set her before him with her skirts up about her waist, and the ginger still stinging in her bottom. “First, I have a few things to say.”
She sniffled and wiped away tears with the back of her hand.
“You have said you are sorry,” he said. “As you should be. I beg you to realize you were not my first choice of bride either. I, however, have not written any letters to anyone about your poor manners, your inconstant temper, or your abandoned behavior in my bed.”
“My abandoned behavior!”
“Yes. If I wished to be cruel, I could write such things, but you notice I haven’t, and I wouldn’t. You’re not married to a villain, as much as you wish to be. The only person behaving poorly in this marriage is the one standing before me with ginger in her sore, reddened bottom.”
Gwen bit her tongue. No matter how much she disagreed, she would not reply to his lecture, or argue, or do anything that might result in him turning her over his lap again.
“I will not change who I am because of your issues and shortcomings, Guinevere,” he continued. “I suggest you set yourself to your duties and stop playing a victim of fate. I have no stomach for drama unless I’m sitting in a box at the theater.”
“You have no stomach for sympathy either, do you?” she said. “You don’t understand my feelings. You don’t even try.”
“I’ll show sympathy when something bad actually happens to you.” He turned her about. “Go stand in the corner just as you are, with your skirts up about your waist. No rubbing your bottom, and we shall leave in the ginger. It’s going to sting a while longer, which is by design.”
I hate your designs. She almost said it aloud, but she knew it would not be wise. Instead she went to the corner and stood as he directed her, with her eyes to the wall and her punished bottom on display. Her buttocks ached horribly, but she dared not rub them under his watchful eye. Instead she tensed from time to time, then cursed herself as the ginger stung her. Her husband was lewd and cruel, whether or not he wished to admit it. After a quarter hour of corner time, he led her into his washroom and relieved her of the ginger, and allowed her to rearrange her appearance.
How she wished to run away and hide then. Instead the duke took her hand and tugged it. “Come with me, I’ve something to show you.”
He marched her out into the hall and down the stairs, past servants who had undoubtedly heard her screeching and crying during her punishment. Her bottom ached with each step. Her petticoats, which were the softest, finest quality, felt like raking fingers against her freshly-spanked flesh. He took her out the side of the house, past his mother’s garden and across a grassy field to the stables and paddocks.
“Look out there,” he said, pointing.
A regal mare galloped about the largest paddock, a stunning specimen of strength and grace. She was pure white with a glorious mane, strong haunches and a straight, proud head. Effie had never been so glorious, even in her prime. As Gwen watched the horse cavorting in the field, she forgot for long moments that she hated the duke, and that she didn’t wish to be holding his hand. Instead, she clung to it, enraptured.
“She’s beautiful,” said Gwen. “Will she come nearer to us?”
“I doubt it. She’s young and wild yet, but when I saw her, I had to own her. If the grooms can gentle her, she’ll be yours.”
Gwen turned to him in shock. “Mine? My horse?”
“You had to leave your mare behind, and I felt bad about it. I planned to get you another.” He turned to her, raising an eyebrow. “You see, I am not the unfeeling despot described in your letter.”
He looked away, but she saw the lingering injury in his gaze. “I’m sorry for what I wrote,” she said again. “I truly am sorry.”
“And you have been punished. I’ll destroy the letter and we’ll put this episode behind us, and you can write another letter home. Just know that I shall read it, along with any letters you send, so take care that you keep them positive. Surely there are pleasant things to say about your life here. You’ll have a pretty horse anyway, as soon as they manage to tame her. You must think about what to call her.”
A set of grooms attempted to bridle the spirited mare. She tossed her head and fought the bit
, and made whinnying sounds of protest that broke Gwen’s heart.
I know, she thought. I know what it is like to have to be tamed.
“I wish I could go to her,” said Gwen.
“You can’t, not until I say.” His tone was not to be argued with. “She isn’t safe to ride, and I wouldn’t have you hurt.”
He said that so many times, that he didn’t want her to be hurt. Then he’d turn around and tell her that her punishments were meant to hurt—and he certainly took care that they did. “They’re tormenting her,” she protested as the horse’s whinnying protests rose to an equine scream.
“They’re not tormenting her. They’re showing her who’s in charge, a necessary exercise if she’s to reach her potential.” His lips made a tight line as he watched the grooms. “What use is that horse, Guinevere, if she cannot be ridden?”
She didn’t answer. She could see the duke was still angry, just by the way he said her name. “I’m sorry,” she said once more. She thought she might say it a thousand times, and it wouldn’t fix the tension between them. “And I... I thank you for buying me the mare. I’m sure I don’t deserve your kindness.”
He was silent a moment, then he said, “We deserve one another’s kindness. Otherwise we’re in for very long and miserable lives.” With one last glance at the horse, he took her arm and turned her toward the house. “Go back to your room now and write another letter to your father. Lord Daniel will be here to do your dancing lesson at three.”
“Oh, must I have my lesson today?” she asked. “It aches every time I move.”
“Whose fault is that?”
Gwen didn’t answer his pointed question, only heaved a great sigh and followed her husband back to the smothering walls of Arlington Hall.
Chapter Eight: Angry
The duke didn’t visit her bedroom that night, or the night afterward. He sat silent at dinner, focusing on his plate although she sat two feet to his right. Not a single word passed his lips, except to address the servants. This went on for three days.
Gwen told herself she ought to be happy to be free of his company—especially his nightly attentions—but in truth, she felt miserable. He was teaching her another lesson, she knew. He was demonstrating all the pleasant things he’d done in their marriage by no longer doing them, and letting the empty space of his withdrawal resonate in Gwen’s soul.
He had called her a spoiled, self-centered child, and then he made her feel just like a child by ignoring her and going about his ducal way, as grand and handsome as ever. Meanwhile, the mare, that living, breathing symbol of his generosity, whinnied and squealed at all hours from the paddock, until Gwen’s sanity was about to snap.
Poor darling. Someday Gwen would make it up to her. She decided she’d name her Eira, the Welsh word for snow. She told the grooms so they could accustom the mare to her name, and watched impatiently as the beautiful creature refused to be tamed. Please settle down, she thought. I am waiting to love you. When Gwen was not sleeping or eating, or at lessons, or changing clothes, she was at the paddock, dreaming of the time she might climb up on the mare’s back and wander with her about the duke’s property. Perhaps she could find a picturesque meadow like the one she’d left behind in Wales.
The duke would take you to a picturesque meadow if you asked him.
But she did not ask him. She felt she had lost the right to ask favors. If he did not despise her before, he despised her now and it was entirely her own fault. On the fourth day, when the household was in a bustle about heading to London, he passed her in the hallway and did not so much as look at her as he continued on his way. She had become invisible. Since he did not acknowledge her, she ceased to exist.
She fled the house to see Eira, and perhaps have a little cry in private. She longed for her home, and that artist named Jack who had thought her beautiful, and kissed her. Jack hadn’t cared that she wasn’t a blueblood, that she wasn’t well-born and elegant. Jack had been something like a friend.
Gwen found Eira prancing sideways in the paddock, her reins dangling as she tossed her head. Her saddle was somewhere farther off. Apparently she’d bucked the thing from her back. Gwen wondered if she’d bucked off a groom. There was no one about. She whickered to the horse and held out a hand.
“Come here, beauty. Come, Eira. Come see your mistress. I promise I’ll be kind.”
Eira turned in her direction. Gwen stood very still, meeting the horse’s gaze with all the placid calm she could muster. She made another soft sound, a sweet, welcoming cluck that held the horse’s attention a few more moments than before. “Please come,” she whispered. “Let me stroke your mane. I won’t ever hurt you.”
Eira’s ears flicked up and back, and she started toward Gwen. Oh, she wished she had brought some treat, a carrot or apple, but the mare didn’t seem disappointed when she arrived and found her palms empty. Gwen reached slowly, so slowly to pat her sleek neck and tangled mane.
“What a pretty girl,” she said in her most soothing voice. “You aren’t bad at all, are you? You’re only misunderstood. You want to gallop about and be free, and they want to truss you up in harnesses. They are awful here about things like that.”
Eira nodded her head up and down as if she understood, and pushed her muzzle under Gwen’s hands. Gwen laughed and stroked her some more, gazing into her liquid eyes.
“I can’t wait until we can ride together every day,” she said. “You know, I’m from Wales, where the ladies can ride as well as the men, or better. I’ve ridden horses much wilder than you, naughty girl. When you learn to bear your saddle and bridle, we’ll have so many adventures, and be best friends.”
Now that Eira was calm, Gwen ducked under the fence and stood beside her, petting her withers. The horse neighed in approval and tossed her head again, and twitched her shoulders until Gwen giggled.
“Yes, I understand you’ve got personality. You’ll make a fun pet, and you’re so lovely and strong. Look at those muscles! I wish I could climb up on your back and ride you now, the way I did with Effie when she was younger. Will you let me on your back, if you won’t tolerate that tiresome saddle? We can take a stroll around the paddock if you promise you won’t toss me off.”
“Guinevere!”
Gwen heard the duke’s voice from far away, somewhere near the house. Somewhere too far away to stop her, at any rate. She climbed up on the fence, which she’d done many times as a child, and hopped onto Eira’s back. She’d always preferred bareback to saddles, because she loved to feel the strength and movement of her mount.
“Beautiful girl,” she crooned, patting Eira’s neck. “How kind you are, to let me climb atop you. How still and polite you’re being.”
“Guinevere, get down. Get down at once,” the duke shouted. “Palmer! Gandiston! See to the duchess!”
Her husband’s voice was closer now. In fact, he was running full speed to the paddock, his coattails flying out behind him. A groom stuck his head out of the stable and came running too. Gwen could feel Eira go tense. Gwen didn’t want to attempt to get down, not while the horse was agitated. She said her name softly and stroked her mane as she gathered the horse’s dangling reins.
“Guinevere!”
Eira sidled away as the duke arrived at the fence. Gwen met Arlington’s gaze, surprised by the depth of his alarm.
“Please stop shouting,” she chided. “You’re frightening her.”
“Frightening her?” The duke was still yelling. “You’re frightening me. Get down from that untamed beast before it snaps your neck.”
“I promised her a ride around the paddock.”
“She’s not yet fit to ride. She isn’t even saddled.”
One of the grooms approached from the other side of the paddock. Eira danced around to watch him, spinning between the duke and the groom. Gwen imagined it must be terrifying to the mare, to be surrounded and yelled at in such a confrontational fashion. Gwen leaned down and whispered in her ear. “Go, Eira. Let’s go.”
/> The duke snatched at the reins but couldn’t reach them. “Don’t dare.”
“A short jaunt only,” she told him.
“Don’t dare!”
But Gwen did dare. She nudged a heel into Eira’s side and urged her forward. The mare needed little encouragement. Within a pair of strides the horse had gained speed and accelerated to a gallop.
Poor thing, to be restrained all the time when she only wanted a good run. Eira’s legs pounded, carrying them on a collision course with the paddock fence. Gwen heard shouting behind them but she didn’t turn around. “Fly for me, girl,” she whispered instead, and the horse went up and over, smooth as silk, strong as the sun. Gwen laughed with the joy of motion as her hair came loose from its pins and tumbled back over her shoulders.
“Go, go, go,” she urged as they streaked toward the woodlands. “The duke will be angry, but there’s nothing for it. Fly while you can, my darling, as far as you can go.”
* * * * *
Aidan was struggling in this marriage, and he didn’t know how to fix all the things that were wrong. He had always been good at everything. He had always been well-liked, the sort of chap people were pleased to count as a friend. Even in his rakish exploits, he had always been fondly regarded by the ladies.
Now he was failing. Two weeks into this mess, he was failing at marriage, failing as a husband, failing at protecting his wife. Despite his orders to the contrary, she’d swung onto her wild horse’s back and galloped away. They were gone, run off into the woodlands toward the thickest area of trees. His wife would be killed, he was sure of it. What would he tell Guinevere’s family? What would he tell the king and queen, who were expecting them at audience in London?
He never should have bought the horse. The mare was beautiful, yes, but she was too wild. He never should have shown her to Gwen in the first place. And damn him, he shouldn’t have ignored Gwen in the hallway. He should have swept her up and taken her to bed instead, and put an end to the freeze between them. He might be putting a child in her right now, instead of galloping out with the grooms in pursuit of a satanic horse which may or may not have trampled his wife by the time they caught it.
Under A Duke's Hand Page 10
