“I’ve received good news from Arlington Hall,” said her husband the following week over dinner. “Your horse is responding at last to her handlers. Perhaps your wild ride across the fields exorcised some of her demons.”
Gwen knew why Eira was responding now. It was because someone had finally shown her some sympathy and understanding. “I’m happy to hear she’s doing better.”
“If she continues to improve, I’ll have her brought to London. We can take the air in Hyde Park when the weather permits. You’ll look quite striking atop your pretty mare, as Mrs. Gerrard is putting together several riding habits for these colder months. Everyone will note your horsemanship.”
“I hope so.”
“If you are ladylike, that is.”
And there it came, the eternal insult, the constant reminder that she was not good enough, not “finished” to his standards, which were impossibly high and impossibly shallow. All he cared about was her appearance, her presentation, her manners, and how much she might increase his esteem among the denizens of his social set.
She wished there was more to him. She wished she could know him better, even love him, instead of being held at arms’ length and used mainly to satisfy his sexual needs. His excessive sexual needs.
She wondered when he would begin to stray in their marriage. Most men did, as a matter of course, and they’d been wed for a month now. The duke was frequently gone for hours, “making calls,” he said, or “going to the club.” She imagined him going instead to tryst with other women, fine, genteel women he might have married if he’d been allowed to. She didn’t know why that should bother her, since she didn’t like him anyway, but it did.
“In other news,” he said, “we’ve a time and date for our royal audience. One week hence, at four o’clock in the afternoon.” He glanced up at her briefly. “I pray you will not become anxious.”
Become anxious? She’d been anxious about it since before she married him. “What if they don’t like me?” she asked.
“You must make them like you. Otherwise things shall go poorly for you in society, and for me. Not to burden you with undue pressure,” he added as an afterthought.
She rubbed her eyes, and jabbed her finger rather inelegantly into the corner of one.
“Stop that, please. You must refrain from showing disquiet in public. It’s impolite to frown and poke your fingers into your eyes.”
“I can’t help it.” She forced her hands back to her lap. “Why did you marry me, when I can’t do anything right?”
He looked to the heavens. “Not this again. Come here, Guinevere.”
His expression was sharper than his voice, but he had a way of speaking softly even when he was angry. She never trusted his tone, only his eyes, and of course his hands. When she went to him, he turned her about and tugged at her laces, loosening her bodice. When he had it as he liked it, he retied it and turned her back around, and reached within her clothing to cup her breasts. She tried hard not to react as he rolled her tightening nipples between his fingertips.
“You shouldn’t,” she pleaded. “Not at dinner. The servants will see you.”
He gazed into her eyes, that wily, hungry gaze that always made her squirm. He went to the servants’ door and shut it, then returned and sat before her again, his gaze now fixed upon her chest.
“Take your breasts out,” he said. “Fold down your bodice so they’re plainly in view.”
“Must I?”
“You know what happens when you defy my commands, darling.”
It was bad enough for him to fondle and expose her. It was infinitely worse to be made to expose herself for his sordid amusement. She reached within her bodice and lifted her breasts so they crested the taut neckline of her gown. The bodice pushed them up and out. Her pink nipples hardened to stiff points. She flushed and stared at the opposite wall, avoiding his gaze.
“You’re not still shy?” he asked. “After all we’ve done together?”
“I believe the word is modest.”
He burst into laughter. “You’re as modest as a peahen in season. If I lifted your skirts right now, you’d be wet as Noah’s flood. It’s one of the things I like most about you.”
She braced for him to do it, to lift her skirts and discover the damp heat that blossomed alongside her humiliation. “I only get wet because something is wrong with me,” she said. “I feel things I don’t want to.”
“No.” He gave a slight shake of his head. “You feel things I want you to, like a perfect, obedient duchess. What a good girl you are to keep your promises, if only for love of a horse.” He tugged one of her nipples as his lips curved in a wry sort of smile. “Kneel down, Guinevere.”
She glanced toward the closed door. It was not locked. She knew it wasn’t locked. He could not ask this of her, not now. He demanded it in the bedroom all the time, but it surely wasn’t proper to do it at dinner. He spread his legs to make a place for her, and leaned back in his chair. She could see the thick outline of his cock behind the falls of his breeches.
“I do not like to wait,” he said quietly.
She went to her knees because she had no choice in the matter. If she didn’t obey him, he’d force her, or punish her, or both. He toyed with her breasts as she undid his breeches and drew out his manhood. She closed her eyes and took him into her mouth, and attended to him as he’d taught her.
“Oh, yes,” he said in that same quiet voice. “This is why I married you. You certainly do some things right.” He pinched her nipples again, hard enough to make her whine against his skin. Then he shoved his cock deep in her mouth, so she gagged and choked. When he withdrew, she gasped for air, licking his balls and the base of his cock to compose herself. He laid back and let her do it, emitting the occasional ragged growl. The untamed sound resonated between her legs. She wished she could touch herself at the same time she served him. She wished he would touch her too and make her come.
He fisted his cock and guided it back to her mouth, and thrust between her lips, even deeper this time. He was so wide, so thick, she couldn’t breathe. She drew air through her nose and nearly cried in relief when he thrust in her more shallowly. She used her tongue to tease and entice him, and one of her hands to stroke up and down his length. Her other hand delved within her skirts, sneaking under her petticoat to find the part of her that ached for stimulation.
“What’s the matter, love?” he asked in lazy amusement. “Is your pussy wet and empty? Do you want to be fucked?”
He would make her admit it if she did not admit it herself. She gazed up and said the words to him, rather than be ordered to do so. “Yes, Sir. I want to be fucked.”
“Perhaps I would rather spend in your mouth.” He gripped her head and surged into her throat again. “Perhaps I’ll avail myself of your arsehole.”
She coughed as he withdrew. “You said—only when I was bad.”
He chuckled and released her. “So I did. And you’ve been very good.” He hauled her up and bent her over the table, between asparagus and potatoes and cream sauce. He gathered up her skirts until she felt cool air on her bottom, and then he delivered a brisk spank. “I want to take your arsehole, you know. Right now, I want to be inside you there. It makes me cross that you don’t deserve it. Not yet,” he said in a portentous voice.
He drove into her pussy instead, a careless, pumping possession. The china rattled and the silverware jumped. She feared a goblet would overturn and stain the tablecloth with wine, but the heavy crystal stayed standing.
“It will take you all of a minute or two to come off,” he said, squeezing her shoulders. “The food won’t even be cold. All you need is a cock inside you. Isn’t that true, darling?”
It was true, because of his rough voice and his large hands, and the demanding way he forced her to his will. It aroused her beyond bearing. He slapped her arse again and she shuddered from the thrill of it, and the shame. The tablecloth chafed her exposed nipples, but he wouldn’t let her up. He pound
ed into her until her walls clenched around him, seeking that last bit of stimulation she needed to find release.
“Not yet,” he said. “Wait for me.”
She laid her forehead against the tablecloth with a moan of supplication, only to be spanked again, and fucked harder. “Don’t be a spoiled duchess,” he chided. “You will wait for your pleasure, or not have it at all.”
She scratched her fingertips against the tablecloth, trying to hold off so he wouldn’t punish her. She wanted to knock off all the plates in her frustration, but instead she panted, and waited, trying to hover just at that tipping point until he allowed her to come. The need increased to the point she could barely stand it. “Please, please,” she begged as he surged into her, hitting her perfect spot.
He grabbed her hips and drove in her to the hilt. “Now,” he gasped. “Now you may come.” He held her shoulders down against the table and that pressure and force was as thrilling to her as anything else. Her legs gave way as her climax overtook her. The goblet finally tipped, shattering and splashing wine upon the table.
The duke pulled her up and away from the jagged pieces, supporting her from behind. He squeezed her breasts, which spilled wantonly from her bodice. One more thrust and groan, and he went still, dropping his head to her shoulder. After a moment, he pressed a kiss against the curve of her neck.
“A minute and a half,” he whispered in her ear. “That’s how long it would have taken you if I hadn’t made you wait.”
“It’s not my fault,” she said. “It’s your fault.”
“Don’t place blame. Kneel down and clean me off so I can pull up my breeches.”
She gave him a pleading look, but he remained firm.
“Do it,” he said. “You promised to be a perfect and obedient duchess.”
She sighed and sank to her knees for the second time, and applied herself to tidying his cock. He might have let her use a napkin or something to do it, but no. Nothing would satisfy him except that she perform the task with her mouth. And she had learned to be quick, lest he become aroused and begin things all over again.
“Now,” he said when she was finished, “stand up and let me fix your gown. I’d be pleased to let you finish dinner that way, but the servants would be dropping dishes left and right.”
Her eyes went to the spilled wine and broken goblet. When they were situated, and she was seated primly at her place, he opened the door and the servants streamed in as if they had been waiting in a line outside the entire time. They whisked away the crystal fragments and covered the soiled part of the tablecloth with extra napkins. The dinner plates were cleared away to make room for dessert.
She stared down at the fruit tarts and assortment of cheeses and then looked back at him. He’d just bent her over the table and ravished her, and now he wanted her to take dessert?
He waved a fork at her. “Eat, Guinevere. And don’t frown so.”
“The thing is…” she said, cutting into the tart, “I don’t think it’s fair.”
“What’s not fair?”
“I must be a proper duchess at all times, but you do not behave like a proper duke.”
“I made no promises to be a proper duke, did I? Not like you.”
“You’re not a very nice person.” She narrowed her eyes as she said this, even though he might punish her for it later. “I think you play with me, and treat me like a toy, like something to bat about for your amusement.”
“I do not bat you about.”
She glanced at the napkins piled atop the stain. “Yes, you do.”
He ate for a moment, the fine Arlington silverware sparkling in his long fingers. “If you do not wish to be played with, Guinevere, then I suppose I will take my pleasure tonight without bothering to arouse you as I normally do.” He gave her a positively satanic smile.
She sucked in a breath. “You know that’s not what I mean.”
“Then what do you mean? That you do enjoy when I play with you?”
This was a perfect example of being toyed with, not that the duke cared. “You love to twist my words and make me uneasy,” she said.
“And you love to paint me as your lewd and heartless assailant. I can’t remember now what we ultimately decided. Would you prefer to have pleasure tonight, or not?”
There was only one way to answer. “I would prefer to have pleasure, Sir.”
“For your own amusement? Not only mine?”
She sighed. “Yes, Sir.”
“Please do not accuse me of being a villain in order to assuage your own disordered feelings. We’ve spoken of this before.”
His voice was light, cold, casual in its evisceration. How hateful he could be. She made no response, only took another bite of her tart so he would not see how he provoked her, and swallowed hard when the delicious morsel stuck in her throat.
Chapter Ten: Perfectly Matched
The duke’s friends visited a couple days later, since they had all arrived in town to spend the holidays: the two marquesses, Lord Townsend and Lord Barrymore, and the Earl of Warren, that ceaselessly cheerful man. This time they brought their wives, who seemed eager to meet Gwen. She endured the introductions with a sense of gloom. She was certain they would find her wanting in some way.
Lord Townsend’s wife was named Aurelia, and was the daughter of a duke. Gwen’s first thought was that Aurelia would have made Arlington a better wife, except that she was enamored of her towering, dark-haired husband. Lord Townsend seemed enamored of her too, hovering around her with loving glances. The Townsends’ daughter Felicity was back home napping, along with the Warrens’ infant son George.
The other dark-haired man, Barrymore, was married to Minette, who was apparently Warren’s sister, and Warren was married to Josephine, a countess with lavish auburn hair and the occasional spark of mischief in her eyes. The three ladies seemed to know one another quite well, and kept up a steady stream of conversation as they sat at tea on the terrace. Below them, the gentlemen romped in the chill air, playing a loosely organized game of cricket.
“Look at them,” said Aurelia, pulling her cloak closer around her. “The older they get, the more they behave like boys.”
The other ladies laughed. “I think they’re only happy to be together again,” said Minette. “My husband always worried that marriage and children would put a strain on their friendship, or end it altogether.”
“Your marriage to Barrymore nearly did end it altogether,” Josephine said with an unladylike snort. “Warren spent more than one night pacing and cursing August’s name.”
Gwen listened to all this in confusion. “I’m sorry, but who is August?”
“Barrymore was Lord Augustine before his father died,” Josephine explained. “We called him August, and Warren was bound and determined that he would not marry his sister, even though Minette had adored him for years. But now they’re Lord and Lady Barrymore, and they’re going to have their first baby in the spring, so everything worked out for the best.”
“Congratulations,” Gwen said to Minette. “You must be very excited.”
“You’re finally starting to show, dear,” said Aurelia, “even beneath all those skirts and petticoats, and winter capes and cloaks.” The honey-haired lady smiled, and again pulled her cloak closer about her.
Minette studied her friend. “Do you have something to share with us, Aurelia? Townsend’s barely left you alone all day, and you keep wrapping that cloak around you as if you’re hiding something. Not only that, but you look a little green.”
“Are you not well?” Gwen asked. “Can I get you something? A tonic?”
“She’s well enough,” said Minette with a grin. “Except that she’s expecting again.”
“Oh, are you?” Josephine clapped her hands.
“It’s very early,” said Aurelia, blushing. “But I might be. Townsend thinks so.”
The lady practically glowed with happiness. She was living the life Gwen longed for. She was in love, and obviously loved by h
er husband. She was pretty and refined, and would doubtless give birth to a steady stream of pretty, refined babies as her husband doted upon how perfect she was. Gwen hated Aurelia a little bit.
The men gave a shout, so the ladies turned to watch them tumble in the grass. Arlington came up with the ball, and the others chased after him, trying to tackle him.
“What game are they playing now?” Josephine asked.
“Some variation of beating each other up. The same game they’ve played for as long as I can remember,” said Minette. “Arlington usually wins.”
“He was always best at everything,” Aurelia agreed. “I don’t think it ever bothered my husband. They all conceded his greatness from a very young age. I imagine he makes a fine sort of husband.”
The three ladies turned to Gwen expectantly. She felt a blush steal over her cheeks. He made a fine sort of husband, if one enjoyed being tormented on a daily basis. She could not think of a word to say.
“Do you like being married?” Josephine pressed.
Gwen thought a moment. “I’m still getting used to it. I miss Wales. I miss my family, and the life I used to know.” Her eyes misted. She tightened her jaw and willed the tears away. She would not cry in front of these women. They might seem warm and friendly, but they were Arlington’s friends, not hers.
Minette reached to pat her hand. “Don’t worry, my dear. Things will get better. I was newly married this time last year, and oh, I thought I’d never survive the first few months.”
“Yes,” Aurelia agreed. “Husbands take some getting used to, especially when you meet them just before you wed. It must have been difficult for him to show up at your father’s house in Wales and take you right to the altar.”
Gwen grimaced. “There was something awfully businesslike about the whole thing. It still feels businesslike sometimes. I thought marriage would be different. I thought there would be more...love.” Her voice wobbled on the last word. She ducked her head, feeling terribly embarrassed that she had even said such a thing.
“Oh, Guinevere,” said Josephine softly. “There will be love. Don’t give up yet. It’s hardly been a couple of months.”
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