Under A Duke's Hand

by Annabel Joseph

  “I haven’t given up,” Gwen said, which was an utter lie. She had given up that first night, when he had declared himself her master, and her superior by law. He’d never love her because she wasn’t his equal, and she would never love him because it hurt to be found wanting all the time.

  The men were running about now, throwing the ball and converging on whoever had it. Warren shouted in protest as Barrymore tackled him. She couldn’t hear Warren’s muttered remark, but Arlington gave a great laugh and clapped him on the back as Townsend swooped in to steal the ball. How happy Arlington could be around those he esteemed. It hurt her to see that easy, joyful happiness when she could not so much as make him smile.

  “Do you think it’s getting colder?” Gwen asked. “Perhaps we ought to go inside and leave the gentlemen to their sport.”

  She pretended not to notice the concerned look the ladies exchanged before they all agreed to finish tea inside.

  * * * * *

  Aidan flopped on the ground with his friends, lying back and studying the sky as they traded a few last insults and brushed the grass from their clothing. They’d discarded their coats when they first started horsing about. Now that they rested, the chilly December air settled over him. The ladies had disappeared indoors a few minutes earlier. He hoped the four of them would become friends. Gwen seemed homesick still, and he thought she would benefit from some female companionship.

  Female companionship. That term used to mean something different to him. He used to seek it out on a regular basis, and consort with wickedly talented whores. Strange, that he hadn’t been tempted to visit Pearl’s since he married. Or not so strange. For all Gwen’s prickly moods and homesickness, his fairy queen suited him wonderfully in bed. He’d expected to grow tired of his wife by now, but instead he felt more interested than ever to explore her sensual depths.

  “Well, he’ll come back to us one day,” said Warren with gentle mockery.

  “What?” asked Aidan.

  Townsend and Barrymore laughed. “We were just talking about the mare you got from Halliday in Oxfordshire,” Townsend explained.

  “Oh, the mare.” Aidan sat up straighter and rubbed his neck. “I was ready to give her back a fortnight ago.” He didn’t tell them the story about Gwen tearing off on the horse, or his panicked pursuit. The memory still disquieted his mind. “She’s been a challenge to train, but my grooms tell me she’s making progress. She’s meant for Guinevere, if she can be tamed.”

  “Your duchess rides?” asked Barrymore.

  “She rides like a dream,” he said in a hollow voice. “She’s a Welsh hellion, perfectly capable of handling a spirited mount.”

  “That’s good to know,” said Warren, with just enough lascivious insinuation to make Aidan scowl over at him. “Hellions aren’t all bad.”

  Aidan didn’t know if they were talking about the mare still, or his wife, or Warren’s wife, who’d been something of a hellion too when they wed.

  “How are things with your duchess?” Townsend asked, definitively changing the subject. “Barrymore and Warren told me there was tension between you two when they visited in Oxfordshire. Forgive me, but I sense it’s still there.”

  “I told you you’d have the hardest time of all,” said Warren. He looked around at the others. “Didn’t I tell him?”

  “Shut up,” said Barrymore, throwing a handful of dried grass at his brother-in-law. “Arlington’s having problems.”

  “I’m not having problems.” Aidan pursed his lips. “And I’ll thank all of you to stay out of my marriage. When I need your assistance, I’ll ask.”

  The men exchanged looks but let the subject drop. Soon after, his friends and their wives departed for home, for warmth and children. They made marital happiness look so easy. He caught Gwen before she could disappear upstairs, and drew her cloak back around her. “Will you walk with me a while?” he asked.

  He didn’t know why he asked, or why she agreed to do it, except that he felt vaguely ashamed that they were not in accord as the other couples were. He had no plan. He did not know what to say. How do we connect? What can I do?

  She took his arm readily enough as they set out through the back, to the winter-silent gardens. He led her onto a lesser-used path, setting a leisurely pace.

  “Do you know,” she said, looking about, “the gardens here are even more beautiful than the ones at your country house. Not that the ones at your country house aren’t lovely as can be.”

  “Why do you call it my country house? You live there too, now that we’re married.”

  She made no answer to that. A few moments later, he asked, “How did you enjoy the ladies’ company? They were anxious to meet you.”

  “They were very nice.”

  Her short, stiff answers pricked him. “You know, out of all the ladies in London, they are the ones you may trust to have your best interests at heart.”

  “Will there be ladies in London who don’t have my best interests at heart?”

  “Yes,” he said bluntly. “There will be ladies in London who will scrutinize you for every flaw. The queen is one of them. There are ladies in society who delight in others’ social failures. I am not trying to frighten you, only giving you a warning.”

  “You’ve given me plenty of warnings,” she said in that tone that always made him want to turn her over his lap.

  “I suppose I’m saying that Aurelia, Minette, and Josephine wish you only the best. You may believe in their friendship. Goodness knows they’ve put their necks on the line for each other these past few years, and gotten into all kinds of scrapes together.”

  “They do not seem the sort to get into ‘scrapes.’”

  “Well, they are, so however shy you feel around them, they are quite similar to you. Imperfect and emotional, and given to mischief when it suits them.”

  “They’re not like me.”

  He could feel his wife’s mood darkening, sense it in the tension of her hand on his arm.

  “They’re nothing like me,” she said. “They are happy and poised, and bubbly, and content. I understand now why you’re not well pleased to have me as your wife. I know that something is amiss with me.”

  “The only thing amiss with you is that you choose not to be happy in this marriage.”

  “It’s not a choice. You should never have agreed to wed me. I’m not like them. I’m...horrid.”

  He stopped walking and turned to face her, lifting her chin when she avoided his gaze. “In what way are you horrid?”

  Her pale green eyes filled with tears. “You know.”

  “I assure you I don’t know.”

  “I’m not…good. I’m not a proper lady, like them.”

  “You most certainly are. You’re a duchess. You outrank them all.”

  She shook her head. “That doesn’t matter. They are more cultured than me, more polished. If they knew the things you do to me...”

  “The things you enjoy?” he said in a sharp voice. “Those things?”

  “But I should not enjoy them!”

  His poor, conflicted duchess. He held her chin harder when she would have pulled away. “Who told you you shouldn’t enjoy them? Not me. Never me.” He released her and took her hand. “Come along. I want to show you something.”

  He took her down another path, the one that led to his mock Greek temple. He’d built it in his younger, wilder years, and outfitted it inside for all kinds of sensual mayhem. Today he hoped to use it to teach his wife some important lessons about herself.

  He unlocked the door and ushered her inside. It was a cold, still space, not least because it was entirely made of marble, save the benches and chests of equipment, and the tall wooden pole in the center. It was also dark, having no windows.

  “Take off your clothes,” he said as he lit the sconces affixed to the walls. “Remove everything.”

  “What is this place?” she asked, eying her surroundings.

  “A temple dedicated to lascivious games. Don’t

worry. No one will come.” His voice had taken on the stentorian tenor of some ancient Greek nobleman or judge. Perhaps that was why his wife obliged him without further comment. She took off her cloak, and bent to remove her shoes and stockings. He helped her unlace her gown and pull her shift over her head. Then he leaned to retrieve one of her stockings, and twisted the fine silk length of it about his palm. “I’m going to tie you to that pole,” he said.

  “Why?” Her nervousness had transformed to full-blown fear. “What will you do to me?”

  “Give me your hands.”

  “Please. I’m cold.”

  “Give me your hands.”

  With a shudder, she held them out, and he wasted no time binding her wrists before she changed her mind about cooperating.

  “You know,” he said, “there’s a certain type of person who gains pleasure from feeling pain. It’s not uncommon.”

  She turned her face away. Her hands twitched as he lifted them and hooked the silk binding over one of the wooden pole’s hooks. “Turn,” he said, when she tried to pull away. “Turn and face the pole. It’s called a whipping pole, this thing. I’m sure you can figure out why.”

  “Why do you have one here? Why are you tying me to it?”

  “That should be obvious.”

  “But I haven’t done anything,” she said, straining at the bonds. Luckily, the hooks were too strong for someone her size to escape.

  He rubbed her shoulders to soothe her. “As I said, there is a certain type of person who enjoys being overpowered, even abused for someone’s pleasure. I’m not that type of person, but I think you are.” He slid a hand over her bottom and up her trembling spine. “Are you still cold?” He pressed himself against her back and embraced her shivering body.

  “I wish you would let me go.”

  “You don’t. You’re so excited right now you can barely breathe.”

  “It’s because I’m cold.”

  “It’s because you’re aroused.” He reached beneath her and drove two fingers into her quim. She was wet as anything, as hot as the temple was cold. “Let’s do an experiment, shall we? I’m going to whip you, not because you’ve misbehaved, but so we can find out if you’re one of those people who is aroused by pain and bondage. Because I strongly suspect you are.”

  “You can’t do this. You shouldn’t,” she said desperately.

  “On the contrary, I think it’s time we settled this question once and for all.” He went to the chest in the corner for a true whip, a short, flicky devil of an implement that imparted a great deal more sting than a spanking, or even the birching he’d given her. Her eyes went wide as he turned.

  “You’ll kill me with that!”

  “Only in the most lovely sense, my little pervert.”

  “I’m not a pervert.”

  He sent the tip of the whip cracking at the back of one thigh. She sucked in a breath, making fists of her hands. It was all he could do not to fall on her right then…

  * * * * *

  The pain was a shock; it radiated out from the strike on her thigh to her breasts and belly, and yes, the throbbing center between her legs. She let out the breath she was holding, and thought she would die if he struck her again.

  And he did.

  And she didn’t die. No. She gripped her bindings and processed the thrill of it, and arched for more. It was exciting somehow, even though it hurt. Oh, she didn’t understand it. It was so troubling.

  “There exists a perfect counterpart for those who enjoy pain,” said her husband, “and that is a person who enjoys dealing pain for someone else’s pleasure, as well as their own.” She shrieked as the whip caught her across her bottom. “As you may have guessed, I’m that sort of person.”

  “It hurts,” she said, panting through the aftermath of pleasure.

  “I know.”

  He flicked her again and she danced on her toes, pulling at the stocking that held her fast, ruining it, probably. In that pulling and that struggle, she felt a lengthening of her body, an opening. A release of resistance, and a craving for worse pain if he would want it, as mad as it seemed. She always felt that way when he hurt her, that she ought not to take pleasure from it, and yet she did. He had called her a pervert in jest, but that was exactly what she was.

  “I don’t want to be this way,” she said. Tears squeezed from beneath her lids as the whip’s bite stung her bottom, and sometimes her thighs. “I want to be like them. I want to be proper, the way you want.”

  “You can be both.” She heard him toss the whip back onto the chest. “This is not about your struggle with me, Guinevere. This is about your struggle to accept yourself.”

  She had felt cold before, but now she felt hot, feverish. Sore and endangered, and needful as ever. “No, it’s you who won’t accept me,” she cried.

  “Is it?” When she turned, he was half undressed. His coat and waistcoat were thrown down next to the whip, and his shirt soon followed. He rummaged in a drawer. “I think I’ve been very accepting, considering what a complicated wife you’ve turned out to be.”

  He returned with a small porcelain jar, and held it in one hand while he took down his breeches with the other.

  “Are you going to release me?” she asked.

  “Not yet. I’ve another experiment to do first.”

  “I don’t want to be experimented on anymore.”

  “And yet you shall be,” he said, stilling her straining hands. She could feel his cock against her bottom. She heard him take the cap off the porcelain vessel, but he was too close behind her to see. He parted her sore, whipped cheeks and caressed her intimately, smearing slickness against her arsehole. His broad chest trapped her so she couldn’t squirm away. He pressed his shaft against her, not where he normally did but...back there.

  “No,” she cried, trying to escape him. “No, please. Don’t do that.”

  His arm encircled her, forcing her to be still as his other hand poked the tip of his thick member into her clenching orifice.

  “Shh. Let me try,” he said. “You might like it.”

  The pain was not exciting or arousing like the other pain. It was dull and achy, and frightening. “Please, you’ll hurt me.”

  “I won’t.” He tightened his embrace and pressed his cheek against hers. “Wait. Take the pain for now, just for a moment.” His voice rumbled as his long hair brushed her cheek. “Wait and see what happens.”

  Gwen didn’t want to wait and see, because this was not the sort of hurting she liked. He worked his way inside her there easily enough—the aromatic oil accomplished that task—but it ached and stretched her awfully.

  “Feel me inside you,” he said. “Feel me forcing you open, using you however I wish.”

  She made a sound, a moan or cry. “It hurts.”

  “Yes, but you like to be hurt. Let me have you this way. I’ll make it feel so good.”

  His rough-edged words settled in her pussy, along with the force of his embrace, and the way he pinched and flicked her nipple as he held her tight. He eased his shaft all the way inside her, so his hips pressed against her aching bottom cheeks. “Does it still hurt?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she sobbed, but it didn’t really, not as much as it had. She felt very full, and very scared, but it didn’t hurt in any unbearable way. He withdrew a little and pressed back in, and her quim pulsed in reaction. No, this couldn’t feel good. It shouldn’t feel good.

  “I like hurting you,” he said, his cheek still pressed to hers. “I like the way you gasp and whine when I hurt you. I like the way you shudder. I like the way you get so very, very wet.” He stroked a hand across her center, then grasped her in a rough, squeezing way. She tensed around the thick intrusion in her bottom and moved her hips forward against his palm. She shuddered as he teased her and bit her earlobe.

  “Yes, you like that,” he said. “I know. Desire and pain get all mixed up for you in a wonderful sort of way. Don’t fight it. Don’t try to hide these things you feel.”