Under A Duke's Hand

by Annabel Joseph

  They were indeed perfectly matched.

  “Rest a moment,” he said once he’d pulled away. “Does it still hurt?”

  “Yes. A little.” It wasn’t her poor, buggered arsehole that hurt, it was her sensibilities and her pride. “Will you unbind me now?”

  “I’d like to leave you here forever,” he said. “But yes, I suppose you must be released.”

  He took her hands down and unwound them, and chafed them to be sure they still circulated blood. He kissed each wrist, studying her face. “All right?” he asked softly.

  She didn’t know if she was all right, so she didn’t answer. Instead she said, “I’m cold.”

  He did up his breeches and then he helped her dress, touching her more, perhaps, than he really needed to. She felt warmer now, but still cold. The stocking that had held her was impossibly stretched and flopped down over the garter. She felt dirty and embarrassed. She wanted to wash.

  He watched her as he pulled on his shirt and his fine afternoon waistcoat, and did up the gold buttons, and tidied up the echoing temple until it looked the way he’d found it. He extinguished the candles and shrugged on his coat, and guided her to the door.

  “Say goodbye for now,” he said. “Although I’m sure we’ll be back.”

  She wasn’t sure she wanted to come back. Well, yes. She did. “How often will you bring me here?” she asked.

  “As often as I think you need to come. There is nothing ‘amiss’ with you, my dear, except that you have deviant sexual tastes. It’s not as if this is shocking to either of us. I’ve known you were like that all along. I knew when I spanked you in that meadow, and so did you.”

  Yes, she had known then, but it didn’t make the conflicting emotions any easier to bear.

  “You say you don’t like the things I do to you in private,” he said, “but I think what you really don’t like are your abandoned reactions. Which is silly, because they’re perfectly normal, and magnificently exciting to me.”

  “What I don’t like is that...that you don’t like me.”

  He gave her a puzzled look. “Of course I like you. You’re my wife. I feed you and clothe you like a princess, and shelter you in my house. And also occasionally tie you to a whipping post and sodomize you, but I’ll reiterate: you like that sort of thing.”

  He jested. He refused to understand. He would never understand that she wanted more than to be used by him, and dressed like his doll, and perverted at his whim—even if she enjoyed said perversion. “I don’t want to like it,” she said peevishly.

  He pulled her closer as they neared the house. “You don’t want to like anything,” he said. “But you will continue to behave as I wish, and be a proper duchess. The rest of it is nonsense.”

  “Nonsense?” she repeated in irritation.

  “Yes, nonsense.” He waved a lace-edged hand. “All your struggles and tantrums. Totally unnecessary. At some point you will realize that I know what’s best for you. If we’ve learned anything this afternoon, it’s that I know you better than you know yourself.”

  He raked her with his gaze, a knowing, lurid assessment that made her want to slap him. Then he smiled and placed a lingering kiss on her forehead, and she thought, you don’t know everything you think you know, you pompous man.

  Chapter Eleven: Audience

  “Remember to curtsy to the king and queen,” Aidan said, pulling on his best pair of gloves. “And don’t speak unless you’re asked a question.”

  “Yes, Sir. Lady Langton told me.”

  His lips tightened. Why did his wife persist in addressing him as if he were a bloody stranger? He was her husband, for God’s sake. The least she could do was smile at him.

  You are not smiling at her either.

  He forced a smile to his face, but by that time Gwen had turned to look out the carriage window at the people milling about the palace.

  “Are all of them here to see the king and queen?” she asked.

  “No. Most of them are only here to gawk. Not everyone is admitted to the palace. Audiences are only granted to the proper sort.”

  “The proper sort?” His wife rolled her eyes.

  “Yes, the proper sort,” he said a bit heatedly. “And there is a proper sort, whether or not your wild Welsh heart believes it should be so.”

  He sat across from her, since her ornate court gown took up her entire bench. It had been specially made of heavy gold satin, to match the trimmings on his black formal coat and breeches. The skirt was at least four feet wide, and twice as long behind with the attached train. The entire ensemble—bodice, skirt, petticoat, train—was encrusted with ruffles, embroidery, and French lace. He didn’t envy her the challenge of walking in it, and the cost... When she asked the cost, he didn’t tell her. She would have considered it a fortune. Enough to keep her father’s household in wine and servants for a year or more.

  But the expense didn’t matter, or the fact that she would probably never wear this gown again, since it would be gauche to appear in the same outfit twice to a royal audience. The priceless jewels she wore didn’t matter, or the gold and diamond tiara nestled in her dark hair. What mattered was that they had made this marriage at the crown’s behest, and the crown wished to look upon them and believe it well done.

  She sighed and clasped her gloved hands in her lap.

  “Why the sigh?” he asked. “You ought to be happy. I’ll be glad to have this over with.”

  “I will too.” His wife studied him from beneath her lashes. “Must we act like we’re in love today?”

  “What?”

  “Will the king and queen expect us to be in love? They’re rumored to be in love.”

  Aidan stared at the rose and ivy embroidered along the hem of her dress. “They know ours is an arranged marriage. You needn’t feign love or affection for their benefit. It’s only been a few weeks. But you should express thanks for their hand in bringing us together.”

  “If they ask, you mean. You said I should not speak unless I’m asked a question.”

  “Why don’t you let me do the talking? I’m accustomed to these audiences.”

  Gwen looked back out the window. “How long do you think it took them to fall in love?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not privy to their private life.” Had he sounded too sharp? His wife had a great fascination with romantic love. It made him wonder if she’d carried a flame for someone back in Wales. Tommy, he thought bitterly. Sometimes it seemed she would prefer the fictional Tommy to his own status and wealth.

  Aidan was not sure how he felt about love. He knew his friends were in love with their wives, and yes, King George adored his Charlotte. Did Aidan love Gwen? He tried to. He tried to be patient with her, and understanding. He was generous in bed, and catered to her need for rougher pleasures, needs that aligned beautifully with his. All of that ought to add up to love, but somehow, with them, it didn’t.

  Even so, he felt protective of his wife. He could feel her trembling as they made their way through St. James Palace, past bewigged servants and haughty courtiers to the royal chambers. He couldn’t even draw her close to comfort her, due to the exaggerated proportions of her gown. At last they stood in the presence of Their Majesties, and Gwen made a creditable curtsy, for all her trembling.

  “Arlington,” the king said warmly. “You have brought us your new bride as we bade you.”

  Aidan bowed. “I am honored to introduce my wife, by your wisdom and grace. Guinevere, the Duchess of Arlington.”

  Lady Langton had taught Gwen well. His dark-haired wife sank into another obeisant curtsy. The queen’s face lit up in an approving smile.

  “You have our congratulations,” said the king. “And what did you think of our heroic Lord Lisburne? Was he pleased with the match?”

  “Exceedingly pleased. I found him in excellent health,” Aidan replied. “He showed admirable hospitality, and I enjoyed my time in Wales.”

  “And here is his daughter. Come forward, duchess. Let us l
ook at you.”

  Gwen curtsied again. Well, she certainly had the curtsying thing down. The king would appreciate her gentle modesty, even if it was all an act. Aidan could see the man was charmed.

  “And how do you enjoy being married to our Duke of Arlington? He is a much-admired man.”

  “Our marriage has been well enough,” she said.

  “Well enough!” exclaimed the king, grinning at her husband. “Not the most resounding vote of confidence.”

  Aidan played off this misstep with a smile. “The duchess and I are still coming to know one another, Your Majesty. We have not been married long.”

  “One of the greatest joys of marriage is coming to understand and feel affection for the other person,” said the queen, smiling at Gwen. “Do you spend time together with your new husband, pleasant time at leisure?”

  Gwen flicked a glance at him. “We do spend time together.”

  Well, she might have smiled when she said that. The king and queen regarded Gwen curiously, as did some of the other courtiers in the room. Smile, damn you, he thought. We are supposed to seem grateful for this match.

  “I imagine it has been an adjustment, coming to England from your homeland,” said Queen Charlotte. “It was an adjustment for me.”

  These were very kind words on the part of the queen, a gracious likening of their situations. Gwen accepted them in silence, so Aidan was forced to speak instead.

  “It has been somewhat of an adjustment for my wife, Your Majesty.”

  “But her English is good,” said the king. “Barely an accent, and her manners are fine.”

  Aidan could feel Gwen tense beside him. Whenever they discussed her manners at home, she became agitated in the extreme. He gave her a look that said, Do not dare. He could cope with her tantrums at home, her sharp words and peevishness. He could not deal with them here.

  “She is excited for the upcoming season,” said Aidan, to change the subject. “She will be pleased to make the acquaintance of your loyal subjects and settle into English life.”

  “Yes, indeed,” said the king.

  And then Gwen spoke. “If you want to know the truth of it, I would have rather stayed in Wales.”

  One sentence. One miserable sentence she might have kept inside. But no, she hadn’t. The room fell silent. Someone tittered, almost inaudibly. The king and queen looked shocked.

  “What my wife means,” said Aidan quickly, “is that she is homesick for Wales. She might have said it a better way.” He bowed in apology, and shot his wife a scathing look.

  For long moments, the king and queen only looked at them. Aidan felt heat rising beneath his collar.

  “I remember what it was to be homesick,” said Charlotte after a moment.

  The king turned to his wife and squeezed her hand. Yes, that was love, that glance between them. Perhaps, in this case, it would save them. Charlotte seemed to like Gwen, even if the king thought her terribly rude.

  “The best thing for homesickness,” Charlotte continued, “is patience and prayer. And subservience to your husband. You must focus on your duties as a wife.”

  “Do you mean bearing his heirs?”

  By God, he wished he could clap his hand over her mouth. What had he told her, in no uncertain terms? Don’t say anything at all unless you’re asked a question. He would make her write it out a thousand times as punishment for this debacle. But this debacle was his fault. She was his wife. She was not adequately under his control.

  “Well, yes. Heirs are important,” agreed the queen, as more titters sounded from a corner of the room.

  Aidan hoped his expression communicated the remorse he felt for his wife’s uncouth behavior. One did not speak of “bearing heirs” in a royal audience. He prayed the king would end this meeting before she made any more mistakes.

  “We hope that you shall feel more at home here soon,” said the king with a sharp hint of remonstrance, and with that, they were dismissed.

  Aidan wasn’t sure how he made it through the press of courtiers to the carriage without unleashing his temper on his wife. She had utterly humiliated him in front of his contemporaries, not to mention the highest sovereigns of the land. She blinked at him as he collapsed on the seat across from her.

  “What is the matter?” she asked.

  “What’s the matter? Did you think that went well, that audience?”

  He saw a shadow of guilt on her face. “I did my best.”

  “Was that your best? The part where you insulted the king—not to mention your husband—by suggesting you would rather have stayed in Wales? What about the part where you said our marriage was ‘well enough’? That was lovely. Oh, and taking up the discussion of bearing my heirs with Queen Charlotte, that was absolutely stunning in its couth. My goodness, Guinevere. You’ve outdone yourself today.”

  She shrank at his vicious tone. “You never specified what I could or could not say.”

  “Because one would assume you would only say polite things to the crown of England.”

  “It seemed that everyone was speaking plainly. I was being honest.”

  He held up a hand to silence her. “I’m too angry to speak with you right now.”

  “But—”

  “No.”

  No, he didn’t dare look at her, or say another word. He didn’t want to attempt to spank her in her court dress, in this carriage, but if she riled him any further, that was what he would do. How was he to proceed from here? He’d have to beg pardon of the king, and he would have to fix his wife and his marriage before the season began. He did not like to be a laughingstock. He would not be made a laughingstock by a slip of a Welsh girl, at any rate.

  They were nearly back at home when she asked in a troubled voice, “Will you still let me see my horse?”

  “Your goddamned horse.” He wanted to throttle her. All the turmoil and irritation she’d brought to his life, and all she cared for was the blasted horse. “I ought to take her away from you,” he said as the coach rattled to a stop. “It would be an appropriate punishment, since you have taken away my pride, my reputation. You knew exactly what you were up to during that audience, and believe me, you shall be brought to account for it, as soon as I have regained my temper.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means you won’t sit comfortably on that horse, even if I decide to let you keep her.”

  With those words, he disembarked from the carriage and stalked into the house, leaving the grooms to extricate his lavishly skirted wife.

  * * * * *

  After her lady’s maid divested her of her court clothes, Gwen waited to be called to the duke’s room—for she knew she’d be called to his room. She deserved to be. She had acted foolishly, because she was nervous and reluctant, and irritated by the outfit she had to wear. She understood about royalty, but she didn’t see why she had to participate in all the pomp and circumstance.

  Well, she knew why.

  A somber-faced footman escorted her to Arlington’s private sitting room an hour or so after they’d arrived home. He still looked angry, but his color wasn’t as high as it had been in the carriage.

  “I’m very sorry,” she began. “I’ve spent this last hour reflecting—”

  “Take off your clothes.”

  “Please, Sir—”

  “Do not infuriate me further by refusing to comply. Remove your clothes.”

  His gaze darkened as his words snapped across the distance between them. Gwen swallowed hard and removed her slippers, and her stockings and garters. She reached behind to unlace her gown but could not manage it. Arlington crossed to her and unlaced her himself, with rough, impatient tugs. The dread that had fluttered in her stomach the past hour rose and settled in her chest.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so very sorry I embarrassed you.”

  He ignored her, yanking her gown over her head as she tried in vain to impede him. She fumbled at her petticoat’s ties to have something to do besides panic. Once
they dropped to the floor, she was bared to his gaze.

  She searched his face for any softness, any comfort. Nothing. He took her elbow and drew her toward his bedroom.

  “What are you going to do?” she asked.

  “Punish you.”

  “But you are still so angry. You’re frightening me.”

  He stopped beside his great, raised bed and forced her to face him. “I think you deserve to be frightened. And I think I deserve to be angry. There is nothing more humiliating to a man than a wife who is not within his control. I’m tired of battling with you, Guinevere. One of us is going to break in this marriage, and it shall not be me.”

  “It won’t be me, either,” she said with false bravado. “You’re not allowed to hurt me.”

  “I’m allowed to discipline you, and you are due a correction for your insouciance today. Lie on your stomach on the bed. You are going to be caned. Ten strokes.”

  “Ten strokes!” she cried. “I said I was sorry.”

  “And I said to lie on the bed.”

  Gwen had never been caned before, but she knew it was a vicious form of punishment. “Please don’t do this,” she begged him.

  “Would you like me to help you lie down?” he asked, fetching the whippy looking cane from the bedtable. “If I must help you, I’ll add five additional strokes.”

  If she was not so naked and frightened, she might have resisted him, but what good would it do? He was determined to make her hurt because she had offended his lofty English pride. She climbed onto his bed where he indicated, and lay on her front with her legs pressed together.

  “I think this English tradition of husbands punishing wives is very uncivilized and cruel,” she said.

  “And yet you live in England now, whether you like it or not.”

  Goosebumps rose on her arms as the duke positioned himself beside the bed. He tapped her bottom with the cane, once, twice, as if perfecting his aim. She gazed up at him in entreaty.