There was no light, but he could see the outline of a trunk in the dark. He turned her around and pushed her toward it, and bent her over it, hauling up her skirts from the back. He held them out of the way and nudged open her legs with his knees. She gripped the edge of the trunk for balance; he could see the pale outline of her gloves against the wood as he positioned himself behind her.
Like Jack in the meadow, he was taking what he wanted, whether offered or not. He could not seem to stop taking from her. He pushed her legs wider and stroked her quim, and found her copiously wet. He slid two fingers inside her, pumping them in and out. “Naughty little duchess. How hot you are. Stop squirming about, and let me have you.”
“It’s so dark,” she said. “I’m afraid.”
“You’re not afraid. You want this.”
“Please don’t hurt me.”
She meant Please hurt me. He heard it in her tone, and felt it in her arching spine as she wriggled back against him. He shoved inside her, driving through her tight, hot slickness all the way to the hilt. “Oh,” she gasped. “Oh!”
Oh, indeed. He thrust into her again, not caring for the dark or the hard floor beneath his knees. He set up a steady rhythm, capturing her arms and pinning them behind her. She struggled with a low moan. By God, she stripped his control with her responsive reactions. He couldn’t resist her, and he couldn’t restrain his animalistic urge to possess her.
He reached beneath her to yank down her bodice and expose her breasts. He grasped one of them, worrying the nipple between his fingers before treating her to a hard pinch. She gasped and threw her head back.
“Does it hurt, darling? Yes?” He chuckled at her distracted nodding. “It hurts in the best way, doesn’t it?”
He released her arms and squeezed her breasts until she wailed and shuddered. Her pussy’s clenching sent waves of need through his cock and balls, an intense building of energy. He pumped inside her, losing his mind, losing control.
“You should always be like this,” he growled, twisting his fingers in her hair. “You should always be beneath me, moaning like this, taking my cock.”
“No,” she cried.
“Yes. You’re mine.”
Her hips moved wildly to meet his pounding thrusts. She was so beautiful, so powerful, even in her surrender. He pulled her hair harder, yanked her head back so he could kiss and suck the smooth column of her neck. Her pussy pulsed and her breath hissed through her teeth.
“Please,” she begged. “Please.”
“Please what?”
“Please don’t stop. Don’t stop. I’m so close…”
“Come for me,” he ordered. “Come for me now.”
She obeyed with a ragged cry, arching back as he grasped her breasts. He climaxed deep within her, his own pleasure heightened by the intensity of her release. For long moments they remained still, gasping for air.
“Are you all right?” he asked when he could manage it. He tried to turn her in his arms, but she resisted. He realized she was in tears.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Did I hurt you?”
She pulled away, readjusting her clothing and wiping at her cheeks. “You always hurt me,” she said. “You make me ashamed of myself.”
He squinted to see her in the dark room. She wouldn’t let him hold her. She got to her feet and moved toward the door, searching for the handle in the dark.
“You’ve done nothing to be ashamed of,” he said, following after her. “There’s no need to cry.” He did up his breeches as she stumbled into the moonlight. He could see her well now, her tears and her agonized expression. He caught her before she reached the horses.
“Do not,” he said, taking her face between his fingers. “Do not be ashamed of what just happened. Do not dare.”
“You can’t control me in everything. You can’t tell me how to feel!”
She tried to turn away, but he forced her face back and looked into her eyes. “I can tell you how I feel. I don’t want you to cry when we’ve just shared such pleasure.” He frowned at her tears. “You ought to be happy. In this, you please me.”
“In this.” She gave a bitter laugh. “What a laudable duchess I am, to be able to meet your basest carnal desires.”
“Your carnal desires too. You enjoyed yourself well enough, for all your tears.”
She pulled away from him when he would have comforted her. Why were they back to anger, after the closeness they’d just shared? He took her arms and made her look at him. “If this is the only thing that works for us as husband and wife, so be it. It’s the only necessary thing to perpetuate my family line.”
“Of course your family line is the only matter of importance in this marriage.”
“It’s the most important thing, yes.”
“What about love? What about caring?”
He scowled at her. “Why are you harping at me in that shrill tone? You’re never angrier than after you’ve just been fucked. If I could contrive a way to keep my cock in you all the time, you’d be a lot more biddable, I think.”
“You are crass.”
“And you are peevish. Again. No matter.” He lifted her and put her on her horse. “I’ll be ready to take you again by the time we return to the house.”
“I don’t want you again.”
“Is that so?” He put on his gloves and mounted his own horse. “In the end, one has little to do with the other. Especially when I am so much more powerful than you will ever be.”
* * * * *
Gwen rose the next day feeling mentally and physically exhausted. Arlington had seen fit to lay with her twice more after they returned from the temple. He had proved his point—that she enjoyed his caresses—but it had come at a cost to her peace of mind, and her pride.
The last thing she wanted was to spend more time with her husband, but the portrait artist was there for the final sitting, so she put on her silver dress and her jewels and reported to the grand hall to pose primly with her hands in her lap. She wondered if the painter could see the strain on her face, or intuit somehow the stresses of the previous night. Arlington stood proud and pompous behind her, having shown yet again that he ruled supreme.
Only fitting, that he should stand tall in their painting, while she sat below him, his dog at heel. She didn’t smile. She refused to smile in this portrait so that generations to come might imagine she had been happy as his wife.
At last the artist declared himself finished, with the preliminaries at least. To Gwen, the painting looked half done, with white spaces and shaded areas, but the artist would finish the rest from his sketches, and promised delivery within a couple of weeks. The duke, at least, seemed handsomely outlined. The artist had captured his attitude perfectly, his regal aura and bearing. Gwen seemed an afterthought. Her face was only partially sketched in. That was how she felt these days, only partially sketched in.
Once the artist was gone, Arlington told her to dress for riding. His commanding tone reminded her of the night before, of firm touches and carnal manipulations. She didn’t want to be aroused by the memories, but she was.
“I would rather not go out today,” she said.
“You’d rather not go out? Or you’d rather not go out with me?”
When she clamped her lips shut and refused to answer, he took her arm and led her into the breakfast room.
“Do you know that we are famous this morning?” he asked.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I’ll show you what I mean.” He snatched up a paper from the sideboard, the newspaper he scanned every morning at breakfast, and read from the third page with great dramatic flair.
“It appears the Duke of A---- is not as lion-hearted as he is lion-haired. The admirable duke took his wife, recently acquired from W----, to meet with the Crown, whereby the Duchess of A---- alluded to a less than satisfying marriage. Look, darling, there’s even a likeness of me frowning at you.”
She swallowed hard, and forced herself t
o glance at the drawing when he shoved the paper under her nose. “Horrid gossip,” she whispered.
“I don’t know if one can call it gossip,” he said, taking it back to scowl at the picture. “The paper’s only saying exactly what you did.”
“That drawing is ridiculous,” she said to placate him. “You don’t have lion hair. And I don’t know why they bother to use initials when everyone knows who they mean.”
“It doesn’t matter if I have lion hair or not,” he said, throwing the paper back down on the table. “What matters is that, thanks to you, everyone in London is talking about our failed union and laughing behind their hands. We’re going out riding, Guinevere, like the happiest married couple ever. Go get dressed.”
Gwen hurried upstairs to change, to obey him, yes, but also to get away from him. He was in a very prickly mood.
“You must make me look happy,” she told Pascale. “The duke commands it.”
“Are you going to ride in Hyde Park?”
“I think so.”
“You need bright colors then,” said the French maid. “The cerise riding habit, or the orange.”
They ultimately decided on the deep yellow-gold, since it looked so well with her hair, and because yellow-gold was one of Arlington’s favorite colors. Anything to quell that quiet fury in his gaze.
“If you want to look happy, Madam, you must smile,” said Pascale in her strident way. She adjusted Gwen’s hat again, seeking that perfect angle. “People go to the park to see and be seen. Make sure that they see what you want them to see.”
What did Gwen want them to see? That she loved her husband? It was hard to capture that feeling in the confusion of her muddled thoughts. He was waiting when she came out of her dressing room, and inspected her with a critical gaze.
“Will I do?” she asked tightly, as his perusal strung out.
“You’ll do fine if you keep your temper,” he replied with a warning note.
At least Gwen would be able to ride Eira again. She’d been overjoyed to see the mare yesterday, even if she was a different animal now. Tamed and subdued. Gwen would still love her forever, and Eira seemed to understand that love. She nickered softly when Gwen appeared, nosing her hand for a treat. Gwen tsked and petted her muzzle. “I see. Is that how they trained you so prettily?”
She went to the stable master and secured a bit of apple to feed her pet, as Arlington looked on impatiently. At last they set off to the park. Eira did very well among the sounds and sights of the busy London streets, so Gwen could relax and look about. London was still new to her. In fact, she doubted she would ever get used to all the people. Everyone gawked at the duke, and Gwen had to admit he looked very fine in his deep hunter green coat, atop his oversized stallion.
When they arrived at Hyde Park, it was even more crowded, and people still stared, although they stared with a great deal more judgment. She was glad now that Pascale had taken so much time with her hair and clothes, and so carefully adjusted the tilt of her riding hat.
Arlington stayed beside her, his black crop tucked beneath his arm. “Smile, would you?” he said between his teeth. “Or there’ll be another on-dit in the paper tomorrow.”
She tried to smile but there were people everywhere, staring and shouting back and forth to one another. A few gentlemen addressed the duke, and he introduced her as the Duchess of Arlington. She would never remember all the names. Lord this and Lord that, and Lady something-or-other who giggled behind her hand.
“Was that woman laughing at me?” asked Gwen when the last group moved along.
“I told you how things would be in London,” he said. “Didn’t you believe me? People are vicious. That’s the way the ton works. You’ve stopped smiling again.”
“I don’t feel like smiling.”
“You’ll do better to smile and pretend, than keep frowning that way.”
She looked down under the pretense of smoothing her gloves. She tried to curve her lips into a smile before she looked up again. They were garnering a great deal of attention, and yes, furtive mockery. One bold gentleman pointed before lowering his hand. This was why Arlington had punished her so angrily, she supposed. She had not only embarrassed him before the king and queen, but before his entire social set.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly.
“There’s nothing for it now. Hold your head up another moment, and we’ll go.”
Thank God. Her face hurt from forcing a smile and pretending to be happy. She wanted nothing more on earth than to be away from these crowds, but then...
Then he’d take her home. She glanced at the square set of his jaw, framed by his queued hair. She noted his strong legs and broad shoulders, and thought about the things he did to her in private. She didn’t know if she dreaded them or wanted them again. Perhaps both. At least in his arms—or his Greek temple—she passed muster.
They rode back to Arlington House in silence. She could not divine his thoughts, although she guessed them quite unpleasant. How long would they be laughingstocks? How long would those crowds in the park judge her, and judge their marriage? Forever, she feared.
As they neared the house, there was a great clatter of carriages out front. She recognized the duke’s Oxfordshire friends and their wives, and wondered why they had come to call. Arlington went to speak to Lord Warren, and then Lord Barrymore appeared. It was a relief to see them, in a way. It meant he wouldn’t be taking her to bed again, for a few hours at least. She did not enjoy his perverse and sadistic tastes.
Or perhaps she didn’t enjoy the fact that she enjoyed them, when she really didn’t want to.
Oh, it was all such a terrible coil.
Chapter Thirteen: Frank Talks
Aidan watched helplessly from the foyer as the servants bustled back and forth with trunks and baggage, and the Warrens’ baby crib. The ladies had gone upstairs to consult on sleeping arrangements. Aidan went into his parlor, where his gentlemen friends had gathered before the fire.
“So you’ve come to stay,” he said. “All of you?”
“We’ve come to bide a fortnight or so, if you’ll have us,” said Warren. “The ladies decided you had the grandest house, and the best place to throw a Christmas party.”
“A party?” Aidan echoed.
“We’re not just here to throw a party,” Townsend said, nudging Warren’s shoulder. “Tell him the truth.” He turned to Aidan. “We’ve come to save your marriage, which is reportedly in a shambles.”
“You read it in the papers?” he asked acerbically.
“And heard it at the club, and in the park, and in the ladies’ circles,” said Barrymore. “Sorry to give you the news, but it’s on everyone’s tongue.”
“Is it as bad as they say?” asked Warren. “Did your duchess really appeal to Queen Charlotte for an annulment?”
“Dear God. Is that the gossip?”
His three friends gazed at him in sympathy.
“Well, of course that isn’t true,” he said, pacing across the room. “I mean, she didn’t specifically say that. She said something more along the lines of wishing she’d never left Wales.”
“Blast,” said Townsend. “That’s not much better.”
“She also conversed with Queen Charlotte about ‘bearing my heirs.’ Neither she nor the king was charmed.”
“Goodness, Arlington,” said Warren. “What an uncomfortable audience that must have been.”
“Uncomfortable does not begin to describe it.” He poured a drink for himself, and for all his friends. “As for saving my marriage, I doubt it can be done. Once she gives me a handful of children, I suppose I’ll let her go back to Wales the way she wants.”
“What? Really?” said Barrymore. “Things are that bad?”
Aidan tossed back his drink, feeling cross and humiliated. “I know you three bunglers managed to make a go of your marriages, but Guinevere and I are poorly suited. We don’t get along. I would go so far as to say she despises me.”
“Why?�
�� they all asked in varying degrees of outrage.
“Perhaps you shouldn’t stick your cock so deep in her mouth,” said Warren under his breath.
Barrymore smacked him on the side of the head. “This isn’t a time for laughs, Warren.”
Townsend glowered at him. “I agree. Show some respect to our old friend, and more importantly, his wife.”
“Forgive me,” said Warren, throwing up his hands. “I only feel rather helpless. Out of all of us, you’ve always been the finest, most stand-up chap, and the ladies adore Guinevere. There must be a way for the pair of you to come to terms.”
“The marriage is young yet,” said Townsend. “There’s still hope.”
There were times Aidan had hope, but those times were always followed by some wretched scene of emotional destruction. He wondered what his friends would say if he described his last twenty-four hours with his wife. I caned her for embarrassing me before the crown, then sodomized her as a form of punishment while she was tied to my bed. Later, I took her to the temple, bent her over a wooden trunk, and fucked her...
“You’re welcome to stay, of course,” Aidan said. “But I’m not sure if you can help.”
“It’s not as if we didn’t all have our own problems,” said Barrymore. “I broke my wife’s heart to pieces before I managed to get my head on straight.”
“And I made Josephine run away from me twice,” Warren said. “Once all the way into the country.”
“Shouldn’t have stuck your cock so deep in her mouth,” Aidan said.
“I couldn’t help it,” Warren retorted.
Aidan refilled their drinks, and the three of them looked at Townsend. He glanced over his shoulder and back at them. “What, my turn now?”
“C’mon, Towns,” said Barrymore. “Confess.”
He lifted his arms with a woebegone expression. “I don’t know where to begin. Before we even married, I tried to duck out of my engagement by trysting with another woman, who, thanks to you all, ended up being her.” Townsend continued enumerating his missteps on his fingers. “I also spanked her on our wedding night, forced her to learn bedroom techniques more suited to a courtesan, then bought her an insect to try to win her affections.”
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