by Cheryl Holt
He was snuggled to her, their passion ebbing, and she was amazed to feel him kiss her ear, her hair. She didn't think he'd kissed her before, or if he had, she couldn't remember.
She smiled, ecstatic that she'd taken a chance on him.
"By the way," he started.
"What?"
"My Christian name is Robert. What's yours?" "Anne," she said. "My name is Anne."
Chapter Eighteen
Who's there?" Penelope sat up in her bed, squinting through the darkness. A man had sneaked in, and she panicked.
What if it was Lord Romsey? Was he about to rape her? If that was his intent, she'd have to marry him. "Who is it!" she repeated more forcefully. "Hush!" Lord Kettering replied. "If you continue with your carping, you'll wake the dead."
She sagged with relief as he walked over and lit a candle. Dressed in a flannel nightshirt, a robe pulled over top, he was ready to proceed with her ruination. "How did you get in?" "I used a key. How would you suppose?" Penelope smirked. Lavinia was so stupid. She'd locked Penelope in, but she hadn't fathomed that her more important goal should have been to keep the Earl out.
"Why have you come? What do you want?"
"If you have to ask, perhaps I should go." He didn't
move to depart, though. Instead, he ordered, "Take your hair down."
"Not until we establish a few rules."
"Rules?" He chortled. "I'm agog to hear what they might be."
"You will afford me the deference I'm due as your future wife, and you will exhibit the utmost courtesy at all times." She glared, daring him to rebuff her. "If you can't be civil, then I don't want you here."
He scoffed. "I don't know why your mother doesn't have you whipped on a regular basis."
"Whipped! I won't brook any insolence from you! Now get out or I'll scream bloody murder."
"Go ahead. Bring your mother running. I'm eager for her to see us, although I'm hoping we'll be a tad farther along when she arrives."
His flip retort kept her silent, and she scowled. There was no way to take charge of the encounter or make him behave appropriately. He wanted every bad thing she wanted, only he had a firmer grasp of how to achieve it—and with the least amount of scruples.
"I changed my mind," she petulantly said.
"About what?"
"I've decided to marry Romsey as planned."
"I don't think so."
"I am! So you might as well leave."
He ignored her and lit another candle; then he went to the hearth and stoked the embers, throwing on kindling so the fire was roaring.
Once he'd finished, he rose and dusted off his hands. "There, that's better. I hate to fuck in a cold room."
"I don't know what that word means."
"You don't need to know the definition to be able to do it."
He came to the bed and sat on the edge. 'Take your hair down," he said again. "No."
He grabbed her braid and yanked at the ribbon, fluffing the blond strands so that they floated around her shoulders.
"Remove your nightgown."
"I won't. Go away, I tell you. Go!"
"Don't you want to be my countess?"
She was still desperately willing, but if he thought she was about to refuse him, maybe he'd be nicer. "You're too loathsome, so the title of viscountess will suit me just fine."
"You greedy wench. We both know that's a lie." He gestured to her nightgown. 'Take it off."
"No."
He clutched the front and ripped it in half. "You have to learn that it's pointless to argue with me."
"Why, you ... you ... you ..."
She clasped at the destroyed garment, trying to hold it together, and while she was distracted, he rolled over and stretched out on top of her. She could feel him all the way down, especially the foul rod between his legs. She had a vague notion of what he'd do with it, and at realizing what was about to happen, she shuddered with dread.
"Let me explain how it's going to go," he said. "I won't listen."
Like the spoiled child he always accused her of being, she clamped her hands over her ears, but he gripped her wrists and pinned them over her head. The new position was even more intimate, their anatomies more closely aligned, and his passions further inflamed. She squirmed and fought, but the only thing she accomplished was to rub the torn pieces of her nightgown so that they fell away and her entire nude form was rasping against his.
He looked down at her breasts, and he grinned in a manner she didn't like; then he dipped down and put his mouth on her nipple. It was rough and disgusting, and she detested that the marital act had to be so physical. She didn't like being groped and mauled, and though Lavinia insisted she'd get used to it, she couldn't see how she ever would.
T will spend the night," he advised, "relieving you of your chastity."
"Then what?"
"We will keep at it, until you're good and truly ruined, so that your mother can't dump you on Jordan." "That's it?"
"Believe me, it's more than enough. What time does the maid deliver your breakfast?"
"Mother has ordered me awakened at six. I'm to be ready when her messenger returns with the Special License."
He glanced over at the clock. "Which gives us three hours of fucking before we're discovered. Let's see how you take to it."
He started in on her breast again, and she'd presumed she was prepared for the onslaught, but when his fingers drifted down her belly to the juncture of her thighs, she threatened, "If you touch me there, I'll cut off your hand."
As if she hadn't spoken, he slithered through her womanly hair and poked around inside her. He stroked in and out, in and out, the sensation odd and vile.
"Oh, what a tight little puss you have. My cock will be ecstatic."
"Stop it!"
She batted at him, striking him about the shoulders, and he ignored her until she landed a fairly solid blow; then he sat on his haunches and tugged the belt from his robe. Before she grasped what he planned, he tied one end around her wrists and the other to the headboard so that she was fettered.
"Do I have your attention?" he asked.
"Yes."
"If you raise a fuss, I'll gag you, too." "You wouldn't dare!"
"Wouldn't I? There's one thing you should know about me." "What's that?"
"I like to copulate in peace. If you can't be pleasant and amenable, then you are to be submissive and silent."
"If you suppose I'll blithely obey your commands without a peep, you've picked the wrong girl."
"Have I? Over the years, I've trained many virgins to their marital duties, and I'm an expert at it. I don't imagine I'll have much trouble with you."
She pulled hard, trying to free herself but to no avail. "Let me go!"
"No, I'm enjoying myself too much."
"I'll do whatever you demand! Release me!"
"No."
There was a plaintive note in her voice that made her sound as if she was begging, but she couldn't help it. Events had escalated too rapidly, and she hated not having control over what was about to transpire.
"You can't keep me tied up forever. If you don't let me loose—this very second—I'll kill you. Maybe not right away, but someday when you least expect it, you'll be dead."
"Penny, Penny, Penny," he scolded, using the nickname she detested. "You don't appreciate the consequences of what you've set in motion, do you?"
"What do you mean?"
"From the moment I arrived, you've thrown yourself at me. I've finally decided to give you what you crave, but everything comes with a price. The cost of sharing my title is very high, and you'll have to pay it in whatever fashion I require."
"You talk as if I'm to be your slave."
"Not my slave, no, but you will be a biddable and respectful wife."
"And if I decline to be led like a lamb to the slaughter?"
"You do so at your peril. You see, once I breach your maidenhead, no other man will have you—except me. Then your fortune will be t
ransferred to me, and you will no longer be an heiress. The money will be mine— not yours—so you will have no value to me. If you persist with your juvenile, annoying habits, why would I keep you around?"
She received his message loud and clear: She could aggravate and exasperate him, or she could shut her mouth and do as he asked. She could spread her legs and obtain all the boons that went with being a countess, or she could complain and wind up with nothing.
She struggled to appear meek, which she intended to be temporarily. But in the future—oh, in the future!— there was no telling how she'd strike back.
Her false capitulation tricked him, and he mused, "Good, we're beginning to understand one another."
"Yes, we are."
"I believe we've established some of the ground rules that had you in such a dither. I trust they're acceptable to you?"
She nodded, and he smirked.
With great courtesy, he inquired, "Would you like to be my next bride, Miss Gray?"
"Yes, I would, Lord Kettering."
"Fine, then. Let's proceed."
"Would you . .. would you ... untie me? I promise I'll behave."
"No. Your bondage makes it seem more like rape, which I enjoy very much and don't get to indulge in nearly enough. I'll release you once we're finished."
"Please?"
"No."
She bit down on the diatribe she was yearning to hurl. He thought he'd won the game, and she'd let him have his illusions, but she was smug with the certainty that, ultimately, he would be so sorry.
He stood and shrugged out of his robe; then, with no concern for her virginal state, he drew off his nightgown, too, so that he was naked.
She hadn't had the foresight to glance away, so she saw every inch of him. For such an elderly fellow, he was actually quite fit, but he was hairy all over, much of it gray in color, which sickened her and reminded her of the disparity in their ages.
She'd convinced herself that she wanted an apathetic marriage to an aristocrat, but now, with him about to take the steps that would permanently bind them, she was rethinking her ploy.
Perhaps, she should have held out for love, or at least a few crumbs of affection, and it occurred to her that she had chosen Kettering for all the wrong reasons.
At his crotch, his phallus jutted out, and it seemed to be pointed directly at her. It was a huge, ugly thing, covered with reddened skin and ropey veins. As she watched in horror, he wrapped his fist around it and squeezed. She squealed with affront and crunched her eyes closed, but she could feel the mattress shift with his weight as he joined her again.
"Open your eyes, little girl," he coaxed. "Observe the instrument that will bring about your ruination."
He eased forward and brushed something against her mouth, and she clamped her lips together.
"Now, now," he reprimanded, "we have an agreement, remember? You must do as I say."
She whimpered with fright, and he pinched her nipple so hard that she winced and peeked over at him. His rod was there! In her face!
She jerked away as he chuckled.
"This is my cock," he proudly proclaimed. "Why shy away? You insist that your mother told you all about it."
"Yes, she has." Suddenly, she abhorred Lavinia's attempts at enlightenment. Penelope would much rather have been completely in the dark.
"I like to have sex several times a day," he bragged, "and I take my pleasure any way it suits me. Some men are more polite with their spouses and have their mistresses do all the dirty work, but not me. I make every lover—be she wife or whore—perform the same deeds."
He stroked the filthy appendage across her lips. "Lick the end, Penelope."
She was in matrimonial hell, and the vows hadn't even been spoken yet! "I can't; I can't."
"You can and you will. You'll do as I've requested— at once—or I shall beat you, and then you'll have to do it anyway. Isn't it better to simply comply?"
He would beat her? With her being trussed like a Christmas goose, how could she prevent him?
She relented and dabbed at the tip with her tongue.
"There now," he soothed, "that wasn't so bad, was it?"
"I feel like I'm going to retch!"
"No retching will ever be permitted. Any display of repugnance will result in the whipping I promised."
"I can't help it if I'm disgusted by you."
"I don't mind if you're disgusted. I only demand that you learn to hide it." He touched her with his phallus again. "Lick me again, and keep at it until I tell you to stop."
She heaved a frustrated sigh, but did as he'd ordered, continuing on as moisture oozed from the end, which she couldn't abide.
"Enough!" she declared. "Do something else. Put me out of my misery."
He drew away and slid down her body, and after widening her thighs, he centered himself at her sheath, then wedged into the folds. He started pushing in, and he wasn't even looking at her. He couldn't care less that it was she. His partner could have been any anonymous female, and it dawned on her that, deep down, she'd wanted a husband who adored her, but the insight came much too late.
"You're hurting me," she complained.
"I couldn't possibly be. I haven't done anything."
"It will never fit."
"It'll fit fine, but it will be very tight, which is just how I like it."
He increased the pressure, cramming in another inch, and another.
"Jesus," he nagged, "you're dry as an old hag."
"I am not!"
"You are, but it's all right. It extends the moment for me."
Sweat popped out on his brow, his shoulders and arms quaking with the effort, when abruptly, he burst through the barrier. She arched up and cried out, but he clapped a hand over her mouth, stifling her distress.
He thrust into her as if she'd had sex a thousand times prior, and as she endured the deluge, she could almost see the money from her dowry flowing into his bank account—until he had everything and she had nothing.
After an eternity, he concluded the indecent business. With a loud grunt of satisfaction, his seed flooded her womb, and she imagined it taking root, planting a babe that would make her grow ugly and fat. She shivered with dread, praying that it would never happen— or if it did that she could find a competent, ruthless barber.
Eventually, the torture ceased, and he rolled off her and smugly gazed at the ceiling. When he finally glanced over at her, he seemed surprised, as if he'd forgotten she was present.
"Untie me," she commanded.
"Certainly."
He reached over and tugged at the knots. The belt fell away, and she curled into a ball, rubbing her abused wrists.
She was stunned and revolted. Was this to be her future? Was she to spend the rest of her days trapped in a bedchamber with this selfish, cruel oaf?
The prospect didn't bear contemplating.
"I love fucking virgins," he crudely said.
"Shut up."
"Your mother won't be able to keep us apart."
"No, she won't," she glumly concurred. Belatedly, she wished Lavinia had been a tad more strict, that she had heeded her mother's admonitions.
He slapped her on the bottom. "Get up, and fetch a towel."
"Why?"
"Because I'm covered with your maiden's blood, and I want you to clean it up."
"I'm not your servant. Get it yourself."
He slapped her bottom again, more forcefully. "Do as you're told—or I'll be very angry."
She climbed out of bed and teetered over to the dressing room. As she peered at herself in the mirror, a huge wave of disappointment swamped her, and she was crushed by the recognition that she'd made a hideous error in judgment, that none of her dreams would ever come true.
"What's taking you so long?" he barked.
She hurried to the washbasin, dipped a cloth, and scampered back to him.
Her nose wrinkled in revulsion; she wiped him down, not touching him more than she had to. When she was fi
nished, she dropped the cloth on the floor and glared.
"Now what?" she asked.
"Now you get back into bed with me."
"I don't want to."
"So?" He patted the mattress, indicating that she didn't have a choice. "I'm too sore." "I don't care."
He dragged her to him, refusing to let her disobey, and she conceded the fight. He was so much older, so much more confident and assured, and she had no idea how to best him. But she'd learn how—and soon!
She lay there, stiff as a board, and as he snuggled himself on top of her, tears leaked from her eyes.
"Why are you bawling?"
"Because I'm sad."
"Why would you be sad? You're about to receive your heart's desire—which is marriage to me!" "But you don't love me."
"Of course, I don't love you," he bluntly replied. "This is a business transaction. Nothing more."
"I thought it would be different," she sniffed.
"Well, it's not. This isn't some juvenile fantasy. This is real life."
He yanked at her legs, his cock hard and eager. "I can't possibly do it again," she protested. "Yes, you can. You have to. In fact, we're going to do it over and over, until you start to get the hang of it." He entered her and began to flex.
Chapter Nineteen
Mrs. Prescott, you say?" "Yes." Margaret kept her face carefully blank, not reacting to the fake surname she'd adopted as her own. In the period since she'd left Gray's Manor, it had occurred to her that she'd get on much better as a widow than she would as a single woman.
When she'd initially been asked, she could have assumed any identity in the kingdom, but for some perverse reason she'd selected Prescott without hesitation. She couldn't figure out why she'd chosen Lord Romsey's family name, but Mrs. Prescott she'd picked, and Mrs. Prescott it would be from this moment on.
The proprietress of the boardinghouse pushed open the door to a dingy room, and Margaret stepped in. Foul odors assailed her, as if the rubbish from the prior tenant hadn't been cleaned out.
She looked around, too distraught to fret over how low she'd fallen, or to wonder if her fortunes could plummet even further.
"What do you think?" the proprietress inquired.
There was a rickety cot in the corner, a dilapidated dresser along the wall, and a narrow slit of a window. It was tiny and dirty and pitiful.
