by Renee Rose
“Are you nervous?”
“A bit,” she said, lifting her face to his.
He smiled, cradling her cheek in his palm and tugging it forward to meet his lips. He kissed her deeply, then said, “I love you, Eliza. Tonight you are finally mine.” He turned her around and slid her buttons from their loops. “I regret I cannot yet afford a maid to dress and undress you. I hope you will accept my clumsy assistance instead.”
“I prefer you over any attendant. I never felt comfortable with my maids.”
He lifted the hair from the back of her neck and kissed behind her ear. “I hope it was not because you did not feel worthy.”
Pink tinged her cheeks and she dropped her eyes to the floor, staring at her shoes.
“Tonight I hope to teach you just how beautiful you are,” he said, his voice growing husky. He pulled a chair to face her and sat in it. “Remove all your clothing and show me what belongs to me now.”
“An-drew,” she protested, pleading with her eyes.
“You heard me, darling. Obey or suffer the consequences.”
* * *
Her face burnt as she peeled her arms out of the poufy sleeves of her dress, allowing it to drop in a pool at her feet. Standing before her new husband in nothing but her corset, drawers, and stockings, she grew increasingly uneasy under his heavy-lidded gaze.
“Andrew… I cannot,” she begged. Removing her underclothing with the lamp burning and her husband watching was too much to ask of her.
“You have nothing to hide from me,” he coaxed, the hint of a smile curling on his lips, though his arms crossed over his chest in an implacable pose.
“Please? Please do not make me. Extinguish the lamp and take me under the covers, or undress me yourself, but please… I simply cannot.”
“You know the consequences for disobedience?”
She closed her eyes, the trembling in her legs increasing. “I know them,” she whispered.
“Bend over the bed, darling.”
Half-relieved, half-terrified, she gave him her back, folding her torso over his bed and hiding her face in the quilt.
“Silly goose,” he said, his voice warm with fondness as his hand stroked her backside. She shivered when his fingers entered the slit in her drawers, flesh connecting with flesh, her skin prickling at the shock of his intimate touch.
The memory of the first spanking he gave her came flooding back—her bewildered submission to his capture and restraint, the way he bared her and welted her flesh, all the while effectively confessing his passion for her. Dampness gathered between her legs at the sensuality of every chastisement he had meted out.
He reached around the front of her drawers and tugged the string, allowing the fabric to slide down over her hips, exposing her bottom to his view. She burrowed her head deeper into the bedding, embarrassed.
“Disobedience results in consequences, Lady Darlington,” he informed her, his voice turning stern.
“Yes, my lord,” she murmured, hardly knowing whether the anticipation fluttering in her stomach came from excitement or dread.
I love you.
The words rose to her mind, though she did not speak them. Odd words to express at such a moment, but the emotion was genuine.
I love you and I will give myself to you like this, or any way you ask.
He had no need to prove she belonged to him—she already knew it, to the very marrow of her bones. She had known it since that first moment they had met, when he looked at all of her without flinching, saw her true self, her hidden self, beneath the marred skin. She had obeyed his command even then, when he ordered her to breathe. He had known what she suffered and shared her burden, as if they were already a team, even then.
The sound of displaced air reached her ears a split second before a line of fire erupted across her bottom. She gasped, then whimpered. The riding crop. Every muscle in her body tensed, preparing to receive another stroke. Instead he tapped the implement on her quivering cheeks.
“You never need hide from me, sweet Eliza,” he said, returning to the rich timbre of affection, warming the parts of her that were not already on fire.
The whip struck again, a dizzying stripe of stinging pain.
She made an oomph sound into the covers. He struck two more times before she had regained her breath. She tried to find her voice to beg him to stop, but he said, “One more, Eliza, and then I will put out the lamp and take you under the covers.”
She relaxed, knowing she need only endure one more stroke. He made it a terrible one, though, and she gave a short shriek. When she recovered her senses, she realized her husband knelt beside her, removing her garters and kissing the line of constricted flesh beneath them. He slid her stockings down her legs with a sensuousness she did not know possible. Her legs still trembled, and she shifted, embarrassed, but he gripped the backs of her thighs and murmured in a gravelly voice, “I love when you quake for me.”
Moisture leaked from her sex onto her thigh. “Andrew,” she managed to choke.
The lamp flickered out and darkness surrounded them. She lifted her head from the covers and turned to face him, falling into his arms, her legs too unsteady to carry her forward. He stood holding her, seemingly without agenda. He inhaled deeply at her neck.
“I love your smell.”
She made an incoherent sound and he kissed her neck.
“I love your silky hair, and the softness of your skin. I love the sound of your voice, even when you do not speak.”
She giggled. “Excuse me?”
He laughed, tucking an arm beneath her knees to pick her up like a baby and toss her onto the bed. “I mean, I know what you are thinking—what you would sound like if you spoke your thoughts.”
She smiled into the dark room, bliss flooding her chest. “You do know what I am thinking, do you not?”
He chuckled. “Not always. Remember, I believed you were my little traitor for a time, there.” He shucked his clothing in record time, crawling over her. Eyes adjusting to the darkness, she made out the handsome planes of his face as he moved in for a kiss. “Actually, that was a fun game. Perhaps we can play spy and spymaster once more. I should like to tie you up again and interrogate you.”
He nudged his knee between her thighs, spreading her legs.
“You promised underneath the covers,” she reminded him.
He laughed. “Only tonight will I indulge you, sweetheart. Beginning tomorrow, you are mine to inspect as I please.”
“Yes, my lord,” she said with feigned demureness.
He pried the covers out from beneath them and she scooted in, moving to the edge of the bed.
“Where do you think you’re going, my dear?” he asked, climbing in next to her, pulling the blankets over them and dragging her back to the middle of the bed, where he covered her body with his own. “I believe I was about to ravish you.”
She opened her legs to him, eager to satisfy the growing excitement deep in her core. “Ravish me,” she whispered.
He groaned, his manhood rubbing between her legs, as ambitious as her own slick counterpart. Gripping his cock, he rubbed its head along her opening, urging her to part for its entry. She clawed the bulging muscles of his shoulders, arching her pelvis to meet him, urging his plunder.
“Ravish me, now!” she pleaded.
He made a strangled sound. “Ah, heavens, Eliza, I cannot go slowly. I need to be inside you… at once!” he said, thrusting in, forcing through the small resistance there. She felt no pain—only surprise at the sensation, then an increased urgency. He had stilled inside her, and she bucked against him, rubbing her sex over his shaft.
“Oh, Eliza!” he cried, and immediately began pumping in and out of her, a terrifying and incredible sensation, almost more than her senses could comprehend. She closed her eyes, rolling her head from side to side, moaning.
He paused. “Are you all right?”
“Do not stop, for heaven’s sake!” she cried and he laughed, renewing his t
hrusts with even more force until she thought he would split in her two from the pounding.
He made a choking sound and pushed all the way in, his cock pulsing. Somehow her body understood it was the end and she wrapped her legs around his back and held him tightly as her own sex clenched and released in wave after wave of pure pleasure.
“Sweet Eliza,” Andrew crooned, lowering himself beside her, their bodies still locked together. “You are everything to me.”
Chapter Seven
He wound and unwound a loose piece of string around his finger, his shoulders as tense as the rocky terrain they rode through. He had said little on the carriage ride to Stenwick, and Eliza had long since given up attempting to engage him in conversation. Now and then she shot a concerned glance at him, but thankfully, had not driven him mad asking why he was in bad temper.
He felt grateful to have such an intelligent, perceptive wife, rather than an insipid goose who chattered his ear off or pestered him for his thoughts.
Still, it made no difference, every mile they drew nearer to his childhood home, his chest further constricted, leaving him in a state of near respiratory distress. When they rounded the last bend and the manor came into sight, his stomach turned. He had arranged for a few household staff members to be hired and sent in a week earlier to air the place out and ready it for their arrival and they came outside to greet them when the carriage pulled around to the door.
“Welcome, my lord,” one of the men said, stepping forward. An elderly man behind him drew himself up and tried to step forward as well, but was blocked by the woman who must be the housekeeper and another girl.
“Everything is in order, but when we arrived, we found other staff on the premises.”
“Welcome home, my lord,” the elderly man piped in. A white-haired woman stood beside him.
He went cold, waves of dizziness nearly knocking him to his feet.
“Johnson,” he croaked, staring at his father’s old butler. “You have stayed here all these years?”
The man puffed out his chest. “We wished to keep it ready for your arrival, my lord. We always hoped you would return.”
His eyes traveled to the woman beside the old man. “Mrs. Johnson,” he said weakly.
It should not make him so ill to see reminders of his past, but it did. Tied up somewhere in all his shame and anger was the fact that these servants had borne witness to his father’s cruelty, had stayed by him, even now, after his death.
He gritted his teeth, determined to be rid of them as soon as possible. “Well, we shall sort things out presently,” he said. “This is Lady Darlington, your mistress,” he said, introducing his wife to all present. “I trust you will assist her in making herself comfortable at Stenwick.”
The servants murmured their assent and bustled them inside, clucking about the long drive and tea time. He tried to listen to the butler he had hired—Sherman—give his full report on the status of the property. Johnson hung in the wings, clearly eager to give his own opinions, the competition between the two evident. Eliza, far from marching ahead and giving instructions to her new staff, wore her shuttered mask as if trying to make herself invisible.
“We will take tea before we discuss any household matters,” he snapped, flicking his wrist with an imperial air.
Everything in the house suffocated him—the smell, the familiar furnishings, paintings, and faded curtains. The worn Persian rugs. He wanted nothing more than to strike a match and set fire to the entire structure to burn it down, inside and out.
The servants left them in the parlour, a thick silence separating him from his wife. He thought she would speak, but she said nothing, perhaps still in her wallflower role, or perhaps not wanting to ruffle him. His gratitude for her earlier silence turned to resentment now. Could she not come to his aid in some way?
But it was not fair. His difficulty managing was not her fault, nor could he blame her for his inability to transcend his dreadful mood. They sat and took their tea without speaking.
“Andrew?”
The sound of his given name on her tongue drew him out of his reverie.
“Hm?”
“You are not going to throw them out, are you?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Who?”
“The Johnsons,” she said, a tinge of impatience in her tone.
“Why on earth would I not?” he snapped. “And why do you care?”
She sat, blinking, her face impassive. “I am certain they stayed because they had nowhere else to go. And from the looks of things, they did an adequate job caring for the place. Had they not been here, it might be a complete ruin from the elements.”
He stood up, pacing the length of the room. “They lived off my inheritance for the past eight years.”
“You did not claim your inheritance,” she reasoned, also standing and walking to him.
“Do you think you know how best to run things, then? I did not hear you open your mouth when we arrived,” he accused, unable to stop the hurtful words from escaping his lips.
“Calm your temper, Andrew.”
It was the worst thing she could have said. Somehow calling attention to his temper only caused it to burst into hot flames. He gripped her arm and pushed her down over the settee, spanking her bottom through her dress. He spanked hard and fast, his palm connecting with her bottom with a satisfying thud. When his senses returned, he froze, hand midair.
What in God’s name was he doing?
He had become his own father—a monster to his wife, a danger to those around him.
He stumbled backward, terrified. “I am sorry,” he choked. “Eliza—I am so sorry.” He fled the room, ignoring the hovering staff in the corridor and heading straight out the front door.
His feet did not stop walking until he reached the empty stables, and then he remembered why they had led him there. It had been the place he hid when his father drank or when his parents quarreled.
But this time he could not hide from his father. This time, he was the man to be feared.
* * *
She righted herself, dumbfounded by her husband’s behavior. She knew returning to Stenwick had not seemed a joyful proposition, but she had no idea the anguish it would bring him. Part of her wanted to burst into tears and wallow in a bout of self-pity.
He had been a dreadful companion the entire trip, and now he had just criticized her inability to act as a proper lady of the house and then callously spanked her. But if she removed her own emotion from the situation, it was evident his pain was not related to her shortcomings as a wife, but to the trauma of returning to an unhappy home. And the spanking, though emotionally hurtful, had been through the layers of her dress, petticoat, and drawers, resulting in nothing worse than a tingling warmth across her buttocks now.
No, when she rose above her own hurt, she saw her husband needed her now. But what could she do? She could not erase his memories. She looked around the stately parlour. The furnishings were worn, but expensive. She wondered if Andrew’s mother had decorated, or if they had been there before she became lady of the house.
The new lady of the house often redecorated if it could be afforded. She had not planned to because she was not the type who cared about showy appearances, and because they needed to conserve their money. Yet a redecoration might be just the thing Andrew needed. Something to help erase or at least air out his memories.
Her mouth went dry at the thought of addressing the staff as their new lady, but she squared her shoulders and marched out of the parlour.
The housekeeper who introduced herself as Mrs. Timball bustled forward. “Shall I show you to your room, my lady?” She saw the older, original housekeeper Mrs. Johnson also emerging.
“I would love a tour,” she said. “From both of you. I should like to know the history as well as what has been done to modernize things for our arrival.”
Both women curtsied, looking at each other for who would lead. It seemed they got on better than the two butlers. The w
omen led her around the house, Mrs. Johnson talking about who appeared in the portraits or what the previous Lord Darlington used to do in the manor, and Mrs. Timball itemizing all the freshening they had done to prepare the house. When they arrived back at the parlour, having seen the entire domicile, she took a breath.
“I should like all the decor to be removed.”
The two women gaped at her and she faltered.
“I mean—we must change it! Or rearrange it. I want things to look different.”
The housekeepers continued to look at her blankly.
“Everything is lovely and I thank you for your hard work, but I want the house to look different.”
“Different… how?” Mrs. Timball said, clearly mystified.
“Different for Lord Darlington,” Mrs. Johnson said quietly.
She met the woman’s eye and saw comprehension there. She exhaled, relieved. “Yes, that is it, exactly. Can you help me? Simply change things or remove them to give it a new look?”
Mrs. Johnson lifted her head and marched into the dining room. “Certainly. We can rearrange furniture and take down the paintings. We will need the help of the men, though.”
“I will get them,” Mrs. Timball offered, bustling off.
Mrs. Johnson strode to the wall and removed one of the portraits from its nail, leaning it against the wall on the floor and continuing to the next, pulling all three down. “Filling the house with children would be the best remedy for this crusty old house,” the elderly woman remarked.
She stared at her, taken aback.
“Oh, forgive me. It is just—Lord Darlington left when he was just a boy and I never knew what happened to him,” she said, her eyes reddening with threatened tears. “I only want things to be right for him this time,” she said, her voice constricted with emotion.
“As do I,” she said, touched by the older woman’s depth of feeling for Andrew. She surveyed the room. “We can turn the table in the opposite direction,” she suggested, returning to the matter at hand. “And the china cabinet can be moved to that end.”
