by Unknown
“I said I’m sending you to The Disciplinarian.”
Clarissa gasped. It couldn’t be true! If anyone was the difficult partner in this marriage, it was Charles. A seed of worry planted itself in her stomach. The Disciplinarian was a man universally feared by all Victorian women. She took a step into the room.
“Charles—”
“Good,” he interrupted, putting down the paper. “I see you’re dressed.”
“What?” Clarissa glanced distractedly at her serviceable grey carriage dress and reached up to finger the brim of her peacock-feathered hat.
Of course she was dressed! Charles had made plans for them for the weekend. “I’m dressed for our trip to the country,” she said, then hesitated as a note of uncertainty crept into her voice. “For the Smithson’s house party.”
“There is no house party, Clarissa. That was simply a ruse to make sure you’d be ready to travel this morning. You may be going somewhere in the country, but I myself will be spending the weekend in town. With my mistress.”
“Charles!”
He stood and crossed to the window, parting the curtain an inch to look out onto the street. He obviously saw something there beyond the glass, because he nodded in approval. “In point of fact, I don’t know exactly where you’re going, Clarissa. Nor do I care, so long as you come back biddable.”
Biddable? Clarissa swallowed hard. Theirs had always been a difficult marriage. It had been arranged by her father, who’d traded Clarissa’s substantial dowry in return for Charles’s minor title, and who never tired of reminding Clarissa that she had married up.
Unfortunately, Clarissa didn’t discover until after her wedding vows that Charles was a hard, dictatorial man with a quick temper.
Over the last two years, his bullying ways had turned her from a young girl who had innocently expected to find love in marriage, into a woman who’d learned that wedding vows did not necessarily guarantee a happy-ever-after. But this? This was too much.
“Charles, please be serious. You can’t mean—”
“Enough!” He turned from the window, and there was a dangerous look on his face as he strode purposely across the room to her.
“You see? This is exactly the reason. Your obstinacy. Your intrac-tability. I am your husband, and you will do as I say! Come with me.” He gripped her hard by the upper arm and began to drag her toward the sitting room door.
Fear now bloomed riotously in Clarissa’s stomach. It took all her courage—and all her strength—to dig in her heels. “Wait, please, let’s discuss this—”
Charles abruptly let go of her arm, drew back his hand and slapped her right across the face. It was the first time in their marriage that he had actually struck her, and she was so stunned that before she realized it, Charles had succeeded in dragging her out of the room, across the townhouse foyer, past their gaping butler, Hawkins, and down the front steps toward a waiting coach.
Clarissa ignored both her stinging cheek and the look of pity from the servant, and tried her best to hold her head up and back erect as Charles resolutely forced her forward. He had never been able to break her spirit, despite his verbal—and now his physical—
abuse. She wouldn’t let his malice break her now.
He may have crushed her girlish dreams, but no one could take her pride away from her.
As they approached the street, Clarissa saw a coat of arms grac-ing the side of a shiny black carriage and a man standing next to it. Surely this couldn’t be the mysterious Disciplinarian! Not only was he taking no pains to hide his identity—a crest of two swords entwined by a single white rose was in plain view—but he was also an obvious gentleman. In fact, Clarissa realized with some surprise that he was the handsomest man she had ever seen. Tall, black haired and blue-eyed, he was elegantly dressed in a dark blue morning coat, paisley waistcoat, black trousers and polished black boots.
And he seemed to be frowning at Charles’s rough treatment of her. She began to breathe a little easier, then nearly choked on her husband’s next words.
“Clarissa,” Charles said acidly, drawing her to an abrupt halt and indicating the handsome stranger. “Allow me to introduce you to The Disciplinarian.”
***
The Disciplinarian.
Jared Ashworth saw Clarissa Babcock’s reaction reflected in her huge eyes as she stared at him. He saw her shock, then her fear, then her rage. But he was used to all those reactions, and it was easy to keep his own face carefully blank, because he knew by the time he was through with her he would see yet another look in her eyes.
Gratitude.
“Get into his carriage, Clarissa,” Babcock ordered.
She gasped and her gaze swung around to her husband.
“Charles, please—”
“Get in the carriage, woman!” Babcock roared, forcibly dragging her toward Jared’s waiting coach. She was struggling outright now, her eyes frantically searching for something, someone, even a passer-by who might help her. Jared was disgusted by Charles Babcock’s use of brute force, but he knew that even though people might stop to stare at this little drama, not one of them would come to Clarissa’s aid, since Charles Babcock had every right to treat his wife as he saw fit.
It was, unfortunately, the way of things.
Jared’s team of horses stamped and nickered nervously in their harnesses, sensing Clarissa’s fear as her husband shoved her up the carriage steps. “How long will this take?” Babcock demanded of him.
“The four days we discussed,” Jared answered calmly. “She will be sent back to you when she’s ready.”
“Just send her back biddable,” he growled. “I want a proper wife. I’ve had enough of her recalcitrance.”
That obviously was too much for the woman in the carriage.
Her cheeks flamed with anger. “You hit me and you’re surprised that I’m recalcitrant?”
“Enough!” Babcock roared at her. “You have the gall to defy me even now, when you see where your defiance has led you? Stubborn, willful woman! Obstinate chit!”
His complexion turned an unhealthy shade of red as he jerked his head toward Jared and took three strides away from the carriage. Jared followed him, out of earshot of the woman in the coach.
“I’ve changed my mind,” Babcock growled.
Jared’s eyebrow shot up in surprise. He’d never had a client back out of a case before. “You no longer want me to instruct her?”
Babcock’s voice dropped to a dangerous hiss. “Oh, I want you to instruct her all right,” he said. “I want you to teach her one particular lesson. Cold as ice she is, the frigid bitch. Two years of marriage and still no children. A man shouldn’t have to work so hard to get an heir on his own wife!”
It took all Jared’s control to cover his shock as he shook his head. “That’s impossible. I don’t sexually instruct—”
“You do now.” Charles Babcock grabbed him by the lapels of his morning coat. “Either you warm her up so that I can plant my seed and be done with my duty, or I just may kill her with my own hands and find another, more agreeable wife. Is that understood?”
Jared stared at the dangerous look in Babcock’s eye. He meant what he’d said. Clarissa Babcock’s life was literally in Jared’s hands. He couldn’t possibly leave her to the mercy of her husband’s anger. “Take your hands off me, sir,” Jared said coldly.
Babcock gave him a final shake before abruptly releasing him.
“I’ll be spending the weekend with my mistress in town. At least there I know I’ll have a warm reception! You have four days. I’ll expect her home Tuesday next.”
The Disciplinarian: Chapter 2
Jared climbed into his carriage, dropped heavily onto the padded bench seat, and slammed the coach door. He was furious. Furious at Charles Babcock’s outrageous demand, furious at himself for not outright refusing it, and furious at the woman seated across from him for putting him in this difficult position.
He knocked hard on the carriage roof and the
driver started off.
He needed to think.
Charles Babcock was a brute of a man, and probably worse as a husband, but Jared had dealt with boorish husbands countless times before. So why hadn’t he patently refused Babcock’s shocking order to warm up his wife?
Jared knew full well why he hadn’t. He’d seen that look in a man’s eye once before. Jared’s own sister had been beaten to death by her husband in a domestic rage. He couldn’t have left Clarissa to the same possible fate.
How in blazes was he going to deal with this new twist to his already scandalous profession?
“Where are we going?” Clarissa demanded.
Jared heard the edge of fear in her voice. Worry had replaced the fury that had been on her face a moment ago. But he was in no mood to assuage her fear; he was just as worried over how he was going to deal with this impossible situation. “You know I can’t tell you that.”
She looked frantically out the window, studying the passing scenery. “I can clearly see we’re on the south road, headed in the direction of Kent.”
She was clever, this one. No one knew the true identity of The Disciplinarian. He’d worked very hard these last three years to keep it that way. The crest on his carriage assisted with his guise of The Disciplinarian. And his students were always picked up at their homes, so no one knew where he practiced his particular lessons.
He leaned over and silently pulled the shades down over both carriage windows. “And now you see nothing.”
She lunged suddenly for the lever on the carriage door, but Jared didn’t even bother to react. The far one she found solidly locked, and the door handle next to him he knew she wouldn’t dare try for.
She looked at him and swallowed hard. “Are you truly The Disciplinarian?”
He studied her for a moment. She was spirited, clever and obviously brave, but he had a job to do and he needed time to think through his options, to determine how he was going to deal with this particular case. “Yes, I am. So I would highly recommend you sit quietly and not make this harder on yourself than it need be.”
She gasped at that. “Harder on myself? What could be worse than to be given over into the hands of a perfect stranger in order to be taught a lesson in how to be a proper, biddable wife?”
His effort to silence her had obviously failed miserably. “Madam,” he snapped, “if I’m to obey your husband, you can be certain I will be using more than just my hands!”
By the stunned look in her eye, he knew she envisioned that he meant to beat her, break her spirit, and send her back to her husband a meek, submissive spouse. Thank goodness she hadn’t overheard what her husband had actually asked him to do.
If this had been one of his usual cases, he would immediately deny that he’d beat her. He could truthfully assure her that The Disciplinarian had never yet laid a hand in anger on any woman. But he didn’t know what he’d have to do to Clarissa Babcock in order to satisfy her husband’s outrageous demand, so he offered her no words of assurance.
“Move to the center of the seat,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“Slide to your left, to the middle of the bench.”
She frowned at the request, but did as he asked.
“Good. Now spread the skirts of your gown out across the seat.”
Her back straightened in obvious indignation. “I beg your pardon!”
“Spread the skirts of your gown wide,” he repeated slowly. The words were low and sweet, stern but honeyed; an order meant to let her know there was no room for disobedience. It was his Disciplinarian voice. “Fan your skirt out over the bench.”
She hesitated, but she obviously heard the tone of command in his voice. And the set of his face should tell her that he was not used to being disobeyed. He saw her swallow, and then she slowly spread her skirts, her hands shaking slightly. He quickly put one booted foot on each side of her, trapping her skirts against the padded wooden seat, so that if she tried to move, he would wake. With that, he pulled his hat down over his eyes. “It’s a long ride to where we’re going. I recommend you get some sleep.”
***
Clarissa Babcock didn’t know whether to scream in outrage or
shrink in abject terror.
She was a prisoner of The Disciplinarian.
The mysterious man seated across from her had been given
free rein by her husband to use whatever means necessary to mold her into Charles’s image of a dutiful wife. Whatever means necessary…
She could only wonder at the awful tools The Disciplinarian must employ. She glanced at him across the carriage. Damn the man! How could he possibly be sleeping, after essentially kidnapping someone against her will?
She looked down at the booted male feet that trapped her skirts and held her captive. His black polished Hessians bespoke a man of wealth and class, as did the rest of his clothing. Such a dichoto-my to his base profession.
She and every other Victorian woman had heard of The Disciplinarian. She had to admit, though, that whispered rumors and wild innuendo were the basis of her knowledge, since she had never actually met a woman who had been subject to his lessons. But the charges laid at his feet were shocking and scandalous nonetheless.
He was the perfect threat used by husbands to keep their wives in line. So much so, in fact, that she hadn’t believed The Disciplinarian really existed until this moment.
She watched as his head bobbed gently with the rhythm of the carriage. It seemed he truly was asleep. She waited another long minute to be sure, and then glanced cautiously toward the window.
Slowly, carefully, she reached out her left arm as far as it would go, keeping one wary eye on The Disciplinarian’s sleeping form. She extended her hand toward the carriage shade, but it was just beyond her grasp. She wiggled her fingers, as if that might give her the extra inch she needed, but to no avail. Damn! She couldn’t even peek from behind the window shade to catch a glimpse of their route, to watch for a familiar landmark. And she was too aware that leaning toward the shade even slightly would pull on the skirts trapped beneath his boot and risk waking him.
She realized suddenly that he’d known she would attempt this.
It was why he’d made her move to the center of the seat.
Her arm fell back to her side in defeat. She was well and truly trapped.
Desperately, her eyes darted around the inside of the carriage.
Besides the flimsy reticule attached to her wrist, she had nothing she could use as a weapon against him. One of her hatpins? Her fingernails, perhaps? Pathetic! He could easily overpower her. And it seemed the horrible man didn’t even carry a cane that she might turn on him!
With the carriage doors locked, the blinds beyond her reach, and no chance of overpowering him, she had nothing else to keep her from dissolving into true hysteria but to study the sleeping form across from her and look for a weakness there.
She found none.
His muscled legs were long and lean, outlined clearly beneath trousers that were stretched tight in his awkward position. There was strength and power in those legs, and she swallowed hard as her eyes noted how closely his calves and booted feet were positioned next to her upper thighs. Their bodies were almost touching.
Scandalous!
Her eyes traveled farther up, quickly moving along his legs and past his groin to settle on his chest. His arms were folded tightly across it, but she could still see how his broad chest filled out the paisley waistcoat, and how his biceps strained beneath his coat sleeves. This was a body built for force, for power. He was pure, masculine strength.
This was no London dandy, despite the stylish cut of his clothes.
He had stood his ground with Charles earlier, an explicit warning in his cold words, even though the two men had kept their voices too low for her to hear most of their conversation. She knew there were few men who dared to stand up to Charles when he was in a rage, but looking at The Disciplinarian, Clarissa did not doubt that this man w
as one of them.
Her gaze slid up to his face.
She thought back to her first impression of him, how she’d thought him so handsome with his thick black hair and sculpted, aristocratic features. Even with his eyes now closed, she could remember what a deep, ocean blue they were. And his mouth, which earlier had been pulled down into a frown, was relaxed now in sleep. His lips were full. Inviting, almost. Yes, he was a terribly handsome man.
But there was no sign of weakness in him.
So she desperately prayed he was not as terrible as his reputation implied.
With a ragged sigh, she leaned back against the carriage seat and closed her eyes.
***
Jared took the opportunity to watch Clarissa Babcock through
his thick lashes.
She’d wisely given up on trying to look out the carriage window and had spent the last few minutes looking at him instead .
Intimately looking. He’d found it hard to control the reaction of his male body as her eyes started with his legs and moved slowly up the length of him in a brazen inspection of his form. Thank goodness she hadn’t paused at his groin; he would have had to call a quick halt to her little scrutiny if she had. No, she hadn’t paused there, but she’d blatantly lingered in her examination of his legs and chest, and when her eyes finally came up to sweep his face he felt sure she would realize he was awake, even through his thick lashes and under the shadowed brim of his hat. But instead, she’d continued to stare at him, with all the gall and curiosity of a child.
Bloody hell, even a whore didn’t assess a man’s body so boldly!
What did she find so fascinating? Or was she simply sizing up her opponent?
Ironically, her lingering inspection of him gave him a certain hope. Perhaps she was not lacking sexual feelings after all. Perhaps she was only unresponsive to her husband’s variety of it. The brute force kind.
Maybe there was a way to instruct her that would not involve coercion.
As a test, he moved his booted feet closer until his calves were actually touching her upper thighs, hard muscle against soft flesh, capturing her in a suggestive grip.
