by Unknown
She gasped and her eyes flew open. She stared at his face, as if trying to determine if he had simply shifted in his sleep. Then her gaze dropped anxiously to his calves, and he saw her breasts rise and fall with her agitated breathing as she stared at their intimate contact. But after a while, as if convinced he’d settled back into sleep—or trying desperately to convince herself of it—she closed her eyes and leaned back again against the carriage seat.
His touch had affected her. She was not immune to physical contact. That would bode well for his lessons.
He took a moment to study her face. She might actually be
pretty if she would relax that pinched expression she wore, ease up on the scowl that made her lips too thin, and maybe wear her hair in a style that was less severe than that tight bun. Certainly her pale blue eyes were a dramatic contrast to those waves of black hair.
In the end, it didn’t matter what she looked like. Or what any of the women sent to him looked like. He had a job to do and he always did it to the best of his ability. But he would try especially hard with this one, since he knew what was at stake for her.
Her very life.
It had been a lucky thing he’d come himself today, and seen first-hand the full extent of the threat that Charles Babcock posed.
Jared almost never went in person to pick up the women sent to The Disciplinarian. There was always the chance he’d be recognized, even this far from home. Then, there was always an embarrassing scene at the handover, with the women screaming or crying. Or shouting, as Clarissa Babcock had done. Though he hated the traumatic event, it helped him in planning his lessons to know how each woman reacted.
Only his work was greatly different this time. There was nothing else to be done but to tell Clarissa what her husband wanted The Disciplinarian to do to her.
Sexually warm her up.
***
It was late afternoon when the carriage finally came to a halt.
Clarissa had no idea how many hours had passed or how many miles they’d eventually traveled. All her attention during the trip had been focused on trying to stay calm, fighting the rising panic over what she feared was in store for her.
The sun was low in the sky when The Disciplinarian handed
her down out of the carriage in front of a lovely manor house. She frowned, thinking it an incongruous setting for a house of horrors. The picturesque, two story structure was nearly covered with climbing ivy, and the heady scent of blooming roses filled her nostrils. Set in a lush, green glen, the house looked peaceful, serene, perfectly at ease out here in the country.
For in the country they most certainly were—Clarissa could not see another house within eyeshot. Certainly not within screaming distance.
“Rose Cottage,” The Disciplinarian offered.
Clarissa’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. The grand manor house was the farthest thing from a cottage, but its name made her look back at the coat of arms adorning the carriage.
Two crossed swords entwined by a single white rose.
“Yes,” he acknowledged. “That rose is famous in these parts.”
“What parts would that be?” she asked, trying to sound innocent.
The Disciplinarian gave her a wry smile and a shake of his head.
“This is my man, Soames,” he said with a wave of his hand, indicating an older man who was coming down the front stairs to meet them. “He will take you to your chamber. I’ll give you an hour to freshen up, and then we’ll have an early dinner. You must be starv-ing, since we didn’t stop for luncheon. And exhausted, too, after today’s— activity. I’ll go speak with the cook.”
He gave her a short, solicitous bow and took the stairs two at a time, disappearing into the house with an energy that belied his having spent the last few hours in a cramped and uncomfortable carriage. She was left to stand with the servant Soames, having no luggage and knowing full well that the man knew exactly why she was here.
“Good day, ma’am,” he said, giving her a polite nod. “This way if you please, ma’am.” He turned to lead the way up the stairs.
Clarissa hesitated. This was the perfect moment to run, if she planned to run. But she saw that the carriage driver was watching her closely, and she knew she wouldn’t get far. So with the same determined resolve she had called on during Charles’s tirade this morning, she took a deep breath, picked up her skirts, and followed Soames into the house.
To her utter amazement, he led her to a charming bedroom on the second floor.
It was a perfect room, with a four-poster bed tucked snugly into a far corner, a small dining table near the door, bookshelves lining three walls, and an armoire with a full-length looking glass set next to a dressing table by the bed. Even her own room in London wasn’t nearly as comfortably laid out as this.
She threw a confused look at Soames. She had been treated
with every courtesy so far: The Disciplinarian, despite his intimate brush against her in the carriage, had been a perfect gentleman; his servant couldn’t be more solicitous in his attentions; and the room she’d been brought to was not the hideous torture chamber she’d expected.
What was going on here?
But suddenly Soames bowed and backed out of the room, and
she clearly heard the lock turn in the door.
She took two quick steps and rattled the knob, but the door was secure.
So. Whether by silken ties or by harsh rope, she was still a prisoner.
She fought to keep her panic down as she turned to examine the room more closely. The Disciplinarian had said she’d have an hour of privacy to ‘freshen up’ before he came with dinner. Perhaps in that hour she could find a way to escape. Or possibly not. Others before her must certainly have tried. She imagined that The Disciplinarian would not still be in business if he let hysterical wives flee without the instruction he’d been paid to give them.
Still, she had to try. She crossed to the window near the bed, surprised to find that the window rose easily. She’d half expected it to be nailed shut. But when she leaned her head out and looked down, she knew the reason. Any leap from this height was sure to cause injury—a broken leg or ankle at the very least.
With a sigh, she closed the window and paced the edges of the room. There was no poker for the fireplace, nothing obvious that she could use as a weapon. She walked past the bed, testing the mattress absently, noted the water closet—which was a surprise way out here in the country—and stopped at the small dining table, set with two high-backed chairs. The arms of the chairs sported four-inch high pineapple carvings, in the French style, at the ends of the armrests.
Everything in this room said the Disciplinarian was a man of wealth and taste. What, then, had driven him to such an unsavory profession? Was he simply a rogue, a bounder, a cad?
Whatever he was, he would be coming to her in less than an hour. She took off her hat and laid it gently on the dressing table next to the bed. Her gloves and reticule joined it. She visited the water closet to ‘freshen up’ as he had suggested, and then turned her attention to the books on the shelves. None of them was weighty enough to tempt her to consider throwing them at his head, but the titles amazed her in their depth and breadth of topics. History, geography, biography, social commentary, classical fiction.
No, there was nothing here she could use as a weapon, so she would just have to keep her eyes open for any opportunity that might present itself. But now more than ever, the man who impris-oned her was a puzzle. An enigma.
The sharp rap on the door, followed by the scrape of a key in the lock, set her heart hammering.
The Disciplinarian opened the door himself, followed closely by his man, Soames, who wheeled in a tray of covered platters.
Despite her nerves, Clarissa took a breath, raised her chin, and crossed the room to meet him.
“Supper,” was all he said.
Soames laid out both places, and The Disciplinarian came
around the table to politely hold out h
er chair. Clarissa hesitated but then sat, the tantalizing aroma of the food calling to her rumbling stomach.
Soames bowed his way out of the room, and the two of them
were alone.
“I hope you find the room comfortable,” The Disciplinarian inquired.
Again, Clarissa couldn’t stop the confusion from crossing her face. “Very comfortable. Thank you.”
He nodded and lifted one of the silver covers. “May I?”
She looked at the steaming platter of veal smothered in a delicate brown sauce, and nodded. “Yes, please.”
He helped them both to the meat, and then served out a generous portion of boiled potatoes and vegetables. He solicitously poured red wine into her glass and his own, and then dug into his meal.
She was amazed at his attempt at dinner conversation. He drew her into a discussion about politics, the new railway system, the plight of the working classes. He couldn’t have been more attentive, treating her with surprising respect. If she had met him under different circumstances, she would have enjoyed his company.
Found him very engaging. Very attractive.
At last, finished with his meal, he leaned back in his chair and studied her intently.
She swallowed hard at the look on his face. This was more what she expected. Supper was over, but he was staring at her as if she might be dessert, looking at her like a predator regards its prey.
Had he just fattened her up for the kill?
“That will be all for tonight,” he said, surprising her once again.
He rose abruptly from the table. “You’ve had a long day. Your lessons will begin tomorrow.”
As if on cue, there was a small knock on her door and Soames silently entered the room.
“How…” Clarissa said, standing up as the servant approached the table, “how on earth did he possibly know we were done?”
“I never allow more than an hour for dinner,” was the odd reply.
They watched as Soames cleared the dinner things off the table and onto the wheeled trolley, but The Disciplinarian put a hand on the man’s shoulder as the servant made ready to roll the serving tray away. “Wait,” he said, then turned to her and held out his hand.
“The knife, Clarissa.”
She looked at him, almost as shocked that he had taken the liberty to call her by her Christian name as by what he’d said. “I beg your pardon?”
“The dinner knife, please.”
She bristled in outrage, but he calmly raised one eyebrow in question, daring her to deny it.
Reluctantly, Clarissa brought the knife out from between the folds of her skirt and bit her lower lip. Damn. She’d thought herself so clever! He hadn’t even looked twice when she’d picked the knife up earlier to carve her veal. How could he possibly have noticed her hide it between the folds of her gown as she’d stood up when Soames had entered the room?
She grudgingly put it into his palm.
“Thank you,” he said.
She watched as The Disciplinarian deposited the knife onto the trolley, and then held the door for Soames, who quickly exited the room.
The Disciplinarian crossed back over to her, and the unreadable look on his face made her pulse race. Had she angered him enough to make him change his mind? Would he beat her now after all?
“You said we were done for tonight,” she reminded him, taking a small step back.
“We are,” he agreed. “Would you like me to help you undress?”
She gasped at the outrageous comment. “I beg your pardon!”
“Calm yourself, Clarissa,” he assured her in a low, soothing tone. “There is no lady’s maid here to help you. I am simply offering to unhook or unlace or untie that which you cannot reach.”
“I would rather sleep in my clothes!”
“For four days?” he said reasonably. “Come. There’s a night rail in the armoire. Have I been anything but a gentleman today?”
“There’s no one at all who can help me?” She looked at him with narrowed eyes, trying to figure out his intentions.
He put up his hands as if to reassure her. “I give you my word—
”
“The word of a kidnapper… a, a cad!”
He looked at her pointedly. “I may be a cad in your opinion, but I’m no liar. I’ve said we are done for tonight. Turn around, Clarissa.”
What he’d said was true. He’d been nothing but a gentleman, his man, Soames, nothing but a gentleman’s gentleman. Still, he was The Disciplinarian, hired to transform her into a submissive wife.
By whatever means necessary. He was a fool if he thought she’d cooperate in her own dubious training. And yet, she’d probably suf-focate if she had to sleep in her tight corset…
“I give you my word,” he repeated quietly.
She turned abruptly to present him with her back, holding herself ramrod straight.
He deftly went to work on the dozens of tiny buttons and loops of her dress, opening the gown to her waist. He kept his movements brisk, clinical, as if that would set her mind at ease. She shivered when he spread open the gown to give himself access to the laces of her corset, but again he was efficient and quick in his task, giving the ties just enough slack so that she could free herself after he left.
His job done, he stepped away from her. She turned to look at him, her arms crossed defensively across her chest as if she expected him to tear the gown off her.
“I will join you again for supper tomorrow evening,” he said simply, giving her a quick bow before he turned and left the room.
Clarissa stared after him, speechless, and heard the key turn in the lock.
She wouldn’t see him again until tomorrow night’s meal? It was almost too impossible to believe! When were her lessons? When would he beat her?
This Disciplinarian was the most confusing man! Where she had expected coercion, he’d shown nothing but courtesy. Not force, but finesse. How could she defend herself against him when she didn’t know what he was going to do? He hadn’t behaved at all as she’d expected. She shivered, and it had nothing to do with the open back of her dress letting the cool air of the room onto her skin.
There’s a night rail in the armoire.
Her breath caught. He was a fool if he thought she would shed her clothes, knowing there was no one to help her back into them tomorrow. She’d only allowed him to unbutton and unlace her in order to give herself some breathing room while she slept.
Still, curiosity got the better of her. She crossed the room to the armoire and threw open its doors. What she saw there made her gasp.
This was no serviceable piece of cotton nightwear.
The gown hanging there was a pale blue silk sheath in the
Greek style—sleeveless, with a deep vee neck and an empire waist cinched with a dainty ribbon that tied just under the bust. The skirt flowed down from there in a gentle a-line shape to the ankles.
The gown was beautiful and delicate, but scandalous, too—it was slit high to the thigh on both sides.
She took it out and held it up for closer inspection. It was the loveliest thing she had ever seen.
She glanced toward the door and bit her lip. He had said he wouldn’t be back until tomorrow evening, and he’d been as good as his word in everything he’d said so far. So he would never see her in this thin wisp of a garment, because she would be safely dressed once again in her many layers of proper clothing.
Why not indulge herself in this little luxury tonight?
She felt downright decadent as she slipped out of her clothes and into the cool silk. The luxurious material slid easily over her head and smoothed itself down around her body. There was something barbaric about being so very nearly naked. Gone were the constrictions of corset and protective layers of clothing. And gone with them, for a moment, were her inhibitions.
She twirled giddily around the room and caught sight of herself in the full-length looking glass set next to the armoire. She gasped at the reflection she saw ther
e. The icy blue of the gown matched her eyes perfectly and flattered her figure as if it had been made for her. On a brazen whim, she tore at the pins in her hair and ran her fingers through it, freeing the long tresses until they tumbled around her shoulders and down her back.
Her breath caught. She looked like some glorious pagan goddess.
She should have regretted her action immediately. He had said there was no lady’s maid in this place to help her, so there would be no one to put her hair to rights tomorrow. But instead of remorse, she felt exhilaration. Who cared, after all, if she looked like a banshee tomorrow? It would serve all these high-handed men right!
But tonight…
Tonight she stood in front of the mirror and admired herself for the first time in two years. Saw the young woman she had once been. Beautiful. Desirable. Happy. Before her father had coldly bartered her to make the best bargain he could on the marriage mart.
The gown flattered her figure outrageously and was truly beyond scandalous. Not only were her ankles showing, but as she turned this way and that, the gown swished and swirled to hide and reveal the delicate white skin of her calves and thighs. The caress of the silk bodice against her full breasts was making her nipples pucker, the effect blatantly obvious through the thin material.
She laughed in pure, outrageous delight. She was quite a temptation, if she did say so herself. Too bad she didn’t have a man to tempt.
A man like the terribly handsome Disciplinarian?
She pushed that thought firmly from her mind and stayed at the mirror for several more minutes, before sighing and finally climbing into bed.
The Disciplinarian: Chapter 3
The smell of hot chocolate woke Clarissa.
She turned and stretched in the comfortable bed, snuggled deeper under the covers, and considered ignoring the tempting aroma.
Hot chocolate was a bad sign, after all. The only time that she allowed herself the sinful indulgence was when she had a particularly difficult day planned.
She sat up with a start, coming fully awake with the awful realization of the day that was actually in store for her.
