“Yes, you see,” he said. “These sorts of activities are very important. Not only for making children, but for encouraging intimacy between us. I like making you feel good.”
“Then why did you punish me?” she moaned.
“Because you deserved it.” He stood and lifted her, and laid her back on the bed. She winced as her tender bottom contacted the wool coverlet.
“Does it smart too much?” he asked. “Let’s try this instead.” He took her about the waist and turned her over, setting her on her hands and knees. “No, don’t lie down. Stay just like this. Spread your legs wider.”
Gwen swallowed hard, holding the lewd pose. Behind her, the duke removed his dressing gown and threw it across a chair. When he returned, he pressed his thick shaft at her entrance, and she realized how badly her body wanted him, even through the pain and the shame.
“There,” he said as he slid inside her. “That’s what you needed to feel better, isn’t it? Answer me. Yes, Sir.”
She made a negative sound, not because she didn’t agree, but because she didn’t want to say it. He gave her aching backside a slap and she blurted out the words. “Yes, Sir.”
“Yes, Sir, I need it. Answer me properly.” He slid deeper inside, stretching her open. “Say it, my naughty, punished girl.”
“Yes, Sir, I need it,” she cried, as he smacked her bottom again. “I need it.”
“And you shall have it.” He drove into her with sudden forcefulness. It should have felt bad, but instead it felt marvelous and exciting. Her nipples tightened as her breasts bounced from his jolting thrusts. He pounded into her from behind, hurting her tender cheeks each time he contacted them, but her arousal grew, somehow, from the depths of this discomfort. She clenched around his driving length as he reached beneath her to stroke her quim.
“I suppose you would like to have your release,” he said.
She jerked her hips against him in answer, moaning as he tugged her hair with his other hand. “Yes. Please, Sir. I would like to.”
“Unfortunately, I don’t think you deserve it.” His delightful caresses stopped. He moved his hands to her hips and held her there, and thrust in her as before.
“I am not...allowed?” she asked.
“Not tonight. Just stay in position and let me take my pleasure. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll permit you to come, if you display a more convivial demeanor.”
She stared down at the bed, shocked. Why, did he think he could control her, even in this? She would show him. But as she tried to regain those heights of arousal, she found the ability had passed. Perhaps it was his command to the contrary, or his displeasure with her, or the fear of more punishment if she disobeyed him.
Whatever it was, it left her unable to continue to that needful peak. More tears dropped onto the sheets as the duke completed his business and pressed into her, spilling his seed. He was still for a moment, then withdrew and turned her about to face him. He tipped her chin up when she wouldn’t meet his gaze.
“Do not pout,” he said. “Show me you’ve learned something from that thrashing you took earlier. Be biddable, Guinevere. Kiss me now, and smile.”
She offered her lips and accepted his kiss as coolly as she dared. The demanded smile was weak, very weak, but she managed.
“I’ll let you in on a secret,” he said, as he drew her down beside him on the bed. “Good wives get all sorts of gratifying things.” He stroked her nipple. With her lingering, unsatisfied arousal, it caused a particular sort of pain. “Bad wives get bad things. Whippings and lectures. Disciplinary sodomizations.”
She shivered. “What is that? Sodomization?”
“A cock up your arsehole. It’s an excellent method of teaching submission to rebellious wives.”
Her mouth fell open. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“Well, now you have. Lie on your front, please. Leave your birched bottom exposed to the air a while longer.”
She soon realized he asked this for his own benefit, as he squeezed and toyed with her sore cheeks, and left her to fidget in helpless need. She was still wet as a well, with no hope of release. She understood now why everyone bowed and scraped to her husband. He was not to be trifled with. His cock in her arsehole? Shocking. Repulsive. She hoped he was only trying to frighten her with an empty threat.
I never threaten, Guinevere. I decide upon consequences, and then I act.
No, it was not a threat. He would do it if he thought she deserved it, and she would have no choice but to submit.
“We’ll arrive at Arlington Hall tomorrow,” he said, drawing her into his arms. “And I don’t wish us to begin in tension and misery, so I suggest you brighten up, and resign yourself to this marriage before then.”
Chapter Six: Good Girl
Her husband didn’t ride in the carriage at all the second day, which was just as well, since Gwen spent the entire journey alternately fidgeting and crying.
She had put away her traveling clothes and donned one of the finer gowns her father had ordered over the summer. It was pale green silk, with ruching and rosettes, and a matching fan and gloves. She took the gloves on and off and fussed with the fan, and avoided looking out the window lest she see him.
No matter how she sat, her bottom ached and reminded her of the punishment he’d dealt her. Her sex ached too, for he’d left her wanting. Those unassuaged echoes of desire still needled her. After tossing and turning all night, she decided she must act in self-preservation, and be the perfect and subservient wife until she developed some workable strategy to survive this marriage.
Then they arrived at Arlington Hall, and all her thoughts became this: God save me. What am I to do?
The duke’s country estate was shockingly vast, with forests and meadows, and acres of manicured gardens, and a long meandering roadway of cobblestones that curved between a line of trees and led right up to the house. Not the house. The palace. She could not imagine the king’s own residence was so fine. There was a circle-shaped courtyard at the front with a fountain in the middle, the same fountain from his sketch book. She gawked at it as the groom helped her alight from the carriage.
The duke strode across the courtyard to take her hand. “Welcome home,” he said.
Lines of servants assembled in arcs beside the front doorway. Her husband approached a stern-faced man at the bottom of the stairs.
“Greetings, Dorset. The staff looks smart. Thank you for the welcome. I’m honored to introduce my wife, the Duchess of Arlington.”
The butler bowed to her. “May you find great happiness at Arlington Hall, Your Grace. We are at your service.”
“Mrs. Haverford,” the duke said, turning to the housekeeper, “please ask the cook if she knows how to make any Welsh dishes. My wife is already homesick.”
He said it lightly, but Gwen knew the housekeeper was noticing her red, swollen eyes. Gwen lowered her gaze as her husband relayed a litany of orders to the butler. Bring the modiste at once, contact Mr. Beaumont in London, summon Lord and Lady Langton for tea, and oh, has my sister written while I was away? Gwen hadn’t even known he had a sister, but she apparently lived in Leicestershire, had four children, and didn’t write often enough.
“Shall we see the house, and your new rooms?” he asked, turning to her.
“Yes, I’d like that,” she mumbled. She felt utterly overwhelmed.
They proceeded up the stairs together, as each of the servants bowed or curtsied. They were all more refined than she could ever hope to be. The double front doors, which had looked so huge from the carriage, were even larger when one stood before them. The butler pushed them open and bowed again—so much bowing!—and Gwen stepped inside.
The large entry hall soared in every direction, decorated with ornate molding. A massive staircase dominated the middle, curving up and away to a second floor. The ceiling arched overhead, to a dramatic apex painted with figures of gods and angels. One hallway went to the right as far as she could see, and another to the left, a
nd another down the center behind the stairs. The duke called these “wings” as he explained the layout of the house. The east wing, the west wing, the south wing. Her own home had been a rectangular box with battlements on top, and rough gray walls, and dirty fireplaces. There had been no wings or curved staircases. There had been no angels painted on the ceiling.
“It’s very beautiful,” she said. The echoing walls collected her voice and sent it back at her as if to say, we don’t want you. You don’t belong here.
He showed her some of the first floor rooms: the cavernous ballroom, the library with row after row of shelves, the first parlor, which was green, the second parlor, which was gray, the study, the card room, the third parlor, which was blue, and the conservatory, which really just looked like a smaller ballroom with more windows. Hundreds of candles lent each room a warm glow. He must have servants whose only job was tending all these candles. She couldn’t imagine the luxury of it, the expense.