How she struggled then, kicking and arching, pretending she hated this invasion when she only wanted more. She needed more, to assuage the growing pressure in her middle. He held her down, whispering lurid suggestions she only half heard. She was more concerned with reaching the peak that had started building the moment he lay atop her. I want. I need.
“I need...” she cried.
She couldn’t express what she needed, but he stroked her cheek and said, “I know.” He buried his face in her neck and grasped a fistful of her hair. It hurt when he pulled it, but it excited her too.
This was so hot, so active. His strength no longer frightened her. No, his strength made this all the more spectacular. His power, his will, and her surrender to the way he made her feel. Each time he pushed inside her, the visceral slide triggered more waves of pleasure, until they built to a shivering peak.
“It’s all right,” he said. “Let go, Guinevere. Let it come.”
She had never in a thousand years imagined their joining would feel like this. She wanted to let go, but what would happen then?
How easy it was to become lost in another person’s body. She had done it in the meadow, to an extent, but this was so much more powerful, because he held her down and forced himself inside her again and again. Her body clasped around him where he filled her. Her need exploded amidst his raw words and the stretching pressure, and the world fell away. Marriage, anger, love, rebellion, fear, all of it fell away, replaced by spiraling physical bliss.
Her sisters-in-law had told her nothing about this. She wondered for a moment if this was not supposed to happen, if this was some failure in her, but then she was too transported to care. She gasped because she hadn’t the energy to scream, and hooked her trembling legs around his. He was still buried within her, pumping and jerking. He let out a deep groan which ended in a shudder, and then he came to rest.
Gwen lay beneath him, staring at the ceiling and hearing the occasional rumbling shout from downstairs. At last the duke raised up on his elbows and gazed at her, his blue eyes burning with a new intensity.
“That’s done then,” he said. “I’ve been inside you. You’re officially mine.” His voice was light, as if he jested still about marauders and consummation, but Gwen thought of his earlier words, when his voice had been resolute and deep. I own your wealth, I own your property, I own the children you have yet to bear...
If I ask you to join me in bed, you will put aside whatever impedes you and join me in bed. Do you understand?
Just like that, all her pleasure fled. She couldn’t bear his weight upon her. “I can’t breathe,” she lied, pushing at his chest.
He drew back and lay down beside her. When he moved as if to stroke her cheek, she turned away and pulled up the sheets, wishing to cover herself.
“I’m cold.” Lies. So many lies.
He moved again so she could hide herself beneath the ivory linens. “Are you all right?” he asked after a moment. “Is there anything you require?”
“No. Nothing. I’m very tired now.”
He made a soft sound that might have been mockery. “I imagine you are.”
She pressed her fingers against her eyes. After his sneering and haughty lectures, after all his hateful behavior, he had had his way with her and she hadn’t said a word to stop him, nor governed her own lewd impulses. He had taken her, all of her, and she’d reveled in his commanding possession. It made her so ashamed.
“Are you all right?” he asked again, slipping under the sheets beside her. The bed dipped, so she rolled closer to him. His arms came around her before she could scoot away. “Are you hungry or thirsty? Would you like some wine?”
“Perhaps a bath,” she said, although she felt too wrung out to rise from the bed.
“No bath,” he said gently. “No washing it away.”
It. His seed and her own lascivious spendings, and the humiliation that burned beneath her skin.
“You may have a bath in the morning,” he said. “For now, you must sleep. We’ve a long journey tomorrow.”
That did it. Tears rose again, and no amount of pressing on her eyelids would stop them. She held the sheets to her face and lay very still so he wouldn’t notice. But the duke noticed everything.
“Are you crying?” he asked. “England will not be so bad.”
England? As if she worried about England, with this fearsome man pressed against her back. He murmured soothing words and she pretended not to hear as her tears overflowed. Liar. Wanton. Captive princess.
“Don’t cry,” he said in the dim light. “It makes me want you again. And we shouldn’t, tonight.”
“No, not again.” She bawled the words, as if he was threatening to whip her, or torture her. He gathered her to his chest and settled her head against his shoulder.
“Sleep now,” he whispered. “It will get easier in time.”
Next Gwen knew, it was bright morning, with banging and raised voices at the door. Her father reeled in, along with two of her brothers, the local constable, and the village vicar.
“We’ve come to look at the sheets then, and see that everything’s in order,” her father drawled. Gwen gasped as he dragged the top coverlet aside, exposing her to the cool air. She clutched her arms before her, thinking herself naked, but at some point, someone had put back on her shift. She stared down at the blood smeared on the linens. There wasn’t a lot, but enough to mollify her father, who drunkenly saluted the duke and staggered back toward the door.
As for the duke, he stood fully dressed by the window. The day’s light glinted in his golden hair and reflected off his tailored gray riding coat. His lips made a moue, then relaxed into something that was not quite a smile. “It’s time to leave for Oxfordshire, my darling. Rise and put yourself in order, if you can manage it, and say your goodbyes.”
Chapter Four: Finished
Aidan rode beside the coach until they stopped to stage the horses at midday. He didn’t sit inside with her because he assumed she would want privacy to grieve. She was leaving an entire life behind with her removal to Arlington Hall. She was losing a family, a home, a secret meadow, even a much-loved horse that was too old and feeble to endure the trip. He was not the only one who’d made sacrifices for this marriage, he reminded himself. He doubted they would visit Wales very much.
But with patience and fortitude—a great deal of fortitude—he knew he could make her happy in England. She’d be impressed with the luxuries of Arlington Hall, his country manor, not to be confused with Arlington House, his Berkeley Street mansion in town.
His new duchess would socialize in kingly circles, make the acquaintance of highly regarded persons, and be invited to the ton’s most exclusive events. Aidan would dress her like a princess, ordering gowns so ornate and ostentatious that ladies would gossip behind their fans about the expense. He’d buy her a new horse, the best that could be had, and shower his bride with jewels until they overflowed from her trunks.
She would have a built-in social set too. His best friends would help launch Guinevere in society. Townsend and his wife Aurelia, Warren and Josephine, Barrymore and Minette. The ladies would take his new wife under their wings, and by the time the season commenced in the spring, all would be functioning smoothly. Jewels and trusted female friends to prattle with. That was all any respectable woman needed to be happy. Everything would be fine.
Then why are you avoiding her? Why is she riding in the carriage alone the day after your wedding?
After they stopped and stretched their legs, and took a bit of refreshment, he climbed into the coach with her and sat on the opposite bench. She met his eyes for a moment, then looked down at her lap. She should not be so afraid of him. He wanted her respect, yes, but not her terror. He took off his gloves and hat and placed them on the seat, thinking how quiet and still she could be, like a prey animal caught in a predator’s stare. He was that predator.
“It’s a few hours yet to Dryesdale,” he said. “We’ll take dinner the
re, and spend the night.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
He wondered how long she would persist in calling him “Your Grace” now that they were married. “Have you stayed at an inn before?” he asked out of curiosity.
“No, I haven’t traveled much.”
“You ought to look at me when you speak, and not mumble.”
She gave him a sharp glance, a Guinevere glance, full of conflict and loathing. It would not do.
“Come here,” he said. “Come sit with me.”
She hesitated a moment, as if waiting for him to slide over on the bench. Instead he pulled her into his lap. She fit perfectly there, her head beneath his chin and her back against his chest. He’d held her like this in the meadow, but she wasn’t that same woman anymore. She draped her legs to the side, pressed primly together. He drew a fingertip across the bodice of her tragically sensible gown, then teased the tip of one of her nipples. Her hands came up to impede him.
“Don’t,” he said. “Let me touch you.”
“But—”
He put his hands over hers and set them down upon her thighs. “Leave them there.”
He must train his bride to trust him, using the only weapon at his command—pleasure. After a moment, he felt her capitulate. Her gloved fingers spread open over the dark beige fabric of her skirts.
“That’s better,” he said.