Under A Duke's Hand (13 page)

He sat in the chair and forced her down over
his lap before she could gather the wherewithal to resist. His arm
circled tightly about her waist as he flipped up her skirts.

“Don’t, please,” she begged. “I’m sorry. I
know what I did was wrong.”

“Then you know you deserve this spanking.
Keep your legs still or I’ll go for the cane.”

Gwen didn’t want to be caned, or even
spanked, but she supposed she deserved it. She hadn’t really
thought about the trouble her letter might have caused. If it had
come to strife between her father and the duke—or her father and
the king—she knew who would have ended up on the losing side.

She braced for the spanking to begin, but
instead she heard the clink of the tray. He parted her bottom
cheeks, and pressed something cool and slick against her nether
hole. She squirmed and tried to turn to him.

“No,” he said. “Be still. You’re going to
have a peeled root of ginger in your bottom for this spanking.”

“Why?” she cried.

“Because you’ve committed an especially
egregious offense. The ginger will intensify your punishment by
making your arsehole sting. Bad wives get bad things, if you’ll
remember.”

It did not seem correct to do such a thing to
one’s wife; it seemed lewd again, and too intimate. She couldn’t
help but clench around the intrusion. A few moments later, she
began to feel the promised sting. It felt wicked and shameful. She
hid her face in her hands, trembling beneath her tossed-up
skirts.

“I don’t think you should do this,” she said
between her fingers. “It’s wrong.”

“Better I spank you than wring your neck,” he
snapped in reply. He adjusted her on his lap, over his hard,
muscular thighs. The ginger hurt worse with every passing moment,
and she felt so exposed and vulnerable. Then he spanked her and the
burn intensified tenfold.

“Oh!
Ouch!
” She bit her lip as he
spanked her again, and again.

“Don’t squirm. You’ve earned this.”

He pulled her closer to him and rearranged
her until her bottom was stuck right up in the air, completely at
his mercy. She kicked her legs but there was no way to get away.
That’s when he began to spank her in earnest.

She’d expected this spanking would feel
something like the spanking he’d given her in the meadow, but it
was not at all the same. The spanking in the meadow had provided a
certain degree of wicked pleasure. This spanking was nothing but
pain.

Firm smacks rained down on her bottom, each
more heated than the last. A throbbing ache suffused her bottom,
but when she reached to rub it away, he took her hand and trapped
it at her waist.

“We’re only getting started,” he said. “By
the time this spanking is over, you’re going to feel like a very
punished girl.”

“I already feel very punished.” She wailed at
an especially sharp crack. Each time he spanked her, she wiggled
and tensed, and the ginger in her bottom stung worse.

“Oh.
Ow, it burns.
” She kicked her
legs harder but it made no difference to him. He only tightened his
grip on her waist and kept spanking. Now and again his hand strayed
lower, punishing the tender, sensitive skin at the backs of her
thighs. Soon her entire backside felt as if it had caught fire.

How she wished she’d never written that note.
She wasn’t going to get out of this marriage, and there was no
telling how long he’d stay angry with her, or when he would trust
her again. “Oh, please,” she begged.
Spank, spank, spank,
no
break, no respite from his stinging palm. “Please, Sir. I’m sure
I’ve had enough. I’ve learned my lesson.”

“You’ve had enough when I say you’ve had
enough. I don’t think you know the meaning of a lesson yet.” He
paused and put his palm on her heated arse, then worked the ginger
in and out. “Do you feel that ache, Guinevere?”

“Yes,” she sobbed.

“That ache is for wives who behave badly. Do
you feel ashamed? You feel hurt?”

“Yes!”

“Good. Because I felt hurt when I read your
letter.” The spanking resumed, mercilessly hard. Her cheeks
throbbed and the ginger stung hotter than ever now that he’d
repositioned it.

“Please. It smarts so much.”

“I hope it does,” he said without any pity
whatsoever. “This isn’t a game, Guinevere. You’re my
responsibility, my wife. When you earn a spanking, you’re going to
be spanked well enough that you remember it.”

She whimpered and tugged at her hand but he’d
caught her wrist tight, and there was no escaping his palm as it
cracked against her pained cheeks. The noise of the spanks mixed
with her cries and pleas until she thought the servants must come
and save her. But of course, they never would.

Nothing would save her but the duke’s
estimation that she had had enough, and Gwen began to fear that
moment would never come. She struggled over his thighs and cried
silent, shuddering tears until he finally stopped.

She lay still, her bottom clenched from the
pain. She hated ginger, and spankings. She hated the duke.

It’s too bad, that. Because you’re stuck
with him forever.
What had he said?
Until one of us
dies...

Gwen felt like she might die from the
torturous fire of his spanking. It felt worse than the birching, or
perhaps it had only gone on longer, until her skin felt raw. “Am
I...” She swallowed past the miserable tension in her throat. “Am I
to stand in the corner again?”

“Yes. But first...” He righted her, and set
her before him with her skirts up about her waist, and the ginger
still stinging in her bottom. “First, I have a few things to
say.”

She sniffled and wiped away tears with the
back of her hand.

“You have said you are sorry,” he said. “As
you should be. I beg you to realize you were not my first choice of
bride either. I, however, have not written any letters to anyone
about your poor manners, your inconstant temper, or your abandoned
behavior in my bed.”

“My abandoned behavior!”

“Yes. If I wished to be cruel, I could write
such things, but you notice I haven’t, and I wouldn’t. You’re not
married to a villain, as much as you wish to be. The only person
behaving poorly in this marriage is the one standing before me with
ginger in her sore, reddened bottom.”

Gwen bit her tongue. No matter how much she
disagreed, she would not reply to his lecture, or argue, or do
anything that might result in him turning her over his lap
again.

“I will not change who I am because of your
issues and shortcomings, Guinevere,” he continued. “I suggest you
set yourself to your duties and stop playing a victim of fate. I
have no stomach for drama unless I’m sitting in a box at the
theater.”

“You have no stomach for sympathy either, do
you?” she said. “You don’t understand my feelings. You don’t even
try.”

“I’ll show sympathy when something bad
actually happens to you.” He turned her about. “Go stand in the
corner just as you are, with your skirts up about your waist. No
rubbing your bottom, and we shall leave in the ginger. It’s going
to sting a while longer, which is by design.”

I hate your designs.
She almost said
it aloud, but she knew it would not be wise. Instead she went to
the corner and stood as he directed her, with her eyes to the wall
and her punished bottom on display. Her buttocks ached horribly,
but she dared not rub them under his watchful eye. Instead she
tensed from time to time, then cursed herself as the ginger stung
her. Her husband was lewd and cruel, whether or not he wished to
admit it. After a quarter hour of corner time, he led her into his
washroom and relieved her of the ginger, and allowed her to
rearrange her appearance.

How she wished to run away and hide then.
Instead the duke took her hand and tugged it. “Come with me, I’ve
something to show you.”

He marched her out into the hall and down the
stairs, past servants who had undoubtedly heard her screeching and
crying during her punishment. Her bottom ached with each step. Her
petticoats, which were the softest, finest quality, felt like
raking fingers against her freshly-spanked flesh. He took her out
the side of the house, past his mother’s garden and across a grassy
field to the stables and paddocks.

“Look out there,” he said, pointing.

A regal mare galloped about the largest
paddock, a stunning specimen of strength and grace. She was pure
white with a glorious mane, strong haunches and a straight, proud
head. Effie had never been so glorious, even in her prime. As Gwen
watched the horse cavorting in the field, she forgot for long
moments that she hated the duke, and that she didn’t wish to be
holding his hand. Instead, she clung to it, enraptured.

“She’s beautiful,” said Gwen. “Will she come
nearer to us?”

“I doubt it. She’s young and wild yet, but
when I saw her, I had to own her. If the grooms can gentle her,
she’ll be yours.”

Gwen turned to him in shock. “Mine? My
horse?”

“You had to leave your mare behind, and I
felt bad about it. I planned to get you another.” He turned to her,
raising an eyebrow. “You see, I am not the unfeeling despot
described in your letter.”

He looked away, but she saw the lingering
injury in his gaze. “I’m sorry for what I wrote,” she said again.
“I truly am sorry.”

“And you have been punished. I’ll destroy the
letter and we’ll put this episode behind us, and you can write
another letter home. Just know that I shall read it, along with any
letters you send, so take care that you keep them positive. Surely
there are pleasant things to say about your life here. You’ll have
a pretty horse anyway, as soon as they manage to tame her. You must
think about what to call her.”

A set of grooms attempted to bridle the
spirited mare. She tossed her head and fought the bit, and made
whinnying sounds of protest that broke Gwen’s heart.

I know
, she thought.
I know what it
is like to have to be tamed.

“I wish I could go to her,” said Gwen.

“You can’t, not until I say.” His tone was
not to be argued with. “She isn’t safe to ride, and I wouldn’t have
you hurt.”

He said that so many times, that he didn’t
want her to be hurt. Then he’d turn around and tell her that her
punishments were meant to hurt—and he certainly took care that they
did. “They’re tormenting her,” she protested as the horse’s
whinnying protests rose to an equine scream.

“They’re not tormenting her. They’re showing
her who’s in charge, a necessary exercise if she’s to reach her
potential.” His lips made a tight line as he watched the grooms.
“What use is that horse, Guinevere, if she cannot be ridden?”

She didn’t answer. She could see the duke was
still angry, just by the way he said her name. “I’m sorry,” she
said once more. She thought she might say it a thousand times, and
it wouldn’t fix the tension between them. “And I... I thank you for
buying me the mare. I’m sure I don’t deserve your kindness.”

He was silent a moment, then he said, “We
deserve one another’s kindness. Otherwise we’re in for very long
and miserable lives.” With one last glance at the horse, he took
her arm and turned her toward the house. “Go back to your room now
and write another letter to your father. Lord Daniel will be here
to do your dancing lesson at three.”

“Oh, must I have my lesson today?” she asked.
“It aches every time I move.”

“Whose fault is that?”

Gwen didn’t answer his pointed question, only
heaved a great sigh and followed her husband back to the smothering
walls of Arlington Hall.

Chapter
Eight: Angry

The duke didn’t visit her bedroom that night,
or the night afterward. He sat silent at dinner, focusing on his
plate although she sat two feet to his right. Not a single word
passed his lips, except to address the servants. This went on for
three days.

Gwen told herself she ought to be happy to be
free of his company—especially his nightly attentions—but in truth,
she felt miserable. He was teaching her another lesson, she knew.
He was demonstrating all the pleasant things he’d done in their
marriage by no longer doing them, and letting the empty space of
his withdrawal resonate in Gwen’s soul.

He had called her a spoiled, self-centered
child, and then he made her feel just like a child by ignoring her
and going about his ducal way, as grand and handsome as ever.
Meanwhile, the mare, that living, breathing symbol of his
generosity, whinnied and squealed at all hours from the paddock,
until Gwen’s sanity was about to snap.

Poor darling. Someday Gwen would make it up
to her. She decided she’d name her Eira, the Welsh word for snow.
She told the grooms so they could accustom the mare to her name,
and watched impatiently as the beautiful creature refused to be
tamed.
Please settle down
, she thought.
I am waiting to
love you.
When Gwen was not sleeping or eating, or at lessons,
or changing clothes, she was at the paddock, dreaming of the time
she might climb up on the mare’s back and wander with her about the
duke’s property. Perhaps she could find a picturesque meadow like
the one she’d left behind in Wales.

The duke would take you to a picturesque
meadow if you asked him.

But she did not ask him. She felt she had
lost the right to ask favors. If he did not despise her before, he
despised her now and it was entirely her own fault. On the fourth
day, when the household was in a bustle about heading to London, he
passed her in the hallway and did not so much as look at her as he
continued on his way. She had become invisible. Since he did not
acknowledge her, she ceased to exist.

She fled the house to see Eira, and perhaps
have a little cry in private. She longed for her home, and that
artist named Jack who had thought her beautiful, and kissed her.
Jack hadn’t cared that she wasn’t a blueblood, that she wasn’t
well-born and elegant. Jack had been something like a friend.