Under A Duke's Hand (17 page)

The three ladies turned to Gwen expectantly.
She felt a blush steal over her cheeks. He made a fine sort of
husband, if one enjoyed being tormented on a daily basis. She could
not think of a word to say.

“Do you like being married?” Josephine
pressed.

Gwen thought a moment. “I’m still getting
used to it. I miss Wales. I miss my family, and the life I used to
know.” Her eyes misted. She tightened her jaw and willed the tears
away. She would not cry in front of these women. They might seem
warm and friendly, but they were Arlington’s friends, not hers.

Minette reached to pat her hand. “Don’t
worry, my dear. Things will get better. I was newly married this
time last year, and oh, I thought I’d never survive the first few
months.”

“Yes,” Aurelia agreed. “Husbands take some
getting used to, especially when you meet them just before you wed.
It must have been difficult for him to show up at your father’s
house in Wales and take you right to the altar.”

Gwen grimaced. “There was something awfully
businesslike about the whole thing. It still feels businesslike
sometimes. I thought marriage would be different. I thought there
would be more...love.” Her voice wobbled on the last word. She
ducked her head, feeling terribly embarrassed that she had even
said such a thing.

“Oh, Guinevere,” said Josephine softly.
“There will be love. Don’t give up yet. It’s hardly been a couple
of months.”

“I haven’t given up,” Gwen said, which was an
utter lie. She had given up that first night, when he had declared
himself her master, and her superior by law. He’d never love her
because she wasn’t his equal, and she would never love him because
it hurt to be found wanting all the time.

The men were running about now, throwing the
ball and converging on whoever had it. Warren shouted in protest as
Barrymore tackled him. She couldn’t hear Warren’s muttered remark,
but Arlington gave a great laugh and clapped him on the back as
Townsend swooped in to steal the ball. How happy Arlington could be
around those he esteemed. It hurt her to see that easy, joyful
happiness when she could not so much as make him smile.

“Do you think it’s getting colder?” Gwen
asked. “Perhaps we ought to go inside and leave the gentlemen to
their sport.”

She pretended not to notice the concerned
look the ladies exchanged before they all agreed to finish tea
inside.

* * * * *

Aidan flopped on the ground with his friends,
lying back and studying the sky as they traded a few last insults
and brushed the grass from their clothing. They’d discarded their
coats when they first started horsing about. Now that they rested,
the chilly December air settled over him. The ladies had
disappeared indoors a few minutes earlier. He hoped the four of
them would become friends. Gwen seemed homesick still, and he
thought she would benefit from some female companionship.

Female companionship.
That term used
to mean something different to him. He used to seek it out on a
regular basis, and consort with wickedly talented whores. Strange,
that he hadn’t been tempted to visit Pearl’s since he married. Or
not so strange. For all Gwen’s prickly moods and homesickness, his
fairy queen suited him wonderfully in bed. He’d expected to grow
tired of his wife by now, but instead he felt more interested than
ever to explore her sensual depths.

“Well, he’ll come back to us one day,” said
Warren with gentle mockery.

“What?” asked Aidan.

Townsend and Barrymore laughed. “We were just
talking about the mare you got from Halliday in Oxfordshire,”
Townsend explained.

“Oh, the mare.” Aidan sat up straighter and
rubbed his neck. “I was ready to give her back a fortnight ago.” He
didn’t tell them the story about Gwen tearing off on the horse, or
his panicked pursuit. The memory still disquieted his mind. “She’s
been a challenge to train, but my grooms tell me she’s making
progress. She’s meant for Guinevere, if she can be tamed.”

“Your duchess rides?” asked Barrymore.

“She rides like a dream,” he said in a hollow
voice. “She’s a Welsh hellion, perfectly capable of handling a
spirited mount.”

“That’s good to know,” said Warren, with just
enough lascivious insinuation to make Aidan scowl over at him.
“Hellions aren’t all bad.”

Aidan didn’t know if they were talking about
the mare still, or his wife, or Warren’s wife, who’d been something
of a hellion too when they wed.

“How are things with your duchess?” Townsend
asked, definitively changing the subject. “Barrymore and Warren
told me there was tension between you two when they visited in
Oxfordshire. Forgive me, but I sense it’s still there.”

“I told you you’d have the hardest time of
all,” said Warren. He looked around at the others. “Didn’t I tell
him?”

“Shut up,” said Barrymore, throwing a handful
of dried grass at his brother-in-law. “Arlington’s having
problems.”

“I’m not having problems.” Aidan pursed his
lips. “And I’ll thank all of you to stay out of my marriage. When I
need your assistance, I’ll ask.”

The men exchanged looks but let the subject
drop. Soon after, his friends and their wives departed for home,
for warmth and children. They made marital happiness look so easy.
He caught Gwen before she could disappear upstairs, and drew her
cloak back around her. “Will you walk with me a while?” he
asked.

He didn’t know why he asked, or why she
agreed to do it, except that he felt vaguely ashamed that they were
not in accord as the other couples were. He had no plan. He did not
know what to say.
How do we connect? What can I do?

She took his arm readily enough as they set
out through the back, to the winter-silent gardens. He led her onto
a lesser-used path, setting a leisurely pace.

“Do you know,” she said, looking about, “the
gardens here are even more beautiful than the ones at your country
house. Not that the ones at your country house aren’t lovely as can
be.”

“Why do you call it
my
country house?
You live there too, now that we’re married.”

She made no answer to that. A few moments
later, he asked, “How did you enjoy the ladies’ company? They were
anxious to meet you.”

“They were very nice.”

Her short, stiff answers pricked him. “You
know, out of all the ladies in London, they are the ones you may
trust to have your best interests at heart.”

“Will there be ladies in London who don’t
have my best interests at heart?”

“Yes,” he said bluntly. “There will be ladies
in London who will scrutinize you for every flaw. The queen is one
of them. There are ladies in society who delight in others’ social
failures. I am not trying to frighten you, only giving you a
warning.”

“You’ve given me plenty of warnings,” she
said in that tone that always made him want to turn her over his
lap.

“I suppose I’m saying that Aurelia, Minette,
and Josephine wish you only the best. You may believe in their
friendship. Goodness knows they’ve put their necks on the line for
each other these past few years, and gotten into all kinds of
scrapes together.”

“They do not seem the sort to get into
‘scrapes.’”

“Well, they are, so however shy you feel
around them, they are quite similar to you. Imperfect and
emotional, and given to mischief when it suits them.”

“They’re not like me.”

He could feel his wife’s mood darkening,
sense it in the tension of her hand on his arm.

“They’re nothing like me,” she said. “They
are happy and poised, and bubbly, and content. I understand now why
you’re not well pleased to have me as your wife. I know that
something is amiss with me.”

“The only thing amiss with you is that you
choose not to be happy in this marriage.”

“It’s not a choice. You should never have
agreed to wed me. I’m not like them. I’m...horrid.”

He stopped walking and turned to face her,
lifting her chin when she avoided his gaze. “In what way are you
horrid?”

Her pale green eyes filled with tears. “You
know.”

“I assure you I don’t know.”

“I’m not…good. I’m not a proper lady, like
them.”

“You most certainly are. You’re a duchess.
You outrank them all.”

She shook her head. “That doesn’t matter.
They are more cultured than me, more polished. If they knew the
things you do to me...”

“The things you enjoy?” he said in a sharp
voice. “Those things?”

“But I should not enjoy them!”

His poor, conflicted duchess. He held her
chin harder when she would have pulled away. “Who told you you
shouldn’t enjoy them? Not me. Never me.” He released her and took
her hand. “Come along. I want to show you something.”

He took her down another path, the one that
led to his mock Greek temple. He’d built it in his younger, wilder
years, and outfitted it inside for all kinds of sensual mayhem.
Today he hoped to use it to teach his wife some important lessons
about herself.

He unlocked the door and ushered her inside.
It was a cold, still space, not least because it was entirely made
of marble, save the benches and chests of equipment, and the tall
wooden pole in the center. It was also dark, having no windows.

“Take off your clothes,” he said as he lit
the sconces affixed to the walls. “Remove everything.”

“What is this place?” she asked, eying her
surroundings.

“A temple dedicated to lascivious games.
Don’t worry. No one will come.” His voice had taken on the
stentorian tenor of some ancient Greek nobleman or judge. Perhaps
that was why his wife obliged him without further comment. She took
off her cloak, and bent to remove her shoes and stockings. He
helped her unlace her gown and pull her shift over her head. Then
he leaned to retrieve one of her stockings, and twisted the fine
silk length of it about his palm. “I’m going to tie you to that
pole,” he said.

“Why?” Her nervousness had transformed to
full-blown fear. “What will you do to me?”

“Give me your hands.”

“Please. I’m cold.”

“Give me your hands.”

With a shudder, she held them out, and he
wasted no time binding her wrists before she changed her mind about
cooperating.

“You know,” he said, “there’s a certain type
of person who gains pleasure from feeling pain. It’s not
uncommon.”

She turned her face away. Her hands twitched
as he lifted them and hooked the silk binding over one of the
wooden pole’s hooks. “Turn,” he said, when she tried to pull away.
“Turn and face the pole. It’s called a whipping pole, this thing.
I’m sure you can figure out why.”

“Why do you have one here? Why are you tying
me to it?”

“That should be obvious.”

“But I haven’t done anything,” she said,
straining at the bonds. Luckily, the hooks were too strong for
someone her size to escape.

He rubbed her shoulders to soothe her. “As I
said, there is a certain type of person who enjoys being
overpowered, even abused for someone’s pleasure. I’m not that type
of person, but I think you are.” He slid a hand over her bottom and
up her trembling spine. “Are you still cold?” He pressed himself
against her back and embraced her shivering body.

“I wish you would let me go.”

“You don’t. You’re so excited right now you
can barely breathe.”

“It’s because I’m cold.”

“It’s because you’re aroused.” He reached
beneath her and drove two fingers into her quim. She was wet as
anything, as hot as the temple was cold. “Let’s do an experiment,
shall we? I’m going to whip you, not because you’ve misbehaved, but
so we can find out if you’re one of those people who is aroused by
pain and bondage. Because I strongly suspect you are.”

“You can’t do this. You shouldn’t,” she said
desperately.

“On the contrary, I think it’s time we
settled this question once and for all.” He went to the chest in
the corner for a true whip, a short, flicky devil of an implement
that imparted a great deal more sting than a spanking, or even the
birching he’d given her. Her eyes went wide as he turned.

“You’ll kill me with that!”

“Only in the most lovely sense, my little
pervert.”

“I’m not a pervert.”

He sent the tip of the whip cracking at the
back of one thigh. She sucked in a breath, making fists of her
hands. It was all he could do not to fall on her right then…

* * * * *

The pain was a shock; it radiated out from
the strike on her thigh to her breasts and belly, and yes, the
throbbing center between her legs. She let out the breath she was
holding, and thought she would die if he struck her again.

And he did.

And she didn’t die. No. She gripped her
bindings and processed the thrill of it, and arched for more. It
was exciting somehow, even though it hurt. Oh, she didn’t
understand it. It was so troubling.

“There exists a perfect counterpart for those
who enjoy pain,” said her husband, “and that is a person who enjoys
dealing pain for someone else’s pleasure, as well as their own.”
She shrieked as the whip caught her across her bottom. “As you may
have guessed, I’m that sort of person.”

“It hurts,” she said, panting through the
aftermath of pleasure.

“I know.”

He flicked her again and she danced on her
toes, pulling at the stocking that held her fast, ruining it,
probably. In that pulling and that struggle, she felt a lengthening
of her body, an opening. A release of resistance, and a craving for
worse pain if he would want it, as mad as it seemed. She always
felt that way when he hurt her, that she ought not to take pleasure
from it, and yet she did. He had called her a pervert in jest, but
that was exactly what she was.

“I don’t want to be this way,” she said.
Tears squeezed from beneath her lids as the whip’s bite stung her
bottom, and sometimes her thighs. “I want to be like them. I want
to be proper, the way you want.”