Under A Duke's Hand (19 page)

“And here is his daughter. Come forward,
duchess. Let us look at you.”

Gwen curtsied again. Well, she certainly had
the curtsying thing down. The king would appreciate her gentle
modesty, even if it was all an act. Aidan could see the man was
charmed.

“And how do you enjoy being married to our
Duke of Arlington? He is a much-admired man.”

“Our marriage has been well enough,” she
said.

“Well enough!” exclaimed the king, grinning
at her husband. “Not the most resounding vote of confidence.”

Aidan played off this misstep with a smile.
“The duchess and I are still coming to know one another, Your
Majesty. We have not been married long.”

“One of the greatest joys of marriage is
coming to understand and feel affection for the other person,” said
the queen, smiling at Gwen. “Do you spend time together with your
new husband, pleasant time at leisure?”

Gwen flicked a glance at him. “We do spend
time together.”

Well, she might have smiled when she said
that. The king and queen regarded Gwen curiously, as did some of
the other courtiers in the room.
Smile, damn you
, he
thought.
We are supposed to seem grateful for this
match.

“I imagine it has been an adjustment, coming
to England from your homeland,” said Queen Charlotte. “It was an
adjustment for me.”

These were very kind words on the part of the
queen, a gracious likening of their situations. Gwen accepted them
in silence, so Aidan was forced to speak instead.

“It has been somewhat of an adjustment for my
wife, Your Majesty.”

“But her English is good,” said the king.
“Barely an accent, and her manners are fine.”

Aidan could feel Gwen tense beside him.
Whenever they discussed her manners at home, she became agitated in
the extreme. He gave her a look that said,
Do not dare.
He
could cope with her tantrums at home, her sharp words and
peevishness. He could not deal with them here.

“She is excited for the upcoming season,”
said Aidan, to change the subject. “She will be pleased to make the
acquaintance of your loyal subjects and settle into English
life.”

“Yes, indeed,” said the king.

And then Gwen spoke. “If you want to know the
truth of it, I would have rather stayed in Wales.”

One sentence. One miserable sentence she
might have kept inside. But no, she hadn’t. The room fell silent.
Someone tittered, almost inaudibly. The king and queen looked
shocked.

“What my wife means,” said Aidan quickly, “is
that she is homesick for Wales. She might have said it a better
way.” He bowed in apology, and shot his wife a scathing look.

For long moments, the king and queen only
looked at them. Aidan felt heat rising beneath his collar.

“I remember what it was to be homesick,” said
Charlotte after a moment.

The king turned to his wife and squeezed her
hand. Yes, that was love, that glance between them. Perhaps, in
this case, it would save them. Charlotte seemed to like Gwen, even
if the king thought her terribly rude.

“The best thing for homesickness,” Charlotte
continued, “is patience and prayer. And subservience to your
husband. You must focus on your duties as a wife.”

“Do you mean bearing his heirs?”

By God, he wished he could clap his hand over
her mouth. What had he told her, in no uncertain terms?
Don’t
say anything at all unless you’re asked a question.
He would
make her write it out a thousand times as punishment for this
debacle. But this debacle was his fault. She was his wife. She was
not adequately under his control.

“Well, yes. Heirs are important,” agreed the
queen, as more titters sounded from a corner of the room.

Aidan hoped his expression communicated the
remorse he felt for his wife’s uncouth behavior. One did not speak
of “bearing heirs” in a royal audience. He prayed the king would
end this meeting before she made any more mistakes.

“We hope that you shall feel more at home
here soon,” said the king with a sharp hint of remonstrance, and
with that, they were dismissed.

Aidan wasn’t sure how he made it through the
press of courtiers to the carriage without unleashing his temper on
his wife. She had utterly humiliated him in front of his
contemporaries, not to mention the highest sovereigns of the land.
She blinked at him as he collapsed on the seat across from her.

“What is the matter?” she asked.

“What’s the matter? Did you think that went
well, that audience?”

He saw a shadow of guilt on her face. “I did
my best.”

“Was that your best? The part where you
insulted the king—not to mention your husband—by suggesting you
would rather have stayed in Wales? What about the part where you
said our marriage was ‘well enough’? That was lovely. Oh, and
taking up the discussion of bearing my heirs with Queen Charlotte,
that was absolutely stunning in its couth. My goodness, Guinevere.
You’ve outdone yourself today.”

She shrank at his vicious tone. “You never
specified what I could or could not say.”

“Because one would assume you would only say
polite things to the crown of England.”

“It seemed that everyone was speaking
plainly. I was being honest.”

He held up a hand to silence her. “I’m too
angry to speak with you right now.”

“But—”

“No.”

No, he didn’t dare look at her, or say
another word. He didn’t want to attempt to spank her in her court
dress, in this carriage, but if she riled him any further, that was
what he would do. How was he to proceed from here? He’d have to beg
pardon of the king, and he would have to fix his wife and his
marriage before the season began. He did not like to be a
laughingstock. He would not be made a laughingstock by a slip of a
Welsh girl, at any rate.

They were nearly back at home when she asked
in a troubled voice, “Will you still let me see my horse?”

“Your goddamned horse.” He wanted to throttle
her. All the turmoil and irritation she’d brought to his life, and
all she cared for was the blasted horse. “I ought to take her away
from you,” he said as the coach rattled to a stop. “It would be an
appropriate punishment, since you have taken away my pride, my
reputation. You knew exactly what you were up to during that
audience, and believe me, you shall be brought to account for it,
as soon as I have regained my temper.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you won’t sit comfortably on that
horse, even if I decide to let you keep her.”

With those words, he disembarked from the
carriage and stalked into the house, leaving the grooms to
extricate his lavishly skirted wife.

* * * * *

After her lady’s maid divested her of her
court clothes, Gwen waited to be called to the duke’s room—for she
knew she’d be called to his room. She deserved to be. She had acted
foolishly, because she was nervous and reluctant, and irritated by
the outfit she had to wear. She understood about royalty, but she
didn’t see why she had to participate in all the pomp and
circumstance.

Well, she knew why.

A somber-faced footman escorted her to
Arlington’s private sitting room an hour or so after they’d arrived
home. He still looked angry, but his color wasn’t as high as it had
been in the carriage.

“I’m very sorry,” she began. “I’ve spent this
last hour reflecting—”

“Take off your clothes.”

“Please, Sir—”

“Do not infuriate me further by refusing to
comply. Remove your clothes.”

His gaze darkened as his words snapped across
the distance between them. Gwen swallowed hard and removed her
slippers, and her stockings and garters. She reached behind to
unlace her gown but could not manage it. Arlington crossed to her
and unlaced her himself, with rough, impatient tugs. The dread that
had fluttered in her stomach the past hour rose and settled in her
chest.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so very sorry I
embarrassed you.”

He ignored her, yanking her gown over her
head as she tried in vain to impede him. She fumbled at her
petticoat’s ties to have something to do besides panic. Once they
dropped to the floor, she was bared to his gaze.

She searched his face for any softness, any
comfort. Nothing. He took her elbow and drew her toward his
bedroom.

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“Punish you.”

“But you are still so angry. You’re
frightening me.”

He stopped beside his great, raised bed and
forced her to face him. “I think you deserve to be frightened. And
I think I deserve to be angry. There is nothing more humiliating to
a man than a wife who is not within his control. I’m tired of
battling with you, Guinevere. One of us is going to break in this
marriage, and it shall not be me.”

“It won’t be me, either,” she said with false
bravado. “You’re not allowed to hurt me.”

“I’m allowed to discipline you, and you are
due a correction for your insouciance today. Lie on your stomach on
the bed. You are going to be caned. Ten strokes.”

“Ten strokes!” she cried. “I said I was
sorry.”

“And I said to lie on the bed.”

Gwen had never been caned before, but she
knew it was a vicious form of punishment. “Please don’t do this,”
she begged him.

“Would you like me to help you lie down?” he
asked, fetching the whippy looking cane from the bedtable. “If I
must help you, I’ll add five additional strokes.”

If she was not so naked and frightened, she
might have resisted him, but what good would it do? He was
determined to make her hurt because she had offended his lofty
English pride. She climbed onto his bed where he indicated, and lay
on her front with her legs pressed together.

“I think this English tradition of husbands
punishing wives is very uncivilized and cruel,” she said.

“And yet you live in England now, whether you
like it or not.”

Goosebumps rose on her arms as the duke
positioned himself beside the bed. He tapped her bottom with the
cane, once, twice, as if perfecting his aim. She gazed up at him in
entreaty.

“Must you? Please, Sir!”

“Keep your hands out of the way. I expect you
to remain still for the entirety of your punishment.”

She barely had time to prepare herself before
she heard a swish and a thwack, and the most painful stripe of
agony she’d ever felt in her life. She hissed as her backside
caught fire, and reached back to rub the throbbing weal.

“That was only the first stroke,” he said.
“Move your hands.”

“I can’t!”

“I’ve explained before that you are not
permitted to rub away the sting. Remove your hands and lie still
the way you’re supposed to.”

Gwen gave a little sob and returned to the
commanded position. The second stroke landed just above the first,
and then a third stroke beneath it. She reached back and covered
her bottom again. “Oh, it hurts.”

“If I don’t make it hurt, you’ll only enjoy
it. Remove your hands or we’ll begin again.”

She pressed a fist to her mouth. How was she
to bear this? She still had seven strokes to go. “Please,” she
said. “I can’t.”

When she saw him raise the cane for the next
stroke, she reached back so he was forced to arrest the movement in
midair.

“I suppose I ought to have done this at the
start,” he said, yanking off his neckcloth. He took her wrists and
wrapped them in the fabric, and knotted them tightly before she
knew what he was about. Then he stretched her arms over her head
and threaded the tail of the linen through the headboard, and tied
it off.

“You must not do this,” she said. “It’s
reprehensible, to bind my hands in order to punish me.”

“I’m binding your hands so you don’t lose a
finger. Shall I begin again, or will you be content with seven more
strokes?”

“I don’t want any more strokes.”

“You don’t sound very remorseful for your
behavior today. I suppose I had better begin again with ten.”

“No,” she said, trembling at the very idea of
it. “I’m remorseful.”

“I don’t believe you are. If you don’t wish
to begin at the start, I suggest you remain still.”

She went still, as still as she could be with
a cane whistling through the air. The implement connected, the pain
making her yank wildly at her bonds. A burning line of heat bloomed
upon her flesh.

As she panted through the agony of it, she
berated herself for a fool. Why did she cross him? She had been
impertinent during the audience to prick him, because she was
unhappy, but she only made herself unhappier. He was too great an
enemy, and too powerful. She would never defeat him. “I can’t bear
any more,” she wailed. “Isn’t there some other way to punish
me?”

“What? A spanking?” He put the cane down,
leaned over the bed and gave her a couple smart cracks. “I don’t
think a spanking will hurt enough. I don’t think you’ll learn your
lesson.”

“I’ve already learned my lesson.” She sobbed
as he spanked her again. Her already-heated bottom felt ready to
burst into flames.

“There is another way you might be punished.”
His fingers delved between her clenching cheeks. “Another way I
might put you in your place.”

Oh, God, no.
Gwen tried to squirm
away. “You can’t,” she said. “Not that.”

“Or I can resume your caning. Six more
strokes to go.”

Her bottom still throbbed and burned from the
four strokes she’d endured. When he stood to retrieve the cane
again, she cried, “No! I would rather… I would rather…the other…”
She looked over at him with narrowed eyes. “You’re so
horrible.”

“And you’re so stubborn. Bad wives get bad
things. Didn’t I tell you that?”

He began to take off his clothes, as Gwen
pulled at the neckcloth and questioned whether she’d made a wise
choice.