Under A Duke's Hand (21 page)

With a muttered curse, he yanked off one of
his gloves so he could trace the lingering cane tracks. He would
not say he was sorry for putting them there—she had earned them.
But he was sorry that it aroused him to feel them now. She
shuddered as he pinched one of the welts.

“Please, that hurts,” she whispered, pressing
closer.

He was sorry that her shivery little plea
inflamed him beyond bearing. She clung to his coat, his lovely wife
who was aroused by pain. He circled her waist and drew her against
the hard, thick line of his erection. He wished he could explain to
her how she excited him, but he could only kiss her madly,
assaulting her lips and reveling in her eager response. He caught
her lower lip between his teeth as he worked loose the flap of his
breeches. He was rigidly hard, bursting to be inside her.

There was no light, but he could see the
outline of a trunk in the dark. He turned her around and pushed her
toward it, and bent her over it, hauling up her skirts from the
back. He held them out of the way and nudged open her legs with his
knees. She gripped the edge of the trunk for balance; he could see
the pale outline of her gloves against the wood as he positioned
himself behind her.

Like Jack in the meadow, he was taking what
he wanted, whether offered or not. He could not seem to stop taking
from her. He pushed her legs wider and stroked her quim, and found
her copiously wet. He slid two fingers inside her, pumping them in
and out. “Naughty little duchess. How hot you are. Stop squirming
about, and let me have you.”

“It’s so dark,” she said. “I’m afraid.”

“You’re not afraid. You want this.”

“Please don’t hurt me.”

She meant
Please hurt me
. He heard it
in her tone, and felt it in her arching spine as she wriggled back
against him. He shoved inside her, driving through her tight, hot
slickness all the way to the hilt. “Oh,” she gasped. “Oh!”

Oh, indeed. He thrust into her again, not
caring for the dark or the hard floor beneath his knees. He set up
a steady rhythm, capturing her arms and pinning them behind her.
She struggled with a low moan. By God, she stripped his control
with her responsive reactions. He couldn’t resist her, and he
couldn’t restrain his animalistic urge to possess her.

He reached beneath her to yank down her
bodice and expose her breasts. He grasped one of them, worrying the
nipple between his fingers before treating her to a hard pinch. She
gasped and threw her head back.

“Does it hurt, darling? Yes?” He chuckled at
her distracted nodding. “It hurts in the best way, doesn’t it?”

He released her arms and squeezed her breasts
until she wailed and shuddered. Her pussy’s clenching sent waves of
need through his cock and balls, an intense building of energy. He
pumped inside her, losing his mind, losing control.

“You should always be like this,” he growled,
twisting his fingers in her hair. “You should always be beneath me,
moaning like this, taking my cock.”

“No,” she cried.

“Yes. You’re mine.”

Her hips moved wildly to meet his pounding
thrusts. She was so beautiful, so powerful, even in her surrender.
He pulled her hair harder, yanked her head back so he could kiss
and suck the smooth column of her neck. Her pussy pulsed and her
breath hissed through her teeth.

“Please,” she begged. “Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please don’t stop. Don’t stop. I’m so
close…”

“Come for me,” he ordered. “Come for me
now.”

She obeyed with a ragged cry, arching back as
he grasped her breasts. He climaxed deep within her, his own
pleasure heightened by the intensity of her release. For long
moments they remained still, gasping for air.

“Are you all right?” he asked when he could
manage it. He tried to turn her in his arms, but she resisted. He
realized she was in tears.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Did I hurt
you?”

She pulled away, readjusting her clothing and
wiping at her cheeks. “You always hurt me,” she said. “You make me
ashamed of myself.”

He squinted to see her in the dark room. She
wouldn’t let him hold her. She got to her feet and moved toward the
door, searching for the handle in the dark.

“You’ve done nothing to be ashamed of,” he
said, following after her. “There’s no need to cry.” He did up his
breeches as she stumbled into the moonlight. He could see her well
now, her tears and her agonized expression. He caught her before
she reached the horses.

“Do not,” he said, taking her face between
his fingers. “Do not be ashamed of what just happened. Do not
dare.”

“You can’t control me in everything. You
can’t tell me how to feel!”

She tried to turn away, but he forced her
face back and looked into her eyes. “I can tell you how
I
feel. I don’t want you to cry when we’ve just shared such
pleasure.” He frowned at her tears. “You ought to be happy. In
this, you please me.”

“In this.” She gave a bitter laugh. “What a
laudable duchess I am, to be able to meet your basest carnal
desires.”

“Your carnal desires too. You enjoyed
yourself well enough, for all your tears.”

She pulled away from him when he would have
comforted her. Why were they back to anger, after the closeness
they’d just shared? He took her arms and made her look at him. “If
this is the only thing that works for us as husband and wife, so be
it. It’s the only necessary thing to perpetuate my family
line.”

“Of course your family line is the only
matter of importance in this marriage.”

“It’s the most important thing, yes.”

“What about love? What about caring?”

He scowled at her. “Why are you harping at me
in that shrill tone? You’re never angrier than after you’ve just
been fucked. If I could contrive a way to keep my cock in you all
the time, you’d be a lot more biddable, I think.”

“You are crass.”

“And you are peevish. Again. No matter.” He
lifted her and put her on her horse. “I’ll be ready to take you
again by the time we return to the house.”

“I don’t want you again.”

“Is that so?” He put on his gloves and
mounted his own horse. “In the end, one has little to do with the
other. Especially when I am so much more powerful than you will
ever be.”

* * * * *

Gwen rose the next day feeling mentally and
physically exhausted. Arlington had seen fit to lay with her twice
more after they returned from the temple. He had proved his
point—that she enjoyed his caresses—but it had come at a cost to
her peace of mind, and her pride.

The last thing she wanted was to spend more
time with her husband, but the portrait artist was there for the
final sitting, so she put on her silver dress and her jewels and
reported to the grand hall to pose primly with her hands in her
lap. She wondered if the painter could see the strain on her face,
or intuit somehow the stresses of the previous night. Arlington
stood proud and pompous behind her, having shown yet again that he
ruled supreme.

Only fitting, that he should stand tall in
their painting, while she sat below him, his dog at heel. She
didn’t smile. She refused to smile in this portrait so that
generations to come might imagine she had been happy as his
wife.

At last the artist declared himself finished,
with the preliminaries at least. To Gwen, the painting looked half
done, with white spaces and shaded areas, but the artist would
finish the rest from his sketches, and promised delivery within a
couple of weeks. The duke, at least, seemed handsomely outlined.
The artist had captured his attitude perfectly, his regal aura and
bearing. Gwen seemed an afterthought. Her face was only partially
sketched in. That was how she felt these days, only partially
sketched in.

Once the artist was gone, Arlington told her
to dress for riding. His commanding tone reminded her of the night
before, of firm touches and carnal manipulations. She didn’t want
to be aroused by the memories, but she was.

“I would rather not go out today,” she
said.

“You’d rather not go out? Or you’d rather not
go out with me?”

When she clamped her lips shut and refused to
answer, he took her arm and led her into the breakfast room.

“Do you know that we are famous this
morning?” he asked.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’ll show you what I mean.” He snatched up a
paper from the sideboard, the newspaper he scanned every morning at
breakfast, and read from the third page with great dramatic
flair.

“
It appears the Duke of A---- is not as
lion-hearted as he is lion-haired. The admirable duke took his
wife, recently acquired from W----, to meet with the Crown, whereby
the Duchess of A---- alluded to a less than satisfying
marriage.
Look, darling, there’s even a likeness of me frowning
at you.”

She swallowed hard, and forced herself to
glance at the drawing when he shoved the paper under her nose.
“Horrid gossip,” she whispered.

“I don’t know if one can call it gossip,” he
said, taking it back to scowl at the picture. “The paper’s only
saying exactly what you did.”

“That drawing is ridiculous,” she said to
placate him. “You don’t have lion hair. And I don’t know why they
bother to use initials when everyone knows who they mean.”

“It doesn’t matter if I have lion hair or
not,” he said, throwing the paper back down on the table. “What
matters is that, thanks to you, everyone in London is talking about
our failed union and laughing behind their hands. We’re going out
riding, Guinevere, like the happiest married couple ever. Go get
dressed.”

Gwen hurried upstairs to change, to obey him,
yes, but also to get away from him. He was in a very prickly
mood.

“You must make me look happy,” she told
Pascale. “The duke commands it.”

“Are you going to ride in Hyde Park?”

“I think so.”

“You need bright colors then,” said the
French maid. “The cerise riding habit, or the orange.”

They ultimately decided on the deep
yellow-gold, since it looked so well with her hair, and because
yellow-gold was one of Arlington’s favorite colors. Anything to
quell that quiet fury in his gaze.

“If you want to look happy, Madam, you must
smile,” said Pascale in her strident way. She adjusted Gwen’s hat
again, seeking that perfect angle. “People go to the park to see
and be seen. Make sure that they see what you want them to
see.”

What did Gwen want them to see? That she
loved her husband? It was hard to capture that feeling in the
confusion of her muddled thoughts. He was waiting when she came out
of her dressing room, and inspected her with a critical gaze.

“Will I do?” she asked tightly, as his
perusal strung out.

“You’ll do fine if you keep your temper,” he
replied with a warning note.

At least Gwen would be able to ride Eira
again. She’d been overjoyed to see the mare yesterday, even if she
was a different animal now. Tamed and subdued. Gwen would still
love her forever, and Eira seemed to understand that love. She
nickered softly when Gwen appeared, nosing her hand for a treat.
Gwen tsked and petted her muzzle. “I see. Is that how they trained
you so prettily?”

She went to the stable master and secured a
bit of apple to feed her pet, as Arlington looked on impatiently.
At last they set off to the park. Eira did very well among the
sounds and sights of the busy London streets, so Gwen could relax
and look about. London was still new to her. In fact, she doubted
she would ever get used to all the people. Everyone gawked at the
duke, and Gwen had to admit he looked very fine in his deep hunter
green coat, atop his oversized stallion.

When they arrived at Hyde Park, it was even
more crowded, and people still stared, although they stared with a
great deal more judgment. She was glad now that Pascale had taken
so much time with her hair and clothes, and so carefully adjusted
the tilt of her riding hat.

Arlington stayed beside her, his black crop
tucked beneath his arm. “Smile, would you?” he said between his
teeth. “Or there’ll be another
on-dit
in the paper
tomorrow.”

She tried to smile but there were people
everywhere, staring and shouting back and forth to one another. A
few gentlemen addressed the duke, and he introduced her as the
Duchess of Arlington. She would never remember all the names. Lord
this and Lord that, and Lady something-or-other who giggled behind
her hand.

“Was that woman laughing at me?” asked Gwen
when the last group moved along.

“I told you how things would be in London,”
he said. “Didn’t you believe me? People are vicious. That’s the way
the
ton
works. You’ve stopped smiling again.”

“I don’t feel like smiling.”

“You’ll do better to smile and pretend, than
keep frowning that way.”

She looked down under the pretense of
smoothing her gloves. She tried to curve her lips into a smile
before she looked up again. They were garnering a great deal of
attention, and yes, furtive mockery. One bold gentleman pointed
before lowering his hand. This was why Arlington had punished her
so angrily, she supposed. She had not only embarrassed him before
the king and queen, but before his entire social set.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

“There’s nothing for it now. Hold your head
up another moment, and we’ll go.”

Thank God. Her face hurt from forcing a smile
and pretending to be happy. She wanted nothing more on earth than
to be away from these crowds, but then...

Then he’d take her home. She glanced at the
square set of his jaw, framed by his queued hair. She noted his
strong legs and broad shoulders, and thought about the things he
did to her in private. She didn’t know if she dreaded them or
wanted them again. Perhaps both. At least in his arms—or his Greek
temple—she passed muster.