Under A Duke's Hand (15 page)

She ignored him and stood on her own, and
arranged her appearance, brushing away leaves and dirt. “I wish you
would stop being angry all the time,” she said.

“Then I wish you would stop angering me.”
Aidan turned away. “They took your horse, so you’ll have to ride
back on mine.”

“Her name is Eira.”

He stopped on his way across the clearing.
“What?”

“The mare. I’ve named her Eira. It’s the
Welsh word for snow.”

He started again toward his horse. “Don’t get
attached to that mare. I’m going to get rid of her.”

“What?” The word rang out among the lake and
trees. She ran to his side. “You can’t get rid of her. You
can’t!”

“Why not? She won’t be broken to the saddle,
and you can’t ride bareback in London. You can’t streak through
Hyde Park clinging to her damned mane.”

“I won’t then,” Gwen cried. “I’ll wait to
ride her, as long as it takes you to be satisfied she is tame. The
grooms will train her, I know.” She grasped his arm, tears brimming
in her eyes. “Please, Aidan, you were so wise to choose her. She’s
smart and lively, with so much potential. She only needs a little
more time.”

“I was wise to choose her, you say, but not
wise enough to know when she’s ready to be ridden?”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I didn’t listen to
you. Please! Please don’t take Eira away from me.”

She threw her arms around him, sobbing
against his chest. He wanted to stay angry, and he meant to get rid
of the mare at the first opportunity, but Gwen’s grief was so raw,
so deep, he couldn’t steel himself against it.

“That beast might have killed you,” he said,
running a hand over her hair.

“No, she wouldn’t. It wasn’t her fault. She
didn’t do anything to endanger me. It was my fault for galloping
off when you didn’t want me to. I won’t do things like that
anymore, I promise.”

“I understand that you’re upset, but she’s
not working out. We’ll find a better tempered one, just as
beautiful.”

“No, I love her. Please.” She gripped the
front of his coat and gazed at him through tears. “Eira and I
talked together. I know that sounds silly, but I looked into her
eyes and I saw that she belongs to me. She knows she belongs to me
too. I can’t explain it, but she’s special. I know she’ll get
better and...and so will I. I’ll be a perfect, obedient duchess
from now on. I promise. I swear.”

He loosened her fingers before she started
popping off his buttons. “That’s a pretty promise, but I don’t
believe you.”

“Please! I’ll say whatever you want, and do
whatever you want. Please, please, don’t take my Eira away.”

He’d seen her upset, and he’d seen her cry,
but he’d never seen her like this.
My Eira.
How could she
care so much about a dumb, wild creature and yet think so poorly of
him? He brushed away her tears before she could wipe them again on
his coat.

“All right,” he finally said in exasperation.
“I won’t send her away yet. But you are not to go anywhere near the
paddock unless I allow it, and if the grooms aren’t able to improve
her, we’ll have to let her go. Do you understand? You’re too
valuable to me, more valuable than any horse.”

She gripped his sleeves and sniffled. “Do you
swear? You aren’t just saying it so I’ll stop crying?”

“I swear. I’m a man of my word.” He frowned
as he stared down at her. “And I wait with great anticipation for
this perfect, obedient duchess you’ve promised to be.”

She took a step back and sank into a low
curtsy, bowing her head before him. It was certainly the most
graceful reverence she’d ever shown. “Very pretty,” he said. “I
hope you’ll be as biddable in London.”

He doubted her sudden reformation would last
more than an hour or two, but with her love for the mare, he had a
threat to hold over her head, a surefire way to bring her to heel.
She might even make it through their audience with the king without
setting Welsh-English relations back a century or two.

“Come along then,” he said, guiding her over
to his stallion. He mounted first and hauled her up before him. She
settled in his lap, her body still shuddering with the occasional
sniffle. He slid an arm about her waist to hold her in the
saddle.

Perhaps later, when he had calmed down
completely, he would spank her for shearing a full ten years off
his life. But he knew he probably wouldn’t.

He was still too stricken by the idea that
she might have been lost.

Chapter
Nine: In London

A few days later, Gwen bid farewell to Eira
and her private garden in Oxfordshire, and set out with the duke on
her very first journey to London. Being a perfect, obedient duchess
wasn’t easy when one was trapped in a carriage with one’s demanding
husband. But no innkeepers were asked to assemble any fresh birch
rods, so in that way, this journey went better than the last.

Arlington House, her husband’s London home,
turned out to be even grander than his manor in Oxfordshire,
comprising twenty-two windows across the front and eight windows
across the side. By this particular form of measurement, Gwen
perceived that his town house was one of the grandest in the city
proper, with an elevated portico and staircases and a long
balustrade along the front with shining iron gates.

There was not as much land around the house
as he had in the country, but still more than any of the other
homes about. Behind the house stretched a landscaped garden with
walking paths and follies, including a great Greek temple carved
and detailed to look like the real thing. When she asked him the
purpose of this temple in the midst of his gardens, he winked at
her and said, “For fun.”

A house that was twenty-two windows wide and
eight windows deep was not very fun for Gwen, because she was
constantly lost in its corridors. While she flailed about trying to
find her place in this new London home, Arlington came and went,
riding out on his prized black stallion. She did not ask his
business, although she supposed he had any number of ducal
interests to see to now that he’d returned to town. He still
visited her each night, exposing her to more perversions. As much
as she wished to resist him, he made her crave ever more wanton
things.

Sometimes she wondered if he did it as an
exercise in power, for he dealt skillfully in power. She watched
him now in the looking glass, as he scrutinized her diamonds and
the silver gown she wore. It was the same gown she’d worn at their
wedding, the gown the duke had chosen for their formal portrait.
London’s best artist waited downstairs in the grand hall. Pascale
had done her hair to the duke’s specifications, some of it curling
down over her bare shoulders, and the rest of it braided and piled
upon her head, rather as it had been the first day she met him.
Well, officially met him. He came over and smoothed one of the
coils, and adjusted the pin that secured it.

“Your lady’s maid does well,” he said. “Are
you pleased with her?”

“I suppose.” In truth, Pascale was nearly as
lofty as the duke.

He smoothed a hand down the bodice of her
gown, to the fitted waist. “I like this color with your eyes. The
diamonds too. Anything else would be too showy, and you are already
showy enough.” He stood back and met her gaze in the glass. “How do
I look? Our grandchildren and great-grandchildren will study this
portrait one day, and remember us as we appear.”

“But you’ve had other portraits made.” She
had seen them, expert renderings of him as a child, and as a
willowy, slightly sneering young man. There was a more recent
likeness of him in the gallery that perfectly captured his powerful
masculinity. She stood from the bench and turned to assess him. “I
think you look very fine.”

“Fine” was always an understatement when it
came to her husband. He wore a deep blue coat and breeches
embroidered with silver to match her dress, a lace-cuffed shirt,
and a sumptuous fur-lined cape that buttoned at the neck with a
garish jewel. He flipped one side of the cape back over his coat,
revealing decorations and medals, shining ducal things. In truth,
he awed her, clad in such finery. He seemed at home in it, while
she felt stiff and overdressed. “I have never seen you wear a
sword,” she said.

“It’s ceremonial. It was my father’s, and my
grandfather’s before him. Would you like to see it?”

He drew the gleaming thing from its scabbard
and Gwen jumped back.

He chuckled. “If I haven’t stabbed you yet, I
won’t do it now.” He stepped to the side and adopted a ready
stance, his sword arm extended before him. “Like any well-reared
man, I took lessons in fencing and swordplay. I’ve never cut anyone
to pieces, but I could if I wanted to.”

“A useful talent.”

He shot her a piratical look. His hair was
pulled back, shining gold even in the dim dressing room. She felt a
pang of arousal, a craving for his touch. His force. She wanted him
to threaten and subdue her, and run her through. Not with the
sword, of course, but something else. Then she remembered that he
disdained her, and only valued her as another exercise in power.
My elegant duchess. My obedient wife. My cooperative lover.
She was here to please the king and give the duke children.

And to look pretty in his portrait.

“I suppose we ought to go down,” he said,
sheathing the sword. He still retained the dangerous aura that
attracted and repelled her at once. “Are you ready to sit
motionless for an hour or more? Have you sat for a portrait
before?”

“Once.” Her voice sounded more wistful than
she meant it to.

“Ah, yes.” He looked at her with a ghost of a
smile. “I remember you did very well that day, sitting still for
me.”

You approved of me more that day
, she
thought,
than you have ever approved of me since.
“Do you
still have that sketch?” she asked aloud.

“Of course I do.” His eyes raked over her,
from her face to her breasts, to her waist and hips and skirts.
“And I have something better, too. A fairy queen for a wife.” He
took her about the waist and pulled her close against his hard,
tall body, then tilted his head down and pressed a kiss to the
curve of her neck. Her stomach fluttered. He pulled away and
touched her diamond necklace where it rested against her chest.

“The portrait,” he said, as if reminding
himself. “We must sit for the portrait now. It may take a few
days.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” She whispered it, because
he didn’t like when she called him by his title. But sometimes,
when she looked at him in his rich capes and finery, she couldn’t
think of him by any other name. Not Arlington, and certainly not
Aidan. He was the duke at his essence,
Your Grace
through
and through.

* * * * *

“I’ve received good news from Arlington
Hall,” said her husband the following week over dinner. “Your horse
is responding at last to her handlers. Perhaps your wild ride
across the fields exorcised some of her demons.”

Gwen knew why Eira was responding now. It was
because someone had finally shown her some sympathy and
understanding. “I’m happy to hear she’s doing better.”

“If she continues to improve, I’ll have her
brought to London. We can take the air in Hyde Park when the
weather permits. You’ll look quite striking atop your pretty mare,
as Mrs. Gerrard is putting together several riding habits for these
colder months. Everyone will note your horsemanship.”

“I hope so.”

“If you are ladylike, that is.”

And there it came, the eternal insult, the
constant reminder that she was not good enough, not “finished” to
his standards, which were impossibly high and impossibly shallow.
All he cared about was her appearance, her presentation, her
manners, and how much she might increase his esteem among the
denizens of his social set.

She wished there was more to him. She wished
she could know him better, even love him, instead of being held at
arms’ length and used mainly to satisfy his sexual needs. His
excessive
sexual needs.

She wondered when he would begin to stray in
their marriage. Most men did, as a matter of course, and they’d
been wed for a month now. The duke was frequently gone for hours,
“making calls,” he said, or “going to the club.” She imagined him
going instead to tryst with other women, fine, genteel women he
might have married if he’d been allowed to. She didn’t know why
that should bother her, since she didn’t like him anyway, but it
did.

“In other news,” he said, “we’ve a time and
date for our royal audience. One week hence, at four o’clock in the
afternoon.” He glanced up at her briefly. “I pray you will not
become anxious.”

Become
anxious? She’d been anxious
about it since before she married him. “What if they don’t like
me?” she asked.

“You must make them like you. Otherwise
things shall go poorly for you in society, and for me. Not to
burden you with undue pressure,” he added as an afterthought.

She rubbed her eyes, and jabbed her finger
rather inelegantly into the corner of one.

“Stop that, please. You must refrain from
showing disquiet in public. It’s impolite to frown and poke your
fingers into your eyes.”

“I can’t help it.” She forced her hands back
to her lap. “Why did you marry me, when I can’t do anything
right?”

He looked to the heavens. “Not this again.
Come here, Guinevere.”

His expression was sharper than his voice,
but he had a way of speaking softly even when he was angry. She
never trusted his tone, only his eyes, and of course his hands.
When she went to him, he turned her about and tugged at her laces,
loosening her bodice. When he had it as he liked it, he retied it
and turned her back around, and reached within her clothing to cup
her breasts. She tried hard not to react as he rolled her
tightening nipples between his fingertips.