Under A Duke's Hand (7 page)

She would have a built-in social set too. His
best friends would help launch Guinevere in society. Townsend and
his wife Aurelia, Warren and Josephine, Barrymore and Minette. The
ladies would take his new wife under their wings, and by the time
the season commenced in the spring, all would be functioning
smoothly. Jewels and trusted female friends to prattle with. That
was all any respectable woman needed to be happy. Everything would
be fine.

Then why are you avoiding her? Why is she
riding in the carriage alone the day after your wedding?

After they stopped and stretched their legs,
and took a bit of refreshment, he climbed into the coach with her
and sat on the opposite bench. She met his eyes for a moment, then
looked down at her lap. She should not be so afraid of him. He
wanted her respect, yes, but not her terror. He took off his gloves
and hat and placed them on the seat, thinking how quiet and still
she could be, like a prey animal caught in a predator’s stare. He
was that predator.

“It’s a few hours yet to Dryesdale,” he said.
“We’ll take dinner there, and spend the night.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

He wondered how long she would persist in
calling him “Your Grace” now that they were married. “Have you
stayed at an inn before?” he asked out of curiosity.

“No, I haven’t traveled much.”

“You ought to look at me when you speak, and
not mumble.”

She gave him a sharp glance, a Guinevere
glance, full of conflict and loathing. It would not do.

“Come here,” he said. “Come sit with me.”

She hesitated a moment, as if waiting for him
to slide over on the bench. Instead he pulled her into his lap. She
fit perfectly there, her head beneath his chin and her back against
his chest. He’d held her like this in the meadow, but she wasn’t
that same woman anymore. She draped her legs to the side, pressed
primly together. He drew a fingertip across the bodice of her
tragically sensible gown, then teased the tip of one of her
nipples. Her hands came up to impede him.

“Don’t,” he said. “Let me touch you.”

“But—”

He put his hands over hers and set them down
upon her thighs. “Leave them there.”

He must train his bride to trust him, using
the only weapon at his command—pleasure. After a moment, he felt
her capitulate. Her gloved fingers spread open over the dark beige
fabric of her skirts.

“That’s better,” he said.

He traced over her nipple again, then
searched for the other to give it the same teasing stimulation. It
wasn’t difficult to find it. Both of them stood out in little
points against her fitted bodice. She was utterly silent, so still
he couldn’t even feel her breathe. Her only outward reaction to his
caresses was the occasional twitch of her fingers. When he’d teased
her enough, he slid a hand beneath the fabric and took one of her
nipples between his fingertips. She moved her hands again as if to
stop him. At his sharp sound, she returned her palms to her
thighs.

“What do you think of this?” he murmured in
her ear.

“It hurts when you pinch me.”

“Do you like it?”

“No, Sir.”

He slid his hand over to torment the other
sensitive peak. He could see her biting her cheek against a cry, or
a moan. With a secret smile, he withdrew his hand from her bodice
and started gathering up her skirts. She wore pretty silk
stockings, not as pretty as the ones he would buy her, but still
very elegant upon her long, well-formed legs. “Hold your skirts
here,” he said, placing her hands over the bunched fabric. “Hold
them up here at your waist.”

“Why?”

“Open your legs for me, darling.”

“What are you going to—”

“Open your legs.”

His insistent tone silenced her questions.
She inched her thighs apart.

“Wider.” He put his hands on her knees and
spread them open, and draped them over either side of his legs.
“Are you holding up your skirts?”

“Y-yes,” she stammered, gathering them up
again where she’d let go. “But...”

He parted her curls and slid his fingers into
the velvety folds of her quim. He felt her go tense again, but he
had no intention of hurting her. On the contrary, he meant to enjoy
her reactions, even bring her off if she could manage it in her
agitated state.

“Relax,” he said. “I want to make you feel
good.”

“Now? In the coach?”

“Why not? It’s only us here.” Her hips moved
ever so delicately as he located her hidden pearl.

“But...you shouldn’t,” she said. “You can’t
simply molest me at your whim.”

“Can’t I?” He pressed his cheek closer to
hers. She smelled sweet and flowery from her morning ablutions.
“It’s a pleasant enough way to pass the time. Besides, you like
it.” He could feel moisture gathering as he stroked her. He drew
the slickness upward, swirling it around the swelling flower of her
sex.

“This isn’t proper,” she said.

“I’m not concerned with propriety at the
moment. Nor should you be, my wet and wanting wife.”

“I’m not wanting.” She could not deny the
wetness, poor lady. Her body betrayed her, turning liquid beneath
his fingers.

He made a gentle sound to soothe her. “It’s a
fine thing to enjoy your husband’s caresses. This wetness is a
natural reaction. Don’t be ashamed.”

Her hands had curled into fists around her
skirts. He played with her as the coach rumbled on, exploring her
pussy, discovering what made her go limp and quivery against his
chest. “That’s a good girl. Keep those legs open for your husband’s
pleasure.”

She made a small, choking sound. He went back
to teasing her nipples through her bodice, while simultaneously
flicking, stroking, and massaging her pussy’s folds. The more
excited she got, the more tightly she squeezed her hands. “Take off
your gloves,” he said when her fingers began to tremble. “I want
you to touch yourself too.”

She shook her head in a very decisive way. “I
can’t possibly do that.”

He gave her pearl a sharp pinch. “
Yes,
Sir
is the correct answer. We discussed this yesterday. Now,
take off your gloves. Just one, if you prefer.”

With a sigh of irritation, she took off one
glove and laid it aside. He collected her hand and guided it
beneath his, down to her damp and heated flesh. “Touch yourself
where it feels the best. Stroke yourself. See if you can make
yourself come.”

She didn’t ask what he meant. Surely she
remembered that delectable peak from last night, when she’d tossed
beneath him in the throes of ecstasy. Though she resisted at first,
he pressed her until she uncurled her fingers and joined him in
stroking her sex. He helped her at first, until he could feel
sensation take her over. Her eyes closed, her lips going soft as
she leaned her head back.

“Yes, that’s it. This sort of touching feels
lovely, doesn’t it? I’ll teach you to pleasure me too, my fairy
queen. There’s so much for us to learn about each other.”

“I’m not a fairy queen,” she murmured,
distracted.

“You’re whatever I say you are, darling, and
I’ll teach you to do all sorts of things proper ladies don’t do.
I’ll teach you to use that lovely mouth of yours on my earlobes and
my neck, and my balls, and my cock.” He pushed this last against
her backside, so she could feel how rigid he was.

She inched forward. “I can’t... You
shouldn’t...”

“
Yes, Sir, I am eager to learn what
pleases you.
” He pulled her back against the hard evidence of
his arousal. “And so I shall teach you, my dear. I’ll show you how
to caress me in different ways. Light, soft, rough, teasing.” As he
said this, he demonstrated on her pussy, and then thrust a pair of
fingers inside her. “If you’re a good wife, and learn all the
things I like, I’ll give you more pleasure than you can imagine.
Does this feel good?”

“Yes,” she breathed. “It does.”

“Do you want to come for me?”

She tried to turn into him, to hide her face.
“Oh, please. I can’t.”

“You can. I want you to.” He eased his
fingers in and out while she continued to stroke her pussy. His
other hand squeezed her breasts and teased her nipples, caressing
them, maintaining them in permanent, aroused points. “That’s it.
Make yourself feel good. Let your whole body come alive with
pleasure, and when you’re ready, finish it.”

“How will I know—when—?”

“You’ll know.”

Her hips moved with her exertions, and his
fingers surged into her sheath with a mounting, steady rhythm. He
watched her face, saw her bite her lip hard. He wanted to kiss that
poor, bitten lip. He wanted to kiss every inch of her and bury
himself inside her, but this erotic show was too magical to
interrupt. She gave a gasping cry, and the walls of her sex
contracted around his fingers. He pressed them deep inside her,
massaging, encouraging her climax to full fruition. Her feet curled
around his calves and her spine arched against his front. Then she
fell boneless in his lap, her ecstasy spent.

“I told you that you would know,” he
whispered against her ear. He lifted her hand and drew her fingers
into his mouth, licking them, savoring her feminine scent. She
stared up at him with a combination of horror and shock.

“You’re delicious,” he said. “You ought to
take a taste.”

And like the world’s most innocent courtesan,
she opened her mouth and accepted the tips of his lust-slickened
fingers, licking them off until his cock was far past aching, and
his hand clean enough to thrust back into his glove.

* * * * *

Gwen sat in their private dining room at the
Dryesdale Inn, sneaking glances at her husband, uncertain how she
ought to feel. She wished she felt in love, but she did not feel
that, not in the slightest. She felt something more akin to
anxiety, and disbelief that she was actually his wife. Since they’d
arrived, the staff had done nothing but scrape and bow to the duke,
and hover, and bustle about bringing things and taking things away
before one could even ask them to do it.
May I freshen your
wine, Your Grace? Is the duck to your liking, Your Grace? Shall we
bring more cranberry sauce, Your Grace?

Gwen wanted to hate her husband, but somehow
she found herself in the same sickening thrall as the servants and
staff. How grand he was, how effortlessly commanding. His manners
were so smooth and all his glances were the speaking type.

She wanted to defy his authority and stand up
to him, but she feared she hadn’t the power to do it. She was
terrified to make an enemy of him. For goodness sake, she’d licked
her own spendings off his fingers in the coach because he told her
to. He’d said scandalous things and described scandalous acts, and
she’d thought,
I know I will do them.
It seemed the whole
world bowed to his will, every groom, every servant, every lady and
gentleman. They all fluttered and nodded and murmured
Yes, Your
Grace
, and she knew she would do it too.

“Your Grace. Your Grace?”

The endless groveling. Gwen shut her eyes,
wishing she could clap her hands over her ears and disappear.

“They’re talking to you, dear,” came the
duke’s voice. “You’re a ‘Grace’ now too.”

She opened her eyes and blinked at the
liveried servant. “I’m sorry. What did you ask?”

“He asked if you would like some smoked eel
and black pudding.”

“No,” she said quickly. She’d barely touched
what was already on her plate.

He waved a lazy, lace-cuffed wrist and the
eel dish was whisked away. “You should eat more of your dinner,” he
said when the servant was gone.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’ll be hungry later. I’d like you to
eat.”

That’s precisely why I choose not to
eat.
Gwen knew she was being childish with these petty
rebellions. Even if she could find the appetite to eat, she was
sure he’d find her table manners lacking. He constantly scrutinized
her—and constantly found flaws. She took a small bite of duck so he
would stop staring at her.

“You must cut with your knife and eat with
your fork,” he said. “Not stab the flesh and gouge it from the
bone. I don’t see any cave fires about.”

She wanted to stab him. She wanted to poke
her fork right into his eye. Instead she cut another piece of duck
with exaggerated gentility, then left it to congeal on her
plate.

“Much more prettily done,” he said. “No,
don’t frown at me that way. You must understand that life in London
will not be like life in Wales. You’ll only earn the regard of the
ton
with the finest social graces and impeccable manners.”
He looked her up and down, with that cool, dissecting gaze. “I
suppose you’ll do well enough once we get you a proper wardrobe and
some finishing lessons.”

“I don’t need finishing lessons,” she said.
“I’m already finished. I’m twenty-two years old.”

“Even so, you’ll be obliged to improve
yourself if I wish. Now that you’re a duchess, you’ll have to move
within the highest echelons of society.”

“Oh, must I?” Irritation gave her an unruly
tongue. “Perhaps it would be more appropriate to keep me in the
barn with the pigs and chickens.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “Why would I do
that?”

“Why indeed? You behave as if I’m no more
cultured than an animal, wallowing in the mud and eating from a
trough.”

“I mentioned a cave, not a trough.”

The abominable man mocked her. “A barn. A
trough. A cave,” she snapped. “You might stow me anywhere out of
the way, so long as I don’t offend your aristocratic sensibilities.
Why, it would make the most sense to set me loose in the field with
the brood mares. They’d understand me perfectly.”

His lips tightened. “Are you done with your
tantrum? Have a bit more duck.”

“I don’t want any duck. I don’t like duck.”
She put down her silverware and glared at him. A servant came
bustling in to take her plate but the duke waved him off.