Under A Duke's Hand (8 page)

“She’s not finished.”

“I am finished,” she told the servant. “You
may take my plate.”

The servant stared between them, goggle-eyed.
The glint in her husband’s eyes had frozen to hard blue ice.

“Do not think to engage in a battle of wills
with me, Guinevere,” he said. “Not now or ever. You’ll always
lose.”

“Do you believe so? I’m awfully willful,” she
retorted. “That’s why no one else would marry me.”

“No one else would marry you because your
father is an ambitious opportunist who was wise enough to save you
for better things. I’m sorry if you were led to believe
otherwise.”

He said these words calmly, and studied her
reaction as he studied everything else. Gwen wondered if he spoke
the truth. For so many years, no man had courted her. She’d
believed it was her appearance, her uncommon height, or her poor
skill at conversation. But according to the duke, her father had
kept her lonely and marginalized in order to fulfill his
ambitions.

“Statecraft,” he said as she glowered down at
her plate. “It makes pawns of us all.”

“I don’t care.”

“You do, but it’s all right to deny it.” He
gave her a sympathetic look. “I know this is difficult, and that
you are being fractious as a form of protest. No matter. I’ll have
cured you of such tendencies within a few days. Eat something.”

Gwen gripped her silverware in rigid fingers
and very properly cut the wee tiniest, most miniscule sliver of
duck any person ever carved, and brought the speck of meat to her
lips.

The duke watched her chew it with wee, tiny
little bites, then beckoned the innkeeper, who hovered right beside
the door. The portly man hurried over and sketched an obsequious
bow. “How may I assist you, Your Grace?”

He turned and smiled at the man. “If you’ve a
fresh birch rod anywhere on the premises, I’d like it delivered to
Her Grace’s rooms at the first opportunity.”

The man nodded and bowed even lower. “I’ll
have one assembled, Your Grace, right now, fresh as anything. One
birch to Her Grace’s room without delay.”

“Splendid.”

Gwen found the bit of duck had lodged itself
in her throat.

Her husband turned back to her as the
innkeeper scuttled away. “If you’re certain you’re
completely
finished, darling,” he said with daunting
emphasis, “then let us retire upstairs.”

Chapter
Five: Discipline

Aidan felt rather proud to have made it one
full day of marriage before spanking his wife. In this, of course,
he outlasted his friend Townsend, who had spanked his wife on their
wedding night, before he even bedded the woman.

Ah, well. Disorderly wives craved orderly
consequences. Acting out was a plea to be taken in hand.
Guinevere’s stunt with the tiny piece of duck was funny, yes. He
might have laughed, but there was nothing amusing about a power
struggle within a marriage. By nature, he must lead and she must
follow. He must rule and she must obey. He must discipline, and she
must bend and take it. It wasn’t anything she hadn’t earned.

While the inn staff assembled the necessary
birch rod, Aidan’s valet freshened him up, scraping away stubble,
applying cologne, and offering a somber-hued dressing gown that was
perfect for the occasion. The man was excellent at reading his
moods.

Aidan dismissed the servant for the night,
and passed through to the adjoining chamber. He found his wife in a
chair by the fire, still dressed in her traveling clothes. He
regarded her a moment, then crossed to stand by the mantel.

“I brought a lady’s maid on the journey
specifically for your use,” he said. “She would have helped you
dress for bed.”

“I can dress myself.”

“Her name is Pascale. She’s French, and came
highly recommended from the Duchess of Winningham’s service.”

He received no thanks for procuring this most
desirable of servants, the French lady’s maid, who must now be
stewing in the servants’ chambers. He received nothing but a
vitriolic stare.

“Why are you so angry?” he asked. “What have
I done to you, to make you dislike me with such fervor?”

“What have you done?” She got to her feet,
her hands in fists. “You questioned my virtue, repeatedly, when you
were the one dallying with village girls a mere day before we were
to meet.”

“One village girl, who happened to be you, so
I don’t see how that counts.”

“You’ve also sneered at my family and their
hospitality, forced me to perform unnatural acts in your traveling
coach—”

“I don’t know if I forced you, darling.”

“—criticized my table manners, and humiliated
me before the innkeeper by asking for a birch rod to be delivered
to my room.”

“What else was I to do? I needed one.”

As if on cue, a knock came at the door. Aidan
opened it and accepted the fresh birch from a blushing maidservant.
He inspected the bundle of slim, straight withes, then tapped it
against his palm to test its mettle.

“Undress,” he said to his wife. “Let’s get
this unpleasantness over with.”

She stared at him. “You don’t really mean you
are going to... I thought you only meant to...to threaten me.”

“I never threaten, Guinevere. I decide upon
consequences, and then I act. Now, will you undress, or shall I do
it for you?”

She answered with a bit less bravado. “I
don’t want to undress. I don’t want you to punish me. I haven’t
been birched since I was a child.”

“That probably explains the extent of your
willfulness. As I said, I’ll train it out of you.”

When it became apparent she wouldn’t undress
on her own, he crossed to her and turned her about, and began
working at her laces. One good thing about his lustful
bachelorhood: he was very quick at managing ladies’ clothing. He
unlaced her bodice and pulled her heavy, voluminous gown over her
head, disregarding her half-hearted attempts to impede him. He
stripped off her petticoats next, and her underthings, her shift
and stockings.

“You will tear them,” she said, as he bent to
tug the latter off her kicking legs.

“I’ll buy you more. Better ones, befitting a
duchess.”

“I despise you.”

He straightened and gazed at her. She glared
back, her arms covering her breasts.

“All I did was ask you to eat something,” he
said. “It was a simple request I made for your well-being. Your
peevish behavior has nothing at all to do with my actions, and
everything to do with your frustration and determination to annoy
me.” He took her arm and led her over toward the bed. “Since I
dislike being annoyed, I shall teach you not to do it again.”

“You’re not going to teach me anything,” she
cried, pulling away from him. “Except to hate you more.”

“If you don’t learn anything, then the lesson
will be repeated until you do. Bend over, darling.”

As expected, his hellion refused. With a
sigh, he forced her down over the mattress, drawing her flailing
hands behind her back. Pressing her to the ticking with one hand,
he lifted the birch with the other and gave her a smart whack
across her bottom. She made a muffled sound into the sheets, her
muscles held rigidly tight. She was trying to be brave, he
supposed, and remain unaffected.

But it was very difficult to pretend a
birching didn’t hurt.

* * * * *

Gwen bit the inside of her lip as the birch
connected again. It hurt so much worse than she imagined. Each blow
felt like a thousand pin-pricks spreading out across her backside.
Before she could recover from the sting, he swatted her again. She
was determined not to give him the satisfaction of hearing her beg
for mercy. He was bigger than her, much bigger, so he could bend
her over this bed and punish her with his godforsaken birch rod,
but he couldn’t make her change her attitude. He couldn’t make her
stop hating him. It would take much more than a birching to
accomplish that.

But oh, it hurt so badly. She tried to be
still, but her body jerked and squirmed instinctively.
Ow, ow,
oww.
First she would hear a swish, and then a horrible whack as
pain exploded in spreading heat. Then she’d wait, trembling and
fearing the next.

“How many times are you going to strike me?”
she asked after an especially smarting blow.

“As many times as it takes to break you, my
dear.”

A soft whimper escaped her, and she hated the
sound of that whimper. It was her first show of weakness. Now he
knew he was hurting her.
Of course he knows he’s hurting you,
Gwen.
Her bottom must be beet red by now, striped all over with
livid birch lines. She bit her lip harder. She would not,
would
not
give him the satisfaction of hearing her mewl and weep,
although she wanted to mewl and weep more than anything. She went
up on her toes as he whacked the underside of her buttocks.

“Not feeling it yet?” he asked.

Good God, she was feeling more pain than
she’d ever felt in her life. The sting’s intensity built with each
stroke, or perhaps he hit her harder. The birch caught her under
her bottom again and her legs kicked up in agony. How long would
this go on? He would not ease his hold on her wrists, even when she
began to struggle. Another whack. That one was definitely
harder.

“Feeling it now?” he asked.

“No,” she said stubbornly, but it came out
like
noooo
...

“I suppose your punishment will continue
then,” he said.

Oh, how she hated him. But he would get his
way eventually, she knew. She couldn’t hold out much longer. Her
bottom radiated heat, her buttocks clenching at each tormenting
stripe of the birch. Moisture squeezed from her eyes, as much as
she didn’t want to cry. The tears fell anyway, dripping down until
the blanket beneath her was damp. She lost the battle to be quiet.
A shriek erupted from her lips, a rough, desperate squawk. Not
no
, or
stop
. She would not beg. But she cried because
it hurt, and because he wasn’t going to stop until she bent to his
will.
Swish, whack. Swish, whack. Swish, whack.

He owns you. He controls you. Give up and
accept your fate.

She tried to steel herself, tried to keep the
sobs inside, but they burst out anyway. How would she sit in the
carriage tomorrow? Why was she enduring all this only for refusing
to eat?

But it was not only that. She was being
punished for refusing to respect his authority. Much good it had
done.

“I won’t— I won’t—” she began.

He paused. “You won’t what?”

“I won’t...” She could barely talk, she was
crying so hard. “I won’t be peevish anymore. I’ll
be...respectful.”

She told herself it was not capitulation. She
only said it to make the punishment end. But in her heart, she knew
she would guard her temper around him now, lest this sort of
punishment be repeated. And so he had broken her after all, and
taught her a lesson, and it made her want to scream and spit and
throw things.

“Very well,” he said. “Three more strokes,
and then a bit of corner time so you can think about what you’ve
just said.”

She hoped the last three might be gentler,
now that she had given in to him, but they were the hardest yet.
She shuddered at each one, bawling into the sheets. At last he
placed the birch rod on the bed and lifted her upright. Her bottom
throbbed as he led her to the corner closest to the fire.

“Put your hands on the wall,” he said as he
positioned her. “No rubbing your backside. That sting you feel is
part of your punishment.”

As he said it, Gwen realized her buttocks
felt almost as hot now as they had felt under the birch. Perhaps
even hotter. Fresh agony bloomed every time she shifted. She put
her hands on the wall and leaned her forehead against the back of
them.

“While you wait there for the next few
minutes, think about how you’ll do better next time.”

I’m going to think about how much I hate
you
, she said to herself.

While she endured this humiliating “corner
time,” she heard the duke moving about the room. He stowed the
birch rod in one of the trunks, poked at the fire, and put out the
candles.

I hate you, I hate you, I hate you
,
she thought.

And I feel so very sad.

I miss my family, and my home in Wales.

I’ll never love you, and I have always
dreamed of a loving marriage.

My bottom hurts almost as much as my heart
right now.

After what seemed like an hour, but was
probably only ten minutes, he said, “Come here.”

She turned, but she didn’t want to go to him.
He stood by the bed, still in his rich, dark dressing gown. She
felt very naked and ashamed as she crossed to his side. The worst
part was the way he looked at her, as if he pitied her.

She could not bear to be his object of scorn.
She wanted to go home and curl up in her childhood bed, and escape
all of this. She broke down in ugly tears as his arms came around
her. She didn’t want him to hold her but there was no one else to
do it, and she was so sad.

“It’s all right,” he said. “Let it out, all
your misery and frustration. You’ve had a trying pair of days.”

“I want to go home!”

He held her closer and rubbed her back. His
dressing gown felt smooth beneath her cheek.

“I know it’s been a difficult adjustment,” he
said. “Cry for a while. Let those feelings go.”

So she cried, and cried, and cried until she
felt too wrung out to cry anymore, and then he sat on the bed and
pulled her into his lap, and she cried some more against the curve
of his neck. She felt utterly demoralized. Defeated. How
depressing, to yearn her entire life for love and closeness, and
end up with this.

“There now,” he said, when she finally ran
out of tears. “I suppose that birching wasn’t much fun for either
of us, but we’ve straightened some things out. You’ve learned that
revolt and disrespect won’t be tolerated, and you’ve had a good
cry. May I kiss you?”