The Reddington Scandal (6 page)

He wanted his little bride.

Against all reason, she’d become the one thought he could not press from his mind. And now he possessed something that might help him understand her. He carried the little wooden box to his bedroom and asked his valet to light every lamp.

Poring over the poetry, he absorbed the essence of her. They reflected a deep appreciation for the natural world, clever understanding of the human one (including some witty depictions of her sister) and an overall buoyancy of spirit. The light he’d glimpsed in her face at the bookstore shone clearly here. She poured her passion onto the page, revealing a perfect balance between romantic and practical. She was as unique as her eye color, a treasure meant to be held in the light. He read until late in the night, organizing and sorting her poems into little piles, placing them in different orderings and reading the effect.

In the morning, when he heard her stir, he opened the door between their rooms without knocking and strode in, carrying the poems in the order he’d sorted them. She had the back of her nightgown lifted and the slit in her drawers parted and was twisting around to look at her buttocks.

“Did I leave marks?” he asked, trying not to smirk.

She gasped, dropping the hem of her nightdress and whirling around, her face far redder than her bottom had been the night before.

He ignored her embarrassment. “Come here, I want to talk to you about your poems.” He grasped her hand and pulled her to sit upon his knee on the bed.

“You cannot just burst in here!” she spluttered.

“I cannot?” He plucked her off his knee and gave her bottom two sharp slaps, then plunked her back down again. “If I were you, I’d think twice before getting saucy with a man who’s just had you over his knee.”

She glared at him, and he smiled back, his eyes glancing down at the steepled tips of her breasts pressing through her nightdress.

“One of these days I will be forced to give you a proper spanking and then you’ll know better than to defy me.”

Her face still red, she demanded, “What is a proper spanking?”

He grinned. “A proper spanking is when I take your drawers off and use a strap or a switch until you cry. It’s for real punishment.”

She swallowed with apparent effort. “Would you really—? I mean, what would merit such a punishment?”

He winked. “Oh, you’d have to be very naughty for that.”

She stared at him for a moment before crying indignantly, “I do believe you
like
spanking!”

He flashed a broad grin. “Perhaps I do, little dove. All the more reason for you to obey, isn’t it?”

It was no doubt true—he’d been spanking women, or at least getting a swat or two in where he could since even before he’d first made love to a girl. He loved ladies’ backsides and he certainly enjoyed the sight of a woman bent over his lap and the feel of her soft flesh under his hard palm.

“But listen, I want to talk about your poetry.”

She sat up straighter. “Yes?” She swallowed again. “Yes, my lord?”

“It’s beautiful. I think I should take it to a publisher.”

She stared at him as if not comprehending what he was saying.

“I’ve got it sorted. I think there may be two volumes here, if we go by topic.” He produced the stacks of poems he had sorted. “This group is about nature, so I thought you could come up with a clever title, and this could be a volume all its own. These are more about human nature, the art of living, that sort of thing, so they could be a separate volume. In this last stack are the poems that seem unfinished or too delicate—not for publication at this time.”

She continued to stare at him and did not move to take the stacks he was trying to hand her. “Publish? Me? Or do you mean under your name?”

He made a scoffing sound. “Under my name? Don’t be ridiculous. Under your name.”

“But who would publish poetry by a woman?”

“Well, I’m not sure exactly, but I know it happens. There are many female authors. Look at Jane Austen, or Mary Shelley.”

The cautious hope in her face tore at his heart. “But… would it be embarrassing for you, to have a poet for a wife?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Nothing would make me more proud. Your work is lovely, Phoebe. It belongs in the world.”

Tears sprang up in her eyes and she flung her arms around his neck, nearly strangling him with her enthusiasm. He kissed her throat. “Stop it, Teddy,” she said softly, drawing back. Not hearing a true rebuke, he kissed again. This time she withdrew her embrace completely. “Why do you do that?” she asked, searching his face.

“Because I want to,” he said, the familiar ache getting stronger.

Her lips parted and he watched her eyes lower to his lips, and leaned forward slowly, so she could stop him if she wanted. She jumped to her feet.

“Please don’t.”

* * *

“Good morning!” she greeted Teddy at the breakfast table, as if he hadn’t just been in her room. Despite the confusion of his continued… courtship, nothing could possibly ruin her exuberance that morning. He thought she should be published. Lady Phoebe Fenton—a published poet. It was the most exciting prospect with which she’d ever been presented.

“I left your box in my study. I think it would be best if you made a copy of each first, before I bring them round anywhere.”

“Copy of what?” Wynn asked.

Phoebe flashed a look of alarm at Teddy. She felt shy enough showing him, and she was not ready to share with Wynn, too.

“Oh, we’re working on the invitations to the ball. Do you think the two of you could finish up the guest list today?” Teddy covered for her with graceful ease.

“Yes, of course,” she promised, thinking of nothing other than the thrilling task of copying her poems over so he could take them to a publisher.

When Teddy stood to leave, he kissed her on the cheek, his thumb stroking the opposite cheek as he cradled her head. He kissed Wynn on the top of the head and bid farewell.

Wynn eyed her curiously. “You both seem to be in a fine mood this morning.”

She felt her cheeks grow warm. “It’s nothing!” she exclaimed too quickly. “I mean, yes, it is a beautiful morning. Let’s work on the invitations, shall we?”

What an absolute jinglebrain. She gave herself an inner kick. Now Wynn most likely believed she had been intimate with Teddy, when in fact, she had done nothing of the sort. Though the idea made her feel defensive, as if she ought to have been intimate with Teddy. Except that wasn’t her plan, was it? Giving into the charm of Lord Fenton was a certain recipe for heartache. She knew it, Wynn knew it, Kitty knew it, and if she’d understood correctly, their mother knew it, as well.

They managed to finish the invitations, and she was able to plead a headache and sneak up to her room to work on copying her poetry. The day flew by, and supper was a pleasure. Lord Fenton did not disappear afterward, either.

It seemed nothing could destroy her happy mood until she heard the sound of a woman’s voice from Fenton’s room.

“I don’t recall inviting you,” she heard the slow drawl of her husband.

Inviting? Who says such a thing to a woman who has been let into his bedroom?

“Yes, well, it’s been a long time since you’ve come to the bordello. I’ve missed you.”

A light-skirt.
Damn him. Damn her. Damn them both.
How dare he allow her to entertain him here, in his home, with her in the room next door?

“In other words, you need a few coins.”

“Don’t be cross, my lord,” she said, her voice sultry and coaxing. “It’s not as if you haven’t invited me here before.”

“Yes, but I did not invite you this time.”

Anger bubbled over and she got out of bed, throwing the door open and standing in it, her hands on her hips. The lady was a high-class courtesan, dressed in satin, with a string of pearls around her neck. For some reason, that bothered her even more. “Get out!” she said coldly. “Get out of my house!”

“Teddy? Is this your sister?”

“No,” Teddy said sardonically. “She is Lady Fenton, my wife.” He placed a bookmark in the book he’d been reading and set it on the bed. He did not stand up, but merely lounged on the bed, looking from the courtesan to her with amused interest.

“I asked you to leave. If you will not, I will have you thrown out of this house.”

The light-skirt looked at Teddy, as if expecting him to defend her right to be there. Anger produced a rushing sound in her ears. She strode over to the prostitute, fully prepared to slap her. Perhaps guessing what she had in mind, Teddy chose that moment to rise to his feet. He raised his eyebrows. “You heard her. The lady of the house asked you to leave. You will do so. Now.”

She clenched and unclenched her fists at her sides, gritting her teeth through the woman’s low curtsy and departure. When she shut the door, Phoebe turned and glared at Teddy, picked up one of the books from his shelf and hurled it at him.

He dodged it. “Phoebe, that is not acceptable.”

Not acceptable? Entertaining a ‘Bit ‘o Muslin’ in one’s own home was not acceptable. She picked up another book and hurled it.

“Enough. Put that down,” he said sharply when she picked up the looking glass. But the satisfaction of breaking something was too strong. She hurled it against the wall, disappointed when it only broke into a few pieces, rather than providing a full shatter. His silver snuff box fit in her hand like a heavy stone, and she threw it at him before she could think properly. It struck his head with a thud that rattled her own teeth. She gasped, covering her mouth with both hands, all her heat turning cold.

He stumbled backward, cursed, and hit the wall, doubling over for a moment with his hand over his forehead.

“Forgive me,” she whispered. Fear coursed through her veins, turning her hands to ice. She had hurt him—badly. She felt terrible—she hadn’t meant to hurt him. How angry would he be? Would he turn violent?

He stood upright with another curse, his hand covering his forehead, a trickle of blood spilling from underneath it. But he did not appear out of temper. Apart from the blood, he looked as unruffled as he had when she’d entered the room and ordered the prostitute to leave. He withdrew a handkerchief and blotted the blood from his head and hands.

“I will punish you for that, Phoebe,” he said coolly.

The words bounced around the walls of her head as they sank in. Why was it so hard to decipher whether he was serious?

“Bring me my razor strap,” he ordered, pointing at the dressing table where she stood and erasing all doubt of his sincerity.

“No!” she cried immediately, horrified.

He raised one eyebrow. “Will you admit you were very naughty?”

She eyed the gash on his head, which was already rising into a goose egg. She felt terrible for hurting him. Her shoulders sagged. “Yes, sir.”

“Then bring me the strap.”

She snatched up the strap from the dressing table and crossed the room, thrusting it his face like an angry child. He took it from her hand, his face completely impassive.

A sob rose and erupted from her throat. She covered her mouth, tears spilling from the corners of her eyes. Before she could blink, she was in his arms, pressed against his warm torso.

“I know you’re terribly upset,” he murmured, shocking her with his kindness. “And I will allow—in fact, I will insist—you tell me all about it.” He stroked her back. “But first we have this issue of disobedience to address.”

She didn’t want to leave the circle of his arms. He led her to the bed and pulled her down across his lap, tucking a pillow under her torso. She could not seem to stop crying.

“What did I say would happen if you were very naughty?” he asked.

Still weeping, she didn’t answer. She felt her nightdress lifted, baring her legs.

“What did I say?” he repeated softly.

Was he really going to make her say it? She took a deep breath. “You would take off my drawers and use a strap until I cry.”

“That’s right,” he said. “I suppose we already have the crying part accomplished, don’t we?” he mused, not unkindly, and his fingers probed for the tape to her drawers. Finding it, he tugged them off. If she had been mortified the night before at his opening the slit of her drawers, she was beside herself this time. Completely bared to him, she had never felt more vulnerable in her life. She squeezed her buttocks together as if it might somehow protect her from his strap.

“Please,” she pleaded.

He rubbed a tiny circle between her shoulder blades. “Shh. It’s all right, little dove. It’s a spanking, no more.”

His words reassured her, some of her panic ebbing simply at the calm in his voice. She heard no anger, just the same confidence he always projected.

“Shall we say twenty strokes?”

She gripped the pillow under her chest tightly and squeezed her eyes closed. “Yes, sir,” she whispered. “Yes, my lord.”

The first bite of the strap was sharper than she’d imagined, and her entire body lurched forward despite her resolve to be stoic. Another sob escaped her lips but was cut off when she gasped at the second stripe. She didn’t breathe at all until after the third stripe had bit into her flesh. He was working his way higher on her bottom, where the flesh was more sensitive. Five stripes up, five back down. She bit the quilt, sobbing into it, her bottom blazing with pain. She tensed, waiting for the next set, but instead felt Teddy’s hand stroking her blistered cheeks. She flinched at his touch, though it was gentle.

* * *

“Phoebe,” he said softly. “Do you want to change our arrangement? The one you proposed on the day we wed?”

“No!” she gasped immediately.

He slapped her striped bottom, spanking her with his hand. He had promised her twenty with the strap, but could not give her more than ten. “Wrong answer, love,” he said, beginning to spank a rhythm with his hand. “I find it hard to believe you wish to go on that way, if this is your reaction when a woman turns up in my bedroom.”

He stopped the flurry of spanks and rubbed again. “Am I right?”

She didn’t answer. He gave her three more spanks with his hand. “What is it you wish, little dove?”