Under A Duke's Hand (18 page)

“You can be both.” She heard him toss the
whip back onto the chest. “This is not about your struggle with me,
Guinevere. This is about your struggle to accept yourself.”

She had felt cold before, but now she felt
hot, feverish. Sore and endangered, and needful as ever. “No, it’s
you who won’t accept me,” she cried.

“Is it?” When she turned, he was half
undressed. His coat and waistcoat were thrown down next to the
whip, and his shirt soon followed. He rummaged in a drawer. “I
think I’ve been very accepting, considering what a complicated wife
you’ve turned out to be.”

He returned with a small porcelain jar, and
held it in one hand while he took down his breeches with the
other.

“Are you going to release me?” she asked.

“Not yet. I’ve another experiment to do
first.”

“I don’t want to be experimented on
anymore.”

“And yet you shall be,” he said, stilling her
straining hands. She could feel his cock against her bottom. She
heard him take the cap off the porcelain vessel, but he was too
close behind her to see. He parted her sore, whipped cheeks and
caressed her intimately, smearing slickness against her arsehole.
His broad chest trapped her so she couldn’t squirm away. He pressed
his shaft against her, not where he normally did but...back
there.

“No,” she cried, trying to escape him. “No,
please. Don’t do that.”

His arm encircled her, forcing her to be
still as his other hand poked the tip of his thick member into her
clenching orifice.

“Shh. Let me try,” he said. “You might like
it.”

The pain was not exciting or arousing like
the other pain. It was dull and achy, and frightening. “Please,
you’ll hurt me.”

“I won’t.” He tightened his embrace and
pressed his cheek against hers. “Wait. Take the pain for now, just
for a moment.” His voice rumbled as his long hair brushed her
cheek. “Wait and see what happens.”

Gwen didn’t want to wait and see, because
this was not the sort of hurting she liked. He worked his way
inside her there easily enough—the aromatic oil accomplished that
task—but it ached and stretched her awfully.

“Feel me inside you,” he said. “Feel me
forcing you open, using you however I wish.”

She made a sound, a moan or cry. “It
hurts.”

“Yes, but you like to be hurt. Let me have
you this way. I’ll make it feel so good.”

His rough-edged words settled in her pussy,
along with the force of his embrace, and the way he pinched and
flicked her nipple as he held her tight. He eased his shaft all the
way inside her, so his hips pressed against her aching bottom
cheeks. “Does it still hurt?” he asked.

“Yes,” she sobbed, but it didn’t really, not
as much as it had. She felt very full, and very scared, but it
didn’t hurt in any unbearable way. He withdrew a little and pressed
back in, and her quim pulsed in reaction. No, this couldn’t feel
good. It
shouldn’t
feel good.

“I like hurting you,” he said, his cheek
still pressed to hers. “I like the way you gasp and whine when I
hurt you. I like the way you shudder. I like the way you get so
very, very wet.” He stroked a hand across her center, then grasped
her in a rough, squeezing way. She tensed around the thick
intrusion in her bottom and moved her hips forward against his
palm. She shuddered as he teased her and bit her earlobe.

“Yes, you like that,” he said. “I know.
Desire and pain get all mixed up for you in a wonderful sort of
way. Don’t fight it. Don’t try to hide these things you feel.”

She wasn’t hiding anything now. She was
grinding her hips back against him, then thrusting forward against
his hand, trying to make him touch her in just the right place.
Sometimes he did, murmuring encouragement, and sometimes he just
held her hips and drove in and out of her arse. There was nothing
for her to do but submit.

“I thought you said this was for bad wives,”
she said after an especially deep thrust.

“Sometimes it’s for bad wives. Sometimes it’s
for confused, conflicted wives who need to be shown that it’s all
right.”

“That what’s all right?”

“To like it when things hurt. Do you like
being sodomized? Do you like being forced to take my cock in your
arse?”

“No,” she said, because she didn’t want to
like it.

“Tell the truth,” he said against her ear.
“Now, of all times, tell me the truth. How does it feel to be tied
up and whipped, and used in this appalling fashion?”

She couldn’t answer. Her arsehole clenched
around him. He invaded her, stretched her, filled her so she
couldn’t get away.

“I... I like it,” she admitted miserably. “I
do like it. It feels frightening, and exciting.”

“It feels that way for me too.” He held her
hips and took his pleasure with long strokes of possession. Her
hands strained at her bonds, but now it was a different sort of
straining. She was reaching for completion, about to lose her
mind.

“I wish I could whip and bugger you at once,”
he said, wrapping a hand about her neck. “You’d like that most of
all.”

That hand at her neck, the firm squeeze made
all the rising, molten need within her overflow. “Ohh,” she cried,
alarmed by the sheer force of her climax. He was deep inside her,
his body a cage around her as she constricted on him in
ecstasy.

“Yes, that’s right.” His hand gripped her
throat tighter. “I’ve got you. Let everything come.”

She shook in his implacable embrace, impaled,
wrung out, and still the aftershocks lingered. He groaned and
uttered an oath, and surged deep inside her once more as he found
his own release. She didn’t want him to let her go. She couldn’t
bear it if he did. She couldn’t bear to turn around and face him,
and admit he was right about everything he said. Yes, she liked
when he did cruel and shameful things to her.

They were indeed perfectly matched.

“Rest a moment,” he said once he’d pulled
away. “Does it still hurt?”

“Yes. A little.” It wasn’t her poor, buggered
arsehole that hurt, it was her sensibilities and her pride. “Will
you unbind me now?”

“I’d like to leave you here forever,” he
said. “But yes, I suppose you must be released.”

He took her hands down and unwound them, and
chafed them to be sure they still circulated blood. He kissed each
wrist, studying her face. “All right?” he asked softly.

She didn’t know if she was all right, so she
didn’t answer. Instead she said, “I’m cold.”

He did up his breeches and then he helped her
dress, touching her more, perhaps, than he really needed to. She
felt warmer now, but still cold. The stocking that had held her was
impossibly stretched and flopped down over the garter. She felt
dirty and embarrassed. She wanted to wash.

He watched her as he pulled on his shirt and
his fine afternoon waistcoat, and did up the gold buttons, and
tidied up the echoing temple until it looked the way he’d found it.
He extinguished the candles and shrugged on his coat, and guided
her to the door.

“Say goodbye for now,” he said. “Although I’m
sure we’ll be back.”

She wasn’t sure she wanted to come back.
Well, yes. She did. “How often will you bring me here?” she
asked.

“As often as I think you need to come. There
is nothing ‘amiss’ with you, my dear, except that you have deviant
sexual tastes. It’s not as if this is shocking to either of us.
I’ve known you were like that all along. I knew when I spanked you
in that meadow, and so did you.”

Yes, she had known then, but it didn’t make
the conflicting emotions any easier to bear.

“You say you don’t like the things I do to
you in private,” he said, “but I think what you really don’t like
are your abandoned reactions. Which is silly, because they’re
perfectly normal, and magnificently exciting to me.”

“What I don’t like is that...that you don’t
like me.”

He gave her a puzzled look. “Of course I like
you. You’re my wife. I feed you and clothe you like a princess, and
shelter you in my house. And also occasionally tie you to a
whipping post and sodomize you, but I’ll reiterate: you like that
sort of thing.”

He jested. He refused to understand. He would
never understand that she wanted more than to be used by him, and
dressed like his doll, and perverted at his whim—even if she
enjoyed said perversion. “I don’t want to like it,” she said
peevishly.

He pulled her closer as they neared the
house. “You don’t want to like anything,” he said. “But you will
continue to behave as I wish, and be a proper duchess. The rest of
it is nonsense.”

“Nonsense?” she repeated in irritation.

“Yes, nonsense.” He waved a lace-edged hand.
“All your struggles and tantrums. Totally unnecessary. At some
point you will realize that I know what’s best for you. If we’ve
learned anything this afternoon, it’s that I know you better than
you know yourself.”

He raked her with his gaze, a knowing, lurid
assessment that made her want to slap him. Then he smiled and
placed a lingering kiss on her forehead, and she thought,
you
don’t know everything you think you know, you pompous man.

Chapter
Eleven: Audience

“Remember to curtsy to the king and queen,”
Aidan said, pulling on his best pair of gloves. “And don’t speak
unless you’re asked a question.”

“Yes, Sir. Lady Langton told me.”

His lips tightened. Why did his wife persist
in addressing him as if he were a bloody stranger? He was her
husband, for God’s sake. The least she could do was smile at
him.

You are not smiling at her either.

He forced a smile to his face, but by that
time Gwen had turned to look out the carriage window at the people
milling about the palace.

“Are all of them here to see the king and
queen?” she asked.

“No. Most of them are only here to gawk. Not
everyone is admitted to the palace. Audiences are only granted to
the proper sort.”

“The proper sort?” His wife rolled her
eyes.

“Yes, the proper sort,” he said a bit
heatedly. “And there is a proper sort, whether or not your wild
Welsh heart believes it should be so.”

He sat across from her, since her ornate
court gown took up her entire bench. It had been specially made of
heavy gold satin, to match the trimmings on his black formal coat
and breeches. The skirt was at least four feet wide, and twice as
long behind with the attached train. The entire ensemble—bodice,
skirt, petticoat, train—was encrusted with ruffles, embroidery, and
French lace. He didn’t envy her the challenge of walking in it, and
the cost... When she asked the cost, he didn’t tell her. She would
have considered it a fortune. Enough to keep her father’s household
in wine and servants for a year or more.

But the expense didn’t matter, or the fact
that she would probably never wear this gown again, since it would
be gauche to appear in the same outfit twice to a royal audience.
The priceless jewels she wore didn’t matter, or the gold and
diamond tiara nestled in her dark hair. What mattered was that they
had made this marriage at the crown’s behest, and the crown wished
to look upon them and believe it well done.

She sighed and clasped her gloved hands in
her lap.

“Why the sigh?” he asked. “You ought to be
happy. I’ll be glad to have this over with.”

“I will too.” His wife studied him from
beneath her lashes. “Must we act like we’re in love today?”

“What?”

“Will the king and queen expect us to be in
love? They’re rumored to be in love.”

Aidan stared at the rose and ivy embroidered
along the hem of her dress. “They know ours is an arranged
marriage. You needn’t feign love or affection for their benefit.
It’s only been a few weeks. But you should express thanks for their
hand in bringing us together.”

“If they ask, you mean. You said I should not
speak unless I’m asked a question.”

“Why don’t you let me do the talking? I’m
accustomed to these audiences.”

Gwen looked back out the window. “How long do
you think it took them to fall in love?”

“I don’t know. I’m not privy to their private
life.” Had he sounded too sharp? His wife had a great fascination
with romantic love. It made him wonder if she’d carried a flame for
someone back in Wales. Tommy, he thought bitterly. Sometimes it
seemed she would prefer the fictional Tommy to his own status and
wealth.

Aidan was not sure how he felt about love. He
knew his friends were in love with their wives, and yes, King
George adored his Charlotte. Did Aidan love Gwen? He tried to. He
tried to be patient with her, and understanding. He was generous in
bed, and catered to her need for rougher pleasures, needs that
aligned beautifully with his. All of that ought to add up to love,
but somehow, with them, it didn’t.

Even so, he felt protective of his wife. He
could feel her trembling as they made their way through St. James
Palace, past bewigged servants and haughty courtiers to the royal
chambers. He couldn’t even draw her close to comfort her, due to
the exaggerated proportions of her gown. At last they stood in the
presence of Their Majesties, and Gwen made a creditable curtsy, for
all her trembling.

“Arlington,” the king said warmly. “You have
brought us your new bride as we bade you.”

Aidan bowed. “I am honored to introduce my
wife, by your wisdom and grace. Guinevere, the Duchess of
Arlington.”

Lady Langton had taught Gwen well. His
dark-haired wife sank into another obeisant curtsy. The queen’s
face lit up in an approving smile.

“You have our congratulations,” said the
king. “And what did you think of our heroic Lord Lisburne? Was he
pleased with the match?”

“Exceedingly pleased. I found him in
excellent health,” Aidan replied. “He showed admirable hospitality,
and I enjoyed my time in Wales.”