Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
E leanor discovered many things that evening. The first was that she enjoyed being the center of attention. People treated her with respect now her name was Eleanor Fairmont, Duchess of Ravenscroft. Thanks to the Duke— Sebastian , she reminded herself—she was fast becoming one of the most influential people in the room.
Of course, there were some who thought she did not deserve her position, but she suspected there would always be some who resented her, and if she did not stand up for herself, or if Sebastian did not stand up for her, then they would feel justified in speaking out against her.
Margaret was one of those people.
To Eleanor’s relief, she kept her distance for the remainder of the evening, only glaring from afar, and no doubt whispering poison in people’s ears. But Eleanor forced herself not to think too much about that.
The second thing she discovered about herself was that she was, in her soul, an impatient woman. Much as she enjoyed the talking and the dancing and the lavish dinner that they attended, she could not wait to escape so she might discover whatever Sebastian had in store for her.
The third was that she must be very, very wicked indeed for her to find the thought of physical aggression so very appealing.
The fourth was that she no longer cared about what others might consider wicked. If she were to ask Sebastian, she suspected she would be told not to be so silly.
By the time they finally bade their host goodnight and returned to their carriage for the long ride back to the manor, she could hardly suppress her excitement. Sebastian, too, seemed rather more eager than usual. He had not left the ball early, but he had certainly not lingered the way some did. And in the darkness of the carriage, his eyes glittered as he took her in.
“ Eleanor ,” he said once they were on their way, the coach so finely sprung she could hardly feel the unevenness of the road. This would be a smooth ride and would give them leave to do whatever they chose.
“ Sebastian ,” she replied, breathless. Her excitement felt as though it fizzed around her body, irrepressible and compelling. Her chest felt as though it was expanding, and she found her hands shaking a trifle as she tucked them in her lap. “Have I made you very angry?”
“You have.” His tone was sharp, and she shivered under the feel of it, a whip cracking across her skin, the pain exquisite.
“Then will you show me what my punishment is to be?”
“You are entirely too eager, my girl.” He turned to her, tipping her head back so he could see her throat. His fingers briefly closed about it. “I can feel your pulse,” he murmured. “Thrumming. Are you afraid of me?”
“N-no.” She answered instinctively, not giving herself room to doubt.
“Even though I could do you severe harm now?” He gave her a little shake, but although his hold on her was firm, and although it forced her blood harder against his fingers, he did not hurt her. “Why are you not afraid of me?”
“Because you are not a cruel man,” she rasped, her breasts tender and heavy beneath her gown, and a throbbing beginning between her legs.
“What makes you so certain of that?”
“Because I have seen cruelty before.” She looked into his shadowed face. “And because there is a difference between being capable of great harm, and choosing to act upon it.”
He cursed under his breath and brought her face to his for a blazing kiss. His hand twisted roughly in her hair, and his other hand remained around her throat, a promise that although he had chosen not to, he could hurt her.
The thrill sent another burst of lust through her.
Perhaps she had not won his respect, never mind his love, but he could no longer deny that he wanted her, and that was enough for now. Knowing that he kissed her despite not truly wanting to meant there was something in their marriage to save.
He had defended her in front of her mother, and now he tilted her head to meet his, his body coming to rest on hers, and she welcomed the pressure.
Finally, she might discover what magic there could be between a husband and wife. Yes, he had implied roughness, but she was not a china doll. She rather thought she would enjoy the aggression, and hoped he would not think to be gentle with her now. Not when he had promised punishment.
His mouth opened hers, and his tongue swept inside, dominating, devouring her. He consumed her senses, holding her firmly in place so she could not move, pressing her into the seat, kissing her so thoroughly she drowned in sensation. This was not the same kiss he had given her at the masquerade; he kissed her now with the edge of anger, the burn of desire, as though he could not bear how very much he wanted her, yet he could not endure letting her go for another second.
She kissed him back as ardently as she could, drifting her hands along the breadth of his shoulders. There was so much to this man she did not yet know. Every time she thought she might have gotten over it, she thought about the way he had looked, half-naked and bathed in candlelight. She longed to remove his coat, his waistcoat, his shirt, so she might put her palm against skin. Then she would be able to feel the subtle shift of his muscles, the gentle friction of his hair, the softness of his skin. There was so much she had yet to discover.
But he caught her wrists and broke away from her mouth long enough to say, in a harsh voice, “You may not touch me or yourself. Do you understand, Eleanor?”
“ Yes, Sebastian ,” she breathed.
“When we are like this, you will call me sir.”
“Yes, sir .”
“Good.” He brought her arms up to either side of her head. “Keep your hands here at all times.”
She sucked in a breath. The position made her vulnerable, and she was certain he knew it, leaving him fully in control. No doubt he preferred that. And was that little tingle of mingled fear and anticipation not what she wanted from this encounter too? She wanted nothing more than to yield herself to him. He would know what to do with her body better than she did.
“Yes, sir,” she said when it became apparent he was still waiting for her response. Apparently satisfied, he ran his hands down her arms to her sides, finding her breasts. They ached with the need to be touched, and when he cupped them in his hands, even through the layers of her clothing, she gasped.
“You will be silent,” he informed her. “My coachman is above, and although he will not be with us long, I would not have him made uncomfortable.”
While that may be true, and she had no doubt that if the coachman heard the way she wanted to moan, he would be made uncomfortable, she doubted that was the true reason behind his command. No, it was merely another way of exercising control over her. For him, she would have to bite back her natural instincts, and endure all he was doing to her silently.
For him, she would do so. In fact, the thought brought another wave of heat with it.
“If you make a noise, I will stop what I am doing immediately,” he informed her. “And nothing you say will convince me to begin again, no matter how invested you may be in the outcome.”
The outcome? She looked to him for clarification, but he merely took her hips and twisted her so she sat with her back against the wall of the carriage, facing him.
“Take hold of this,” he said about the strap over her head. “Don’t let go.”
“Yes, sir.”
He made a noise of satisfaction, though something about it seemed a little pained. He lifted her skirts, pushing them up over her calves and knees and thighs, until she felt bared to the world, exposed in all the ways she would never contemplate as being acceptable.
But this was Sebastian, and he took hold of her knee, widening her legs, then skating his fingertips up her inner thigh until he came to the apex of them. Her head spun with anticipation, though he made her wait for an excruciatingly long time until he finally let his fingers dip into the slickness waiting for him there. The hollowness of her desire bit into her, and she tightened her grip on the leather strap around her head. Liquid heat bloomed everywhere he touched.
“You are so wet for me,” he growled, approval evident in his voice. His hand went to his groin, but it was too dark to see what he did there. “Do you want me then, Eleanor?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Yes, what ?”
“Yes, sir.” She had wanted him for a long time—longer than she had ever wanted to admit. She rolled her hips, trying to encourage him to stroke there again. Once or twice, she had explored her own body, wishing to know what lay there, but she had never touched herself in a way that resembled this. As though every brush of his fingers gave birth to a new bloom of heat and pleasure. Her nipples hardened, her breasts so aching and heavy and desperate to be touched once more.
There were so many things she wanted, many of them beyond articulation. How could she ever explain that she just wanted more ? That her body demanded it, and she did not know precisely what that entailed, only that he could give it to her.
“Peace, wife,” he said, slapping the tender skin of her inner thighs. The sting transformed into more pleasure that made her ache so acutely, she might betray her word and make a sound. Her teeth dug into her bottom lip.
“You smell delicious,” he murmured, his voice husky, rumbling from his chest in a way that only made her desire wilder. Then his words sunk in. If she had not bound herself to silence, she would have asked what he meant. As it was, she could only assume and guess.
His fingers slid across her slick folds once more, and she bit back a gasp, arching her spine. Every touch felt so exquisite, the dearest kind of torture, and yet she sought more. This would never be enough; she knew that in her bones.
“Impatient?” He laughed softly, and this time, using his thumb, drew a circle that made her breath halt in her lungs. “I know the feeling, my dear. To crave the sensation that you think may be coming, to know that you are capable of so much. Are you a passionate lady, Eleanor?”
“I—” She hardly knew how to answer. “I don’t know.”
“Then we will find out together.” He brought his other hand to her, toying a little lower, his finger dipping out of her, pleasure spiking each time it did. “You are certainly very responsive. I think it will not take much to bring you to your climax.”
“My… climax?”
“Keep your hands on the strap.”
She tightened her grip, sweat slick on her palms. “Is this my punishment?”
He delivered another stinging slap, and she moaned low, under her breath. “Silence,” he commanded. “Or I will give you no pleasure at all.”
Surely he would not be that cruel. But she buttoned her lip, because some part of her knew that he could indeed be that cruel. In fact, she rather suspected that he wanted to be that cruel. For her to writhe in his arms, then to deny her the thing she anticipated most of all.
She could feel her heartbeat in every extremity.
“Yes, I think it would take very little.” He drew that single finger in and out of her, and she lost track of time. All that mattered to her was the feel of that finger, the slick heat of her desire, and the tightening pleasure in her lower stomach. The knowledge that there was more to come—and heavens above, she wanted it. She needed it.
“Sebastian,” she gasped.
He made a sound low in the back of his throat, as though hearing his name from her tongue was almost as unbearable for him as the feel of his fingers was for her.
As though he wanted her just as much as she wanted him.
An impossibility, she knew. He was a handsome man in his prime—a Duke, no less—and he no doubt had his fair share of experience. As for her, she had nothing but what he chose to give her, and she was discovering so much about herself.
“Eleanor,” he grated, pronouncing her name as though it was a curse even as he lingered on the vowels, caressing them with his tongue. Another flash of heat ran through her, and she rolled her hips against his hand. “What do you want?”
“I—” How could she know what she wanted? How could she articulate it? His other finger resumed its pressure on her folds, precisely where she needed him the most. “Please.”
“Tell me.”
“ Please .”
“What would you like?”
She felt so close now, as though she might fracture and fall apart in his arms, as though she was reaching the very edge of a cliff and would tip off and fall, fall, fall. She had lost herself; the only thing left in the world was the press of his clever fingers, and her burning, aching need for him. For this , and so much more than this .
“You are so responsive,” he whispered under his breath. “I had not meant to—” He cursed, the word ugly between them yet somehow igniting her still further. “I should stop,” he muttered, and the words sounded as though they were meant for him rather than her.
Yet he did not stop. He did not slow his caresses, and instead brought his mouth to her neck, kissing, then licking, then biting, the sting of pain quickly turning to heat.
She moaned, forgetting for a moment to be silent in the throes of pleasure. She felt like a string pulled taut, ready to snap. The heat gathered between her legs, building and building, until she wondered if it were possible to die from pleasure.
“You feel divine.” He removed his fingers, bringing them to her lips. “Lick them clean, my girl. That is what you feel for me. That is evidence of your desire.”
Blindly, the feeling of being close fading and frustrating her, she opened her mouth, and he inserted his fingers, wet with her arousal. The flavor was musky and almost sweet, unusual but not unpleasant, and he let out a low groan.
“Yes…” he grated. “That’s right. Suckle. Suck me. Show me what you can do with your tongue.”
Confused, she did as she was bid, wishing she could remove her arms so she could touch him in return. Or perhaps even herself, but she knew with that woman’s instinct—one she hardly knew she possessed, yet was certain of, anyway—that he would want no one else’s hands on her, not even her own.
That was the nature of man’s possessiveness, or at least this man’s possessiveness.
As she licked, drawing her tongue along the salty skin of his index finger, drawing it still deeper into her mouth, his other hand fumbled at his breeches, opening his falls. She could not see fully what he removed, but she knew enough about men to know that it was his manhood, fingers wrapped around it. He released a harsh breath as his hand began to move.
“If this were not a punishment, I would taste you until you screamed from the pleasure of it,” he said, his voice harsh. “If I had my way, you would be trembling and exhausted by the time I was done with you. If I could, I would be entirely too greedy with you.”
Eleanor squirmed in her place, pressing her thighs together to release the ache. “Then why don’t you?”
As though he could not help himself, he reached out to touch her again. “Your punishment is denial,” he told her. “You are mine to have as and when I choose, but today… you will go home wanting.”
It didn’t feel as though he wanted her to go home wanting. All of a sudden, the heat and pleasure came rushing back, all the more potent for the break.
“Why?” she gasped.
“Because you need to be reminded that you are my wife. Mine . And as such, I may do as I please.”
“If you were doing as you pleased, you would not be leaving me wanting.”
He let out a small groan, but he slid a finger inside her even so. “I will not allow impertinence. I will not allow you to seem as though you prefer the company of other men. These are my rules and you will obey them.” His hand at his manhood moved faster, and she understood then that he was doing to himself what he was doing to her. The thought made her prickle all over, pleasure building, and she let out another moan.
If he just kept going, she might discover what happened when the pleasure could build no further.
He wrenched his hand from her. “ Damn you ,” he said, almost viciously.
“Sebastian,” she begged, bringing her legs together, thighs rubbing slick against one another as she desperately sought to chase the pleasure he had so almost given her.
He bent over himself, letting out a sound that almost might have been pain. He shuddered, and although she did not see what happened, his breath was loud and ragged, battling against the rattling carriage. Horses’ hooves thudded against the ground, and Eleanor’s heart thudded against her chest.
What had just happened? His pleasure had sounded beyond anything she could have imagined, and the thought made the tender flesh between her legs ache still further, desperate for the release of her own.
Release he had made it clear she would not receive. Not because he did not want her pleasure, but because he had told himself he would not allow himself to give it.
Denial for them both, in a way. The control, the expectation that she would follow his commands—and the exacting way they had been given—made something in her burn again. Oh yes, she liked it when he took control of her and demanded that she obey.
He sat up, tucking himself away again, and his hand coasted up her leg. For a moment, she thought he might finish what he had started with her, but his fingers tensed on her thigh and he drew back once more.
“ That ,” he exhaled, “was long overdue. You may release the strap now, Eleanor.”
She let go, rotating her wrists to encourage the blood flow. He tucked her skirts back down around her legs, and she sat as she had been doing when she entered the carriage, facing forward. She longed to feel his hands on her again.
“Will you come to my bedchamber tonight?” she whispered.
He swallowed audibly, then cleared his throat. “ No .” The word was harsh, but if he intended to offend her, or perhaps even scare her, it had not worked. She peered at him, wishing she could see more in the darkness—wishing, in fact, she had seen more of everything he had experienced. The moment had passed, its intimacy gone, and yet she felt as though she had somehow missed out on the best bit of all. She had heard his pleasure, yes, but she had not seen it. She had not known .
“Do not act out again,” he warned, not looking at her.
But if she did not do that, she would not get to experience this pleasure at his hands again. And although it was not precisely satisfying, she felt as though a new door had been opened in her soul. And other, distinctly lower, places.
“Yes, sir,” she whispered, and had the delight of hearing a growl of frustration at the blatant lie in her voice. “I would never dream of it.”