Chapter 22
It had been two days since Bridget decided to awaken Lewis to the sounds of brilliant orchestral music and the sight of dancing servants. She had been quiet since then; Lewis might even venture to say that she had been good. He did not trust such refined behavior to last.
“Your Grace.” His valet’s voice pulled Lewis from his thoughts, which had been primarily consumed with the ledger before him.
“Yes?” Lewis asked.
His valet John had always reminded Lewis vaguely of a country mouse scurrying about. The man looked as though he would bolt or crumble at the slightest provocation.
“I thought you might wish to know that Her Grace is cooking.”
Lewis frowned, his head snapping to John in disbelief. “Cooking,” he said flatly.
“Yes.”
“That is absurd.”
But his wife was often the picture of absurdity.
Lewis sighed deeply, wondering silently if he had made a terrible error in choosing Bridget to be his bride.
They had not consummated the marriage yet, and he supposed that he could still send her back to her family if he so desired.
An annulment would be disgraceful, though.
“Nevertheless, she is,” John said. “The cook is a little upset by the intrusion.”
Lewis snorted. “Undoubtedly.”
John still waited in the doorway, as though he expected some orders, but Lewis had not the faintest idea what the man ought to do.
His wife, a duchess, was cooking. Had Elias let Bridget cook in their kitchens?
Lewis had known that the Duke of Reeds had a weak will and was content to let his sisters do as they pleased, but the man would not allow his sisters to cook. That was impossible.
Lewis hoped it was impossible. With a heavy sigh, he stood and waved his valet away. “Thank you for telling me. I shall see what terror my wife has seen fit to inflict upon my staff.”
John bowed. “Yes, Your Grace.”
Then, the man made himself scarce.
Lewis ran his hand through his hair and glanced at his ledger, wondering if this was some manner of revenge. After Bridget’s little orchestral show, he had returned to his tasks as though nothing was amiss. Maybe this new scheme was purposefully crafted to make him abandon his work.
He grimaced, his footsteps heavy as he descended the stairs and set a brisk pace to the kitchens, a place he seldom entered.
At the threshold, a woman’s sparkling laughter rose in the air, and he recognized his wife’s delight at once.
She really was in the kitchens! Lewis braced himself for the horror that might await him and slowly descended the steps.
Bridget stood proudly before a strange concoction, which Lewis suspected was meant to be a cake.
It was golden brown in some places and dark in others, round, and covered in a faint layer of something that might be comprised of sugar.
The only readily identifiable part of the creation was the red strawberries.
Lewis’s horrified cook stood nearby, his hands twitching anxiously as though he longed to seize the cake-like object and dispose of it.
A few of the other servants lingered around the edges of the room, feigning as though they were disinterested in what was about to occur.
“Well,” Lewis said at last.
Bridget’s head snapped to him. Her blue eyes gleamed with satisfaction, confirming to Lewis that this was another scheme of hers. He clenched his jaw and wondered if she might have poisoned the cake. It certainly looked like it might kill a man.
“Husband,” she said. “I have made a cake for you.”
Calling it a cake was an insult to all confectionaries.
“I see that.”
“Shall we taste it?” Bridget asked, grinning. “I have never cooked anything before.”
That was quite apparent.
“What possessed you to try cooking now?” he asked. “You are a duchess, and duchesses do not cook.”
“I simply wanted to show you how much I appreciate you,” Bridget said, wide-eyed.
Lewis scoffed in disbelief, which only made Bridget smile more widely. She did not even try to hide that her aim was to irritate him! Lewis crossed his arms, his eyes lingering on the distasteful cake.
“I suppose you expect me to eat it,” he said.
“With dinner,” she said brightly.
“Why wait?” Glancing at the staff, Lewis cleared his throat. “Out! I should like a moment alone with my wife.”
There was a flutter of confused movement, like a gaggle of hens that had been ambushed by a fox, but the servants departed in relative haste. Lewis took a nearby chair and pushed it to the table, aware of Bridget’s eyes fixed firmly on him.
If she wanted to play, that was all well and good. He could play, too.
Lewis seated himself in the chair and gestured for her to come closer. She did, and once his wife was just a few inches away, Lewis seized her waist and pulled her down on him.
“Oh!” Bridget gasped, her hands finding his shoulders.
Lewis waited until she settled on his lap.
He stifled a groan as the papery thin material of her daydress brushed against his manhood.
As determined as Lewis was to win the game, there was no denying that Bridget made such a task nearly impossible.
His body burned for her touch, all his muscles going taut as he imagined driving himself into her womanhood.
He rubbed his thumbs over her hips and took hold of her skirts, hitching them up a little.
“Are you angry?” Bridget had no business sounding so delighted at the prospect of his fury.
He clenched his teeth together. Bridget shifted her hips, rubbing against him. The little jade was doing it on purpose, and regrettably, each little movement made his loins stir with heat.
“You are an unkind woman,” he said. “And a poor duchess. This is the second time that you have interfered with my servants, who are only trying to complete their duties.”
“My servants, too.”
“Mine,” he insisted. “I am the lord and master of this household, and I will cede nothing to you until you prove that you are worthy of having some power in this household.”
She groaned exaggeratedly and bucked her hips forward.
Lewis considered her for a moment, desire stirring hot inside himself.
It would be so easy for him to lift those fine skirts past her waist and drive himself into her.
He imagined Bridget crying breathlessly, her chest heaving with every thrust. His wife would come utterly undone if he gave into his impulses.
He dug his fingers into her skirts, drawing them to her waist. Bridget’s slender thighs quivered, as though his gaze was nearly enough to satisfy her. Lewis drew a finger down and through the gold-brown curls. Bridget’s hips jolted forward, and her nails dug into his shoulders.
“Oh, are you going to punish me?” she asked. “For interfering with your servants?”
He did not miss the note of anticipation in her voice. “I am,” he said. “Some discipline will do you good.”
Lewis slipped his finger between her warm folds and gently stroked between them, up and down. He kept his pace slow, even as Bridget’s breath quickened. His own body grew hot, but he forced his desires down, determined not to linger on them.
Bridget rocked against him, and his pace never wavered. She tipped her head back and he saw that her face was flushed and her eyes gleaming. Her lips slightly parted, letting out a low gasp. “Please,” she whispered.
“Please, what?” he asked. “Tell me what you want.”
Bridget’s face grew impossibly redder. “I want to be satisfied. I—I want you.”
He tilted his head a little and ceased his movements. Bridget let out a despairing cry, but he only smiled. “Perhaps I ought to give you some of that cake instead. Eating that will be punishment enough.”
Bridget’s mouth dropped open. She looked so offended that Lewis nearly laughed, but she shut her jaw with a sharp and sudden click. “I made it for you,” she said.
“Then, I should eat it.”
He dropped his hands from her hips, and she clasped him all the more tightly. “No! Please, give me—”
Lewis brought his hand up to the back of her neck, fingers curling into her hair. He pulled her head back and kissed her hard. Bridget groaned into his mouth, their teeth colliding. He nibbled on her bottom lip, conscious of Bridget’s wildly bucking hips against his waist.
His other hand slipped down and beneath her gathered skirts.
With ease, he found her folds again. Wetness coated his finger, as he pressed it inside her.
Bridget gasped and jolted, writhing against him.
Her whole body quivered, and she groaned against his mouth.
Each high-pitched sound struck his own body.
He inhaled deeply in an attempt to maintain control, but that was a mistake.
Lewis smelled only her—lavender and roses and freshly made bread and sugar—and his cock ached for her warmth and softness.
He could take her right there. He could.
She needed to learn her place.
She was driving him mad.
“Oh!” she gasped. “Oh, I am almost—”
Lewis pumped his finger in and out, wet and lewd sounds mingling together with Bridget’s shattered cries. Her inner walls clenched tightly around his finger, her body nearly at her release.
He withdrew his finger and squeezed her thigh. Bridget’s thighs still shook. “No!” she cried.
Bridget released his shoulders, hands going to her core, but he caught her wrists and held them fast.
“I was almost there!” she cried.
Unable to use her hands, Bridget rocked furiously against him. Lewis forced down the lump that rose in his throat. It was apparent from her frustrated cries that Bridget was incapable of finding release on her own, but every brush of her warm sex against his trousers threatened to undo him.
“Please!” she cried. “Oh, you wretched man!”
“Well, that is hardly going to persuade me,” he said, forcing his voice to be very calm. “You wretched woman.”
“Please, I was so close to it!”
“So you were,” he confirmed. “But you will not have pleasure until you have earned it. I know you were hoping to goad me into giving into your feminine wiles, but you have failed.”
Bridget sobbed deep in her throat. “I apologize,” she said desperately. “I do. I am so very sorry for what I have done.”
“No,” he said. “You are sorry that you are being asked to bear the consequences for what you have done.”
She shifted in his lap for a moment longer before growing still. Bridget’s breath still came in hot pants, and the color on her cheeks made it all too apparent that she had been nearly close, indeed.
“I will be your duchess if you will just give in to me,” she whispered.
“No,” he replied. “You will be my proper duchess, and after that, I might deign to give you the pleasure that you so desperately desire. Until that day, I fear you will simply have to remain unsatisfied, my love.”
With a disappointed look, Bridget clambered from his lap and hurried away. Lewis remained where he was for a moment longer, sighing deeply. He resisted the impulse to stroke himself through his trousers. Bridget might be suffering from her punishment, but he was, too.
Perhaps more so. Lewis knew that some men might be inclined to take a mistress, but he had never been like that. Bridget was his one and only wife, the only woman with whom he wished to be intimate. He would simply have to wait, though.
Wait and suffer. Lewis stood and left the kitchens, his blood roaring in his ears.
He had an appreciation for the joys of prolonged pleasure, but this situation was simply ridiculous.
Even if Lewis had bested Bridget twice in quick succession, he doubted that this would be the time when she realized just how well he could outplay her.
And that was rather disappointing.