7. St. Erth
Catherine scuttled away from me in the carriage, her little rosebud mouth trembling. She pulled her legs as far away from me as she could, twisting them to the side so she wouldn’t accidentally brush mine.
As if that could keep her safe.
The London air felt hot and stifling and I was glad to be leaving the city.
“We’ll be at Rosewood Manor tomorrow,” I said.
“Yes, my lord,” she replied in a low voice.
There was silence as we bumped through London’s shitty roads and out to the open country.
I stared out the window at the countryside, and did not speak to her. I felt a dark, vicious pleasure in my new possession. My mind kept going back to the moment when I had reached into her bodice to take out the snake, the little strangled gasp I had heard as my fingers brushed by her tight little nipple.
“Is—is revenge the only reason you married me?” Catherine asked suddenly.
“Yes,” I said coldly, expecting to see surprise on her face.
But she only tightened her lips further and deliberately turned her face away from me.
Catherine must have somehow guessed. My stomach clenched watching her look away from me. Her wedding gown was pure white with a high neck and chiffon ruffles, but it was made of thin fabric and when the summer breeze blew into the carriage it pressed the dress around my wife’s curves, the soft roundness of her pert breasts and supple roundness of her thighs. Although she was small, she was perfectly curved, and I could feel my cock twitching in my breeches as she put a hand up to brush an errant lock of hair off the ribbon of her bonnet.
“I married you for one thing only,” I said brutally. “To produce an heir to ruin the Wendovers. Your only function to me is as a warm cunt to fuck and womb to fill.”
She looked shocked at my words. Probably had never heard them before, and certainly not from a gentleman.
But I’m no gentleman.
I’m the man who is going to ruin her.
I expected her to cry, maybe beg for mercy, but she only set her chin and fixed her eyes resolutely out the window. I didn’t look away. It made no part of my plans for the Viscountess to be comfortable.
The county of Somerset was damp and windy, but I didn’t even notice the beauty of the sweet green rolling hills and farms outside the coach window.
The country did nothing for me. Give me the open sea any day. But this was my revenge and I would stay at Rosewood Manor for life to make sure it was completed.
But I could not stop myself from craving Catherine and it infuriated me.
I did not want to wait until my wedding night.
“What have you been told about your marital obligations?” I asked harshly.
“Just—just that I should do what my husband asks,” she said quietly, looking down at her lap. I could see her hands trembling.
Good.
I want her weak and helpless under me, afraid and alone.
“Raise your skirt,” I said, leaning back against my seat, my cock already hardening in anticipation.
My wife looked at me like she couldn’t believe what she had heard.
“N-no.”
“Weren’t you told to do what your husband says?” I asked, speaking harshly because I could feel my senses begin to heat, my desire for her unfurl.
“It’s most improper!” she protested.
I reached over to her, snatching the white bonnet from her head, making a few curls tumble out of her pins.
Then I threw it out the window.
She gasped, two white-glove clad hands pressed on her face.
“Oh, that was so beautiful! You are a heartless monster!” she cried.
I ignored this. “Raise your skirt,” I said again, the need for her twisting like a painful knife in my gut.
She clutched her skirts closer, like I was going to come rip them off her.
But oh no, she was going to do this herself.
I leaned forward, enjoying the beat of her heart, the flush on her cheeks.
“Do what I say, Viscountess,” I said, glorying in how the word felt on my tongue.
Then I ripped at one of the ribbons on her wedding gown, opening the top swell of her breasts to me. Her skin was so clear, so perfect.
When I threw the ribbon out of the window, listening to the sound of the carriage’s big wheels roll over it, she grabbed her skirts and underthings with trembling arms and lifted them all up.
And there, under all the layers, was my wife’s pretty little pink cunt, and her hips twisted shyly, trying to hide herself from me.
Godsdamn, my cock throbbed in my pants, my need for her making it twitch with anticipation.
“Leave it up, Catherine,” I warned her, forcing myself to move slowly.
I had all the time in the world to breed my unwilling wife on her wedding night.
Just as I put my hand on my aching cock, I heard my driver Liversedge’s voice.
“Rabbit Crown, my Lord!”
We were at the inn.
I forced down my lust as we pulled into the Rabbit Crown, a prosperous and tidy gray stone inn. Because it was on a route to the popular seaside town of Bath, it was well-maintained and comfortable.
There was really no reason I had denied myself the pleasure of any warm cunt ever since putting my plan to marry Catherine into motion. I simply had not visited any lightskirts or opera singers. But perhaps that had been a foolhardy idea, since I felt unusually out of control and uncomfortably fucking in desperate need of sticking my cock in her.