Chapter 4 #2
“Exactly as I told you I would, my lady. I am going to chastise you quite soundly.”
I shake my head, denying what he says even while he holds me firmly in place, not allowing me freedom to do more than that.
“Turn around.” His tone is not severe, yet, I suffer an inner trembling I cannot name.
“I shall not.”
“Lady Freya, do you think your father who gave me leave to dispense this punishment will not see I am assisted if need be?”
I stare into his dark eyes, uncertain for the first time in my life. I can count on one hand the number of times my father has gone against what I wished. Of course, I had the good sense to never make a spectacle of myself, something I cannot claim in this instance.
Still, as I recall the disappointment in his expression… the way he walked out, leaving me with only his valet for a chaperone…
“No, Your Grace,” I murmur, hanging my head in defeat. My entire body seems to give—my shoulders slump, my knees threaten to buckle.
“I want you to remove your petticoat, my lady.”
I gasp, and feel the sting of heat as it surges to my face. “What—”
“For your smacking,” he replies calmly, his gaze unwavering, his expression unchanging despite my discomfort.
I swallow with difficulty my throat tight and hot as I struggle to ward off tears.
I have never felt such shame as I do now, knowing myself to be this man’s prisoner.
Yet, I shan’t let him know he has bested me—I will not allow him to.
Clenching my jaw, I summon the courage to do what I must. I never let my eyes leave his as I reach behind me, fingers searching for the cord of my gown’s ties.
I have never done this without the benefit of my servant, and it takes me far longer than it should. Yet, His Grace says not a word, merely sits perfectly straight, his eyes alert to my every movement.
Eventually, the last tie loosens, and my gown relaxes, and I have more room to breathe. Which, given the heat in the room and the mad pounding of my heart, is most welcome.
His lips quirk, and I grow still, searching his face.
“Pray, continue, my lady,” he murmurs.
The soft velvet of his voice should chafe… and so it does, but somehow it irritates, then soothes a second later. The feelings he evokes in me are quite strange.
Do not give him the satisfaction of seeing you delay, Freya.
Forcing myself to ignore the contradictory sensations his words evoke, I reach under my gown, searching until I find the ties inside and loosen those, too.
This time, my fingers move faster, and I am so pleased with myself I nearly forget why I am doing it.
The muslin falls down my legs, and I step out of it, leaving a puddle of fabric on the floor.
My father’s valet moves toward us, but the duke holds up a hand.
“Her Ladyship can do it.”
The flare of frustration returns to my chest, hot and stronger than ever. This man is no gentleman! Scowling, I bend to pick up the garment, go to the chair, and discard the petticoat atop it.
“Neatly, please.”
I wish I had thrown the vase much harder.
Nonetheless, I pick up the garment once more, fingers shaking with irritation, and fold the petticoat as neatly as I am capable.
I set it gently on the chair, though the vexation I feel would like nothing more than to ease itself by throwing that at His Grace, too.
It is no use. It is clear I am going to be chastised by the worst man in the Beau Monde, and what is more, I have learned I do not have much of a throwing arm.
I draw a deep breath, then another, and feeling the heat of the duke’s gaze on my back, I turn to face him.
With slow steps, I march to stand before him.
“Well done, my lady,” he murmurs, for my ears alone.
A new emotion steals through me, leaving a tingling, fluttering sensation in every inch of me. It is the child. I am about to be ill again. It does not feel the same as the night of the ball, but it is odd enough to have to be related to the baby I carry.
The Duke does not speak, and his gaze wanders to my face, as though he memorizes my likeness for a portrait painting.
Unable to bear his scrutiny, I lower my eyes to his full lips that part so often to mock me. Then his strong jaw. It is clean-shaven, and with my eyes I trace the line of it. The strange fluttering in my chest drops, and I can feel it pulsing warmly in the pit of my stomach.
I cannot be wed to this man. He makes me feel ill every moment I am around him.
“Now, you shall put yourself across my lap, my lady.”
I make eye contact once more, my lips parting, though words desert me.
“This time, I shall assist you. However, in the future I will expect you to do it upon my instruction.”
The pulse in my stomach surges right back up to my throat, beating furiously. “I fear I shall be sick,” I say, tears stinging my eyes. I cannot believe I have given him this to use against me.
“I am sure that is the case, my lady. And I am sorry for it,” he says, so gently, all the mocking amusement gone from his eyes, that I am nearly coerced into believing him. He holds out a hand, and I blink it at it, looking from his outstretched gloved hand to his face.
There is nothing to be done. I could run, but even if I got away…where will I go? To Lord Pembroke? Ha! He will call my father at once.
My heart lurches then gives a strange, frenzied flutter as I put my hand in his, sealing my fate.
As he guides me to his knee, I shut my eyes to prevent tears from falling.
I have never been more humiliated. My face feels on fire one moment, then cold and drained the next.
I am acutely aware of the firm press of his knees into my stomach, despite layers of fabric between us.
I look at the floor, hoping to distract myself, but all I can think of is how silly I feel to be here—about to be chastised for acting like an unruly child.
Still, I cannot help but protest. “Please, Your Grace, forgive me. I truly am sorry, I—”
“There will be time for that, my lady.” His tone is brisk. “I shall be glad to hear you beg my pardon, once your bottom is properly reddened.”
His blunt words make me gasp. “My lor—Your Grace! Surely, you cannot be in earnest!”
He chuckles softly, and I ball my hands into fists. I press one to my mouth to keep from saying more things I should not. The other hangs helplessly, too far to reach the floor. “Given the current position you find yourself in, how can you doubt my sincerity, my lady?”
I do not trust myself to respond, especially when he shifts his hands. One presses against the small of my back—it does not hurt, but it weighs heavily, as though he wishes to hold me in place. The other lifts my skirts.
I press my fist tighter against my lips, but a traitorous moan vaults up my tight throat and makes itself known.
Stop it, Freya. Act your age. Act your station, for heaven’s sake!
My self-censuring voice sounds a fair bit like my lady mother.
But I cannot think of that, or anything else, when I feel the cool waft of air move across my exposed backside.
A shiver overtakes me the likes of which I have never known. Dread fills me as I ponder what must follow. I squeeze my bottom together, trying to shirk away, though I know not from what.
“Relax,” he says, and though the word is calm enough, it is clearly an instruction.
I do my best to obey, though I cannot stop the quivering that shakes my limbs. Am I to lie here forever, dangling helplessly while he stares at my bare flesh? His firm fingers press into my back with a silent insistence that I yield to his authority.
“Have you ever been smacked before, my lady?”
Insolent words surge to my lips, and it takes every ounce of self-control I possess to swallow them back.
“My lady? I desire an answer.”
“N-no, Your G-Grace.”
“Very well. I fear you shan’t like it, but do remember that is the point of such punishment.”
Before I can even comprehend his words, the air shifts above me, then his hand collides with my naked bottom. The shock of it causes me to gasp, even as I lurch forward on his lap. And then it happens again, leaving prickling pain where his fingers slapped my exposed skin.
I heave a sigh despite the discomfort. At least it is now over.
Why is he not restoring my skirts? Why is he not helping me up so that I might gather my petticoat?
When his hand lands again, exactly where he smacked it before, I utter a cry despite the fist pressing against my lips.
“Your Grace!” I plead. “You have made yourself quite clear, I assure you!”
“I am pleased to hear it, my lady.”
I go limp across his lap, relief filling me, but when he speaks again, unease quickly replaces it.
“I fear, however, that there is a much sterner lesson to impart.”
Duke Gregor
I did not expect my business to conclude with dispensing well-earned chastisement to my future wife, but I am far from unhappy to have her over my lap.
I suspected her heavy gowns would make it impossible for her to struggle against my discipline, but either she is uncommonly strong, or my hand is more motivating than I have believed.
Her previously creamy skin is blushing in the wake of the onslaught of slaps, and she is enduring them as well as a highborn lady would.
Which is to say every new smack brings forth a cry of distress.
I do not heed her cries, nor her pleas for mercy.
After all, I am certain that any lady in her position would do the same, only to go on behaving like a miscreant once the pain from her backside fades.
I intend to leave my lady with a sufficient reminder of what I expect, so that even on our wedding day she might remember I am not the man she wishes to cross.
A soft rose blush covers her entire bottom now, and I have found my rhythm. Her skin seems to bounce up to meet my hand for the next smack, as though even her backside knows she is deserving of the chastisement I mete out.
“Please,” she gasps in a breathy cry. “I beg you to show me mercy, my lord.”
I intend to—but not yet. My hand doles out the lesson she sorely needs, and though she kicks and squirms, I hold her firmly in place across my knee. The smacks I deliver to her quivering, hot flesh are painting her bottom a deeper shade, and her cries grow louder with each new assault.
She is crying softly now, and though she struggles to free herself from my hold, she will soon surrender. I can feel her efforts weakening as she endures punishing slaps from my large hand.
I am not a soft man, as Lady Freya is discovering far sooner than I expected.
While other men might capitulate to the whimpers and pleas of a chastised woman, I do not have to work to harden my resolve.
I want her to be my wife; indeed, that has been my singular desire since I first laid eyes on her.
But she will be mine in word and deed. And if that means a sore bottom? So be it.
My strong palm lands again and again—lower this time, ensuring she will think of me when she has cause to sit.
This new pain brings most unladylike howls from her lips, and she redoubles her efforts to escape. I tighten my hold—if she manages to evade my discipline, she will certainly derive no pleasure in what will follow.
I smack her repeatedly, until I can observe the outline of my hand upon her naked flesh. Then I rest my tingling palm against her back once more.
The lady does not seem to realize I have stopped her smacking. She cries with a loud, keening wail that, under other circumstances, I would find most heart-rending. But I have little sympathy for tears that have been earned.
“My lady,” I say, attempting to break through her soft sobs. “We must speak now.”
She sniffles loudly, utters another soft cry, then says, “Y-yes, my lord?”
I am both surprised and pleased to note her temperament is already much improved. Without a word, I put my hands on her waist and lift her to sit upon my knee.
She gasps, her lovely eyes widening—whether in discomfort, or by my show of familiarity, I can scarcely guess.
“I regret the need to rebuke you so soon, but you will recover, I assure you.”
The lady’s eyes grow wider still. “I… I do not understand, my lord.”
I conceal my pleasure, noting how before her chastisement the slip-ups have been a slight, and now I sense they are her unconscious yielding to my authority. Authority that I have even now, but that will soon be acknowledged by all the Beau Monde as her rightful husband.
“What do you not understand, my lady?” I return in kind. I can be gentle with her now that she shows herself ready to yield.
Her last remaining defense dissolves, and she rests against me, leaning into my body. My manhood is fully awake and straining toward her, but I have not forgotten my honor. Or the valet who stands with perfectly erect posture in the corner, pretending to not see or hear what goes on in the room.
Judging it wise to get her off my lap, I press a single soft kiss to her temple, then set her on her feet.
She faces me with surprise and confusion warring across her lovely features. “Have I… done something to displease you, my lord?”
The question buoys my spirits in a way few others could. Her first chastisement has gone better even than I imagined. I reach up and pull at a hair that has escaped the chignon at her nape. “On the contrary, my lady.”
I rise, and she immediately steps away. Judging by the emotions playing on her face, she wishes to say more.
Indeed, there is much to say, but I fear I shan’t be able to control myself in her presence much longer.
It is best to part ways now. I take her hand in mine and bow low, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of it.
“Though I leave you, my thoughts shan’t stray from you, my lady. ”
Indeed—even as I leave the sitting room, finding lord Denham waiting just outside, and bid a good day to him, and a wide-eyed, suddenly silent lady, my cock strains painfully at my breeches, ensuring I shall think of nothing else.