Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
My dear Elizabeth, prepare yourself for my arrival at one o’clock today.
I should like to spend an additional hour reacquainting myself more deeply with your person on this, the fifth day of our betrothal.
I have also scheduled you another appointment with Miss Li at two o’clock, to complete your final fitting and deliver you a needed refresher in manners. —Milton
She’d murder him, she would. She would murder him before she married him.
Elizabeth hoisted his outrageous bouquet of purple iris outside and crushed his clear ‘I send a message’ beneath her heel, rubbing his blooms—his person—out. Let him find her manners thus smeared across the front step when he arrived at bloody one o’clock.
She marched back to her bedroom, eschewing all breakfast, until a soft knock fell to her door. Annabelle.
“Lizzie, was he really all that awful?” Bella slipped in only to curl herself at the foot of Elizabeth’s bed. “I tried my best to keep him at bay, but he—”
Elizabeth stifled a sigh. “Of course you did, dear, but the man is not easily thwarted.” She made a face. “I do not blame you, Bella. His every word and action is unconscionable.”
“Well he cannot be all bad if he hates Sir Wigglebottom as much as you.”
Elizabeth was in no mood for humor. “I briefly thought him amiable but was rudely enlightened.” Her sigh escaped as a huff.
“I must suffer this marriage until either he or I should die, and I simply pray he dies first. Then I might at least enjoy his fortune as his widow, living off the fat of his—”
“Lizzie, that is most unlike you. Why, I have only ever heard you speak of Lady Stanton in such coarse terms.”
“Forgive me, Bella.” Though inside, Elizabeth felt no remorse. “He brings out the worst in me, even as he presents his worst to me, served daily in his horrid notes and even more horrid bouquets.”
Annabelle’s eyes narrowed as she brushed a lock of hair from Elizabeth’s neck. “Lizzie, did Stanton’s nasty creature attack you yesterday?”
“The lady’s pug does not bite, Bella, it merely slobbers.”
But already Annabelle had pulled Elizabeth’s braid aside, inspecting her neck to declare these were indeed bites, or welts of some sort, as if her skin had been—
Elizabeth flushed with shame, quickly pulling away. She was mortified by what she’d endured at the Baron’s hands, or rather, his lips, yesterday. The devil himself had marked her.
“Lizzie, he gave me his word he would not hurt you when I allowed him entry to your chamber!”
Elizabeth barked a laugh. “His is no gentleman’s word, Bella, which is why you must give me your word that you will steer clear of him until I wed.”
“But surely he’d not—”
“I am sure of nothing when it comes to Baron of Milton.” She reached for Annabelle’s hand and crushed it in her own. “Promise me you will not anger or displease him, for he can be most cruel, Bella. Most.”
“Oh, Lizzie!” Annabelle flung her arms about Elizabeth. “Then I shall murder him, I shall. Like the heroine in your last play, I will dispatch him with my sword when I cleave his chest in two.” Her arms rose to stab the bedclothes most dramatically.
Elizabeth’s voice choked. Her sister was prone to histrionics, but to come to her defense in such a childish manner … Sweet Bella stood no chance against the Baron.
“I fear not even your fine acting can save me from my fate, sister. No one can.”
At ten to one Milton stepped over the crushed remains of yet another of his costly bouquets and rapped the knocker on his betrothed’s townhouse thrice.
The same disreputable footman from yesterday let him in without a word.
He merely pointed Milton in the direction of the stairs, which he took two to a step, wrenching open the door to Elizabeth’s bedroom to find her at her toilette, arranging her hair.
“Miss Winthrop,” he announced.
She ignored his entrance and simply pulled a curl close about her neck, then with a snort of displeasure, knotted a silk scarf there instead.
“The curls suit you better. Remove the scarf.”
“Go to hell.” She finally acknowledged his presence.
Milton cooled his temper and his raging cockstand. He hadn’t expected to be so affected by the smooth slope of her neck. He swallowed his lust, muttering, “Let us try this again. Remove the scarf, Elizabeth, as I should like the world to know you are mine.”
She launched from her chair to attack him with her fists, pummeling his chest with a vehemence that, surprisingly, hurt.
Milton captured her wrists, holding her taut against his racing heart. “You have forgotten your very first lesson, Lizzie.” He let his tongue trace the shell of one elfin earlobe. “Which is that I do not like to be crossed.”
“I said, go to hell,” she repeated, beginning to struggle in his grip.
“Hmm,” he mused. “It would seem you have forgotten all your previous lessons. Pity.” He took a step back but kept firm hold of her wrists. “Your second lesson learned, Lizzie, remind me, which rule is that?”
“You never stated rules, sir.” She was breathing so fast he could not help but again notice her bosom.
He should not have.
“I did not think they needed spelling out. I thought you astute enough to glean them for yourself.”
Her glare became a glower.
“Must I demonstrate them anew?”
“Rule two: do not be late. Sir,” she spat.
“You do recall them, good. And lessons three and four, Elizabeth, if you would?”
“Do not goad, or touch you, Baron.”
“Your memory serves you well. It seems only your execution of said lessons needs adjusting.” He pushed her up against a bedpost, blocking her with his body, then released the scarf from about her neck before he loosened his own cravat.
***
Elizabeth felt blindsided. Not only had this blackguard just tied her to her bedpost, he’d shoved his necktie in her mouth, rendering her mute. That any man should truss and muzzle her like an animal was barbaric!
“Better, I think.” He stepped back to survey her. “There comes a time when a man and his wife—or rather, soon-to-be man and wife—must settle matters between them. I believe our time has come, Elizabeth.”
In vain she struggled against her restraints, rattling the bedpost just like the lady in her story. Could this be happening?
“It is day five of our acquaintance, yet you continue to try my patience. Deliberately.”
She chewed his necktie like a horse champing at its bit.
“I admire your spirit, Lizzie, truly I do. It is what appealed to me the day we met, for you shall need that fighting nature when you face society’s judgment as my wife. But between us—before me, your husband—it is not defiance I desire. It is acquiescence and compliance.”
She thrashed against her bonds as Milton strolled to her door to turn the key, making her heart race even more. Did Papa know this man was in their house, alone with her in her bedroom? Who had let him enter unannounced?
Milton approached her from behind and began to slowly unhook her dress, causing Elizabeth’s heart, if possible, to beat faster.
“You do not realize, Lizzie, that in compliance you gain far more than in defiance. You gain my ardor, my respect, and, of course, my trust.” He undid the last clasp, pushing her dress off her shoulders.
“You gain my skill, too, as a lover.” He nipped the back of her neck with his teeth.
“For a whore knows how to grant pleasure, Miss Winthrop, and I do not think you are immune to bodily lust. Are you?” His lips rounded her shoulder, his tongue tracing a path to the swell of her chest.
Elizabeth let out a strangled moan.
“I didn’t think so.” He stepped before her but allowed his hands, at her back, to now loosen her stays, pulling the cords even as his tongue dipped between her breasts.
A shiver wracked her flesh.
“Give me your submission and I will give your body what it wants, Lizzie. Let your mind go.”
Her breasts tingled painfully in response.
“Are you wet for me yet, Miss Winthrop?” He nuzzled her neck. “Do you ache for my touch, sweet Elizabeth?” His hand squeezed one breast. “Surely you’d not deny your betrothed the right to explore.” He yanked down her bodice in one fluid motion, releasing both her breasts at once.
“Buds as rose colored as your lips.” For a long moment he simply admired her aching, pointed nipples. “Shall I suckle them, Elizabeth? Shall I taste your tips and make you spend?”
The man’s voice, his words alone, drove impulses and sensations inside her which Elizabeth did not know existed.
His hands began to knead her breasts until desire pooled between her legs, and then, then he traced his tongue across the expanse of one orb to inhale the tip, pulling her bud deep into his mouth until his groan of pleasure shot straight to her groin, making her gush.
“You see, Lizzie dear, if you learn your lessons well, satisfaction awaits. A wife, after all, should enjoy her husband’s attentions, much as he enjoys hers. I promise you great pleasure, if you learn to obey. You must submit to your husband.”
He abruptly stepped away to pull up a chair before her, seat himself in it, and then cross one leg over his thigh.
She remained bound to the bedpost in anguish, her breasts exposed to both him and the room’s chill air.
He removed his timepiece and glanced at it, before he popped it back into his pocket and leisurely dragged his gaze across her, head to toe.
***
Bound and gagged, breasts puckered into two glistening points thanks to his tongue’s labors, Miss Winthrop was more exquisite than Milton had dreamed. He could smell her arousal, knew she must be drenched for him. God, did he want to fuck this woman.
He stared at his bride’s flushed face. “It is a quarter to two, my dear, and I do not wish to be late for your final fitting. Would you prefer to remain as you are, desperate for my touch, or will you nod your head and be my obedient wife?”
Her eyes blazed at him for answer.
“Nod once for yes, Lizzie.”
She did not blink.
“Did you not hear me? I said—”
He watched her slowly shake her head, then shut her eyes in defiance.
Milton stood from the chair, sighed, and stepped an inch from her face. “Why must you make this harder than it is?” He cupped her cheek with his hand just as her knee came up hard into his groin, knocking the wind from his lungs as he doubled over in pain, roundly cursing, “Fuck!”
When he looked up, her eyes smiled at him above her gag.
Half an hour later, Milton stared longingly at his betrothed, seated across from him in stunning, stony silence. She flinched at each rut the carriage wheels hit.
He’d never been so aroused in all his life to have this minx knee him in the groin like a proper friggin’ doxy.
She’d been magnificent, his bride, even if he’d had to bend her over his knee for another stark spanking.
He’d let no one, most especially not his future wife, beat him at his own game.
Yet even while being thrashed she’d not cried once—not once!
—and he’d not been gentle either. Afterward, he’d hauled her to his carriage, never mind her disheveled state.
He gazed at Miss Winthrop with not a little awe, while she returned his look with contempt.
“As for today’s lesson, Lizzie, tell me, my dear, what did you glean from your time affixed to your bedpost?” He flexed his palm, still tingling from having tanned her backside.
“Not to knee you in the bollocks, sir.” Her eyes flashed.
“A quick learner.” He suppressed the urge to laugh. “I can scarce believe my good fortune in purchasing you for a wife.”
“Nor mine for seeing you rendered incapacitated, sir.”
Milton’s laughter tumbled out, for she was stunning, this woman. She’d give the Ton a run for their money.
He could not wait to make her his wife.
***
She could not wait to skewer him with a poker. No, a dagger. Better yet, her heroine might kill him with a pitchfork. Three-pronged. Yes.
Elizabeth sat across from her wretched betrothed on her wretched, aching bum and wrote her story in her head, imagining all sorts of ways the brooding baron might be punished for his crimes.
Of course his punishment must come at the novel’s end, for killing off the villain any sooner was never good form.
She could reform him, or make the heroine—the lady still needed a name—redeem his mortal soul by turning him from his evil ways, but she’d never liked those kinds of stories.
Why must the lady reform the rake? Why must women be forever responsible for maintaining order and keeping the peace?
Elizabeth was tired enough of managing her father, of putting Papa’s moneylenders off.
Milton was not the first man she’d kneed between the legs, but he was the first to make her weak-kneed with desires of her own.
Though she would, she must, ignore that disturbing thought.
The lady thrashed beneath the baron’s weight, fearing for her innocence, if not her life. He wished to ravish her, and she, God help her, wished him to. Never before had she felt such a burning need for
No no no. That was not where this story should go!
Elizabeth shut her eyes and breathed. She ignored Milton’s fierce glare boring into her across the rocking carriage.
There was a pitchfork. The villain would bleed.
How to place her heroine within arm’s reach of the instrument?
A hayloft. The lady would hide inside a barn and the brooding baron would find her, attempt to have his way with her and…
his hand slid up her legs, bunching her skirt so that the hay tickled her tender skin. Her thighs opened to him, yet before his hand could
The carriage lurched to a stop, nearly throwing Elizabeth into the Baron’s lap. He righted her as their eyes briefly met, flames erupting in her gut, before the driver wrenched open the door and Milton handed her down.