Chapter 18 #2
“Both yearn for what they cannot have and forget, constantly, what they do have. Foolishly, they take their frustrations out on those they trust will hurt them least—and who deserve their wrath least too. None of which makes sense, but which is why, Elizabeth, I counsel patience in your marriage. Embrace the tenderness your husband grants and guard your soul against his need to control. But do not, my dear, give up on him entirely. Not until you’ve uncovered what drives the hurt he nurses.
” The Duchess gripped her belly as if she’d felt a kick.
“You must unearth the man behind the baron.”
Elizabeth pondered her Grace’s words. Why was the Duchess’s husband, a bona fide duke, friends with her husband, by-blow of some other duke?
And which blasted duke? Or were the two half-brothers?
More importantly, why did she feel like she was being punished for grievances Milton held which had nothing to do with her own family?
An image of her husband’s scar-pocked flesh flashed through her head. Harm lay at the heart of Milton’s hurt. It must, else he’d not shy so from her touch.
“Elizabeth.” The Duchess interrupted her thoughts. “My cousin’s coming out ball is this weekend, and it is time Baron of Milton and his new bride were seen in society. I’ll ensure formal invitations get sent so both you and your sister may attend. It will be awkward, no doubt, but it’s best you—”
“Where is she?” A voice boomed from the hall. “I know damn well she’s here. Wellesley!” the voice shouted. “If you are harboring my wife, by God I’ll—”
A second, lowered voice was heard to soothe the first.
The Duchess sighed. “Did you not tell your husband you planned to call on me today?”
Elizabeth shook her head.
“Well then, best get this over with.”
Elizabeth knew she had but a minute to thank her new friend. “Your Grace, I—”
“Charles, Lizzie, please,” the Duchess insisted. “You can ‘Your Grace’ me all you like at my cousin’s ball, but in private I—”
“I am grateful for your counsel, Charles.” She squeezed the Duchess’s hand in her own. “I shall take your advice to heart.”
And in Milton strode, the Duke of Allendale close at his heels. “Elizabeth, we are leaving. Now.” Her husband’s ice-blue eyes were storm clouds in the making.
“Of course.” She curtsied, murmuring, “Your Grace” to both the Duchess and Duke, before she followed her husband out and into his phaeton.
Milton sat stiff as a board beside Elizabeth, his thigh burning taut against her leg. She was both afraid and aroused—a state by now familiar. He’d hitched his mount to the back of the phaeton and kept the vehicle’s gelding at a very brisk trot.
She steeled herself for punishment.
“You have disappointed me greatly, wife.”
She worried her lip. “I did not think I’d broken any edicts by accepting the Duchess’s invitation, sir. After all,” she wagered, “to refuse would offend the Duchy, which I would never dream of doing, given your friendship with the Duke.”
He looked like he wished to wring her neck. “You step on thin ice, Elizabeth. Most thin.”
“Are you angry that I drove your phaeton?” As usual, her own temper rose in response to his. “I thought you wished it paraded about town.”
A growl emanated from deep within his throat, yet Elizabeth could not seem to stop. He was being utterly unreasonable; her visit was entirely within normal social bounds.
“Or are you angry I left your bed this morning to breakfast alone in my room? I did so out of respect for your mood, sir, presuming you did not wish to—”
Milton shoved his tongue down her throat so fast she fell breathlessly silent. When he was done ravishing her mouth—not once breaking the horse’s trot—he savagely hissed in her ear, “Shut. Up.”
Elizabeth kept her mouth closed for the remainder of their drive back. Yet the moment they alighted from the phaeton, he marched her straight into his office, a room she’d yet to see. He locked the door behind them, and she feared at once he’d be a brute.
Sure enough, he pushed her to her knees and unbuttoned his fall. “You will service me with your mouth, so that your lips rouse only my desire, rather than my continued ire.”
Milton shoved his fully aroused cock down her throat.
It happened so fast, Elizabeth choked on her husband’s thick member, her soul separating from her body, her mind scrambling to comprehend this attack.
He was forcing her to acquiesce, and she tried valiantly to withstand him, please him even in order to bring an end to her torment, but his thrusts were relentless.
Until she peered up into his face and saw therein a look of utter desperation.
So. He was not immune to her, after all.
The Duchess’s words returned, making Elizabeth realize she might wrest back control, make him spill when she determined, not when he felt ready.
The memory of Evie controlling that man’s pleasure at LeBrecht’s gave Elizabeth the nudge needed to use lips and tongue to full advantage.
And she did. She was soon relishing the tortured look on her husband’s face as she worked him more lasciviously, enjoying her labor now as she moaned against his swollen, dripping rod, gripping his buttocks with both hands to take him ever deeper.
She could sense him battling for control, struggling against her efforts—until he pushed her off and stumbled back, gasping for air.
“Fuck!” He yanked her to her feet and spun her up against his desk to lift her skirts and tear her offending drawers in two. Elizabeth welcomed his swift, harsh entry. She did not fear this. She felt empowered. Triumphant, even.
“You’ll pay for that, harlot.” He pumped hard and fast. “For I’ll not spend down your throat till you’re round with my child. My seed will not be wasted, Lizzie, not when it is your duty to give me heirs.”
He shuddered inside her, without care for her pleasure this time, then gripped the nape of her neck to bend her over so that her forehead touched the wood of his desk. “You will remain in this position, arse up, to let my seed take root.” He pulled out slowly, as if careful not to spill.
She heard drink poured at the sideboard while her body quaked over his desk. The bastard had left her in this degrading position because he could. She knew what he’d do next.
He softly stroked her buttocks while he sipped his blasted drink. “You will count aloud each strike I wield, as reminder of why I punish you today.”
Only his words did not reduce her, they spurred her to revolt, fueled her competitive streak. She’d count until he gave up. Gave in.
“You will be given five strokes for wearing drawers again. Another five for attempting to control my pleasure, and ten for visiting the Duchess without my permission only to goad me on our drive back. All of which are rules, Elizabeth, you know full well you must obey.”
“To hell with your rules,” she muttered into his desk.
“What was that, love?” He put his drink down right beside her.
She wished to strike it to the floor, smash the glass to bits.
“Beat me all you like.” She spoke through gritted teeth. “But to use the word love in jest is an insult I’ll not take.” A bonfire rose in Elizabeth’s chest. “Love does not dominate, it cultivates, Jasper Audrey. Or have you never read Goethe?”
***
“Love, Lizzie,” Milton hissed into her ear, “inflames.”
His palm cracked her backside so hard she jerked, shouting “One!” in brash defiance.
“Two!” came out in willful disrespect, subsequent strikes met with only more perverse, adverse counts spilling from his wife’s lips. She’d insulted his intelligence, his birth, and his position as her husband—and now the wench had the gall to reach ten with nary a tear.
By fifteen, Milton’s breaths were ragged, his anger spinning out of reach. “Do you wish to continue, Elizabeth?” He squeezed her nape. “I did not plan to go this far with you,” he threatened, “but if you continue to resist my orders, I will. Cease this mad defiance, woman, cede to me this instant.”
“Do your worst,” she spat as Milton stepped back, stunned.
Why would she not—break?
Without thinking, he strode to his desk, reached for his ruler, and then raised his arm, heart pounding, to silence her for good.
Only she lost it on the third strike, puddling into tear-filled pleading, the slim wooden tool too harsh for her highborn flesh.
He let it drop to the floor in disgust at himself.
Screams, smells.
Crushing weight pressed his chest, smothered all air, as a voice laughed low in his head: There ’tis, Jasp. I taught yer well, didn’t I, lad?
He couldn’t breathe, could barely see.
Milton fled the room. Reeling.