22. Catherine
Afew days later the Viscount announced that we were going to attend Sunday services. I was quite nervous because this would be my first trip to Rosewood Village. I had asked about going before and St. Erth had always refused. But I was anxious to meet more of the neighborhood. Even though the Wendovers had over-farmed and exhausted the land, I wanted to prove that I were weren’t all bad. And maybe somehow I would find a way to escape.
St. Erth said the people were the worst thing about living in the country, and we’d get no peace unless we made sporadic appearances.
“Behave yourself,” he said sternly, as I looked in the mirror to tie the white bonnet around my hair.
My maid Rebekah might look like a tartar, but she was quite a genius with my hair.
“What do you supposed I’ll do in church?” I asked tartly.
He frowned at me, putting both arms on the wall beside me and boxing me in with his great height.
“Don’t play innocent with me, little witch. I don’t want you attempting to enliven the proceedings by trying to get any of the gentlemen to spirit you away from me.”
“Why would they do that?” I gaped at him, brushing the soft fabric of my white skirt with the coiled pink rose ribbons. My new dusky pink purse matched it perfectly.
He grabbed my chin, cocking his head to look at me.
“You have a way of looking like a soft little kitten that might make any of them foolish enough to try to rescue you from me.”
I laughed, thinking he must be taunting me, and St. Erth tightened his fingers on my chin. “So don’t encourage it, little kitten, unless you want to see them killed in front of you like I did with the highwaymen. Now come with me.”
We drove in his smart equipage down the roads and into the little village of Rosewood. It was a snug place, if smaller than I expected. I saw the pretty little homes dotted along the path, and the village itself looked well-kept, with a large inn. The vicarage was neat, too, with a pretty garden and neatly stacked gray stone.
The church was beautiful, with a fine stained glass in the front. I was pleasantly surprised. Perhaps there would be people of culture out here after all!
However, I felt immensely shy as everyone turned to look at us as St. Erth pulled the equipage up and then hopped down to assist me.
They will wonder why a man who looks like him has picked a little inconsequential miss like me, I thought, trying to swallow the lump of anxiety in my throat.
How humiliating that the answer is that he wanted to be revenged against my father!
I thought I saw envious looks in the eyes of several ladies. And who wouldn’t be? St. Erth was the very picture of what a gentleman should look like. Thick golden hair that didn’t need a wig or powder, those blue eyes, the perfect cheekbones and strong jawline. Taller than everyone else, broader shoulders, and able to wear the tight-fitting pantaloons without a corset or padding because he had a fine large cock and thick thighs.
You can have him!I thought, but then I felt his hand on the back of my neck as he directed me to greet the Quality who were there for the service.
The vicar’s name was Mr. Elton and I was very surprised to see that he was a handsome man with thick chestnut brown hair, melting brown eyes, and a deep, melodic voice. All of the vicars I had known had been elderly and wizened men or overanxious and gangling juniors. I assumed Mr. Elton was the reason the church was quite well-attended, the parishioners all looking mostly alert even on Sunday morning.
Mrs. Elton was a pretty brown-haired woman with a round, friendly face, and she squeezed my hand in such a cheerful fashion that I felt at home.
The other introductions were a blur. A local squire named Robert Martin and his large, boisterous family. A few spinsters I envied. A young buck connected to the Martin family who was clearly overawed by the Viscount and wanted to discuss the upcoming ptarmigan hunting season.
“I’m regretting this already,” St. Erth said as he led me inside the church. Although it was only the morning, the building was already feeling warm and stuffy in the July heat.
Since the Viscount was the highest-ranking person in attendance, naturally we had a box pew all to ourselves, our seats surrounded with a high wooden wall on all four sides so that only our heads were visible.
I sat down in the pew, arranging my book and purse in my lap and my skirts carefully around me, still feeling eyes on me. St. Erth sat next to me, his thigh brushing mine. I was irritated to feel my skin heat at the contact. Ever since my husband had given me medical treatment to regulate my humors, I had been feeling the most unwelcome sensations whenever he came close to me.
For one foolish moment, I had the insane urge to misbehave so he would give me the treatment again.
I could pretend to be hysterical, roll around on the ground and maybe even foam at the mouth.
However, knowing my husband, he was just as likely to put me over his knee in front of everyone first, and that would be horribly embarrassing.
Truly, my humors must be unregulated if I was thinking thoughts like this, and on a Sunday, too!
I breathed deeply, focusing on the lovely stained-glass windows, until I didn’t feel the urge to be disobedient again.
Still, I felt nervous that the thought had even crossed my mind. Maybe my Mama was right. There was a most improper wild streak in me that managed to twist and turn my insides no matter how I tried to squash it.
Mr. Elton stopped by the box pew before heading to the pulpit.
“Welcome to Rosewood Village Church, Viscountess,” he said. “I am sure you will be a great benefit to our humble community here.”
His eyes were warm, and he nodded in a friendly fashion as he passed by.
I thought nothing of it, but I heard St. Erth’s low growl beside me.
“What is the matter?” I hissed at him.
I turned slightly, brushing my bonnet back to look at him. He was glaring in the direction of the vicar and he put one vice-like hand on my thighs.
“Fine fucking behavior for a godsdamn vicar,” he said angrily. “Fawning all over you!”
“Shhh!” I said, in agony that he would be overheard. I only hoped the noise of the congregation was too great. “What are you talking about? He was just doing his Christian duty. He has a wife!”
“If he doesn’t want trouble, he’ll keep his eyes on his own wife,” St. Erth said in a grim tone.
My cheeks flushed as I darted quick nervous glances around.
What had gotten into my husband!
I was in an agony until the congregation quieted and Mr. Elton began to preach.
Unlike most of the vicars of my youth, Mr. Elton did not drone on, but spoke in a lively, manner, explicating the lesson with energy.
As I wrote down the verses Mr. Elton preached from in my notebook, I felt my husband’s eyes on me. His frown felt like a chill along my skin, making goosebumps pop along my neck and down my arms.
I tried to ignore him, tried to focus on the moral lessons in the sermon, but I found myself having the most unexpectedly wicked and blasphemous thoughts. Eve was supposed to be a wicked wife for leaving Adam’s side and wandering around the Garden of Eden by herself. But sometimes the snake was so hypnotic it was hard to look away. . .
Then I felt my husband’s hand on me. I wanted to shudder at his touch, but I didn’t dare, my skin feeling like it flared under his rough fingers. He leaned so close that his breath stirred the ringlets cascading from my updo.
“I don’t like my wife looking at other men,” he hissed in my ear, and I felt a hot, prickly warmth go down my spine.
“It’s a sermon,” I whispered back, trying to keep my voice down.
In response, St. Erth grabbed my hand and yanked, putting my fingers over where I felt his cock hard beneath his breeches.
I flashed a pleading look at him, shaking my head vigorously, the ribbons cascading down my back.
He couldn’t possibly! The whole town was here!
So close to him, I could see every sweeping line of his face. The sharp, chiseled cheekbones, the brilliant, angry blue of his eyes. The strong, set jawline, a muscle throbbing there.
The words of Mr. Elton thundered and reverberated in my ears.
For Satan himself can transform into an angel of light. . .
I shook my head again at my husband, trying to ignore the way the heat pounded through my body at his proximity, the feel of his thigh against mine.
St. Erth’s eyes flashed at me, and he shoved my hand down over his cock. I strained against his hold, trying to get away without making any noise. The rest of the church was silent except for the gentle rustling of skirts as Mr. Elton spoke.
I curled my fingers into a fist, refusing to touch his cock. I knew if I was at home I would have been over his knee by now, but luckily for me we were at church. And he wouldn’t dare! Would he?
Then St. Erth suddenly let me go and I saw him reach his arm down to the side of his leg. I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t, too filled with horror at what my husband was capable of.
When he pulled his sharp knife out from where it rested against his silk stockings, I had to suppress a panicked shriek.
Was he going to kill me?My heart pounded painfully in my chest.
Should I scream for help? Tell everyone that my husband was a dangerous madman who had been torturing me ever since the moment we were married?
But fear for what he might do stopped me and so I sat there frozen in place as he palmed the dagger in his hand, only a tiny glittering tip showing between his fingers.
For a moment I was convinced he was going to slit my throat right there, and I’d die on the floor in front of him as he hissed in my ear that I should’ve been a good girl and obeyed him.
Then his strong fingers were in my hair and I heard a sharp schick.
With growing horror, I looked up at him, my springy bright auburn curl now held tight between his fingers.
I couldn’t resist a squeak, and I saw a few people look over curiously at me.
My husband bent his head to my ear again.
“Are you going to obey or am I going to keep going?” he asked, his voice low, scraping against my propriety and effectively slicing it to ribbons. “I’ll cut it off piece by piece until you obey me, Viscountess.”
Numbly, I reached my hand out and my fingers closed around his cock. Although I knew logically that no one could see any lower than our necks because of the walls around the family pew, my cheeks still burned with embarrassment.
My straining ears heard his low exhale as I drew my husband’s cock from his pants.
I tried to keep my eyes straight ahead, focus on what Mr. Eton was saying, as my right hand moved up and down my husband’s cock.
His cock was thick under my fingers, and I tightened them around him, wishing instead that I could run out of the church and escape in the carriage.
I stroked him slowly, the way I knew he liked, base to tip, my other hand tucked primly in my lap. I was afraid the whole congregation would be able to hear the sound of my hand on his flesh.
I could have moaned with relief when Mr. Elton struck up a hymn, and St. Erth made a low noise of pleasure. My hands tightened almost convulsively on his cock and he groaned again.
“That’s it, kitten. Just like that.”
I didn’t even have to look at him to feel his breath catch, feel the muscles in his legs tensing where we were connected together.
Gods. . .damn, was he really going to release here? I felt a horrifying panic that he would force me to my knees in front of him. But then he nudged me and pointed at my little purse clutched in my lap.
Numbly, I reached for it, feeling my husband’s precum wet on my hands.
“Open it,” he groaned, and I knew he was close.
I opened the purse and held it in front of him.
Base to tip, my hands stretched to cover as much of his cock as I could. His legs tensed further, the tight bands of muscles of his thighs making me feel flushed and heated.
Then his head fell back as he released, filling the silken bag with jets of his strong, milky cum.
Shaking, I released my breath, watching with some dismay as the cum filled up my dusky pink purse, the delicate lace swamped under his flood of his release.
Suddenly I felt a burning rage and I went to snap the purse shut on his cock, but he was always watching—the sharp, clever eyes of my husband---and he wrenched my hand away.
“Naughty puss,” he said, his voice rough.
The congregation moved into the next verse of “How Firm a Foundation.”
“Lick it off your fingers,” my husband ordered, jerking the purse away and putting it back on my lap.
Though most of the cum had gotten in the bag, some of his release still stuck between my fingers and glistened on my thumb.
I risked one glance over at the Viscount, and his eyes blazed at me. His chest was heaving, and I didn’t want to test him.
My head dropped and I tried to inconspicuously suck my sticky fingers. St. Erth tucked his cock back in his pants as I heard Mr. Elton say, “And now turn to the book of common prayer and let us bow our heads for the final benediction, thanking the Lord for the many lessons we have learned today. . .”
There was a sudden rustling silence, and the sharp pop of my thumb as I sucked my husband’s cum off it ricocheted through the church, making me blush in confusion, and cram my hands under my gown.
I was definitely going to hell.