25. Catherine
“How should we entertain your friends?” I asked timidly as we drove home in the buggy.
St. Erth flicked a cold look at me.
“You will not be entertaining them at all, Kitten,” he said. “I will be taking them ptarmigan hunting. Since that is the extent of genteel entertainment in the country, I don’t need them trying for something more interesting.”
“And what is that?” I asked.
My husband met my eyes.
“You,” he said.
I felt strangely warm and tingly all over my body, confused and bewildered by his words.
“Now squeeze your legs together like I told you,” he admonished, placing a hand on my belly, the other hand loose on the reins. “I want to feel this belly round with my heir.”
I squeezed my legs together obediently.
For the next few days, I barely saw Lord Sheringham and Mr. Westruther. The Viscount hurried them to and from hunting, giving me dark, searing glances as he rushed them by me.
I was more confused than ever.
During this time, Mrs. Elton came to visit and I liked her very much.
“This is such a big, beautiful room,” she said with awe as she followed me into the big sitting room that looked out over the gardens of Rosewood Manor.
“Why, I guess it is!” I said in some surprise.
“Don’t you like it?” she asked.
“Oh, I do,” I said, trying to cover up. “I-I’m more of a seaside person maybe.”
She only looked curiously at me, and I was a bit surprised myself. I had never admitted that out loud before. But we sat down and sewed peacefully together, talking about the village and the best way to grow roses, and patterns we wanted to sew next.
Since the weather was so perfect, we made arrangements to go on a picnic to sketch some of the beautiful meadows and streams at Rosewood Manor, and parted amicably with plans to meet the next day.
The next afternoon, after a fresh bath, I was tying my sun bonnet around my head and getting ready to leave. But St. Erth came down the stairs behind me, light and predatorial despite his big body.
“Where are you going?” he demanded.
“Just out with Mr. and Mrs. Elton,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, even though my spine had turned to ice, the presence of my husband always making my body buzz with fear and unease. And something else I didn’t want to admit to myself.
“To do what?” he asked, walking toward me with that long, lean, arrogant stride.
“Just a little p-picnic,” I said. “We plan to do some drawing in the meadow by the stream and maybe pick some strawberries. If that’s all right with you,” I added belatedly.
He came up in front of me, his eyes flicking up and down my light sprigged muslin.
“It’s not all right with me,” he said coldly.
“W-why?” I asked. “You said I could go anywhere I wanted at Rosewood.”
He eyes bore into mine. “I said you could go on my grounds properly chaperoned, with a maid or groom with you. That way I can easily find you when I want you.”
I felt my stomach plummeting, a reminder of his power over me.
“I think I’ll go with you,” he said, reaching a hand out to caress my cheek.
“Unless, my wife, you don’t want me to come strawberry picking with you?” he asked, and his fingers tightened the barest amount on my cheek.
I knew what his caresses meant.
I didn’t have a choice.
He was only pretending I did to mock me.
And I knew what those fingers could do, had done to me.
I dropped my eyes. I didn’t want to look into his, brilliant blue and cruel and endless.
Before I could say anything, at this inauspicious moment the Eltons knocked on the door.
“Ah, you’re coming with us, St. Erth?” Mr. Elton asked.
I felt my husband still beside me.
“Is there any reason I would not come on a picnic with my wife?” he asked coldly.
Mr. Elton hastened to reassure him that of course he did not mean that, that was not what he had meant at all. Mrs. Elton was carefully not looking at me, but I knew that with the addition of my husband this was no longer a relaxed afternoon.
But of course they could not refuse the most powerful man in the county wanting to go on a picnic with his wife, so we walked down to the meadow.
The stream made a gorgeous picture, light and bright, the afternoon sunshine hitting it in a way that made it gleam and sparkle, the leafy green trees dappled with sunlight behind.
I tried to focus on my drawing, my hands trembling slightly as they held the colored pens.
Our whole party faced the stream, Mr. and Mrs. Elton sharing drawing implements as they set up their sketchbooks. Servants took out the cold meats and set thick-cut country breads and fragrant cheese to the side.
I felt St. Erth brush my sleeve as he moved beside me and I tried not to shiver as I felt the brief heated touch of his bare skin on mine.
I had always been proud of my drawing skills, but my hand didn’t feel steady.
My husband lay down in the grass beside me, his long powerful legs stretched out in front of him. I wondered why he didn’t go do something. Couldn’t he go chat with Mr. Elton, take the dogs out for a walk, join his friends hunting ptarmigans?
I studiously ignored him, concentrating on getting that crystalline blue of the stream just right, the varied colors of the pink and golden and purple wildflowers, and I felt his hand come up and take one of my heavy curls that had fallen from my updo.
“Look at me,” he said.
I stiffened. “I can see you,” I replied, my voice sounding small.
His hand moved, twining the curl around his finger, then he curved his other fingers into my updo, digging into my scalp.
“I said look at me,” he bit out.
I twisted my head sideways, barely able to move with how tightly he held my hair.
St. Erth was too close to me, leaning back against a tree, the sunshine gleaming on his blonde hair, his eyes too blue, the curve of his lips too close.
He didn’t smile when I turned my head, but his fingers tightened further on my scalp.
“Sing something to me,” he said.
“Here?” I whispered.
“I want to hear your voice,” he replied.
Feeling a bit embarrassed, I started singing a little country tune in a low voice, and I heard the Viscount’s satisfied rumble. The Eltons glanced back at us and I heard them join in, Mr. Elton’s deep baritone and Mrs. Elton’s sweet alto blending in with my soprano tones.
I heard my husband adjust himself back against the tree, but he kept that one hand on my curl, his fingers twined in my hair, and anytime I turned away from him too much or looked at my sketchbook too much he tugged painfully on the lock of my hair, so I knew what he wanted.
My attention. All of my attention.
And he wasn’t going to share with anyone.
When Mr. Elton asked me for a little knife to sharpen his pencils, since they had forgotten theirs, the Viscount took it from me to hand it to the vicar.
“You know he’s married,” I whispered furiously in an undertone when Mr. Elton had gone back to sit by the stream.
“And?” my husband asked, pulling on my hair so hard my head ached. “Who wouldn’t want you, Kitten? Don’t encourage him.”
“I’m not encouraging anyone,” I muttered.
“Do you wish I was a sweet husband like the vicar?” he asked, moving so close that his shoulder brushed up against my thigh.
I said nothing, afraid of either answer.
When I didn’t reply, he laughed.
“You won’t get a sweet husband,” he said. “So don’t expect one.”
I was relieved when the servants came to offer us refreshments.
But the afternoon passed pleasantly enough, the Eltons eventually scooting closer to compare drawings and plan new places to sketch.
“Until next time?” Mrs. Elton said as they packed up to go.
The unspoken assumption: when your husband isn’t here.
“I’d love that,” I replied.
St. Erth said nothing, still lying beside me.
With one flick of his finger, he sent the servants home too.
I moved to pack up my things, and I saw St. Erth stretch out his neck to look at the sky.
“How do you want me to fuck you?” he asked. “Up against this tree or on the ground?”
I couldn’t help letting out a squeak, even though I knew he must be joking.
“That’s not funny. I don’t want that at all.”
He moved his head down to look at me.
“I didn’t ask if you wanted it, brat. I asked how you wanted it. Or I’ll do it how I want and you might not like that at all.”
Since he was lying down and looked so relaxed I still didn’t think he was serious, but I wanted to be away from his jokes and mockery at my expense.
I scrambled hastily away, rolling to my knees and clutching my pencils and art supplies under my arm.
But before I could go very far, St. Erth had moved unimaginably fast, rolling to his feet and striking like the snake he was, scattering all my paints and pencils as he knocked me onto my back.
“You dare to try to get away from me?” he hissed in my ear.
“Everyone’s still around,” I whimpered, my body ground into the grass of the meadow.
“No, they aren’t,” he laughed contemptuously. “And I want to fuck my wife.”
“Can’t you wait until we get home?” I whimpered, afraid of what the servants would think.
“No,” he said. “You’re my wife and I want you now. All of you.”
Then he flipped me over on my hands and knees, grabbing the cup of wine he was drinking.
“Stay still,” he ordered. “Or I’ll make you get down on your knees during the next Sunday service.”
The threat had me frozen in place and he twisted up my skirts and poured wine all over my backside! I squeaked, but he gave a warning grunt, and I forced my legs to be still.
He bent down and I felt his wicked tongue lick down my crack, drinking the wine and sucking at my very asshole!
He was disgraceful, wicked, an unnatural man and most certainly not a gentleman!
What was even worse was that I found the sensation pleasurable, his rough tongue twisted sideways, circling a part of me that I had always thought was most shameful. But my husband’s noises were low, lascivious, hungry as he sucked and licked my asshole.
”I love you,” the Viscount said, and my cheeks burned with confusion.
Not only was I stuck in a most improper position, on my hands and knees with my husband behind me, his big hands spreading my cheeks wide, his tongue exploring, searching for drops of wine, but this was a most extraordinary thing to say!
I did not trust it!
I waited apprehensively to see what he would say next, but he only said, “Good girl, you are staying very still,” and I heard the unmistakable sound of him drawing his cock from his breeches.
I allowed myself a grunt as he entered me, my cunt stretching, swelling to take his thick length, arching my back and trying to widen my hips to take him easier, gasping as my body adjusted.
Then I felt his fingers between my legs as they began to rub that particular spot and I knew he wouldn’t stop until my body did exactly what he wanted it to.