She knew how to react to him when he was coarse or autocratic, but she didn’t know how to deal with this tenderness. Just as she was trying to sort it all out, he nudged her off his lap and seemed to go all stern again. “We must finish dinner. The hour grows late.”
“I think I am already finished.”
“You may be excused then. Try to get some sleep. We’re traveling tomorrow.”
She halted in her retreat. “Traveling where?”
“The season is over, for all intents and purposes. We shall retire to my country estate where we can commence your...training...in a more private and uncrowded setting.”
The word “training” made the hairs rise on the back of her neck. Did he really mean to go through with this? His country estate was in Berkshire, she remembered, nowhere near his parents’ or her papa’s estate. She would be in the country, far from her friends and family, at her husband’s mercy.
I swear I’ll keep you safe.
She prayed it was true. She was not at all at ease with the idea of being trained for his pleasure, but with him in absolute control of her life now, what choice did she have?
Chapter Eight: That Good
Hunter sat opposite his wife on the journey west to Berkshire. Being a gentleman, he took the backward-facing bench. He might have sat beside her, elbow to elbow, and offered her a shoulder to lean upon, but he could study her more easily while facing her—and he had become rather fascinated with studying her. Every so often she shifted so their knees wouldn’t touch in the middle. Then he rearranged his long legs so they touched again.
It wasn’t a great distance to Somerton, but it was tedious with the servants and luggage carts coming behind them. He might have escaped the carriage altogether and gone ahead on his horse if he wanted. It was a sunny, temperate day, perfect for galloping neck or nothing, but he had chosen instead to ride with Aurelia in this velvet-lined and cushioned compartment. He’d become unsettlingly preoccupied with his little mouse after their discussion the night before.
He had tried to be authoritative and unmoving when he laid out his sexual ultimatums, but in the end he couldn’t help feeling some tender respect for his wife. She had been embarrassed, shocked, dismayed, but ultimately resigned to a situation she could not change.
And he had meant what he said about doing things for her in return. If she had been haughty and condemning, he would have done his best to make her miserable, but when she put her head in her hands and told him to take her back to her father in that pitiful voice, some part of his armor had cracked. When he whacked himself in the forehead with his own fork, her choked, stifled laughter had shattered it further.
The blasted woman literally didn’t know how to laugh.
He could tell she had never been allowed to laugh and make merry, not least of all from the way she clapped her hands over her mouth and looked at him with an expression of horror, like she’d performed some great breach of etiquette. His wife had been given everything, had she?
Except for permission to make merry and have fun.
Hunter and his friends searched out fun and merriment in every aspect of their lives, and wallowed in it when they found it. They always had, ever since they were young lads. What had Aurelia been doing while he was tearing around getting into scrapes as a child and sowing wild oats as a young man? Sitting somewhere stitching flowers on some blasted silk pillowcase, he presumed.
It wasn’t her fault she was the way she was. He had to remember that. How sober, how proper she looked now, gazing out the carriage window at the sunny day. He wanted to teach her to laugh and have fun, and to find pleasure where she might. At the same time, he wished to retain authority over her. He wished her to continue to be an obedient and appropriately submissive wife, not one of those shrews who led their husbands about by the balls while other gentlemen snickered behind their hands. It would be a delicate balance to manage it.
He moved forward to peer out the carriage window along with her. “It’s not far now, my dear. Not so far as traveling to Oxfordshire.”
“Why did you set up your country home so far from the Lockridge estates?” she asked.
He shrugged. “I liked the property. It’s a good mix of wilderness and civilization, and the manor itself is comfortable and in excellent repair. And of course, it’s closer to London, where I have always spent the majority of my days.”
She looked back out the window at rolling green fields, and the last of summer’s wildflowers. “It’s pretty country. As pretty as Oxfordshire, I think.”
“Certainly. At Somerton, there are paths for walking, and lakes and follies.” My, was he ever trying to impress her. He had never felt such pride in Somerton before. It was merely a country retreat, a place to escape and occasionally hold parties, an additional estate he might some day pass down to a first-born son, or a second-born, if the first set up at Lockridge. For now, it was to be his and Aurelia’s home, and he found himself hoping she would admire it. “Do you enjoy riding? There are plenty of places to ride, and a stable of admirable horses, if I do say so. We could ride out and have picnics now and again, if you like that sort of thing.”
She looked down at her lap. “I do not ride especially well, I’m afraid. And I’ve never been on a picnic.”
Never been on a picnic? He’d half a mind to ride to Oxfordshire right now and strangle the Duke and Duchess of Lansing for raising their daughter this way. “Why no picnics? Too subversive for an impressionable young lady? Too much dirt? Too many insects?”
“I was never permitted to run about outdoors or lounge on the ground. My mother said it wasn’t ladylike.”
Your mother was a blasted idiot, he thought to himself. “Will you raise your daughters that way?” he asked aloud.
She looked at him from under her lashes. “You mean our daughters?”
“Yes, our daughters, though you’ll have the raising of them, I suppose.”
“Well, I will want them to develop into respectable ladies, certainly.”
He couldn’t suppress a frown. “And I will want them to have picnics sometimes.”
Them. He was already picturing more than one daughter, just as he’d pictured more than one son. He was surprised by this, and a little unsettled. He slouched back upon the cushions, so their knees knocked together in earnest and she was obliged to shift hers away. “I think it a crime,” he said, “that you were imprisoned inside during your childhood. Your brother certainly had the run of Lansing Grange. The grounds around your father’s house, those old forests and meadows, were irresistible to me as a boy. I trespassed upon them all the time, sometimes with Severin, although he thought me a young, paltry fellow.”
“I never saw you at Lansing.”
“I didn’t come there because I didn’t want to see you. The few times I encountered you at the house, you seemed a big-eyed, staring sort of creature. Hair hanging down, and some glaze or something dribbling from your mouth.”
She glared at him. “I only dribbled as an infant, I’m sure.”
“Well, you were an infant then, practically. It was very off-putting to think of you as my future wife. It was not well done of them, to promise us to one another at such a young age.”
She unruffled a bit and eased back against the seat. “But you agreed, did you not? You signed the betrothal document. I was too little.”
“Yes. It was ridiculous stuff. It was a time in my life when I dearly wished to please my parents. One of the last times, I might add.” He staunchly pushed all such memories from his mind. “Ah, here are the gates, and the limits of the property. Welcome to Somerton.”
He was torn between watching out the window at his home—which had last housed a fortnight-long orgy—and watching her. Did he see some measure of awe in her gaze? Somerton was newer and more stylish than Lansing Grange. It was Palladian in design, with great columns and porticos, and wings flanking the great central manor. A road curved gracefully to the grand staircases framing the front door. A Roman
-style fountain rose in majestic tiers from the center of the paved courtyard. All around, gardens and fields stretched in a sprawling fashion, easily seen from the head road.
“It’s beautiful,” she said, with what he believed was true admiration.
And it was beautiful, he thought, seeing it through new eyes. Her eyes. The liveried staff, well-trained by his capable steward, arranged themselves in welcoming lines leading down from the landing. Perhaps Lansing was doing Hunter a favor, making him stay dutifully at home to play master of the manor. How singular, this feeling of satisfaction.
“If you are not too tired, perhaps you’ll allow me to show you about the place,” he said.
To his pleasure, she cordially agreed.
*** *** ***
Aurelia wandered amidst her new rooms, noting lovely furnishings and delicate knickknacks, and sweet-smelling flowers. There was even a private bathing room designed in the latest manner of invention, with a tiled tub for soaking. But no matter the beauty and wonders, she kept returning to stare at the window seat.
It was not in the bedroom as in London, but in the adjoining drawing room, and it was not truly a window seat. Rather, benches had been arranged before the window, one on either side, and then draperies fixed on iron rods in the plaster ceiling overhead. The draperies framed the benches on all sides, creating a close approximation of her hideaway at the London household. There was still a bit of dust on one bench from where they’d drilled the plaster, which led to an inevitable conclusion. He had had this hideaway created quite recently—especially for her.
Rather than go within and sit, she stared at it from the middle of the room, plucking at the folds of her evening gown. She had felt rather speechless and awed at dinner, at the beauty of his house and the crisp industriousness of the servants, but now, staring at the window seat that was not quite a window seat, she fell a little bit in love with her husband. But only a very, very little bit.
If only she could despise him, but he made it impossible. He made her feel furious and powerless with his demands, and then followed with actions so kind she felt utterly unbalanced. No, it couldn’t be love she felt, but there was something unfamiliar and hot in her chest. Whatever it was, it made it impossible to sit in the window seat in peaceful docility. It made her want to pace, which, unfortunately, was not ladylike.
“Lady Townsend?” Aurelia turned to find a smartly attired maid curtsying her way into the room. “Pardon me, my lady. Lord Townsend wishes you to attend him now. I’ll be pleased to show you the way to his chambers.”
The last thing Aurelia wanted to do was go to Lord Townsend’s chambers and commence this “training” he seemed determined to put her through, but she gathered her courage and followed the maid. Better that than wait here for him to drag her where he wanted her—and he would drag her, she had no doubt.
The maid led her across the hall and tapped at a great, tall door, and pushed it open. Aurelia entered, nerves jarring. The room was dimly lit; flickering candlelight illuminated a large bed and heavy pieces of furniture. It was a male’s bedroom, top to bottom. She couldn’t suppress a shiver.
Lord Townsend stood from a chair by the fireplace, and Aurelia turned to him with her hands clasped before her waist. She stared at his broad chest, and the interesting contours of his jaw and neck, dusted with an evening’s growth of stubble. Her husband. When would she get used to it, the blatant, shocking intimacy of knowing this man?
She could tell nothing from his expression as he regarded her, whether he felt content, or angry, or sad. “Do you find your rooms satisfactory?” he asked.
“Yes. Thank you very much for the...” Her voice caught a moment in her throat. “For the window seat.”
“You must have a mouse hole in every home, yes?” At her frown, he approached her. “But I remember you don’t like to be called a mouse. Forgive me.”
Before she knew what he was about, he’d grasped her face and tilted her head back by the chin. She bit her lip, staring up at him. He looked as if he would say something, but then he lowered his mouth to hers in a warm, exploratory kiss. She stood very still as his tongue caressed and encouraged her, teasing gently at her teeth. Without meaning to, she opened to him. Her arms and hands hung in space with nothing to cling to, for she was afraid to touch him even as he deepened his kiss. The hand behind her head delved up into her hair and massaged her nape, angling her just so for his passionate embrace. He tasted faintly of cinnamon and wine.
Was it normal to kiss like this? Was it normal to feel as if one was floating away in some kind of stupor?
He pressed her body to his, chest to chest, thigh to thigh. Pins clattered to the floor as he brought her hair down, freeing lock after lock, kissing her all the while. She clung to him as if to seek shelter from the very chaos he created in her. Her breasts felt heated, her nipples tight. She was certain she was growing wet in that secret place, and just as certain that he would touch her there and realize it, and thrust his fingers inside and make her feel ashamed before he pressed his hard, thick manhood into her...
She pushed away from him. Not a great push, for she was even now wary of displeasing him. It was more like shying away. She felt cowardly and pitiable as he studied her.
“Are you quite all right?” he asked.
She touched her lips. “I am here as you commanded me.”
“You remember why?” He brushed a bit of hair over her shoulder. “You remember our purpose, the one I explained to you last evening?”
His tone was not the least bit romantic, although his kiss seemed to linger on her lips. “Yes, I remember,” she said. Even though I am not entirely willing, she wanted to add. But it would be pointless to do so. He’d brought her here to his secluded estate for this purpose, and she had no way to get away.
She took a step back. That, at least, he permitted. He unbuttoned his coat and shrugged out of it, tossing the fine garment over a nearby chair, then turned back to face her. Without his tailored coat pulling him together in the image of a gentleman, he seemed dangerously underdressed.
With a flick of his wrist, he rolled up the first of his linen shirtsleeves, then the other, fixing her with a purposeful look. “I don’t want you to become upset when I say this, but I believe it best to begin each evening together with a proper, thorough spanking. I believe it will go a long way in communicating to you the inexorability of your situation. It will focus your attention and render you more eager to perform.”
“What?” Her voice cracked, high and shrill. She backed away from him in alarm, her hands splayed protectively over her backside. “I promise you have my attention. I am trying to be good!”
He caught her shoulders before she could flee. “You must trust me, darling. I know what I’m about in such matters.”
He turned her with firm hands and began to undo her dress and loosen her stays, removing everything but her sheer, silken shift. She trembled, cross, reluctant, frightened even, but along with all those feelings came another shameful surge of hot tension in her breasts and between her legs, in her body’s secret core. It was hopeless to resist him, wasn’t it? His power and his will frightened her, but also, curiously, aroused her. She didn’t want this, and yet in some sense it felt exciting. Which meant that she was barely more proper than a common trollop, or a whore.
Oh, no. She had thought herself better than this. He sat on a chair and was about to pull her over his lap when he noticed her tears.
“Why are you crying, Aurelia?”
She sniffled. “I’m crying because I feel terribly confused.”
He made a soft tsk, wiping gently at her cheeks. “Your confusion is only your mind warring with your body. Let me guide you. Don’t resist me, grasshopper, and we’ll see where we end up. Answer me. ‘As you wish, my lord.’”
She forced the words out, though her voice trembled. “As you wish, my lord.”
“Ah, that sounds very nice. Those are the proper sort of words to say when I give you instructio
ns. Above all, you must be brave and willing to try anything I request. I won’t hurt you, I swear. In fact, you’ll enjoy great pleasure if you get into the spirit of things.”
The spirit of things? What on earth did he mean by that? She found herself guided, for the third time in her short marriage, over her husband’s lap. She felt the whisper of fabric against her skin as he pushed her shift up to her waist, baring her bottom.
“Feet on the floor, yes, that’s a good girl.” His palms brushed lazily for a moment over her naked cheeks, then stroked lower to caress the skin just above her stockings. “And keep those hands out of the way, or I’ll use one of your garters to tie them together and keep them still.”
“Yes, my lord,” she said, though she could barely imagine such a thing.
He made a low, pleased sound and landed the first spank. Oh, mercy, she would never get used to such treatment, and he intended to do this each evening, on a formally regimented basis? It defied belief, and yet her bottom stung with the reality of his intent. He spanked her twice on each cheek, pausing in between so she felt his palm rub across her skin. Oh, God help me. After that, he settled into a constant, painful rhythm of measured spanks.
Right away, it was difficult to keep her feet in the position he wanted. Little kicks and cries escaped her, high and shrill in the silence of his room. She wanted him to stop, but she also felt the most confusing sensation of arousal. The heat in her bottom seemed to spread between her thighs, and collect there in a tingly, heavy way. She prayed not to be molested, but her prayers were in vain. He paused in his onslaught and pressed his fingers to her quim. She flushed hot at the slickness gathered there. If he had commented on it, she would have died of humiliation, but he only resumed the spanking, delivering firm, crisp blows in a steady rhythm to her posterior.
“Perhaps you fear these spankings will become repetitive over time,” he said as his palm rained down. “But it will not be so. Very soon I’ll introduce you to other disciplinary implements. A paddle perhaps. A strap. A birch rod or switch, most definitely. A cane can be highly effective but perhaps best left for moments when you are very, very rebellious.”
Training Lady Townsend Page 10