Taming His Scandalous Countess

by Viola Morne

  She closed her eyes, bone-weary, all emotion spent in a welter of pain and rapture. A sea change indeed.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Another letter arrived with the post at breakfast two days later. Isabelle, still sitting somewhat gingerly on the edge of her chair, slipped it under the rest of her correspondence.

  Snow glanced up. "News from your brother?"

  "Yes, John sends his regrets for not attending the reception. Their eldest came down with a fever. They will write again to let me know how he fares."

  "Have you finished your toast, my love?"

  Isabelle set down her cup.

  "You know what to do."

  The footman hastened to pull out her chair. Snow opened the door and ushered her into the hallway. They walked down the hall to his study, where he sat down at his desk. Snow motioned with one hand.

  She heaved a sigh, and turned around slowly.

  "Isabelle."

  She pulled up her skirts. She could feel the heat of his gaze on her shrinking flesh. This inspection had been going on since the caning. His fingers traced the welts he had left on her sore bottom.

  "Nice marks." A sharp slap across her ass made her cry out. Another followed.

  "Good girl. You may let down your skirts. I will see you at dinner."

  Isabelle left without another word, without even looking at him. He hadn't asked her to apologize for that night and she hadn't offered. Nor had he visited her bed. Her husband had made it very clear who was in charge. What really gave her pause was how she liked being called his good girl, even while he fondled the skin he'd marked. Had she become as perverse as Snow?

  Isabelle made her way to the small parlor where the portrait of Snow's mother stared into the horizon for eternity. She took the letter from her pocket and broke open the seal.

  Dear Countess,

  What a lovely party the other night. Snow seems happy but he doesn't know, does he? What do you think he'll do when he finds out?

  The anonymous letter writer had been at the reception. Or was that a ruse? The event had been mentioned in society columns. Anyone could have found that out. The questions remained: who was writing the letters and what did they want? There was no request for money or anything else. Perhaps making her suffer was an end in itself.

  "Countess?" Mr. Trent hovered in the doorway. "Might I have a moment of your time?"

  Isabelle stuffed the letter back in her pocket.

  "His lordship has asked me to assist you with your social calendar for the next month."

  "Of course. Pray be seated, Mr. Trent."

  Isabelle took the opposite chair, grimacing slightly as her buttocks made contact with the firm surface. A ripple of something passed over the secretary's smooth countenance. He seemed to be well aware of Isabelle's difficulties. She cringed inwardly. Did everyone in the household know? A hot wave of humiliation broke over her.

  Mr. Trent waited, until she firmed her chin and looked at him.

  "Let us begin."

  * * * * *

  Snow scowled into his cup of coffee. He'd found a quiet alcove in the club to peruse the newspapers, but the devil of it was, he was having trouble concentrating. Images of his wife intruded into his consciousness, some disturbing and others frankly sensual. How pathetic was he, when just the thought of his wife's ass, deliciously rounded and reddened from his ministrations, made him hard? They'd barely spoken since the night of the ball. Isabelle was his, to punish or succor as he pleased, but had he gone too far? When she'd asked him if he'd fucked all the women present, he’d been shocked and angered.

  Then again, she hadn't been completely wrong. He had enjoyed congress with quite a number of them, either married or widowed. As long as an outward respectability was preserved in the eyes of society, any number of vices might be tasted in private. Snow knew he had a reputation and it was well-earned. Isabelle, however, had no business to question him about anything, let alone his morals.

  How to tame his high-spirited wife, without breaking her? What was it that Isabelle needed? She had married him to get away from her brother, to regain a place in society and a full life. Snow knew her first marriage had not been happy. Perhaps Croucher was responsible for her extraordinary behavior. And what of the child she never spoke about? He hadn't presumed on her reserve to discuss the marriage, but perhaps he should.

  Snow took another sip. There had been something about Isabelle that night, something beyond the defiance that stirred both his anger and his desire. Perhaps she was afraid that he, too, would betray her. The sad fact was that since encountering Isabelle, he hadn't looked at another woman. She couldn't know that, of course.

  He wanted his wife to be happy, to feel cherished and secure. Until that night, he'd thought they were growing closer. He blew out a sigh. He was probably wrong about that too.

  Snow looked up from his ruminations to meet the ironic gaze of Leighton Frost.

  "How pensive you seem, my dear fellow." Frost crossed his legs. "Woman trouble?"

  Damn the fellow for being so acute. Snow shrugged.

  Frost snagged his own coffee from a passing waiter. "Tell Uncle Leighton all about it. Don't feel you have to neglect any of the salacious details."

  "Marriage is the very devil."

  "Indubitably. How is your angel, by the way?"

  "Headstrong, saucy, and completely adorable."

  "Good God, man! Are you in love with the wench?"

  "Of course not. It's just that having a wife is quite different from what I imagined. Having her available whenever I want, yes, but it's the other part, the caring about how she's feeling, and what's she's thinking, worrying about her. I tell you, it's exhausting." Snow downed the rest of his coffee and signaled the waiter.

  Frost raised an eyebrow.

  "Brandy. I might as well start drinking right now. I'm a wreck anyway."

  Frost tapped long white fingers on the armrest.

  "My dear fellow, this simply won't do. You are the Earl of Snow, a peer of the realm. You mustn't allow your wife or your more tender feelings to rule you. It's not done."

  Snow rubbed his jaw. "I know."

  "Lucky for you, I believe I have a solution."

  Snow raised a brow. "I'm not sure you are the best person to give me advice."

  Frost smiled, his crocodile smile which never reached his eyes. "Trust me, my old friend, you'll love it."

  "And Isabelle, will she love it too?"

  Frost pursed his lips, considering. "I think she'll learn to. If she is as willing as you would have me believe."

  "Have you forgotten the part of the conversation where I told you she is headstrong?"

  "My dear Snow, that will just make it more...rewarding."

  * * * * *

  Isabelle had finally fallen into a fitful doze. She hadn't really slept well since...her mind shied away from those memories. She had tried to smother them, all of them, but they smoldered, like hot coals whose blackened surface would return to burning life with a puff of blown air.

  A soft knock on her door woke her up. Snow. A tingle of erotic anticipation cut through her lingering resentment. She still wanted him, damn his eyes. Isabelle sat up.

  Snow entered and walked towards the bed. He stopped beside her, his candle illuminating the planes and hollows of his face. He did not smile but motioned to her wrapper, which lay at the bottom of the bed.

  "Put that on and come downstairs."

  Isabelle swallowed at his hard, unyielding tone. It was the voice he used to enforce his will on her body. It meant pain and submission, and, sometimes, glorious release. She knew better than to dawdle. She accepted his assistance to clamber over the side of the bed. Isabelle picked up the thin silk garment and drew it over her shoulders, tying it carefully. His hand fell on her shoulder and she shivered. His fingers pressed down, guided her to the door, where they dropped to grasp her elbow firmly.

  "Are you frightened?" he murmured in her ear, so close she could feel the moist heat of his
breath. She nodded. His hand moved to her breast and squeezed hard until she gasped, before dropping to her elbow once more.

  "Good."

  He pulled her along the upper corridor and then walked her, his hand hard, down the stairs, through the silent and deserted hall, along the passage to his study. The door lay open. A log fire crackled on the hearth. He pushed her into the room and shut the door, turning the key in the lock.

  "My dear, we have company."

  She paused. This was new. A fair man unfolded from the wing chair where he'd sat in shadow.

  "Lady Snow, a pleasure, as always." A graceful bow.

  "Mr. Frost." A curtsy was beyond her. What was he doing here, with those cold eyes fixed on her, the thin smile that always made her shudder?

  "Brandy, Snow?"

  "Yes, thank you." Snow dropped onto the sofa and pulled her to kneel beside him. She sought her husband's gaze for reassurance, but he was looking at the fire. Frost splashed brandy in two glasses and brought one to Snow. He stood beside Isabelle as she knelt, his satin breeches stretched over his swollen member. Isabelle turned her head away. Frost grasped her chin and raised her face.

  "So shy." He turned to Snow. "I don't think she likes me.""

  Snow shrugged. "That hardly matters."

  Frost laughed softly; the sound slithered along her spine. He sat down, one leg flung over the chair arm, his erection on blatant display.

  "But, you must admit, my dear Snow, that it does add a certain piquancy to the evening." His gaze never left Isabelle as she huddled closer to her husband's side.

  Snow tossed off the brandy. He bent over Isabelle, unbound the tie of her wrapper and pushed it off her shoulders. The night rail beneath was of sheerest silk. She tried to stand, intent on fleeing. Snow pushed her slowly back to the floor. She tried to speak but he pressed a finger to her lips in warning. Whatever was happening was by her husband's design. She let her weight shift back to the floor.

  "Good girl."

  Isabelle dared a glance at Frost. His pose was unchanged, but his expression held a heat she'd never seen before. Snow undid the tiny buttons on her bodice, one by one. He pushed the fabric down her shoulders and bared her to the waist. His hands brushed over her breasts and lifted them, thumbs caressing her hardening nipples. She cringed and stared at her husband, but his eyes were lowered to her bosom, his dark gaze filtered by those sinfully long eyelashes. He began to pull on her nipples, hard, his long fingers pinching the aureoles and then pulling the erect flesh, igniting a sharp desire that arced without thought to her womb, tightening it. A moan escaped her.

  "Much more of that and I'll come in my breeches." Frost's voice was hoarse.

  Isabelle dropped her eyes, shamed. Her husband continued to milk her breasts, the pain and pleasure mixing until no thought was possible, only sensation. His grip eased finally. Her nipples felt on fire. She looked down. They were red and swollen, impossibly stretched.

  "Go to Leighton, Isabelle."

  Cold dread nearly quenched the fire. Snow’s eyes finally met hers, dark with unbending purpose.

  "Go to him, on your knees. Now."

  Isabelle shook her head.

  "No?" Her husband's voice, thick with menace.

  She swallowed again, convulsively, and crawled to the man in the chair. Frost unhooked his leg and bent to pull her between his thighs. He caught her breasts roughly, rolling her swollen nipples in hard fingers. This was wrong, so wrong. Frost moved one hand to the fall of his breeches and released his straining cock. He ran a thumb over its head, the darkened flesh slick with his essence.

  "Suck him, Isabelle."

  She felt Snow move behind her. One heavy hand slipped to her shoulder. He urged her on silently. Isabelle could feel the weight of his unspoken demand. She licked her lips and opened her mouth. Frost leaned forward and slowly pushed his cock into her mouth. He tasted...different, the tang of his fluid was not the same as her husband. She licked her tongue over the top, under the curve, flicking the thick vein that ran underneath it. A tremor shivered along Frost's thighs. He thrust into her. Isabelle overbalanced and put out a hand. Her husband grabbed both her wrists and pushed them behind her back.

  "Keep them there."

  His hard tone, the heat of his body pressed against her to keep her steady, made her clench with humiliated desire.

  Frost thrust again and again, without any thought for her comfort or pleasure. He grabbed her head to hold her in place while he plumbed her mouth, seeking the back of her throat. She gagged and pulled back. His cock slipped from her lips.

  "Position, Isabelle."

  She leaned forward again, accepting Frost's thrust and this time, as he pushed himself further inside her mouth, she controlled her response, keeping her throat loose, her lips tight around his hot, sliding skin, suctioning his essence. Frost went rigid and with a final pulse, came down her throat. Snow's hand pressed down on her neck. She swallowed until every drop had been consumed. Frost fell back, sated. Snow let go her wrists, and she raised one trembling hand to her lips to wipe them dry.

  Snow fingers rubbed through her hair.

  "What a good girl. Leighton?"

  "She sucks cock like an angel." Frost's cold eyes were warm with his pleasure. He stretched like a cat. "Now can we beat her?"

  Snow pulled her up. He pushed a strand of hair away from her flushed face and kissed her cheek gently.

  "Oh, yes." Snow led her to the desk and pushed her down over the top in his favorite position. A pause and then he pushed a pillow under her stomach, raising her hips. He pulled up her gown, tucked it beneath her. Then he shoved a hard knee between her legs.

  "Open, wider."

  Isabelle trembled and complied. The complex mixture of desire and shame ebbed as fear drummed along her veins. Snow caressed her bottom with gentle fingers.

  Frost spoke from behind her. "Lovely, quite lovely."

  She felt another hand, Frost's hand, glide along her curves. One finger traced the cleft between her buttocks and she shuddered, but forced herself to remain still. A moment of stillness, anticipation warring with terror. Then the quick crack of a hand against her skin. Pain and heat coursed across her skin. Another pause. Crack. Then a flurry of slaps in quick succession until her whole bottom bloomed with heat.

  "Something new for you, my love." She smelled leather, and then something smacked against the desk where her cheek lay. She flinched.

  "This is called a tawse. Usually used by masters for erring schoolboys. The end of the leather is split in two. I think you'll find the sensation memorable."

  A whisper of cloth. He must be drawing back his arm. Pause. The strike fell on her shrinking flesh, and then the agony came. God, it hurt so much. Another pause while the pain eddied along her skin; another strike and then another until she heard herself scream and scream again. She lost count of how many strokes were dealt her.

  Isabelle felt fingers move between her legs, insinuating themselves against her drenched folds. She moaned. A cock replaced the fingers, delved deep inside her. Her thighs were forced further apart, and he slid in hard and then thrust even deeper. It was a fierce rhythm, without tenderness, with no thought for her pleasure, only for his release. She heard the wet impact of his flesh in hers. Her womb fluttered. He swelled within in her, and then her husband groaned in her ear as he emptied himself inside her

  * * * * *

  Isabelle woke slowly, as the late morning light filtered through the windows. She stretched, luxuriously, and rolled over on her back. And quickly rolled back on her side. Her bottom ached. Snow had really laid it on last night. She smoothed a hand over herself, wincing when her fingers touched the welts patterning her skin.

  The events of last night returned slowly. She remembered pain and fierce, shameful pleasure. She remembered Frost, his cock thrusting inside her mouth, her husband behind her, the warmth of his hand and the strength of his will. She raised shaking fingers to lips which felt swollen, the taste...God, no. She leapt out
of bed and ran to the chamber pot behind the screen, falling to her knees and vomiting.

  A discreet knock and her maid entered.

  "My lady, you are ill!" Nan bustled over, holding her hair while Isabelle retched, her stomach finally empty. "Let’s get you back to bed."

  "I'm fine. A stomach upset, nothing more."

  "But..."

  "I said I am fine. Now, please draw my bath."

  "Of course, my lady." Nan withdrew. Isabelle dipped a washcloth into the basin and washed her face. She wet it again and carefully, thoroughly, washed out her mouth.

  * * * * *

  Snow rose as Isabelle entered the dining room. She wore pale primrose muslin, her hair simply dressed. She looked lovely, if a trifle pale. She moved to her seat and sat down, slowly. Her ass must be sore, indeed. A small, possessive smile tugged at his lips. His wife had been truly used to his purpose last night. God, what a sight she'd been. He cleared his throat. Any more remembrances and he'd be bending his wife over the breakfast table.

  "How are you this morning, my love?"

  Isabelle was already reading her letters. She looked up, as if interrupted unwillingly.

  "I am well, my lord." One of the footmen stepped forward to pour her tea. She added a little milk and resumed her reading.

  Snow felt his satisfaction ebb away, to be replaced by anger. So her amorous adventures of the previous night had not improved her submission. What did it take, for Christ's sake? He'd lent her to his friend, then beaten her ass and fucked her in of front of him, and there she perched, unruffled and unchanged.

  Snow flung down his newspaper.

  "Please join me in my study when you have finished your meal."

  "Of course, my lord," she murmured, still entranced with her correspondence.

  He stalked down the hall. The butler interrupted his progress.

  "If I may have a word, my lord?"

  * * * * *

  A soft knock interrupted Snow's churning thoughts. He stood as Isabelle entered the room. He motioned her to a chair and sat down. His cravat suddenly felt uncomfortably tight.