Rival Desires

by Annabel Joseph

  “Yes, go say goodbye to your friends. Oh, Jack, what a shame Townsend couldn’t be here today.” Her gaze flitted over what remained of the bruises on his face. He wished the damned things would fade away. He walked to his friends, affecting a light, easy manner. Knowing him as they did, they weren’t fooled.

  “Good show, Wescott,” said August. “You played the contented groom very well. I only saw one or two instances of the Arlington frown.”

  “I tried my best.” He glanced across the room at Ophelia. She too was forcing a smile, conversing with some of her parents’ friends.

  “Uh-oh, there’s the frown a third time,” said Marlow, elbowing August. “Honestly, Wes, she seems a good sort, your new wife. Augustine and I conversed with her for some time, and to me, she seems the kind of bride who won’t cause a lot of trouble. She’s thoughtful, well-spoken, and polite.”

  “Indeed she is.” August kept his voice low, but Wescott caught the note of reproof. “Don’t see how you mistook her for a strumpet.”

  “Are you here to support me or scold me?”

  “A little of both. See here, Wes.” Now Marlow’s tone darkened, too. “What were you thinking, bedding that lady while London was burning? Does nothing dampen your libido? Now you’re getting married before any of us were ready for it, and you’ve betrayed Townsend—”

  “Didn’t betray him,” Wescott said. “I didn’t realize he was in love with her. Ophelia had no idea who he was.”

  “Not betrayal then, but you’ve angered him to the point he’s bolted for France. We’ll be lucky if he doesn’t join the godforsaken army, the mood he’s in. Now August and I are on our own, when there used to be four of us.”

  “With Pearl’s closed by the fire,” August added morosely. “There’s no point even staying in town.”

  The damned fire. Wescott wished he knew who’d started it. He’d run him through with a sword a dozen or so times, or if it was a woman, give her a hiding she’d never forget. Now he was married, his best friends were cross, his parents were disappointed, his in-laws were embarrassed, and his bride... Well, she cared for him about as much as one cared to slop through a pile of muck in the gutter.

  “You’re welcome at Wescott Abbey over the winter,” he said. “It’s an old, drafty place, but there are beautiful views from the towers.”

  Marlow shuddered. “Yes, I’m sure I’ll enjoy those views while I’m shivering under a pile of blankets before the fire.”

  “Don’t come then.” He shrugged. “Go to France and keep Townsend out of the army. He’d make a terrible soldier.”

  “We can’t go anywhere until after my parents’ ball,” said Marlow. The Earl and Countess of Warren always threw a grand bash near the end of the Season. “I wish the two of you weren’t running off to the country so quickly. Lady Wescott could have graced the gathering with a song.”

  He shook his head. “She can’t sing right now, or practice. The fire’s done something to her voice. She says she may never sing again.”

  “Does she want to sing again, now she’s married?” asked August. “Will you let her?”

  “Not in damned Drury Lane.” He doubtless produced the fourth Arlington frown. “No public stages, no lights, no madmen like Townsend running after her declaring their love. It’s just as well she’s lost her voice. I hope it stays away until our nursery’s full, and she loses interest in performing.”

  “Spoken like a true domineering husband.” Marlow raised a brow. “Does she know who she’s marrying? Does she know anything about your affinity for disciplinary pleasures?”

  “I should hope not.”

  “Perhaps she does,” said August. “Maybe that’s why she sobbed as she said her vows. It was rather uncomfortable to watch.”

  “It’s his wedding day, for God’s sake. Don’t say things like that.” Marlow bumped him on the shoulder. “He’s the first of us to marry, poor fellow. I dread your wedding day, Lord Augustine, and pity whatever lady has the misfortune to marry you.”

  “Not as much as I pity your future bride, Mad Marlow.”

  Heat rose in the blond viscount’s cheeks. “I’ve told you how much I hate that name.”

  “If only it wasn’t so fitting.”

  Before Marlow and August could start arguing in earnest, Wescott held up a hand. “It’s been a long and trying day, but I suppose it’s what I deserve. Thank you for coming to the ceremony, either way.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” said Augustine. Marlow nodded, but Townsend’s absence hung unspoken between them. The four of them had been friends for as long as they could remember, spending dinners and playtimes and holidays together, because their parents were close friends. All of them were the oldest, the first-born sons, sharing the pressures of tutors, rules, and expectations for the future. They’d fallen out before, over little things, but they always came back together. This rift with Townsend went deeper. He’d up and left the country.

  “We’ll come to the Abbey, too,” Marlow promised. “When winter’s most bleak. We’ll try to bring Townsend if he comes home from France.”

  “Of course, if you like. If he wants to.”

  Nearly everyone had left the wedding luncheon by now. From the busy chatter of voices and congratulations, only quieter conversations remained. His friends would leave soon, too. They were searching for the words to excuse themselves. After that, it would be him and Ophelia, and an entire life to figure out together.

  “Just because it started badly...” Wescott paused, pulling at his cuffs. “Well, that doesn’t mean it will continue badly, does it? The lady will come around.”

  “How it starts means nothing,” said August. “It’s how you go on from here.”

  “I agree,” said Marlow. “The marriage will be what you make it. If she starts crying again in the bedroom tonight, just spank the tears out of her.”

  “That’s terrible advice.” August turned on Marlow. “We’re all miserable that Wescott’s married now, but we don’t want him to fail, because that would make everything even worse.”

  As if things could be worse. As August and Marlow started to bicker again, Wescott thought he’d already failed beyond repairing. When his friends took their leave, he crossed to his bride and reached for her hand, trying to ignore the coolness in her expression.

  “Lady Wescott,” he said. “What an extraordinary day it’s been.”

  “Indeed,” she agreed. “An extraordinary wedding day.”

  And it’s not over. He didn’t say it aloud, but surely she realized there was more to come. A wedding night, though she’d not come to his bed a virgin. He wondered if that would make it easier or harder to consummate this marriage of necessity.

  “Shall we take our leave?” he asked. “I’ll be pleased to escort you to your new home in town.”

  “If you wish, my lord.” She met his eyes just for a moment.

  “You needn’t ‘my lord’ me now that we’re married. You may call me Wescott, or Jack if you prefer.” He could see the name Jack reminded her of their illicit night together, and everything that had led them to now. He doubted she would ever call him by that name. “I’ll call you Ophelia,” he said when she didn’t answer, “and starting tonight, we shall try to make the best of things, my dear.”

  Chapter Six: Starting Tonight

  Ophelia lay in her new bed, wondering what would happen if she locked the door against her husband. Was she brave enough to do that?

  No. She’d avoided him as much as she could to this point, but her choices were at an end. She was married to Lord Wescott because he’d swept her away at the inn with his capable virility. He’d made her his marchioness, so she now outranked her parents and siblings, even as her dreams of novelty and adventure were ended. She would be a proper English wife to a proper English peer, and that would be her life forever after. She didn’t even know the man, not really, and here she was in his house.

  Her prison, more or less.

  She barely noted her surround
ings, although her new suite of rooms was luxuriously appointed with flowers and furnishings, and candles that barely smoked. The bed was soft and inviting, the fireplace warm, and the adjoining dressing room larger than her entire suite of rooms had been in Vienna. All her clothing and personal items had already been set out and organized by Lord Wescott’s bevy of efficient servants, so she might decide what must be packed for their journey to Oxfordshire.

  She had nothing to complain about, except that she’d been forced into a marriage she didn’t want, because he’d taken advantage of her so easily. He stripped her of her virtue like she was a mere plaything, so she must marry him and let go of her freedom, her singing career, and the chance to perform and travel. He’d taken away all her hopes and dreams. Just looking at him brought intense feelings of regret, anger, and shame. She wished he would not come to her, but he’d said that awful thing about starting tonight. Starting tonight, we shall make the best of things.

  It was the second time he’d said they would “make the best of things,” but she didn’t care for that sentiment. She would rather blame him and hate him, and mourn for all she’d lost. Now she would become exactly like her mother, stifling in a marriage she didn’t want to a man she’d never really loved.

  And that man had a lawful right to her body. Her mother had touched briefly on that topic, had told her she must perform her “marital duties” once she and the marquess were wed. Ophelia had hinted that she needed more information, but her mother’s lips had wrenched closed as soon as she spoke of it. “I would think you already know enough,” she’d said under her breath.

  Her mother and father had argued about her after the marquess came to offer marriage. She’d heard their shouting through the walls, and all the servants had, too. Her Mama said she’d “fallen” because she’d been too sheltered, and her father yelled she’d been too long away from polite society, off training at that “damned opera school.”

  But her music school had been strict and proper, her Viennese chaperones unbending in the pursuit of proper etiquette. She’d hardly had a chance to talk to the other girls, much less a gentleman of Lord Wescott’s age and experience. No one had ever spoken the slightest word of what a man might do to a woman after he comforted her from a nightmare. If they had, she might not be in this situation.

  Now she was fallen, and married, with everything in her life gone awry. When her husband knocked, she pulled the sheets and blankets up to her chin, her fine silken sleep gown tangling between her trembling legs. If she didn’t speak, perhaps he would go away.

  “Ophelia?”

  Of course he wouldn’t go away. His voice came through the door between their bedrooms, and then he appeared, tall and forbidding. Mr. Jack Drake, the Marquess of Wescott. Her husband. He walked toward her bed, clothed in a robe of dark, embossed silk. It made his hair look darker, his shoulders wider and more intimidating. His eyes moved over her huddled form.

  “Are you cold, Lady Wescott?”

  He used the new title to remind her they were married, that he had power over her. She felt threatened, and did not answer him. She wished there were more candles. She wished it wasn’t night.

  “What do you think of your new rooms?” he asked. “Of course, we’ll leave for the country soon, but this is my favorite house to use in the city. Have you settled in? Is the bed comfortable?”

  He sat on the edge of it, watching her, expecting an answer. She clenched her fingers on the blankets and managed a bleak, “Yes, my lord.”

  His lips curved in a taunting smile. “Come, Ophelia. You’re not afraid on your wedding night, are you? The one bright spot in this hasty marriage is that we’re known to one another, at least in this way. You can’t be afraid of something you’ve already experienced, and, I daresay, enjoyed.”

  Enjoyed? She’d barely known what he was about that night. Perhaps she’d found some pleasure at the end, but that was when she was caught in his spell, before she realized how very badly he’d behaved toward her.

  “So you want to do...that...again?” Now that she’d found her tongue, the question came out cloaked in bitterness.

  He made an impatient sound, tugging down the bed sheets. “It’s customarily done after a marriage. You can’t have children any other way. Do you like children, Ophelia?”

  “Would it matter if I didn’t?”

  He’d pulled the sheets down enough to reveal her chest and shoulders. Her sheer, beribboned nightgown had been purchased especially for her wedding night, but she felt like an imposter wearing it. She didn’t feel pretty, or wifely. She brought her hands up to shield her breasts, lest he see the pink tips of her nipples.

  “Don’t hide from me,” he said. “Why are you cross? You liked my touch enough the night of the fire.”

  “I don’t want to talk about the fire.” She scooted back from him, pulling the sheets with her. The rush of emotion startled her even as she blurted out her thoughts. “I hated the night of the fire and I’m ashamed of what you did to me. I never wanted to be married in this hurried, embarrassing fashion, by special license. I especially didn’t want to marry you.”

  “Is that so?” He held her gaze, his regard unsympathetic. “Then you ought to have stopped me when I nudged your thighs apart.”

  “I didn’t know what you were doing. How was I to know?”

  He sighed in irritation. “We can’t do anything about it now. Am I such an awful prospect? Women competed for my affections on the marriage market. Am I not handsome enough? Rich enough for your tastes?”

  “It has nothing to do with that.”

  “But you don’t wish to be married to me?”

  “No, I don’t. I don’t wish to be married at all.” To her horror, she burst into tears, her voice breaking as she tried to hold herself together. “I don’t think I can forgive you for what you did to me at the inn, or forgive myself. I feel so...so ashamed about everything.”

  He frowned at her tears, as if they made him angry. At the same time, he pulled her into his arms so firmly that she couldn’t resist him. He was warm, solid, but still, really, a stranger. It made her cry harder, even as he held her close.

  “You needn’t feel ashamed anymore, my little songbird,” he said. “I’ve made you an honest woman.”

  She hated that expression, an honest woman, and shuddered at the pet name, little songbird, which seemed kind and insulting at once. She tried to push away from him, but he wouldn’t let her. Now that she’d begun crying, the tears gushed out of her, along with all the feelings she’d tried to keep at bay.

  “I don’t like that I am one of those women,” she sobbed.

  “You aren’t. By God, I wish you wouldn’t feel that way. We’re married. You’re my wife.”

  “But I don’t want to be your wife. I don’t want to be anyone’s wife, not after all of this. I should have told you who I was that night,” she cried, hating the fear she felt. “You should have told me who you were.”

  “But I didn’t, and you didn’t, and here we are. My dear girl, what shall we do with all this guilt and angst?” He tilted her head up, forcing her to look at him. “Would it help if I punished you for what you did?”

  She blinked into his wide, green eyes. “If you punished me?”

  “Yes. If your guilt is so great you can’t get past it, it doesn’t bode well for our marriage or our intimate life. I believe the best solution is for me to punish you for your perceived transgressions at the inn, so you can forgive yourself, as I have. A good spanking should do the trick.”

  He looked bigger and scarier than ever, saying those words.

  “A spanking?” she said, trying again to pull away. “I don’t want you to spank me. I wouldn’t like that at all.”

  “That’s the point,” he said, terrifyingly sure of himself. “A proper spanking, one that hurts you to an adequate degree, will allow you to express true remorse. And once you’ve paid that price for your bad behavior, both of us will be able to move on.”

 
Move on? To what? Her marital duties, which he clearly intended to demand of her? She shook her head. “No. I don’t like that idea.”

  “Well, I do. It’s rather late to cut a switch or fix a birch rod. Come with me.” Before she knew what he was up to, he’d plucked her from her bed and walked her toward her dressing room. “I’m sure you’ve an adequate hairbrush we can use.”

  “A hairbrush? Lord Wescott!” She should have resisted, or dragged her feet or something, but that seemed childish, and he surely didn’t mean to...

  “Ah, this will work.” He lifted the largest wooden hairbrush from her dressing room table and sat in the chair. “Come, lie over my lap.”

  With those words, he tugged her over to him and bent her across his knees. She resisted now, shocked by this turn of events. He couldn’t truly intend to spank her. Girls had been disciplined with the occasional cane stroke or two at the music school, girls who tested the rules, but never her. “My lord, please,” she said, struggling to right herself. “You can’t do this.”

  “As your husband, I can do it. In fact, it’s my duty.” He held her easily, for he was so much larger and stronger. “You’ll feel much better when you’ve been properly spanked.”

  With those words, he lifted the hem of her nightgown, folding it above her waist. Her face flooded with heat. She couldn’t believe he was doing this. She pressed her thighs together, too humiliated now to try to squirm away. The marquess circled her waist with one arm, then brought the flat, polished side of the hairbrush to her bottom with a sharp, crisp thwack.

  Ouch. Oh, no. She reared across his lap, because it hurt even more than she’d imagined it would. A hot, throbbing ache suffused her arse cheeks, and then another blow fell, and another, one on top of the other like molten rain.

  “Oh, please, my lord, that’s enough.”

  “Enough?” He scoffed. “I’ve just begun, and I’m hardly using my strength.” He said this conversationally, even as the spanking continued.

  “Please, Wescott, it hurts so much.” She jerked about without even meaning to, until he was forced to tighten his arm around her middle. “Ow, it hurts, it hurts.”