"My father will see you dead. He has never struck me." She twisted to look over her shoulder and he winced at the vehemence and rage in her expression. Still, once begun…
"Perhaps, if he had, I would not need to. You require the firm hand of a strong man in your life." As he raised the paddle again, the door opened behind him.
"And perhaps she does."
William dropped the paddle, and Marguerite scrambled upright and raced to her father.
No one spoke for a long moment, while William wondered what would happen now. Marguerite sobbed in her father's arms—while William had been charged with teaching her to behave, what would the man think, coming upon him actually applying discipline to his daughter's backside? The inappropriateness struck him now, as it probably should have before he did this.
"Sir, I— I didn't mean…"
Stokes set Marguerite away from him. "Daughter, wait in the hallway. I must speak with Melton here."
She flashed him a triumphant smile, entirely without the woe she'd been pouring forth onto her father's waistcoat. "Of course, Father." She wiped her eyes and tilted her head up to him with adoration in her gaze. "I trust I shall no longer be a student at this place after such a display."
He turned her toward the door. "I trust you are right. Outside now, daughter. I shall join you soon."
Marguerite stumbled out to sit on a long wooden bench in the corridor. A little girl with big eyes already waited there, staring straight ahead, swinging her legs, her stockings falling over her shoes and blonde pigtails askew.
"What did you do, lady?"
Marguerite beheld the pipsqueak from the kitchen and, despite her own troubles, fought a smile. "Oh, many things, I imagine. But weren't you already punished?" She'd spent a good deal of time kicking her own heels outside Miss Pomeroy's office at that age. The imp glanced up at her again, a flash of fire in her eyes.
"I didn't do nothing. It was that Suzanna Mae."
The murmur of male voices from inside the office caught her attention, but, although she leaned close to the door, she couldn't make out exactly what they were saying. Distracted, she asked, "What did Suzanna Mae say that got you in trouble?"
The girl faced her full on, and Marguerite gasped.
"What happened to your eye?" Her pretty face was marred by a bruised swelling under one big blue orb.
"Suzanna Mae."
The voices went on, with no indication they would stop anytime soon, a steady back and forth marked by the occasional rise in pitch. Her father would deal with the arrogant fool who dared to lay a hand on Marguerite Stokes—and in such a humiliating way. She settled in to wait, resting her back against the wall. "I… Caroline, isn't it?"
"Caroline Hanrahan."
"Caroline, maybe you'd better tell me the whole story. Why did Suzanna Mae hit you?"
As two arrogant men discussed her without the courtesy of allowing her to be present, Marguerite listened to the tale of the evil Suzanna who said "mean things" and forced Caroline to hit her. Then the unpleasant creature had the nerve to hit back. Lost in the tale, when the door opened and Mr. Melton beckoned her inside, Marguerite was surprised to realize she'd forgotten all about them while engaged by the story-telling talents of Caroline Hanrahan.
"Daughter, please be seated." Her father's serious tone frightened her. What could they have discussed that would make him sound so? And Mr. Melton's complexion was pale, under his beard. His dark eyes stood out in his face, as if he'd been ill.
"Father, I am sorry I—"
"It doesn't matter anymore. William has shared with me how impossible you were in the classroom and has convinced me that you are, indeed, as you insisted, an adult, and too grown to be a student."
A wave of relief flashed through her, and the future once again gleamed. "Oh, that's wonderful." Now he would allow her to return to Boston and find a husband, perhaps even make that trip to the Continent she dreamed of. Maybe she would meet a duke and marry him and…
"Mr. Melton has consented to marry you."
The words came through slowly, piercing the glowing future with a whistling release of air. She played them over in her head, hoping to have misheard. "He… what?"
"You will wed him one week from Saturday. I wanted to make it sooner, but he pointed out that you would want to make some plans, invite guests to a reception of sorts."
"Guests? Who would I invite? The cream of this benighted town's society to see me marry a schoolmaster? I'd sooner die!" Marguerite leapt to her feet, too fast, and the world spun before her eyes, then went black. As she sank to the floor, she wondered if she could escape her father's plans in death.
Chapter Five
William packed his clothing and other items in a satchel. He would no longer dwell at the school. One of the dowry items bestowed upon them by the happy father of the bride was the loan of a two-story house on the next street over from the mansion. He wasn't sure why he'd accepted the man's offer of his daughter's hand. He didn't love her, certainly didn't like her—all he had was some vague idea that he was recovering a share of what had been stolen from his father. And his cock hardened in his pants every time he got within sight of her. But sex could be had on any street in town, day or night.
And by having possession of the man's treasure—despite his anger and inability to handle Marguerite, he'd made it clear she was his heart—William put himself in the best position to cause Stokes misery.
And it didn't hurt that she was beautiful. Smart, clever, and elegant—when she wasn't shrieking at someone. He tried not to think about having to live with her for the rest of his life if she continued to hold such a low opinion of him. A schoolmaster, indeed. Well… he was. But only because his birthright had been stripped from him by his bride-to-be's evil parent. He'd learned of his father's downfall on the way home after completing his education at Oxford. Rather than returning to take up his role in his father's business, William had been forced to take the position as headmaster at the new academy for children like he had once been. Privileged, wealthy, and indulged.
All qualities that described his soon-to-be wife.
Along with shrewish, demanding, and, on occasion, shrill.
Folding a shirt, he thrust it into the bag and fastened the strap. Little enough to take to his home. He feared that his new life, although it was the one he'd been born to, would be overwhelming.
The terms of his agreement with Stokes were simple. The man wanted the genteel, kind daughter he had expected—one with all her late mother's better traits—and not the fishwife who had arrived. Once that change had been effected, William would receive a sum equal to half the man's holdings. Half! Exactly the amount rightfully his. The only problem was making life bearable in the meantime.
He sat on the side of his bed and surveyed the bare room he'd called home for three years. Only a framed tintype of their family brightened the space, and he lifted it down and gazed into his mother's sweet face. His father, looking stern in the photograph, had chosen a woman who offered her heart to him and to their son. She'd never spoken a harsh word in her life, even her dying words had been of love and support to him.
He, a youth already towering over his parents, wore a solemn expression in the picture, as if he knew things would change. When the photo was made they'd lived in a house as big as Stokes', with all the luxuries Virginia City could offer. What a difference ten years made
"Mother, how can I make a marriage from this mess? I cannot turn down my inheritance, but it comes with such a high price. You married Father for love, not for money. I hope I am making the right decision, but how else can I recover what was taken from us?" Turning down the bed, he slipped under the sheet, then stood again and blew out the lamp. Back in bed, he closed his eyes and pictured his bride. He'd last seen her in his office, where she'd done everything but spit in his face.
If he didn't gain control of the situation and quickly, he was not only going to lose his inheritance, again, he was also going to spend his life
in this single room, with a woman who spent every moment of her day looking for ways to make him unhappy.
God above, could it be worth taking the chance?
He closed his eyes again and sought rest. But her face swam in his mind, her cheeks smooth and rosy, and her eyes the color of Lake Tahoe, where he'd fled after his mother's death only months after his father's.
William had only returned for revenge.
Marguerite wore her hair in a softer style than most of the women he saw in town, it was a pale blonde, almost silver, and he itched to pull the pins out and let it spill over her shoulders.
Naked shoulders. Unbuttoning that long row on the front of her dress to expose her to his gaze. The lace at the top of her collar gliding away. Slipping the fabric down and urging her to brace herself on him to step out of its heavy folds.
He especially liked the shirtwaists, like the one she had worn when he paddled her, fitted to her high breasts and waist he could span with his hands. Underneath she'd have a corset. Women seemed to love them, and thinking of her bound tight by it brought his cock to full attention. Although he'd spanked across her thighs, beneath the bustle, with all the garments she wore he'd caused her no discomfort whatsoever, but he had no qualms about lifting the skirts of his wife.
None whatsoever.
Pushing the sheet back, he gripped it in his fist and squeezed.
He would trail kisses down her throat and suck on her collarbone, then slide her shift off her shoulders to bare them completely.
Gliding his hand over the head of his aching cock, he smeared the precum over it and stroked.
Her breasts.
Riding high over the top of the corset. Nipples barely covered.
But he could take care of that.
With her pale skin, what color would her nipples be? Rosy, like ripe raspberries, he thought, mouth watering, hand stroking harder. Faster. They would be sweet, like the berries they resembled, when he sucked them into his mouth and rolled them around, flicking them and finally biting down.
She would jump and squirm in pleasure and a little pain—would she like the pain? He enjoyed inflicting a little, when the woman was onboard with it.
His balls tightened, his cock vibrated. So close.
Anxious to see if she was the woman he thought she was, he mentally lifted her shift and cupped her between her legs. Soft, swollen, and moist. Waiting for him. He nipped her nipple again, and she moaned.
His cock jerked and he sped up.
Releasing her breast, he pushed her onto her back on the bed—this bed—and flipped her shift up the rest of the way. The slit in her pantalets wasn't enough so he tore the thin cotton and smacked her bare ass, one cheek then the next, loving the slap of his palm on her soft skin, her groans and moans. He buried his face in her wet, warm pussy.
She shrieked.
He groaned and pumped harder and faster as the semen shot out of his cock and sprayed his stomach, his balls contracting, and thighs in spasm.
God, she was an amazing lay, and he hadn't even touched her yet.
Maybe marriage could work out.
If he handled her right.
And if he did, he could get what was his and take away what her father loved best. Take her to Boston, where she wanted to go anyway. Or Europe. China. The farther the better, where Stokes would never have the opportunity to meet his grandchildren.
Revenge would be sweet. Almost as sweet as Marguerite's ass.
Smiling, he turned on his side and dragged the covers up. The bed would be messy from his sperm.
But that was okay.
His new bride would set up housekeeping soon enough. She would be very surprised where.
Marguerite buried her face in her pillow and fumed. She muttered curses she'd only heard from the lowest of passers-by, and wished both her father and her fiancé into the deepest pits of Hell before morning. Fiancé! Father had indeed declared her an adult—but rather than allow her to make her own choices, he'd exercised the power of the coin to force her into marrying that loathsome, bossy schoolmaster. This time tomorrow she would be Mrs… Mrs. William Melton of Virginia City. Dear God, could there be a worse fate?
She flipped onto her back and stared at the ornate ceiling. Although her room held no light, flickering shadows cast across her walls as the denizens of the misbegotten town caroused. Laughter, shouts and the occasional burst of gunfire would continue until dawn but it no longer mattered. Nothing did.
She'd already broken every piece of glassware in the parlor, and all but two of the lamps in her father's den, while trying to convince him to change his mind. Somehow, it hadn't worked. No matter how loud she became, how many things she threw, even when she cried—he held firm. Insisted that a strong husband would help her learn to control herself. And ducked when she flung a volume of Shakespeare at him.
"My dear, I wasn't around to discipline you when you needed it—and it is apparent your mother neglected to share your proclivity to tempers with me. My late, beloved wife must have sought to spare me the distress while I was far away."
"If you loved Mother, why did you abandon us in Boston?" All the sadness of the child who had watched her father climb on the train, the loneliness for his presence, the anger that he never came back, rushed to the surface. "You didn't love her. You didn't love me. You lie!" She shrieked and grasped another book, big and heavy, but as she hefted it over her head, he approached and stilled her hand.
"Not the Bible, daughter. Temper is one thing but that could hurt someone." He set the book gently on the desk and wrapped his arms around her, pinning hers at her sides. "Your mother and I had a rather unique marriage. It was far from perfect, but we loved each other. Once day maybe you'll understand, or I can try to explain." She struggled and stood stiff in his embrace, mind racing.
"Father, please don't make me do this. I will be good. I promise."
He stroked her hair and tipped her chin up. "Since you've been here, you haven't been at all good. But you're a woman grown and in a few days will be wed. I suggest you plan your outfit for that special day."
She'd given up then, and shuffled off to her bedroom to lie on the bed in miserable silence for a full twenty-four hours. She hadn't the energy to do more than stare at the elaborate ceiling moldings and weep until her eyes were sore and no more tears remained.
Footsteps clattered along the sidewalk below and a woman laughed. A low voice murmured in response and Marguerite slipped from her bed and padded to the window to peer out. Heads close together, the pair stumbled along the street, inebriated, twined together. But free—they were free, weren't they? Making their own choices in life. That woman's father did not control her life, nor did some odious husband. The bobbing feathers in her hair and garish ensemble identified her as a saloon girl.
If Marguerite refused her father's will, if she did not show up in the morning for her "wedding," she would have few choices. Saloon girl was one. But she had a terrible singing voice, couldn't play the tinkling type of music emanating from the swinging doors on the main streets… and even a gently educated woman knew that more was expected of a woman who worked in such an establishment. She would have to open her legs to any man with the money in his pockets to pay for her. No.
The other possibility was to somehow get together the funds to return to civilization on her own and take up a position at a finishing school such as Miss Pomeroy's. But the life of a spinster schoolteacher would confine her to the life of one, the high morals that allowed no man to come near. She wouldn't be able to wear beautiful clothes and dance in the ballrooms of Boston. She would be expected to sit and read, tutor pupils, perhaps do some needlework in her spare time. An ironically unappealing life. Why should a woman have to choose between being a wife and sharing the science and languages she loved with a new generation?
But if she were to defy her father and take up employment in the town below her window…. Would she be the toast of the frontier outpost? Would the men flock to her side, beggi
ng for her charms? She suspected not. The bar owners would not hire a woman with standards. How many men would she be required to take to her bed each night?
The thought horrified and fascinated her.
Would they also spank her if she did not please them? As the husband on the train had done… and the man who would remain nameless, her husband to be, had almost a week before? Remembering, she squirmed a little. His hand had been so hard, his grip so firm.
Her bottom was no longer sore but it had been for a couple of days, reminding her of him. She imagined being pinned to his desk, legs kicking while he brought his palm down on her fanny again and again. Grasping a handful of fabric, she pulled up her gown and slipped her fingers inside the slit in her pantalets. Moist heat met her touch and she paused there, remembering the edge of the desk pressing into her belly as he'd held her there. Should she be so damp at the thought? Touching herself was not new, but the fluid leaking between her fingers was. The puffiness under her palm. No man had been near her womanly parts, but she knew that a few strong strokes of her hand brought pleasure. Would the marital act perhaps hold some as well? The whispers of her newly-married schoolmates gave conflicting reports. Some said yes, many said the man took his pleasure and then fell asleep, often atop them, making breathing difficult.
But what if he'd first had her over his lap, applying stinging slaps that roused her to this wetness? She rubbed circles over the little bump at the front, remembering the controlled power behind his spanking, the firm tone of his voice. Slipping a finger inside, she stroked in and out, stopped by the blockage that was her hymen. That was her husband's right to pierce. All of her friends agreed that it hurt, great pain that left bloodstains on the sheets.
Returning to the slit, she circled again, rising higher, images of the husband and wife on the train, the sting of Mr. Melton's hand… the… "Ohh, ohhhh." She bucked against her palm and panted out her pleasure. Withdrawing from her underclothing, she lowered her gown and smiled. What woman needed a man when she could take care of her tender achings herself?
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