Man and Wife: A Sweet Historical Love Story

by Carolyn Faulkner

  Just as he had seen uncertainty and fear in her eyes before, so now could he see a kind of hope in them that he was telling the truth, because she surely knew that he expected her to obey him, regardless.

  When he was just about to turn her resolutely onto her stomach to spank her again, he, instead, saw her knees separating.

  He didn't require that they be in separate counties. It was an incredible victory that she was doing it at all. She was obeying him, and doing something that he knew went directly against her moral code.

  Perhaps he had a budding hedonist on his hands.

  He could only hope.

  "Very good. I'm very proud of you for doing that. I know it couldn't have been easy. But you can trust what I say, Mari. You'll find that out as you get to know me, but I just want to say it."

  His hand, when he laid it on top of that delicious valley, covered her from the top of her slit to the pucker of her bottom hole. She started beneath his touch but he didn't acknowledge it in any way. Indeed, he would have been surprised if she hadn't.

  But when he slipped two fingers between lips that he was very gratified to feel were more than a bit puffy—despite—or, did he dare hope—because—of her spanking, she began to fight him again in earnest.

  "Please—Con—no—don't—you can't…"

  He simply lay those two fingers down within her groove, not moving them—yet—to advance or retreat—as he spoke to her in a calm, soothing and, what he hoped she would come to think of as a firmly reassuring, manner. "That's where you're wrong, Marielle. I am your husband. Your body belongs to me, to use as I see fit. I doubt you'd be able to find anyone—even in this so-called enlightened day and age—who would disagree with me about that. I am never going to be one of those husbands who agrees to have you only on his birthday and Christmas. I'm going to be the kind of husband who is always after you—who will pull you into a hidden alcove at Lord and Lady Canarvon's annual masked ball and fondle you—just like this, my hand covering your luscious quim. I'm the kind of husband who will do the same thing, only I'll spank you, if you've done something that I think deserves it, and, in both cases, you're going to have to try to control your screams unless you want everyone at the ball to know what your husband is doing to you."

  Con began to wiggle just the tips of those fingers, which had landed right where he wanted them—at the virginal entrance to her body, and he was completely elated when he realized that they were rapidly growing wetter.

  He had carefully packed a small snuffbox full of slippery stuff in case it was needed, but now he didn't think it was going to be, and he felt like howling at his good fortune.

  Instead, he kept himself strictly under control, bathing those digits generously in her tribute then gliding them up to split them around her clit, careful not to touch it.

  Yet.

  But there it was—the response he'd been hoping for—the arched back, the hips she was desperately trying not to raise to praise against his hand, the sharp, choked intake of breath.

  He nearly lost control of himself, right then and there.

  "Now," he breathed, leaning even further over her, "I'm going to touch a place on your beautiful body that's probably never been touched before, and it's going to feel very, very good. And I'm going to continue to touch it, because at the end of my touching is an even better feeling. I know I'm asking a lot, but please try to trust me to do this. There's nothing to be afraid of, and what's going to happen is entirely natural and good for you—and for me," he confessed, although he didn't think she could yet recognize its import. "It will not hurt, in fact, it's going to feel so good, you probably won't be happy about liking it, at first—but that'll fade quickly, I promise."

  Arming himself with even more of her juices, he finally claimed that little bit of flesh, placing three fingers on and around her, wanting to stimulate as much of her as he could, all at the same time. He had a good feeling about this—he thought she was very naturally sensual, and he intended to show her just how wonderful he could make her feel.

  And, if her responses so far were anything to judge by, he didn't think this was going to take very long.

  He was right.

  But she began, almost immediately, to ask him not to do what he was determined to do, in such an unexpectedly sweet yet breathless voice—his own iron control was placed in further doubt. If there was one thing he enjoyed doing, it was bringing a reluctant young woman to pleasure while she was begging him not to.

  "Con—no—please- I—uhh—no—mmm—stop—don't do this, pl-uh-eeee-mmm-se!"

  He didn't respond to her pleas in any way—to encourage or discourage her. He simply went about doing exactly what he'd told her he was going to do, moving those rough tipped fingers up and over that swollen bud. Sometimes up and down, sometimes side-to-side until he determined by the frequency and volume of her cries that she was a side-to-side girl, and then he settled into that rhythm, although not in any kind of a hurried way.

  He also had a teasing side, although he wasn't deliberately trying to do that to her this time. He just wanted her to get the full effect, so his movements were not so much goal oriented, as they were slow and deliberate, building layer upon layer of sensation from which there would be no escape.

  She was so innocent that there was no artifice about her at all in this situation—she had no experience, no ability to cloak or hide what she was feeling from him. It all came out in her body language, in the quickly escalating tone of her groveling, and the deep, pleasured groans she couldn't stop herself from issuing.

  When her head began to rock back and forth on his bicep, he knew she was very close.

  "That's it," he praised softly, finding that encouragement sometimes added to a woman's experience in varying ways. Some liked it for what it was—simple praise and acknowledgement. Some felt a bit humiliated by it, and liked that kind of thing, so it added to their experience. He wasn't sure which one she was yet, but he intended to find out. "There's nothing you can do to stop what's going to happen to you—what I'm making you do. I want you to just let it happen and not fight against it"

  "No! Please!" She was panting so hard and fast that she could barely get the words out. Something uncontrollable was building within her, and despite her husband's reassurances that it was nothing to be afraid of, she felt more than a tinge of apprehension, which she was horrified to realize only seemed to contribute to and amplify the strange feelings he was evoking within her. "Not—right—Con—No! Please!"

  As hard as she tried to hold it back, the tidal wave sluiced through her being, from her hair to the tips of her pinky toes, causing her to buck and writhe and move and moan in animalistic ways that made her feel terribly embarrassed, which, perversely, also only seemed to add to the overall feelings he was subjecting her to.

  Out of curiosity, Con didn't stop right then and there, as he usually did with a woman who was as innocent as Mari was. But he was curious about something, and he had a kind of bet with himself that he won as he continued to stimulate her—easing off a bit in consideration of the fact that she had to be highly sensitive, but still almost demanding another response from her.

  And he got it—in fact, his efforts yielded two more orgasms.

  He could barely believe it and wanted to try for more, but then he decided that he wouldn't do that as he had been thinking he might wait until they got to the hotel they were staying in. Instead, he held her tight, although unlike most of the women he'd known, she didn't seem much interested in being cuddled after a few moments, as if, once she'd gotten back to Earth, she realized where she was and who she was with and didn't want to deal with the reality of it.

  Her rejection—the way she actively tried to push him away—hurt him more than he wanted it to, turning his mood to a much sourer note than it had been all day, and because of which, he decided he would indulge himself in his new wife right here, right now.

  As much as he had wanted them both to be gloriously nude the first time, desp
ite what he knew would be her protests about that, and in more luxurious surroundings, he found himself fumbling with his pants just enough to expose himself, rolling towards her, his throbbing, aching erection seeking her warmth.

  Just as he was about to claim her for the first time, hips poised to thrust, they both heard a knock on the door.

  "We're nearly there, Con—Your Grace."

  Lawson, damn him to hell!

  "You'd best be getting your breeches on and see to your lovely wife some other time."

  The old bastard went away snickering at their expense.

  Con couldn't believe his bad timing, collapsing onto the bed next to Mari while his cock strained and bobbed, seeking that which she quickly closed to him, getting herself all put together again in a matter of seconds, even without the assistance of her formidable maid.

  All Con could do was lie there and think of England, hoping that would help him get his situation under control.

  It didn't, any more than he thought it would have for her to have done the same thing.

  A few moments later, he grabbed her arm and growled, "Let's go, damn it."

  Mari had no idea what she'd done to put him in such a foul mood. She was the one with a bottom that rubbed against the cotton of her under drawers, reminding her with each step that she was now married to a man who wouldn't hesitate to punish her in a manner that most people would have reserved for their five-year-old child. But then her body would contract again in a dull yet still ecstatic reminder of what he had wrought within her, and she would remember that she was his, how he'd touched her, how out of control she'd felt beneath his hand and how terrifyingly amazing the experience had been.

  Con made it up the stairs with her, glowering darkly at everyone he met as they fawned all over his woman, tipping their hats at her and grinning as if butter wouldn't melt in their mouths, and she was smiling right back at them like she'd never smiled at him, sopping up every bit of it.

  He didn't know what got into him at the moment, but he let his sexual frustrations—which were all his own fault—and her reactions to the crew eat at him when he shouldn't have. And, as he was escorting her across the deck, past men who were bowing at her as if she was a Princess Royal as they undressed her with their eyes, he bent his mouth to her ear and muttered something he regretted almost as soon as he said it.

  "You do realize that every one of the men on the ship—including those who are playing the gentleman with you and making you nearly swoon with it—heard every sound you uttered when you were crying and whimpering and begging me to stop spanking you. They recognized the loud crack of a hand against a rounded cheek, and then they were also treated to the sounds of you pleading with me again not to pleasure you—and they all also recognized it when I didn't heed your pleas, then, either."

  The completely stricken look on her face made him feel more ashamed of himself than he had in ages. It was entirely uncalled for, and a product of his own annoyance that he should never have taken out on her in such a crude way.

  But there was no time to apologize. They stood together at the railing as the captain docked the big ship as if it was no more trouble beneath him than a fractious stallion. Con herded a reluctant Mari to Lawson's side to say goodbye, although Mari barely looked at him—in fact, she was barely looking at anyone, including her husband, again.

  As they made their way down the gangway, though, her head came up as though she might have spotted someone in the crowd, although she made no other indication of it. His coach was not there to greet them as it should have been, and he was a bit preoccupied trying to procure another one. When he turned back to her with a solution, she was gone; the only trace that she had been there the remains of her enticing perfume wafting in the fetid air.

  Mari was sure that she had seen Evan in the crowd. She didn't know how or why, but she couldn't stop herself from running after him. What if he'd followed her here and was prepared to take her away from the duke, and they would run away together to live out their lives with just the love they had between them to keep them warm...

  But when she got to where she thought he had been—in the middle of a bustling street—he was nowhere to be found, and no amount of wandering around, anxiously scanning the area around her, helped produce him.

  What she got rather than her darling Evan was her not so darling husband, who bore down on her like Sherman on Atlanta, the scowl he'd been wearing since they'd left their cabin even fiercer and darker than before.

  She could run away—but she doubted she'd get more than two steps before he had her. So she stayed put.

  "I thought I saw…" What was she going to tell him? The man I love? The man I wanted to marry instead of you?

  Con could see her heart in her eyes and knew immediately whom it was that she had thought she'd seen. "Holyoake," he spat out. "You thought you'd seen Holyoake, so you ran alone and mindless into the crowd on the docks at Calais. Do you even know your way back to the ship?"

  She didn't want to answer that question. She'd been so concentrated on her goal that she hadn't much paid attention to the directions in which she'd run.

  That arm was around her waist again, the one that clamped her to his side, leaving her no wiggle room whatsoever.

  "Kindly try to remember to whom it is that you are married, Madame, as well as the fact that these docks are no place for a lone woman to go roaming around. You'd find the way I treat you to be quite tender in comparison to every man down here—if you lived that long. All of the men and ninety-nine percent of the women would cut your throat for your shoes alone, much less the gems that are hanging from your ears and around your foolish neck." Con felt her shudder hard, ignoring the impulse that rose in him to comfort her, and encouraging the feeling that the fear was a good thing—it—and the punishment he was going to give her the moment they were alone in their hotel room in Paris—might just keep her alive.

  As they were walking back to where they had been standing, a huge carriage pulled up and a man in red, blue and gold livery jumped down. "Your Grace. I apologize for being late…"

  But Con interrupted him. "I don't want to hear your excuses. Just be happy it would be hard to replace you at the moment."

  Once again, she found herself in close confines with him, only this time, they hadn't just gotten married. She had just run off into the crowd after a man other than him, endangering herself and his good name, for nothing.

  "I'm sorry," she said into the silence, swallowing hard. "I didn't think. I won't do it again."

  "Oh, my dear, you can bet that I am going to see to it that you most definitely will not, and in a manner that is going to make your spanking this afternoon seem like a gentle breeze.

  Chapter 5

  There was another knock at their door, this time heralding the arrival of her dinner. She was eating—alone, again, for so many nights in a row that she preferred not to count them—in their gorgeous rooms at the Ritz, her husband apparently favoring the company of his business partners to hers.

  Mari stared at the food—prepared by the world famous chef, Escoffier, as it was—but it might as well have been pig slop for all she cared about it.

  Things were no better between her and her husband than they had been weeks ago when he'd caught her trying to run away from him and into the waiting arms of an, apparently, non-existent man. They were better in one way, but not one she wanted to think about, although it dominated her mind all day while she was left with nothing to do but to await—with a piquant mixture of dread and anticipation—his return. And it—and he—certainly dominated her nights.

  Sometimes, practically in self-defense, she dwelt in her mind on the days before their wedding. When she was still an innocent, when she had no idea what he could do to devastate her without lifting a finger to hurt her, although their first meeting brought more harbingers of the discipline he doled out with frightening generosity rather than the exquisite ecstasy he subjected her to even more often.

  It was her
parents' Spring Madness ball; one that everyone who was anyone simply had to attend. The huge house was full of guests, spilling out of all three floors and onto the tastefully appointed patio and even the manicured lawns. There was dancing in the ballroom, refreshments in the hall adjacent. She knew that her brother was—of course—playing poker in one of the card rooms her mother had set up to keep the men—most of them younger—amused and present, rather than making the necessary appearance then drifting quickly away to their club to do what she could—and did—offer them right there.

  She'd even gone so far as to hire in pretty maids to serve the gentlemen refreshments, right at the tables. Marielle knew that she would have turned the place into a full-blown casino if it had kept eligible bachelors at her party for anxious mothers of debutants—and wallflowers alike—to throw their daughters at.

  But Mari blithely wasn't interested in any of that. She wasn't even concerned—as she often wasn't, at events like this—that her beloved's eye might stray away from her. They were officially betrothed, so that was unlikely. Still, she'd listened to her friends complain about someone or other who had stolen their beau enough to realize that it wasn't necessarily impossible, either.

  She had bigger fish to fry this evening, though, which was why she could be found at the back of the much less populated second floor, wandering back and forth—as inconspicuously as possible, which really wasn't possible—in front of the massive oak door to her father's study. Normally, Mari couldn't be found within a mile of the place. She thought she'd been in her father's study a total of about three times in her life. All three times when he had tried—unsuccessfully—to call her on the carpet about something outrageous that she'd done—one of which was to have pushed the groundskeeper—who she thought had overstepped his bounds by cautioning her to be careful around the duck pond—into it, clothes and all.

  The other incidents weren't worth remembering, and it wasn't as if anything ever came of it. Her mother wouldn't allow anyone to discipline them or curb their behavior in any way, and so she had simply stood there and let her father ramble on while she replayed in her mind the delightful sight of the helpless, flailing man as his arms pin wheeled and he fell backwards into the lily pad and reed filled water.