i beae453328863969

by Unknown

  Your lessons will begin tomorrow.

  With a gasp, she looked around the room.

  It was true. She was a prisoner of The Disciplinarian, locked up in one of his bedrooms. It hadn’t been just a bad dream.

  She jerked back the covers and felt herself blush scarlet. She had spent the night in the scandalous negligee he had provided!

  With a mortified cry, she pulled the covers up over her head and collapsed back onto the pillow, but the smell of the chocolate was too tempting to ignore.

  She poked her head from under the damask spread and saw the serving tray at the side of her bed. Hot chocolate in a cup. A plate of delicately shirred eggs. Thin toast with a pot of butter.

  Her stomach grumbled.

  She sat up and looked around. The bedroom door was closed.

  Who had delivered the tray? Soames? The Disciplinarian himself?

  Had they seen her state of undress? As soon as she was finished with her meal, she would immediately dress again in her sensible clothes.

  She propped the pillows behind her back and pulled the tray closer.

  A sip of the delicious, rich chocolate helped to settle her nerves.

  The Disciplinarian had said he wouldn’t be back until supper. For whatever reason, she believed him, so she felt she was safe for the moment.

  She finished the chocolate before starting on the eggs, which were cooked to perfection. The toast was standing in a rack, to prevent it from getting soggy—a nice, elegant touch. She stared thoughtfully at the butter knife, but its blunt edge made her reject it as a potential weapon.

  Besides, The Disciplinarian would surely check for it as soon as the tray was collected.

  Once she had finished every crumb on the plate, she leaned back with a sigh. The meal had been delicious, the bed decadently comfy with its down-filled pillows and fine-woven sheets. So what was The Disciplinarian’s strategy? To kill her with kindness? To lull her into a false sense of security before lowering the boom and beginning her painful lessons?

  Whatever his plan, he wouldn’t find a willing partner in her.

  It was time to dress; time to gird herself against whatever the day might bring. She knew she’d feel more confident, protected even, once she had her corset and serviceable gray carriage gown back on. She glanced over at the chair by the dressing table and frowned. She could have sworn she’d left her gown and undergarments there last night.

  She pushed aside the bedspread and stood up. She walked

  around to the foot of the bed, but her clothing was nowhere to be seen either on the rug or on the floor. In growing panic, she looked back toward the dressing table. Her hat, gloves and reticule were missing as well.

  Unable to believe what her eyes were telling her, she flew to the armoire and threw open the doors, hoping against hope that Soames might have simply thought it was his duty to hang up her clothing when he’d come to deliver her breakfast.

  The closet was bare.

  She looked down in horror at the flimsy blue night rail that barely covered her body.

  The Disciplinarian had tricked her!

  She wanted to shout her outrage, no, she would shout her outrage, damn him! She flew to the door of her room and rattled the knob, then banged on the door with both fists. She shouted first for The Disciplinarian—using every unsavory name in her vocabulary—then, when her efforts went unanswered, she called stridently for Soames.

  She yelled until she was hoarse, but no one came.

  Finally exhausted, her rage spent, she dragged herself back to the bed and sat on the edge.

  So this is how it starts.

  He was deliberately putting her at a disadvantage. Making her feel vulnerable. Taking away even the false sense of comfort she might feel under the layers of her proper, protective clothing.

  Or did he simply want to see her in this gown?

  That thought gave her pause. He’d obviously wanted her to wear this. He had made such a point of mentioning the gown, made such a to-do of helping her unbutton and unlace herself last night, even if he had hidden his true motives behind a façade of trying to be helpful.

  What a delicious fantasy to consider, even for a brief moment, that the darkly handsome Disciplinarian might think her attractive.

  She thought back to his muscled calves pressing intimately against her soft thighs in the carriage yesterday. Maybe that hadn’t been an accident after all?

  But no.

  With no other weapon, she needed her anger to use against him.

  It was far safer to believe he had manipulated her into this gown to suit his own ends, and she knew she would discover exactly what those ends were at supper.

  Your lessons will begin tomorrow.

  How late had she slept? There was no clock in the room, another subtle strategy meant to disorient her, she was sure. She went to the window and threw up the sash. The sun was up; the birds were singing loudly. It looked to be mid-morning.

  She would have hours to sit and dwell on The Disciplinarian’s possible plans for her, to let her imagination run wild.

  It was another way for him to strike fear into her.

  Well, she wouldn’t let him do it. She refused to dissolve into a quivering mass of nerves. She had to somehow take her mind off of what the day might bring. Her eyes went immediately to the bookshelves, where she scanned row after row, amazed once again at the broad range of subject matter, the interesting and diverse topics. Her index finger ran along the spines of the books and stopped at a vaguely familiar one: Jane Eyre, by a writer called Currer Bell.

  She carried it to a far window, settled herself in the padded window seat, and opened the book.

  ***

  Jared rode his horse hard, putting a good distance between

  himself and Rose Cottage. He knew he faced a great challenge in Clarissa Babcock, perhaps the greatest of his short career as The Disciplinarian, but he felt more certain of his strategy today. She had reacted well to his first two tests.

  He’d held his breath this morning until Soames had come to his room with Clarissa’s clothes. The fact that she’d taken the lure of the silk night rail told Jared she still had some sensual feelings buried beneath her hard exterior.

  And the fact that she’d almost shouted down the house when she’d discovered her clothes were missing told him there was still enough passion left in her to stand up to her husband, once Jared had instructed her in how to do it.

  Her lessons would begin this evening, but first Jared needed to visit the village to buy a few items he would use in her tutorial.

  He spurred his horse onward.

  ***

  A fly buzzing around her nose woke Clarissa from a light sleep.

  Her eyes fluttered open, and she was surprised to find she had been dozing in the comfortable window seat, the book lying open against her chest, the warm sun streaming in through the open window.

  She sat up and could smell the heady scent of roses wafting up from the garden below. It really was an idyllic setting here, so peaceful, so pretty. Such a strange location for The Disciplinarian’s diabolical lessons.

  And yet, despite the gentleman he seemed, she believed his reputation was earned. His voice, the way he lowered it into a deceptively dangerous tone, that smooth, rich register, was a silken weapon he had used on her in the carriage and again last night when he’d demanded she turn over the dinner knife. There was no violence in his voice, but no room for argument either.

  She shivered despite the warmth of the room. The Disciplinarian would have other weapons besides his voice at his disposal.

  And it was those weapons that she feared when he came to supper this evening.

  She looked back out the window and saw that the sun was close to setting. He would be here soon. She scrambled from the window seat, and grabbed the book before it could drop to the floor.

  ***

  Jared tucked the small strongbox under his arm and led Soames with the dinner tray to Clarissa’s room. He kno
cked loudly on her door, took the key from his pocket and unlocked the lock.

  The door swung inward, but Jared didn’t immediately enter. He half expected Clarissa to leap out and hit him with something.

  She wouldn’t have been the first female to try it.

  Instead, he saw her at the far end of the room by the window, holding a book across her chest as if it would offer her some sort of protection against him. He took a step into the room, followed closely by the servant. He heard the rumble of the tea tray as Soames trundled across to the table, but Jared only had eyes for Clarissa.

  She was a vision in the pale blue gown with her long dark hair cascading freely in waves around her shoulders. If he had thought yesterday that she could be pretty, he’d been dead wrong. She was downright stunning. In fact, if he didn’t know she’d been securely locked in this room for the last twenty-four hours, he’d swear this was a different woman entirely.

  He tried to keep his expression neutral, but couldn’t stop his eyes from sweeping her from head to toe. The gown fit her body to perfection, accentuating her curves and flattering the line of her hips. The choice had been a lucky guess on his part, but he sincerely hoped it had done the work he’d intended it to do.

  He cursed silently when he saw that she’d noticed his intimate inspection. She dropped her book, flew to the bed and dragged off the damask comforter, draping it around her shoulders and clutching it tightly to her throat. Her eyes gazed in fear at the small chest he carried under his arm. He put the box carefully down next to his dinner chair.

  Soames was oblivious to their silent interchange, busying himself with laying out the dinner places. Once he was finished, he bowed himself out of the room. Jared watched him go, then turned back to Clarissa. “Come,” he said in his best Disciplinarian voice, holding out his hand.

  When she made no move toward the table, he dropped the

  commanding tone and tried to give her a reassuring smile. “Come, Clarissa. It’s just supper.”

  She did move then, but slowly, as if she still didn’t trust that he only wanted to feed her. He moved around the table to pull out her chair, and he held it while she sat down awkwardly, still wrapped in the thick bedspread.

  He poured them both some wine, and again served the dinner.

  Tonight it was stew in a bowl, and she only had a spoon to eat it with. His eyebrow went up wryly when her hand poked out from the coverlet to pick up the round utensil, but she didn’t rise to the bait.

  Dinner was a mostly silent affair. He knew she was terrified, and with just cause: he had told her that her lessons would begin tonight and so they would.

  After one hour was up, Soames returned to clear the table.

  After he’d gone, Jared poured himself another glass of wine, downed it in one go, and refilled both his glass and hers. Clarissa sat rigid, her eyes trained on the table.

  He searched for some neutral ground on which to begin. “What book were you reading?”

  She shrugged. “A novel called Jane Eyre.”

  “Ah, yes,” he said. “Currer Bell. There are those who believe the name is a pseudonym, and the author is really a woman.”

  That got her attention. “A woman? You would have a book by a woman in your library?” She seemed sincerely surprised.

  “Of course,” he said. “I own many books, in this room, as well as in my study downstairs.”

  She was silent for a long time. “I don’t understand you.” She waved a hand vaguely at the room—at the bed, the books, the dinner table. “I don’t understand any of this.”

  That was fine with Jared. He wanted her off balance, had planned this last twenty-four hours to ensure it. Her comment was the opening he needed.

  “You don’t need to be afraid of me, Clarissa.”

  He saw her swallow, hesitate, and then her chin came up a

  notch. “I’m not afraid of you,” she answered, low. “I hate you.”

  But he could see by the look in her eyes that neither statement was absolutely true. “You don’t hate me,” he said. “I haven’t harmed you. I haven’t starved you. In point of fact, I’m here to help you.”

  Her eyebrows flew up at that. “You’re The Disciplinarian.

  “You’re here to—”

  “—instruct you, yes. Men send their wives to me to teach them a lesson. And I do.” He shrugged. “But perhaps not exactly the lesson their husbands expect.”

  She made a small scoffing sound.

  “What I teach women,” Jared continued, “is how to control their husbands. Subtly. I help women learn to exercise what limited freedom they have within the strictures of the modern marriage state.

  To enjoy what they can inside the tight bonds of matrimony.”

  “What?” Clarissa’s confusion was now clearly written on her face. She didn’t want to believe him. It was not what she’d expected. But then, it wasn’t what any of the women he’d instructed expected. “Are you saying you—you don’t hate women? You help them?”

  “Yes. Usually, my lessons are very straightforward. But you are a special case, Clarissa. The first thing you must learn is that your husband is a dangerous man. The look in his eye yesterday is one I have seen before. That look can lead to murder. It’s why even when your husband changed the rules of our agreement yesterday I couldn’t turn my back and leave you with him.”

  “He changed the rules?”

  “Yes. Your husband wants more than just a biddable wife—he wants an heir.”

  He saw her shift in her seat. “I know that,” she said softly.

  “But you may not know that your husband blames you for the lack of success these last two years.”

  Her eyebrows went up at that piece of information. “What?”

  Jared nodded. “He thinks it’s due to your… uncooperativeness in the bedroom. He’s asked me to make you, well… more receptive to his attentions.”

  Clarissa shot up out of her chair, the bedspread falling unheeded from her shoulders. “Bastard!” she shouted, though for a moment Jared wasn’t sure whether she was referring to him or her own husband. “And you agreed?”

  “Sit down, Clarissa,” he said calmly. “I’m on your side. Remember that.”

  He saw her fists clench and her chest heave in fury, but he turned placidly to reach for his glass of wine. Best not to stare at her breasts straining against the thin silk of her gown, no matter how much he was tempted.

  “Please. Sit,” he said again. “Let’s figure out a way to deal with this.”

  She sat abruptly, though her breathing didn’t calm any.

  “Good,” he said with a businesslike nod. “Now. Talk to me. Was there ever any physical attraction between you?”

  She gasped. “I beg your pardon!”

  He stared at her, noting how her eyes dilated with anger, how her back straightened in outrage at the question. “Perhaps at the beginning,” he prompted, “when he was courting you?”

  The look on her face gave him his answer.

  “Courting? My marriage was a bargain struck between my

  father and my husband, an arrangement that suited all concerned.

  Except, perhaps, myself.”

  “I see.” So Jared would not have long-forgotten desire to work with, since she and Charles Babcock obviously never had that spark of sexual heat between them.

  “Basic physical satisfaction, then? Does your husband take time to give you pleasure during your marital relations?”

  She looked at him blankly. “Pleasure? His sweating, heaving body should give me pleasure?”

  Jared blinked, giving nothing away. So. She had never experienced a woman’s pleasure. He knew very well that in this day and age love had little to do with marriage. Unions were made for social connections, business deals, political advancement, to pay off debt—there were a host of reasons.

  Still, he despised the men who made their women miserable and bitter, when with just a little effort it didn’t have to be that way.

 
; “Clarissa,” he began. “These are the cold, hard facts we’re faced with: a wife is the property of her husband. By law, he can do with her what he will. Your husband wants an heir, and he believes your… frigidity is preventing it. It doesn’t matter that he may be as much at fault, or more, as you yourself. He wants me to warm you up to the sexual act so that he can plant his seed in you and be done with his duty.

  “You have two choices. You can either allow me to tutor you, to instruct you in ways you can enjoy your husband’s attentions and ideally give him his precious heir, or you can go on as you have been, risking your husband’s wrath, his fists, and possibly worse.”

  He held his breath as he waited for her answer. He’d never feared a woman’s response as much as he feared Clarissa Babcock’s, because he knew her choice meant life or death.

  And he prayed that she realized it.

  The Disciplinarian: Chapter 4

  Life or death.

  The Disciplinarian had no qualms about pointing out what he thought were Charles’s intentions where she was concerned: give him an heir or suffer the consequences.

  And Clarissa could easily envision ‘the consequences’. She’d been dealing with them for these last two years. “I hate my husband,” she said after a long moment.

  “Unfortunately, that changes nothing,” The Disciplinarian answered quietly. “This is your lot in life, but you can choose to take control of it, rather than become a victim of it.”

  “I’ll never learn to enjoy his attentions!”

  “Yes, you will. I’ll show you how,” he vowed.

  She knew she had no real choice, but she had to come to terms with it. After several moments of silent debate, she heaved a great sigh. “So be it.”

  “Then let’s begin your lessons.”

  She swallowed nervously as he came around the dinner table and held out his hand. What would he do to her? How did he possibly think he could teach her to ‘enjoy’ Charles’s conjugal attentions?

  “Clarissa…”

  He was using his Disciplinarian voice again. That low, sweet, command-wrapped-in-a-velvet-glove. He wanted her to take his hand, to symbolically give herself over to his instruction. She started to shake violently.