“I’ll arrange for everything tonight, m’lord,” the old woman said, throwing a coy wink Audrey’s way before sauntering back down the hallway.
“M’lord, I don’t... I don’t understand. I want to work with you, I’ve... I’ve done an excellent job, haven’t I?” Audrey asked, afraid. The duke assuaged all of her fears with another passionate kiss, one more tender than any they had shared before. A kiss to remember - the first of many memories they would forge together.
“You’ve done an excellent job as maidservant, Audrey... but I have a feeling,” he quipped casually, “that you’ll do an even better job in your new vocation. Duchess Fisher,” he smirked. Her face lit up. “Or, perhaps, after the wedding... Duchess Parris?”
“W... wedding, and...” she knew she wanted it, but she didn’t know just how much, until the sound of his name, and how little he cared about all the scandal, truly set in. She kissed him again, and again, and he returned, with all the same adoring vigor as she.
Duchess. The more Audrey thought about it, the more she liked it.
“Is this your way of... proposing to me?” her voice shook.
“I’m not asking,” the duke purred, “I’m telling.”
“Good,” Audrey cooed into his ear. She twined her fingers in his - but he instead grasped her wrists, and with a devilish smirk on his lips, pulled her wrists behind her back, in that sensuous, submissive position she had grown to love so, so much. He kicked the door shut behind them, breathing hot into her ear.
“We have a lot to do together, my duchess,” he sighed hotly into her ear, kissing her passionately, pulling the sheet away from her pretty young body.
“I... know...” her voice trailed away, gripped in delicious heat.
“We can start simply... as long as you listen to my every command...” he hissed.
“I can’t wait to, m’lord,” she exhaled.
“Bryce,” he corrected her. She smirked.
“No,” she said, hands trembling as their bodies enmeshed so hotly. “Master.”
Taming The Viscountess
The Duke Falls In Love With A Sharp Woman
By Virginia Vice
Chapter 1
“I told him, my dear. I told him when I spoke to him. Gallipoli was a fool's errand.”
“You told Mr. Churchill that?” Her youthful voice asked dreamily.
“Lt. Col. Churchill at the time, yes. He had come to visit my father.” Her eyes sparkled at him as he leaned casually against the railing of the grand balcony looking out at the shadowy garden tucked nicely away behind the mansion. It seemed too beautiful a thing to hide, but then some would prefer to avoid the ever-prying eyes of commoners.
“Well I say!” A deep and gravelly voice roared from within the party, the upbeat music stopping suddenly. It grabbed the two's attention, peering back at the curtained access, only to see a curtain explode with a marching young woman who looked quite upset to say the least. She stomped her way to a dim corner of the rounded balcony, leaning heavily on the rail, looking like she was fit to explode. Some voices inside, too quiet to hear, sounded like they were attempting to calm the man that evidently she had offended in some manner.
“Oh dear, what was that all about...?” he hushed to the girl, noting that the woman had not seemed to even notice the two yet.
“Oh my...” she leaned in, bringing a hand to his ear to help block her voice from reaching the newcomer that brooded a few yards off. “She's the Viscountess Goodwin. Emma.” His eyebrows low, he studied her as he nodded slowly, a white-gloved hand adjusting his finely-fitted tophat in the process. The music inside continued, modern and poppy; jazz.
“What absolute vulgarity...” they heard her voice spit poison, just loud enough to make out the words she she stared at the shadows of the garden. “The nerve of him, we may as well all be barefoot and in labour if that's all we're bloody-well good for!”
“What a tongue on her, what's got up her-...” his eyes flicked to the girl he'd been working on, perhaps 20 at the oldest though might very well have only recently made 18. “... rear-end.” She brought a dainty little hand to her mouth, stifling a giggle.
“She's um, well...” the girl's grin slowly died, her hand lowering. “She quite... headstrong.”
“Headstrong?”
“Mmh.” She confirmed with a nod, her elaborate and wide flat-rimmed hat bobbing, her feather waving in the cool night breeze. “She's a few years older than me, inter her 20s don't you know, and unmarried.” His eyes flashed in her direction a moment in surprise.
“Well, at her age, she might want to find something to stick up her backside with all haste.” She snorted a giggle into her hand, unable to keep it back. The girl had been dreading going to speak with him, even upon her mother's request for her to do so, but she was quite enjoying his company, his easy demeanor, and his... somewhat crass but certainly thoroughly adult sense of humour.
“King George’s horse kills brave Emily Wilding Davison, so she 'should have just stayed at home?!’” Her fist pounded on the stone railing, causing the man's head to recoil in shock at her clear anger, readjusting his hat shortly after. It was at roughly the same time as the precious girl's little giggle-snort, which got the woman's attention. She stared daggers at them.
“Ah, erm, evening, miss.” He had been leaning against the rail but stumbled at her sudden cold look, and standing straight, gave a light bow, a touch of his hat's brim. The girl's smile vanished instantaneously.
“Hm. You think murder to be funny?”
“P-pardon?” Her high-heels clacked as she took a step back, meanwhile this 'Emma' woman with far shorter heals took a calm but inviting step forth.
“She walked out before his horse of her own volition, miss. It can be chalked up as a suicide.” He accepted her challenge, taking what his prior conversationalist considered a very brave step towards her, but thankfully he was taking the attention off the one who had made the apparently offensive giggle.
“Suicide?!” She almost shrieked it, and he heard a deep voice beyond those gently waving curtains.
“There she goes again.” Some deep male chuckles followed from those he conversed with, the scent of their pipes and cigars wafting gently throughout the building.
“She had a return ticket!” She stomped, her fists at her sides. “Murder!” He shrugged, looking away from her to the elaborate garden. She was getting quite excited about the matter, too excited, and so he let the matter lie so that perhaps the little spinster could cool her britches “You're lucky I haven't got a drink!” She growled angrily and stomped off, undoubtedly intent on leaving the premises.
“I think you've had a few too many, if anything.” He mummbled to her as she passed the curtain, too quiet for her to hear but loud enough for the girl who had so kindly approached him not long ago. A man with a large grey moustache popped his head past the curtain, the moustache looking in quite poor condition as though it had only recently been dried.
“She's bloody right, ol' chap!” He had a large grin on his face none the less, cheeks red from drink. The fellow a few decades his junior took his wine glass up from where it sat on the balcony, raising a toast to him.
“More for us then, eh?”
“Here here!”
His head rose off the pillow, eyes fuzzy, nearly so much as his head from the drinks of the night before. His arm felt weighted, and peering down found it to be buried in a mass of dirty-blonde curls. That sweet young thing cuddled into him, he could feel her nakedness against his own, her mother won’t be happy to know she had gone home with him without a ring on her finger. Perhaps, in spite of his womanizing record, she suspected her dear girl to have more resilience. Well, nothing some cool words and chilled drinks can’t overcome. Still, he thought of that storm that had blown through the building last night. That flurry of outrage and anger, a wild and untamed stallion that had not yet found a rider that could tame it.
She breathed easy against his hairy chest as he st
oked the silky flesh of her bare shoulder, his sheets subtly moving as he pitched a tent, his eyes gazing amusedly at the ceiling with thought. This girl that lie with him, as precious and cute as she was, assumedly as good a lay as she was though admittedly he couldn’t remember much of the night before, he’d had many like her before. Teen girls, spinsters in their 20s who seemed content to waste their fertile years for the sake of parties and swinging, and the more advanced spinsters in their 30s a few years older than himself. Never before, he speculated, at least not since the time of Caligula in ancient Rome, had there been such easy access of sex. His most recent acquisition may not have been so liberal-minded in terms of sex, obviously not, but she was smitten soon enough.
The poor girl was not at all well once she had finally awoken, in spite of the beauty she held in her sleep. A mix of emotions; embarrassment, shame that she had given her first in a single night, fear of if she had gotten pregnant, and even the bubbling wonder of if she had been good or not, if she’d be able to satisfy him throughout their marriage while she bears him many offspring. Marriage would come next, right? They had a brief breakfast, he told her to drink much water so that she’ll come to feel better later in the day, and she had wept in his arms in her hormonal turmoil while they awaited the carriage to fetch her, crying out that her mother would have her flogged. He chuckled, stroked her hair, told her no such thing would happen though he didn’t entirely know for sure just how brutal her mum might be, and was happy to wave her off as she clumsily and staggeringly crawled into the cabin, her hair a mess. He could practically hear her groan when it began to lumber off with the beating of horse hoofs.
With a stretch in the cool morning air outside his front door, his luxurious robe rising slightly as his arms were brought into the air, he soon scratched his hidden groin as he went inside, closing and locking the door behind him. She’ll likely be good for another night or to, he thought, before she catches on that marriage was not in the books. Not yet, anyhow, perhaps once his 30s comes around he’ll be more interested in settling down and marrying, but not anytime soon. The 20s, he contented himself in thinking, both the decade he found himself in the century and the decade he found himself in his life, was far too enjoyable to settle down for only one hole to shag. Or two, if she were wild enough. Who doesn’t like a bit of buggery from time to time?
“Emma...” he muttered to himself as he slumped into the swiveling chair of his desk. “Viscountess Emma... the untamed and unconquered.” He licked his lips before tipping the cup of tea to them.
“Emma.” The fair, motherly voice called out. “Emma, dear!”
Stirrings lightly rumbled in the house. Something put down on a hard surface without much care, a door 's mechanism activated with considerable force, and while the footsteps that sounded afterwards weren't at a stomp, they were far from light. The widow had one leg over the other within her dress, a letter in her hand, looking up over her glasses at the doorway that soon had her grown daughter standing within it.
“If it's that bastard Earl, then-”
“Emma!” The girl crossed her arms and looked aside, one of her feet tapping loudly on the floor as her lips pursed in frustration and annoyance. “Really, is it any wonder that you've no suitor?”
“Who's to say I need one?” She shot back venomously. Silence grew between them as they looked to one another across the room, quite a few of the ornaments and pleasant little bits and bobs missing from the place they'd been when her father lived. Sold. The poor widow feared her most prized possession may be the next thing to be sold and there was little left to give before the house would be next; her cherished horse that her late husband had given her years ago when her daughter was only small.
“I do.” She said seriously, gravely, however her voice softened. “Do you really wish us to resort to the streets?” Her daughter looked away again. “If we continue like this, that's where we're headed.” The woman's thumb rubbed inside the free hand on her lap, the other still holding the letter, she was caressing the band of the wedding ring her late husband had given her. The thought sickened her but it, too, may have to be sold to stave off the debtors longer.
“This letter is from third Duke of Dawsbury-”
“That pig-?!”
“SHUSH!” The tapping of the girl's foot continued as once more she resigned her poisonous gaze away from her mother, eyes narrow, jaw clenched. “Time is running out, and you will not carry on this foolishness. He's a man of wealth, he's well read,” she moved the note in her hand causing the paper to give a crinkle sound, “he's well written, and he's mannerly-”
“Mannerly, mother?! He's a womanize-”
“He's mannerly!” She continued, her voice coming up to nearly a shriek as her eyes looked to her daughter with a mixture of fury and desperation. “He can keep, not only you,” she rattled off those last three words quickly, condescendingly, “but me as well.” Emma continued to tap her foot, arms crossed, looking away once more. “Are you so content with seeing your mother barter off her own wedding ring?!” Her voice croaked, eyes reddening and watering, the letter shuddering in her nearly clenched hand, her thumb no longer absent-mindedly toying with said ring.
Emma's features applied the smallest amount of antivenom to her look as she turned her stern face back to her mother, her desperate and scared mother.
“See... him.” She pleaded, before pursing her lips, her head reddening and shuddering with pent-up pressure as clear anger and disappointment filled her features, beyond her control. “I'll not have my daughter become some damn spinster and see to the end of our family legacy!” Emma's eyes widened, her jaw dropping, her crossed arms coming to her sides. Her mother let out a howled weep, her heels clacking along the floor as her daughter stepped aside for her to go to her bedroom, the letter thrust to the 'young' woman's chest. The Viscountess held the parchment to her bosom as she watched her hysterical mother turn to her bedroom, and Emma shuddered at the startling force with which the thick oak door had been closed.
Chapter 2
Peering down at the letter, her mother still weeping in the bedroom, she read it over.
'Dear Madam Goodwin,
Thank you for writing back to me, and giving my blessing to court your daughter Emma.'
With pursed lips and widened outraged eyes, she glanced to the direction down the hall where the muffled weeps came from. She's already given him persmission?!
'I'll roll 'round by half-past 5 on the 16th, I trust your beautiful daughter will be as punctual as usual. You truly have a marvelous gem in her, fit for the King's crown itself.'
“I'm not some bloody ornament, you appalling prick...” she muttered, her grip on the letter tightening, wrinkling it.
“So kind of you to allow free reign of us to be out as long as we like, and as per your... em... request, I prefer a degree of confidentiality but of course if you prefer, then I shall convey any 'excess difficulties' if she should indeed attempt to instill such on me. I'd be quite shocked though, a beauty such as her, she seems as though she'd be apprehensive to swat so much as a fly. Well, perhaps if the fly were a pickelhaube-topped Hun, wot? Lord knows I would take such a swat at a little buzzing Kaizer Wilhelm if I could. Pardon my attempts at wit, Madam, have a lovely day, and in spite of your generosity in regards to time I will make every attempt to have her back at a respectable hour.
Yours in appreciation,
Declan Hughes, Third Duke of Dawsbury
“God bless.” The sarcastic words were spat at the page. Oh yes, how faithfully religious, sticking your wretchedness in whatever crevace a woman may make vulnerable. Her eyes flicked back up to the numbers; 5:30PM on the 16th? Why, the 16th is that very day, she made her way to her bedroom where a small wind-up clock slowly ticked the seconds along.
“Ohhh bollocks.” The letter was quickly put down as she took up her battle station. Sitting before the bedroom mirror she looked over herself. Hair needed brushing, blush for the cheeks, fresh lipstick... she clenc
hed her teeth as she thought of the man. If anything she'd be all too happy to put on her worst dress, clean off any make-up she still had on, and go with her hair in a frizz, but evidently he would inform mother of such a thing. Time was short, there was much to do... perhaps she could look to be making a good attempt but through some means she could get him to lose interest in her. Hopefully a more thorough plan will come to her as she gets ready.
“Mother! If I may, I would appreciate your help!” She smoothed-out the wrinkled note to make it look less like she had attempted to strangle the life from it. Slowly, she heard a door open, a sniffle in the hallway, and she peered into her daughter's bedroom with red eyes. “Please? I haven't much time...” already she was brushing her hair.
“Bless you, child.” Quickly the woman was behind her, taking the brush from her hand as she went for the lipstick. “You'll do well...” it sounded more like she was trying to convince herself of it. “He's really not all bad, the letter was absolutely darling, have you read it all? He could have your father's debts, God rest his soul, cleared up in short order.”
“In a jiff.”
“A what?”
“Short order.”
“Yes tha-... that's what I said.” The brushing became quicker, bordering on painful, but Emma put up with it for there was still much to do.
A loud rumble sounded from the front of the house as the young Viscountess held in her breath, sucking in, biting her lip as her mother yanked the cords behind her.
“How punctual.” The woman gave and just as her daughter opened her mouth to respond, she gave another tight yank, releasing the breath she’d been holding in instantaneously.
“God...” she wheezed as the strings were tied behind her. She felt as though she could scarcely breathe; why couldn’t she wear one of her more comfortable gowns like she’d asked? Ohhh no, mother knows best, doesn’t she? She snorted in disdain.
Regency Romance Omnibus 2018: Dominate Dukes & Tenacious Women Page 63