He studies my face as he considers me then nods. “I had hoped you might be truthful with me, my lady. I wish to begin our marriage with you well aware of my expectations, and honesty is chief among them.”
Before I can examine what he has said or offer a protest, he has taken my arm and is pulling me toward the settee.
“What… what are you doing?” I squeak, so shocked as he sits down that I forget his honorific.
“Exactly as I told you I would, my lady. I am going to chastise you quite soundly.”
I shake my head, denying what he says even while he holds me firmly in place, not allowing me freedom to do more than that.
“Turn around.” His tone is not severe, yet, I suffer an inner trembling I cannot name.
“I shall not.”
“Lady Freya, do you think your father who gave me leave to dispense this punishment will not see I am assisted if need be?”
I stare into his dark eyes, uncertain for the first time in my life. I can count on one hand the number of times my father has gone against what I wished. Of course, I had the good sense to never make a spectacle of myself, something I cannot claim in this instance.
Still, as I recall the disappointment in his expression… the way he walked out, leaving me with only his valet for a chaperone…
“No, Your Grace,” I murmur, hanging my head in defeat. My entire body seems to give—my shoulders slump, my knees threaten to buckle.
“I want you to remove your petticoat, my lady.”
I gasp, and feel the sting of heat as it surges to my face. “What?—”
“For your smacking,” he replies calmly, his gaze unwavering, his expression unchanging despite my discomfort.
I swallow with difficulty my throat tight and hot as I struggle to ward off tears. I have never felt such shame as I do now, knowing myself to be this man’s prisoner. Yet, I shan’t let himknow he has bested me—I will notallowhim to. Clenching my jaw, I summon the courage to do what I must. I never let my eyes leave his as I reach behind me, fingers searching for the cord of my gown’s ties.
I have never done this without the benefit of my servant, and it takes me far longer than it should. Yet, His Grace says not a word, merely sits perfectly straight, his eyes alert to my every movement.
Eventually, the last tie loosens, and my gown relaxes, and I have more room to breathe. Which, given the heat in the room and the mad pounding of my heart, is most welcome.
His lips quirk, and I grow still, searching his face.
“Pray, continue, my lady,” he murmurs.
The soft velvet of his voice should chafe… and so it does, but somehow it irritates, then soothes a second later. The feelings he evokes in me are quite strange.
Do not give him the satisfaction of seeing you delay, Freya.
Forcing myself to ignore the contradictory sensations his words evoke, I reach under my gown, searching until I find the ties inside and loosen those, too. This time, my fingers move faster, and I am so pleased with myself I nearly forget why I am doing it. The muslin falls down my legs, and I step out of it, leaving a puddle of fabric on the floor.
My father’s valet moves toward us, but the duke holds up a hand.
“Her Ladyship can do it.”
The flare of frustration returns to my chest, hot and stronger than ever. This man is no gentleman! Scowling, I bend to pick up the garment, go to the chair, and discard the petticoat atop it.
“Neatly, please.”
I wish I had thrown the vase much harder.Nonetheless, I pick up the garment once more, fingers shaking with irritation, and fold the petticoat as neatly as I am capable. I set it gentlyon the chair, though the vexation I feel would like nothing more than to ease itself by throwing that at His Grace, too.
It is no use. It is clear I am going to be chastised by the worst man in the Beau Monde, and what is more, I have learned I do not have much of a throwing arm. I draw a deep breath, then another, and feeling the heat of the duke’s gaze on my back, I turn to face him. With slow steps, I march to stand before him.
“Well done, my lady,” he murmurs, for my ears alone.
A new emotion steals through me, leaving a tingling, fluttering sensation in every inch of me.It is the child. I am about to be ill again.It does not feel the same as the night of the ball, but it is odd enough to have to be related to the baby I carry.
