The Duke does not speak, and his gaze wanders to my face, as though he memorizes my likeness for a portrait painting.
Unable to bear his scrutiny, I lower my eyes to his full lips that part so often to mock me. Then his strong jaw. It is clean-shaven, and with my eyes I trace the line of it. The strange fluttering in my chest drops, and I can feel it pulsing warmly in the pit of my stomach.
I cannot be wed to this man. He makes me feel ill every moment I am around him.
“Now, you shall put yourself across my lap, my lady.”
I make eye contact once more, my lips parting, though words desert me.
“This time, I shall assist you. However, in the future I will expect you to do it upon my instruction.”
The pulse in my stomach surges right back up to my throat, beating furiously. “I fear I shall be sick,” I say, tears stinging my eyes. I cannot believe I have given him this to use against me.
“I am sure that is the case, my lady. And I am sorry for it,” he says, so gently, all the mocking amusement gone from his eyes, that I am nearly coerced into believing him. He holds out a hand,and I blink it at it, looking from his outstretched gloved hand to his face.
There is nothing to be done. I could run, but even if I got away…where will I go? To Lord Pembroke? Ha! He will call my father at once.
My heart lurches then gives a strange, frenzied flutter as I put my hand in his, sealing my fate.
As he guides me to his knee, I shut my eyes to prevent tears from falling.
I have never been more humiliated. My face feels on fire one moment, then cold and drained the next. I am acutely aware of the firm press of his knees into my stomach, despite layers of fabric between us. I look at the floor, hoping to distract myself, but all I can think of is how silly I feel to be here—about to be chastised for acting like an unruly child.
Still, I cannot help but protest. “Please, Your Grace, forgive me. I truly am sorry, I?—”
“There will be time for that, my lady.” His tone is brisk. “I shall be glad to hear you beg my pardon, once your bottom is properly reddened.”
His blunt words make me gasp. “My lor—Your Grace! Surely, you cannot be in earnest!”
He chuckles softly, and I ball my hands into fists. I press one to my mouth to keep from saying more things I should not. The other hangs helplessly, too far to reach the floor. “Given the current position you find yourself in, how can you doubt my sincerity, my lady?”
I do not trust myself to respond, especially when he shifts his hands. One presses against the small of my back—it does not hurt, but it weighs heavily, as though he wishes to hold me in place. The other lifts my skirts.
I press my fist tighter against my lips, but a traitorous moan vaults up my tight throat and makes itself known.Stop it, Freya.Act your age. Act your station, for heaven’s sake!My self-censuring voice sounds a fair bit like my lady mother. But I cannot think of that, or anything else, when I feel the cool waft of air move across my exposed backside.
A shiver overtakes me the likes of which I have never known. Dread fills me as I ponder what must follow. I squeeze my bottom together, trying to shirk away, though I know not from what.
“Relax,” he says, and though the word is calm enough, it is clearly an instruction.
I do my best to obey, though I cannot stop the quivering that shakes my limbs.Am I to lie here forever, dangling helplessly while he stares at my bare flesh?His firm fingers press into my back with a silent insistence that I yield to his authority.
“Have you ever been smacked before, my lady?”
Insolent words surge to my lips, and it takes every ounce of self-control I possess to swallow them back.
“My lady? I desire an answer.”
“N-no, Your G-Grace.”
“Very well. I fear you shan’t like it, but do remember that is the point of such punishment.”
Before I can even comprehend his words, the air shifts above me, then his hand collides with my naked bottom. The shock of it causes me to gasp, even as I lurch forward on his lap. And then it happens again, leaving prickling pain where his fingers slapped my exposed skin.
I heave a sigh despite the discomfort. At least it is now over.
Why is he not restoring my skirts? Why is he not helping me up so that I might gather my petticoat?
When his hand lands again, exactly where he smacked it before, I utter a cry despite the fist pressing against my lips.
