The remaining strokes fell in measured succession, each landing precisely where the last had not, until her entire bottom burned with a uniform heat. When the final stroke landed, harder than the rest, Olivia gasped the final count.
“And what do you say?” Victor prompted, his hand now resting gently on her heated skin.
Olivia swallowed her pride. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
“For what?” he pressed.
“Thank you for my correction,” she elaborated, the words tasting strange on her tongue.
Victor helped her to her feet, carefully rearranging her clothing as she stood shakily before him. From his greater height, he reached out and gently wiped tears from her cheeks with his handkerchief, his touch unexpectedly tender.
“You did well,” he said softly. “Very well.”
The unexpected gentleness after such firm discipline left Olivia reeling. She had expected coldness, perhaps even disdain, but Victor’s eyes held only approval.
“Next time,” he continued, rising to his full height, “consider how to maintain your dignity regardless of provocation. A cutting remark delivered with a smile often serves better than obvious contempt.”
He cupped her face in his hands, thumbs brushing away the last of her tears. “Are you ready for bed, Duchess?”
“Yes,” Olivia replied, her voice steadier than she felt. Being at his mercy in his chamber was all she had longed for all day. And now she desperately needed him to touch her.
Victor offered his arm, and together they climbed the stairs toward her bedchamber. With each step, Olivia felt the lingering burn of her punishment.
As he opened her bedroom door, Olivia realized with startling clarity that she wanted what came next. Not merely as part of their arrangement, but with genuine desire.
Victor closed the door behind them, his eyes darkening as he took in her flushed face and bright eyes.
When they reached their suite of rooms, Victor released both of their personal servants for the evening.
Victor approached her slowly, his eyes never leaving hers. “Turn around,” he commanded softly.
She obeyed, presenting her back to him. His fingers found the long row of tiny buttons that ran from her nape to the small of her back. One by one, he unfastened them, his touch unhurried and deliberate. With each button released, Olivia felt her breath grow shallower, anticipation building in her core.
“I will dress you and undress you, whenever I wish,” Victor murmured, his breath warm against her neck. “Your body is mine to reveal, mine to cover, mine to pleasure.”
The possessive declaration sent a shiver through her. No man had ever undressed her before. She had always been attended by her maid, and she undressed herself on the nights she had spent with her artist lover. There was something profoundly intimate about Victor’s methodical unveiling of her body, even if he’d already seen her naked.
Victor slowly peeled the silk gown from her shoulders, letting it fall around her feet. She stood before him in only her thin chemise and silk stockings.
“Still,” he ordered when she moved to step out of the pooled fabric.
Victor knelt before her, a duke on his knees, yet somehow maintaining every ounce of his authority. He lifted first one foot, then the other, freeing her from the circle of silk. Rising again to his full height, he reached for the ribbon that secured her chemise.
The chemise opened, and he pushed it from her shoulders, letting it join her gown on the floor. Olivia stood before himentirely naked save for her silk stockings and garters, her skin flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and arousal.
“Beautiful,” Victor breathed, circling her slowly, taking in every curve and hollow. “I am going to teach you how to properly use this pretty mouth of yours,” he said, his voice even. “You will learn to take my cock between those clever lips and put that sharp tongue of yours to better use.”
The stark language from his aristocratic mouth shocked and thrilled her in equal measure. Olivia watched, transfixed, as he began to undress. He removed his coat and waistcoat, followed by his cravat and shirt. As the linen fell away, Olivia caught her breath at the sight of his torso.
Scars marked his body. She had wanted to touch them last night, but knew she wouldn’t be allowed to do so without permission.
There was a long, jagged line from shoulder to collarbone, puckered circles, and countless smaller marks that spoke of battle and survival. His chest and arms were powerfully muscled, not like a man who had only indulged in aristocratic comforts.
Olivia’s hand reached out before she could stop herself, and touched the largest scar, the one that cut across his chest like a pale lightning bolt.
“The French cavalry at Salamanca,” Victor explained, his voice unusually soft. “I was fortunate. The man beside me was not.”
The vulnerability in his admission was surprising—and it stirred a depth of feeling she hadn’t expected. This stern, commanding man had faced death and carried its marks upon his skin. Without thinking, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to the scar, a gesture of acceptance more intimate than any words.
