“My apologies, my lord.”
“Louder,” he demanded.
He watched her rage bubble right below her fear, igniting his temper even more. Wells admired this girl’s spirit, but if he did not command her obedience she would try him again. He had to end it, because the sheer impudence of her action?—
She bowed her head lower. “I apologize, Lord Wellesley, for my impertinence. It will not happen again, sir, you’ve my word.”
“Better,” he bit back, “but not enough, I think.” He collected his wits. “I think you incapable of obedience without punishment.”
***
In a move that upended her thoroughly, Lord Wellesley dragged Charles to the edge of the bed and roughly bent her over. He yanked down her trousers to bare her buttocks, then fumbled to release the leather holster she’d cinched about her waist.
She knew at once what he intended and gave a silent prayer that he be merciful and quick, but already she heard a whoosh of air precede the harsh sting to flesh, biting her lip not to cry out.
He laid three strokes across her bottom, before his arm abruptly ceased. She thought she felt him shake.
“Fuck,”he expelled, flinging the belt aside. She could hear his heavy breathing behind her, then felt his hand haltingly trace the welts he’d just made, his calloused finger on her skin oddly gentle.
Charles flinched at his touch, though it soothed, rather than increased, the burn from the belt.
“Thisis what you do to me.” Hurt seeped from his voice. “I’ve cobbed men at sea for infractions less egregious than yours, but not once,” his voice caught, “not once did I ever beat a woman, God damn you.”
He promptly stepped away and roughly told her to dress, which she did, pulling up his breeches with trembling hands. She kept her face down, awaiting more, while he sank into an armchair. When she snuck a peek, his expression looked sullen, even pained.
“I trust we’ve established an understanding now, Charles.” Wellesley’s tone remained terse.
“Yes, my lord,” she whispered.
“Come here,” he ordered.
She stepped towards him, only to have him push her to her knees, forcing her chin up so that she looked him in the eye, her tears still wet.
He ran his thumb across her cheek. “I am sorry I hurt you.” He stared straight into her. “But you pushed me too far. I cannot command your soul, miss, but nor will I tolerate disrespect from those who serve me.”
She blinked back more tears, refusing to break before him.
“Now tell me, honestly, that you will heed me in future.”
“I will, my lord.” Charles averted her gaze.
“I don’t believe you.”
“My lord I . . .” Charles almost shook in her struggle to answer this man.
“You have leave, this once, to speak your mind, woman.” His voice remained flat. “Pray, take it.”
She hesitated, unsure what he was offering, but in a rush burst out, “Lord Wellesley, forgive me, sir, but respect is earned, it cannot be forced.” Her eyes dared to meet his, surprised by the look of sorrow therein. “I shall obey your lordship with honest intent, truly, but I cannot always control my response. It is not for lack of respect, my lord, it is a visceral refusal to be,” her voice cracked, “owned.”
Charles awaited his wrath the way a rabbit awaits the wolf: tense and terrified.
He looked at her a little queerly then, body shifting slightly before he drew her onto his lap to embrace her. He shocked her utterly by folding her into his chest and beginning to stroke her hair. She felt his heart beat wildly in his breast, as fast as her own.
“Yes, Charles, a refusal to be owned is something I know well indeed. I shall endeavor to command you with respect, woman, provided you obey. We shall not lack for disagreement, I fear, but if neither wholly owns the other”—he paused to catch his breath—“we may just get along.”
He kissed the top of her head then, surprising her even more. She felt the faintest, strangest pull towards Lord Wellesley, despite what he’d just done. Instinctively almost, she pressed her palm to the hollow of his chest as heat flooded her hand, then arm, traveling straight into her soul. It felt as if an invisible thread had just unspooled between them, thin enough it might at any moment snap.
When John Cuthbert delivered his lordship’s dinner he set the tray down with a clank, alarmed to see yon chicken thief curled into Wellesley’s lap rather than flat on her back. Already she was proving more meddlesome than he liked, not when his grace could ill afford more drama with the fairer sex. John had just suffered a brutal London season with Wells and witnessed firsthand the kind of pummeling theTon’sblood-thirsty toffs could issue.
