Royal Discipline (5 page)

He did not say more. He didn’t have to. She could see the dreadful memory in his expression, the regret in his eyes.

“After that experience, I set myself to mastering the art of discipline, Violet. I’ve made it my life’s work. I decided long ago that no wife of mine, no son or daughter, no friend would ever suffer pain or harm because of my inability to guide their behavior.”

In the silence that followed, she understood what he wanted her to realize. This was the reason he went about her “reformation” with such vigor, the reason for her altered dresses and nightly spankings, and his rigid demands for her behavior.

“What happened to your friend was an accident,” she said. “And your obsessive preoccupation with discipline will not bring her back.”

His expression turned so violent that she righted herself and backed away.

“It was not your fault she died,” she insisted in her retreat. “Even if you were there. It was an accident. Children never listen.”

“My children will listen.”

In that moment, she pitied his children, just as she pitied his future wife. “Do what you will to them, your children will still disobey you sometimes. It’s human nature. Children are not perfect. Even perfect people are not perfect. Even you.”

The violence on his face eased a bit, transformed into something more like regret. “I never said I was perfect.” He came to the tree and caught up her cloak, and brushed it off.

“Turn around,” he said.

She did, with the greatest reluctance. She waited as he inspected her smarting arse and legs. “There are some cuts, and a bit of blood,” he said. “Perhaps I was too harsh. When we return to the house, you’ll have a bath and some salve, and we shall forgo tonight’s spanking before bed.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

His arms came around her from behind. For one confused moment she imagined he was hugging her, but he was only arranging her cloak over her shoulders. It struck her then that she was disappointed, that she had wanted him to hug her.

Violet fumbled with the cloak’s clasp, looking down at her fingers and pretending to concentrate in hopes that he wouldn’t notice the tears in her eyes.

The duke threw a party over the Christmas holidays. Many families came and much merriment was had. Violet heard the carriages and laughter from her window, but she was not invited to take part.

He was kind enough to send up a tray of special candies and sweetbreads the night of Christ’s birth, but Violet was too angry to eat them. He also sent gifts: supplies for needlework, new books, and a new gown. The books were more of the same drivel about womanly manners. If she read one more page about female modesty or wifely virtue, she would go raving mad.

And the gown was one of her own—the crimson one she’d arrived in, now tacked up in the back like all the others. Yes, she had a bit of color in her wardrobe now. No, she was not permitted her modesty. Apparently, that was only for the females in his blasted books. He came Christmas night to give her a bedtime spanking as usual, and then returned to the rollicking fun downstairs.

It was enough. Beyond enough. By Twelfth Night, she knew she must take some action. She lay in bed wringing her hands, knowing she could not go on for another month and nine days. She simply couldn’t. She was going crazy in this velvet prison, and the occasional walk in the garden wasn’t enough. She had to go out among people. She had to take dinner at a table in an actual dining room and engage in interesting conversation. Most of all, she had to wear a proper gown.

The next morning, she took the tiny thread cutter from the needlework kit he’d given her, pulled her favorite crimson dress out of the closet, and worked for nearly an hour to undo the rows of stitching that gathered up her skirts. It was slow work, for she didn’t want to damage the delicate fabric. At last it was finished, and Violet pulled it over her head.

Ah, the feeling of the fabric tumbling down over her backside. She spun about the room, feeling pretty and womanly again. She would show Thornton when he arrived, show him how lovely it looked. She’d explain that the shortened skirts had gone on long enough. She’d explain how much better she would feel, how
changed
she would feel, if he would only let her dress as a woman of her station ought to.

That was the plan, anyway. She watched his door, as he often came to visit her after luncheon. As soon as she heard the lock turn, she gathered her skirts about her and jumped to her feet.

“Good afternoon, Your Grace,” she said with her sweetest manners. “Please don’t be angry.”

He gave her a look. “I’m not sure how I feel about that greeting. What have you done for me to be angry?”

Rather than answer, she took a twirl in her dress. Without the petticoats to anchor the fabric, it spun out beautifully. She’d been spinning all day. “You see?” she said.

“Ah. You’ve taken your skirts down.” He walked closer, studying the effect. “My goodness. Here.” He caught her by the waist. “Turn around.”

She obeyed, relieved that he was not furious. At least, she hadn’t believed him furious. That was before she felt the material give. With one great, strong motion, he grasped the skirt where it attached to the bodice, and tore the entire back away, from waist to hem.
R-r-r-r-r-ip.

Violet gasped and spun on him. “What have you done?”

“I’ve fixed it so it won’t come down again.” He didn’t sound placid anymore. “And I will fix any other garment in this same fashion, if you think to do such a thing again.”

“
Such a thing
,” she hissed, mimicking his lecture. “You behave as if it’s unreasonable to wish to wear a decent garment.”

She lunged for the satin in his hands, thinking to wrap the scraps about her nakedness, but he held it out of her reach.

“You’re horrible,” she screamed. “You are depraved. That was my favorite dress, and now you’ve ruined it.”

“You ruined it, my dear. It was altered so it could be fixed before you left. It was your choice to override my hand. When will you learn not to test my authority?”

“Why is it necessary to torment me? To humiliate me?” She was working herself into a rage. She could feel it, but she couldn’t stop it.

“I’ve explained it to you many times,” he said, giving her a shake. “I’ll explain it again, if you’ll stop your railing and listen.”

She tried to pull away but he was too strong. She hit out at him instead, however she could. Her arms hurt where he grasped them, but she didn’t care.

“Stop fighting me,” he said.

“No!”

He pushed her back upon the couch and came over her, pinning her arms and legs, holding her down with his body. “Is it worth it, Violet? Is this disobedience and defiance worth the punishment you shall receive?”

“Yes,” she said. “It’s worth any pain to defy you. Why do you delight in my mortification, and take pleasure in exposing me so? My gowns are altered to satisfy your perversion, so you may look upon my nudity.” She glared at him. “They are depraved.
You
are depraved.”

“I am your master,” he said, capturing her wild gaze. “You are mine in this house, mine to chastise and correct, and no satin or petticoats or flounces may get in my way. When you’re no longer in need of constant correction, you’ll be permitted to wear a petticoat and skirts. Until you prove yourself worthy of such a privilege, your skirts will be permanently raised, and your arse cheeks accessible to me. Do you understand?”

It was a very bad choice, a very bad thing to do, but she spat at him, right in his face. As soon as she did it, she wished she could undo it, but there was no chance of that. She could only lie rigid beneath him as he wiped it away.

“Well,” he said. “You have just displayed a new low of breeding. I think a two-year-old has better manners than to spit on someone. A peasant on the street has better manners than you.”

“Do not call me a peasant.”

He hauled himself from atop her and dragged her to her feet. “I believe it’s time we took a trip to the discipline parlor. It’s past time, based on your reprehensible behavior just now.”

“W-what is a discipline parlor?” she asked, chilled by his expression.

His features turned even chillier. “It’s a place where the worst miscreants go.”

* * * * *

He made her walk down the hall and up the grand central staircase in her torn crimson dress, so any passing servant might observe her shameful nudity. She did not know if any servants did. She was too humiliated to raise her eyes from the marble steps beneath her feet.

The duke’s “discipline parlor” turned out to be a literal parlor, a dim but elegantly furnished sitting room behind a locked door on the third level. If her calculations were correct, their bedrooms lay directly beneath it.

She would not be able to sleep tonight, now that she had seen this place, now that she knew it hovered just over her head. For this “discipline parlor” did not only contain traditional furnishings—an overstuffed chaise and an armoire over by the mantel—but some medieval-looking furnishings as well.

It was disciplinary furniture, of course, racks and benches and bars constructed to hold victims in place. He would have collected such furniture during his years-long obsession with the means and techniques of correction. Violet’s heart pounded in her chest as he led her past the frightening structures to the far wall. They passed a whipping post complete with chains and manacles, and a wooden rack in the shape of a cross. There was a padded, raised bench covered in dark leather in the center of the room, flanked on either side by more attachment points for manacles.

On the other side of the room, a wooden beam jutted from the stone wall, with attachment anchors above and below it. One could not sit upon such a narrow, peaked beam without a great deal of discomfort. Perhaps one had to be bent over it? While bound hand and foot?

The idea of it sparked a strange, shameful pressure between her legs. She averted her eyes from the beam only to see a puzzling sight beside it...a row of carved, pointed shafts of increasingly large size affixed to the wall. She couldn’t imagine their disciplinary purpose. She supposed they might poke her in the back or stomach if she was forced against them, but even the largest ones were too dull at the end to hurt very much.

She turned the other way, and saw a black iron cage—a large one, such as a man might stand up in—beyond the padded bench. The cage contained more manacles, more chains, and a quartet of metal pincers clipped to one side.
What? Why?
Another padded bench flanked the oversized cage, this one at an angle, so the person upon it would tilt up, or perhaps down.

He did not explain any of these daunting contraptions to her, nor point out which one he planned to use, perhaps because he knew it would terrify her more to wonder. He led her to a corner of the torture chamber, to an open area where a pair of manacles hung down from the stone ceiling.

“Turn and face the wall,” he said.

“What will you do to me?”

“No more or less than you deserve.”

She slid a look to the side, to a series of hooks whereupon hung dozens of whips, straps, and paddles. A sizable birch rod hung at a jaunty angle from the corner. A bit farther down, a rack displayed a selection of canes, from a narrow, light-colored, whippy cane to a heavier, polished one that looked like bamboo.

She had so much to say.
I cannot believe this place. Who have you punished here? What will you do to me?
But she was too afraid to speak in the oppressive silence of her surroundings. She had spit in the duke’s face, the very height of insult. If a man spit at him that way, the duke would have killed him for it, with the full support of the law.

“Please forgive me,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

He ignored her. “Raise your hands above your head.”

She did as he asked, because she knew she deserved to be severely punished. She almost wished she were a man, so the duke could simply run her through and put her out of her misery. As he fixed her wrists snugly within the leather manacles, she thought how very many spankings she’d endured by this point. Too many, and she was not learning anything. She was not getting any better. She wasn’t
changing
, as he said. When would she change?

Once the manacles were fastened, she couldn’t lower her arms or do anything to protect herself. He circled her waist with a wide belt fastened to the wall. He cinched it about her bodice and secured the buckle. This waist restraint was tight enough that she couldn’t move more than a half-step in any direction. She was bound against the hard, cold stone wall with no possible hope of escaping her due.

She turned her head to follow him as he shrugged off his coat and crossed to throw it upon the chaise. Then he walked to the forbidding wall of available implements. He selected a sturdy, light brown leather strap perhaps a foot and a half in length and four fingers wide.

He returned to her in his waistcoat and shirt sleeves. She’d never seen her captor without all his proper clothes, his elegant coats and starched cravats. Without his tailored coat, he seemed even taller and stronger. His fitted waistcoat revealed far too much of his musculature. With a grim glance in her direction, he began to roll up his sleeves.

Violet turned back to the wall. She had seen enough to thoroughly panic her. She had nowhere to go, no one to petition for help. If only her father were here, or some of his marshals. They would not abide such treatment of their princess. She tugged at the manacles and achieved only a tinkling rattle. Her backside felt cold, exposed by her skirts. She was a humbled, shackled shell of herself, and she didn’t know what to do.

The duke took up a position at her side, his forearms now bared to the elbow. She stared at those forearms, at his masculine dark hair and his strong, sculpted wrists.

“How many strokes will you give me?” she asked in a small voice.

“I don’t know. As many as I think are warranted. You needn’t count.”

He lifted the strap and she braced, but then he stopped and tucked the length of leather beneath his arm. With one hand on her shoulders, he used the other hand to smack her bottom, firm, stinging slaps all over her cheeks and down to the underside, and her upper thighs. She jerked and flinched, curling her hands into fists as heat rose beneath her skin. Then he stopped, stood back, retrieved the strap, and raised his arm.

She had expected it to feel awful, and the strap
was
awful. It was so long, and so wide, that it punished a great area of her posterior at once. At the same time, it was so supple that it seemed to wrap around every curve and cranny, imparting a massive, widespread area of stinging agony.

She yanked at the chains, to no avail. The next stroke landed with a resounding
thwap
, and Violet jerked so hard against the belt holding her, she was shocked she didn’t yank it from the wall.

“Oh,” she cried, throwing her head back. “It hurts. Ow!”

Another stroke fell, and another. He laid them on in a slow but steady rhythm, so as soon as the pain of each stroke registered in her nerve endings, she must begin bracing for the next. “Oh, please. Oh! It hurts too much.”

But of course it hurt too much. That was why he’d bound her so thoroughly, and why he’d warmed her bottom with his hand before he started with the strap. He meant to hurt her very badly, otherwise he’d just have spanked her up in the room.