Under A Duke's Hand (5 page)

And there was more to come, of course. A
wedding night, and Aidan’s first foray between a virgin’s thighs.
Another reason not to overindulge.

Finally, the ladies took his bride off to the
“nuptial chamber,” which was doubtless another grimy, chilly room.
Aidan attempted to have words with her father, about the fine
wedding and his intention to honor his daughter. The baron squinted
back at him, hazy and sloppily drunk. More toasts, more wine. The
men called out to each other in Welsh, bawdy sallies they were
happy to translate.

Then, remarkably, all the males in the room
swept him up in a mob of laughter and song and bore him toward the
stairs. Aidan thought of medieval wedding night customs, beddings
and shivarees. He was a duke of the realm, for God’s sake. His
friends would never believe this. Never. He could hardly believe it
himself.
So then they carried me upstairs and crowded into the
bedroom, and threw rosemary sprigs onto the bed.

His new duchess awaited him there, shivering
pitifully under the sheets as fifty or more people entered the
chamber. Aidan wondered, with dark humor, whether they’d stay to
witness the consummation in true medieval fashion.

When it seemed they intended just that, he
reached the limits of his patience and ordered the drunken mob
downstairs. Their retreat left behind a heavy silence. He rubbed
his neck and muttered, “What a singular display.”

“They only meant to wish us well,” said his
bride. “It is the local tradition, to see newlyweds to bed.”

“Would you have preferred them to
remain?”

She shook her head, regarding him from under
her lashes. He shouldn’t grouse at her, or frighten her any more
than she already was. He tried to smile but imagined it came out
more of a grimace. She paled. Was he so terrifying? Christ, this
marriage nonsense. Best to get this unpleasant duty done.

He turned away and began to undress. Valets
were not meant for wedding nights at filthy castles. His man was
abed in the servants’ quarters, and thank God, for he would have
fainted dead away at the stampede of drunk wedding guests. Oh, to
be back among civilized people. The revelries below seemed to grow
louder by the moment. “Welshmen like their drink, don’t they?” he
said.

She pulled the covers up to her neck. “I
suppose. What will you do if they come back?”

“Two of my burliest grooms are outside the
door.” They were not precisely grooms, being more concerned with
ensuring his personal safety. Now that he was married, these
“grooms” would look after his duchess too. He’d tell her about them
in time, but not tonight. He laid his coat over a chair, and then
his waistcoat. He took a poke at the fire, only for restlessness,
but the servants had built it properly to burn all night.

There was plenty of light to see his bride.
He crossed to her, ignoring the way she shrank back beneath the
covers. “Take out my cravat pin, would you?” he said, sitting right
beside her. “And help me undo my neckcloth.”

For a moment he thought she’d refuse, but
then she pursed her lips and reached to unfasten the gold and
diamond pin. She was such a pretty, fluttery thing, his Welsh
fairy. He recalled their moments in the meadow, the way she’d
leaned against his chest as he kissed and stroked her, and traced
her nipples to enjoy her soft, breathless moans. He eyed the
gathered neckline of her ivory shift. “That’s a pretty garment. Was
it made especially for the wedding?”

She nodded and handed him his cravat pin.

“Fix it through the shirt’s collar, so I
don’t lose it,” he suggested. “Try not to stab me in the neck.”

His jest went unacknowledged. Not a peep of
laughter. In fact, she gave a little shiver as she loosened his
neckcloth and drew it from his collar.

“Are you cold?” he asked.

She shook her head in answer, her lips
clamped tight.

“Do not wag your head about like a horse,” he
said in exasperation. “Answer me with language.”

“No, I am not cold, Your Grace.”

His fingers stilled on his buttons. She had
said the honorific,
Your Grace
, with considerable venom.
“You’re afraid then?” He stood and walked away from her. “I
wouldn’t have expected it, from a woman of your type.”

“A woman of my type?”

He took off his shirt, shoes, and stockings,
and added them to the pile. “A woman of your type. A woman who
sneaks about and trysts with strange men. Are you even a
virgin?”

He knew she was, but he asked it because his
pride was damaged, because she didn’t seem impressed by him at all.
She scooted off the bed and stood beside it, a trembling figure of
outrage.

“How dare you voice such an insinuation?” she
said.

“How dare I? I suppose it’s because you
trysted with me.”

“I’m perfectly pure.” She backed toward the
wall. “You were the one who intruded upon me in that meadow, and
asked to sketch me for your own nefarious purposes.”

“Nefarious,” he said. “What an excellent
word, although I must take offense.”

“You’re the one who pulled me into your lap,
remember?”

“And you’re the one who remained there all
too willingly.”

She made a huff of a sound. “You think you
are above judgment, that you’re so perfect as you stand about and
look down your nose at me.”

“Have I looked down my nose? I’m taller than
you. I can’t help it.”

“Even worse, you have frowned and endured my
father’s honest hospitality as if it was some onerous burden. Do
you understand all he’s sacrificed? He worked for weeks to plan
this celebration, and to represent our family with pride.”

A crash and bellow drifted up from
belowstairs. Aidan barely restrained a snort.

“Must you sneer,
Your Grace
,” she said
again in that derisive tone, “and behave as if you are so much
better than us?”

“Those are your words, not mine, my angry
little bride.”

She looked angry, yes, but fearful too. He
suspected this tirade was a ploy to distract him from the bedding.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t going to work. Aidan took off his breeches
and returned to the bed. “Come here, Guinevere.”

She stood where she was, regarding his
stiffening cock with an expression of horror. Any lingering
suspicion about her innocence fled in the face of that gaze.

“I don’t want to come there,” she said. “I
don’t like you. I don’t want to be married to some toplofty English
duke.”

“How brutally honest you are. Remind me not
to take you out among civilized people until you’ve had that
directness beaten out of you.”

She blinked at him, once. Twice. “You
wouldn’t beat me. You wouldn’t dare.”

“I’ve spanked you once already, if you’ll
remember. I can do it again, and much less playfully. You’ll find
I’m a kind and patient husband, but only when I’m shown
respect.”

“Is it respectful to deride the hospitality
of your host? Is it respectful to accuse me of being a whore?”

He didn’t blink at the word, but the fact
that she used it told him how distraught she was. “If you don’t
wish to be thought common, don’t behave in a common fashion,” he
said quietly. “Cease your dramatics, Guinevere, and come to
bed.”

* * * * *

Gwen was afraid she might faint, and she
didn’t want to faint. She didn’t want to give this insufferable
duke the opportunity to lord his lordship over her as she lay
sprawled on the cold, stone floor. Especially when his lordship was
so very...lordly in the masculinity department.

He’d looked so different in his plain country
clothes. Handsome, friendly, non-threatening. He’d smiled so
charmingly in the meadow, made her believe he was falling in love
with her. How stupid she felt now.

There wasn’t an ounce of love in this man.
There was nothing but coldness and sneering, and insulting
comments, and lofty orders as if she was his slave. How was she to
go to that bed and lie beneath him, and let him have her? His
muscular physique frightened her, and that daunting shaft between
his legs... She was no prude, or idiot. She had lots of brothers
and she knew how things worked.

And he was far too big for
anything
to
work.

He had ordered her to come to him—twice—and
while she didn’t want to obey, she was afraid of what he would do
if she dug in her heels and stayed where she was. Instead, she
walked a little closer to the window.
Coward.
No, not a
coward. Just someone who needed some time and space.

“I don’t know you,” she said, shying back
against the glass. “I’m not comfortable going to bed with you.”

He studied her a moment. “It’s what generally
happens on a wedding night.”

“Even so, I don’t want to do it.”

He moved toward her. She tensed, fearful of
his size and virility. Would he shout at her? Slap her? Drag her?
She backed away as he met her at the window, and flinched when he
raised his hand, but he didn’t hit her. He merely tipped up her
chin and peered into her eyes. His gaze wasn’t angry, only very
intent.

“Let’s have a discussion, shall we?” he said
in his polite and cultured voice. “We’re married now. You’re the
Duchess of Arlington. My wife. Do you dispute this?”

“No, but—”

“
No, but
is not an acceptable response
in this conversation. You may answer
No, Sir
or even
No,
Your Grace
, provided you don’t say it in that invective
tone.”

He wasn’t shouting, but she felt as if she’d
been shouted at. She moved her face to see if he’d tighten his
grip. He did.

“No, Your Grace,” she said with a careful
lack of inflection. “I don’t dispute that we’re married.”

“I am therefore your husband, your master,
and your superior by law.”

She moistened her lips, which had gone very
dry. “I don’t know that you’re my superior, exactly.”

“Then let me set you straight on the matter.
I am. Now that we’ve married, I own your wealth, I own your
property, I own the children you have yet to bear, I own this
pretty little shift you’re wearing.” His fingers left her chin to
pluck at the tie which held the neckline closed. “I don’t want to
be unpleasant about it, but your body is also mine now to do with
as I please.”

“I...I...” She stammered and hated herself
for it. Why couldn’t she be brave? “I...d-don’t want
you...to...”

His fingers parted her shift’s placket and
trailed warm against her skin. “Listen to me, please, darling.
You’re not listening, and what I’m saying is very important. From
this day forward, what I want will take precedence over what you
want. All these years, you’ve concerned yourself with Guinevere’s
whims and Guinevere’s wishes, haven’t you? But that time is at an
end. I’m your husband and I require your obedience and gracious
cooperation. If I ask you to join me in bed, you will put aside
whatever impedes you and join me in bed. Do you understand?”

She stared at him, frozen by the icy
authority in his words. She was so rattled she couldn’t speak. The
life he described was awful, terrifying and dangerous to her soul.
“I can’t have whims and wishes anymore?” she finally managed to
whisper. “I never knew marriage entailed such sacrifice.”

“When you marry a duke, it does. Someone
ought to have explained it to you.”

He leaned his head closer. She had the
strangest idea he was going to kiss her, but he only pressed his
forehead to hers. A sob escaped as his fingers slid along her
neck.

“I don’t want things to be unpleasant between
us,” he said. “I know you don’t either.”

“No. But I also don’t want to give up my
whims and wishes.”

The fingers traced from her neck into her
hair, combing through it and teasing a section down over her
shoulder. He was so close to her, so strong, so naked. Golden blond
fur covered the sculpted muscles of his chest, and ran down toward
the lower part of him she couldn’t bear to think about.

“Do you know,” he said, easing one side of
her shift off her shoulder, “I believe our whims and wishes may
correlate nicely. In one area, at least.”

She reached for him as he pressed a kiss to
her bared skin. She didn’t want to touch him, but if she didn’t
brace her hands against him she feared she’d collapse. “Please,”
she whispered.

He drew the shift down off her other
shoulder, just opened wide the neckline so the whole garment fell
away. She clutched at it to preserve her modesty while he pushed it
downward, so they engaged in a grasping struggle before he managed
to draw it off. Now she was as naked as him. He wrapped an arm
about her and drew her close, and pressed his lips to hers.

When he’d kissed her before, it had awakened
all her senses. It had made her think of romance and tenderness and
love, but she couldn’t find that feeling now. All she could feel
was his body against hers,
all
of his body, hard and rough
and unfamiliar. His shaft poked against her middle, a probing
threat. When she tried to push away, he caught her arms.

“Don’t resist. You liked it when I kissed you
in the meadow. What’s different now?”

What’s different now is that you’re a duke.
What’s different now is that you frighten me and I hate you.

“We’re going to go to the bed,” he said in a
low, soothing voice, “and I’m going to touch you and stroke you,
and enter inside you as a husband does a wife. Do you know about
such things, Guinevere?”

“Yes, Sir.” Her voice trembled and her eyes
filled with tears. She didn’t know why she was so afraid, afraid to
tears
. Her sisters-in-law had explained everything that was
going to happen. She didn’t know why she called him “Sir” in that
meek voice, and why she couldn’t stop crying. It had to be someone
else shaking in his arms, sniveling like a baby. Shouts rose and
crested belowstairs, wedding guests deep in their cups.