Disciplining the Duchess Read online

  Harmony was not afraid of him, of course. She was only afraid of it. The unknown, and being married, and this wedding night that might be pleasant or disastrous. She inclined her head to the woman. “Thank you, Redcliff. That will be all.” She had learned that from His Grace, that she must be cordial and formal to the servants, and call her lady’s maid by her surname only. She was a duchess now and must act the part.

  The maid curtsied again and moved to the door, then turned back. “I wish you a long and happy marriage, ma’am. I speak for all the staff when I say how pleased we are that you are here. The duke never looked so happy, if I might say so.”

  Harmony sensed she would have a friend in Mrs. Redcliff, formalities or not. She wished she could go to the woman and hug her. “You are kind,” Harmony said instead. “So kind you shall make me cry.”

  “Oh, no.” Mrs. Redcliff’s eyes were bright with mischief. “This is not a night for tears.” The woman smoothed her apron, abashed. “But I shouldn’t go on. I wish you a pleasant evening, Your Grace. Do not hesitate to ring if there is anything you require.”

  Harmony nodded, and Mrs. Redcliff smiled once more and left with the dinner tray. Kindness always made Harmony emotional, especially the kindness of women. She barely remembered her mother but she still missed her. She longed for her now, when she was so unsure of what would go on. She longed for the reassurances of a mother, a mother’s care and concern.

  Do not be maudlin on your wedding night, you goose.

  She went into her bedroom, taking in a deep breath at the beauty of the flowers and furnishings. She tested the taut surface of the bedclothes. The coverlet was ivory silk with smooth braiding, so perfect and elegant she hated to lie down on it. Mrs. Redcliff had turned down the top and fluffed the cushions. Harmony sat upon the edge, sinking into the luxurious comfort of the mattress. Her bed at home had been a narrow affair, her coverlet and linens worn and sometimes stale-smelling. These sheets smelled of lavender and fresh air.

  She was a duchess, for goodness’ sake.

  Harmony rubbed her eyes, which was probably not a very duchess-y thing to do. Then she scrunched up a handful of the diaphanous nightgown she wore. No, she mustn’t do that either. She opened her hand and smoothed the garment across her lap. What time was it? She lay back on the very grand bed in the center of the very grand chamber that was now hers, and then straightened up again as a knock sounded at the door.

  “Come in.” She meant to call out the words, but her voice had shrunk to a whisper. He entered anyway, pausing just inside the door. Harmony gawked. This was not the man she knew. Gone were his fitted coats, his high, starched neckcloths and collars. No trousers and polished Hessian boots. No fine gloves. He wore a long, dark blue brocade dressing gown crossed at his front. From a triangle at the top she could see his bare skin and a hint of dark hair on his chest. He looked even larger now than he did when he was dressed in his tailored garments. He was her husband, the tall, powerful gentleman standing across her vast duchess’s chambers. She swallowed hard and rubbed her eyes again.

  “Dear Harmony,” he said in a voice that sounded tender and amused at once. “Shall I stay, or are you exhausted?”

  Harmony, not Miss Barrett. She had to get used to that now she was married to him. She was glad to be married to him, even if she’d had to stand in front of a thousand people to do it, worried every moment she would do something wrong. She did do things wrong. She’d stammered over words and turned to leave the altar before the ceremony was quite over. He’d had to grab her as he had in Sedgefield village that day. As he’d done the first time they danced, when all she could think about was how fierce and beautiful his eyes were.

  “I am not at all tired,” she assured him. She had been tired and anxious, but now she felt very much awake. She watched him turn and shut the door in his nighttime attire. Beneath that gown was his form and muscle, his nakedness. She was naked too beneath her nightgown. It was marvelous and terrifying beyond belief.

  And so she sat in her bed like a lump, though she probably ought to have been doing something. Greeting him, beckoning him. Taking off her clothes? What did wives do? She hadn’t the slightest idea, but her new husband made no signs of annoyance. He’d been so kind to her all day even though it was her fault he’d had to marry her. It made her love him, but she was a little afraid to love him, because she was afraid he wouldn’t love her back once he realized what it was like to live with her.

  Oh, he was all that was proper and kind, pretending to adore her, but she had the feeling he did it because it was proper. Because a husband should smile and appear delighted at his wedding, and treat his wife with tenderness. The duke seemed to take extreme pleasure in doing things properly, not just in this, but in everything. If that is the case, some small voice whispered, how on earth could he ever find satisfaction with you?

  “Are you happy with your rooms?” he asked, moving toward her. “And with your new home?”

  She watched him come, mesmerized by his warm smile. Everything would be all right, because no one who smiled at her like that could ever mean her harm. “I can hardly explain how happy I am. How beautiful everything seems.”

  He approached until he stood right beside her bed, then leaned down and took her hands. “A beautiful home for a beautiful wife. It is appropriate.” Did he find her beautiful? His tone was not teasing, but earnest. She blinked hard as he sat down on the bed facing her, one leg pressed right against hers. “It was a grand wedding, was it not?”

  She nodded. Her chest felt tight. She looked into his eyes and choked with so many feelings she feared she would burst. “Thank you for making them respect me today,” she said. “For saving me from ruin. For marrying me. I’ll—I’ll try to be—to be a good wife for you.”

  “Oh, my dear.” He shifted closer and laid his cheek right against hers. Her gaze darted down as the lower half of his dressing gown parted to reveal a muscular expanse of thigh. She noted dark hair, hard strength.

  She swallowed, closing her eyes. “I don’t know what to do now.”

  His hands tightened around hers. “Of course you don’t. But being a student of history, you at least know this is normal and natural between spouses, that mankind has done such for centuries, and that you will survive unscathed.”

  She drew back and attempted to smile, although she didn’t quite manage it. “Oh, I never expected you to…to scathe me, Your Grace.”

  “Courtland, please. Or Court. If you call me Your Grace, it rather dampens the intimacy of the moment.”

  “Court,” she whispered. “Yes, Your Grace. I mean…” When he cupped her face in his hand and leaned to kiss her she sagged in relief.

  She had dreamed of this kiss, wanted it, craved it every time she looked at his lips over their weeks-long courtship. She had imagined biting the curve of his aristocratic chin and smoothing her fingers over his cheeks. The first time he’d kissed her, she’d been shocked and even a little frightened by it. But not now. This time she would kiss him back, perhaps even take his face in her hands as he did hers. His mouth was strong and warm against hers, guiding her, encouraging her. He tilted her head and teased at her mouth until she sighed and opened to him. He delved deeper, breathless and a little wild. She did stroke his rough cheeks then, fascinated by their texture. His hands moved down the sides of her neck to tighten on her shoulders. It was so novel, this intimate communion between them.

  “Courtland,” she said when he finally leaned away from her. “I find that so very pleasant.” She touched her lips, traced them, remembering. He stared at her with great intensity in his eyes. Even by the dim light of the lamps, she could sense a rising tension between them she could not understand or control. She leaned toward him, because she knew only he could soothe the agitation she felt.

  “Look at me, dearest,” he bade her.

  She did, drawing in a deep breath. He was so close. The bare skin of his leg and his chest was shocking to her. She’d never seen him without coat a
nd breeches, and boots…

  “Don’t be afraid of this,” he said.

  “I’m not afraid.” She couldn’t hold his gaze. Her eyes dropped to his chest. She wanted to touch him there, but at the same time, she couldn’t imagine reaching out to do it. “I’m not afraid,” she repeated. “I just don’t know what you’re going to do to me.”

  He laced an arm around her waist and drew her close. “I’ll tell you, then. First I’m going to kiss you again, and then I’m going to turn you over my lap as I’ve dreamed of doing for several weeks now.”

  “Over your la—” Her protest was swallowed by his avid mouth pressed against hers. Her fingers curled upon his chest at last, feeling hard muscle and the tickle of light hair. His lips slanted over hers, bringing warmth to her cheeks and a queer feeling to her stomach. She snuggled against him, thrilled, wanting more. She could feel his fingers undoing the knot at the front of her dressing gown. She barely noticed when it slipped to the floor. She was too caught up in his strength and the spicy, sweet scent of his breath. The more actively she participated, the more deeply he kissed her. He nipped her lips with his teeth and gripped her bottom with a firmness that excited her.

  She moaned against his mouth and slid her hands up to his shoulders, exploring the contours of his masculine form with a pleased sound. Her breasts tingled where they pressed against his front. At last he released her and she pushed back from him, all but panting.

  “Why are you— Are you turning me over your lap to—”

  “Spank you? Yes.”

  “B-but why? Because I flubbed about so badly at our wedding?”

  “No, that is not why.”

  “Oh.” She shifted against him, feeling excited and worried at the same time. “Why are you, then?”

  “Because I want to begin as I mean for us to go on.” As he said this, he ran a hand up her back and lightly squeezed her nape. Perhaps he tried to soothe her, but her body was shaking with quiet tremors that would not subside.

  “But…”

  “But?” he asked patiently. “You asked me if I would spank you in our marriage, and I said I would. You agreed it would be appropriate, remember?”

  “But—” Harmony tried to untangle the muddle of her feelings. “I thought you would only spank me when I’ve done something wrong.”

  He considered that. “Sometimes I will spank you for disciplinary purposes. Other times, like tonight, I’ll spank you to foster a sense of closeness between us. If I only ever spanked you when I was cross, you would come to hate it, and perhaps even hate me. And that would sadden me greatly.”

  Somehow Harmony couldn’t fault the logic in that. “But— But—” He waited for her to collect her thoughts. “But how can it make us feel closer?”

  He kissed her again, just a light brush across her lips. “It is easier to show you than explain.”

  With those words, he guided her body forward until she was draped across his legs. Harmony did not resist, although she felt exposed and awfully endangered. He smoothed the skirt of her nightgown over her bottom and pulled her flush against his body, so she felt more secure. A little more secure.

  “But—”

  He paused in arranging her. She looked back at him, wishing this made more sense.

  “I am afraid you will hurt me.” She still remembered the spanking in Newcastle. The pain of it had been quite surprising. She wasn’t sure this wedding night activity would result in the closeness he sought.

  “This will not hurt much, this spanking,” he assured her. “You are not being punished. You’ll come to know the difference between the two.”

  “So you are not at all angry with me?”

  “No.” He stroked his palm across her bottom. “Merely enamored. You are my duchess. My wife. Now, put your hands on the floor and keep them there.”

  She very nearly said no. She would have said no if he hadn’t asked with such politeness, and if his palm upon her bottom hadn’t felt so pleasantly warm. He began to push up her nightgown, and then she really felt she must stop him. But she didn’t.

  He bared her right up to her waist and she let him, keeping her hands on the floor as she’d been told, even though her face burned and her mind was spinning from this new state of affairs. It was her wedding night, but rather than kissing or having marital relations with her, he was arranging her over his knee. He was spanking her simply because he wished to spank her, because he was her husband now and had the right to do it.

  This wasn’t what she’d expected at all!

  She told herself she would stop him as soon as he began, explain to him that she did not agree with being spanked at his whim, whenever he wished it. The very idea! She let him give her a few light smacks, only because she was trying to think of exactly what to say—but it became increasingly difficult to think. The spanks were not too hard, but hard enough that an excited, hot feeling bloomed in her pelvis where she bent over. Her body began to anticipate the rhythmic blows, to enjoy them, even.

  She tensed her buttocks, distracted and confused. Part of her wanted to rebel against this patently unfair treatment, but a larger part of her wanted to continue to submit because the pain felt pleasurable in the strangest way. After a time, he spanked her harder. Not painfully hard, but harder, and still she didn’t resist. She understood the difference, just as he’d told her. He was not smacking her as sharply as he’d done in Newcastle, when she’d felt punished indeed. This was different. The pain was not bitter, but sweet.

  She wasn’t sure if she was supposed to feel such pleasure from what he was doing, but she did. She stopped thinking about halting him and protesting this treatment, and gave herself up to experiencing it instead. The sounds of each spank, accompanied by the soft intake of his breath, the size and pressure of his hand against her bare skin… It ought to feel scandalous to her, being naked to his gaze, his hand smacking away at her bottom, but he did not make it seem that way. I want to begin as I mean for us to go on.

  She shifted her hips, but didn’t attempt to get away from him. His large hands heated not only her cheeks but the side of her flanks and the tops of her thighs. Her entire bottom grew throbby and tingly, and she began to feel a restless need for more. Either harder spanking or something else. She moaned, confused, wanting to touch him, wanting him to hold her close and explain these feelings to her.

  “What is it?” he asked, pausing.

  It is that I cannot tell if you are hurting or pleasing me just now. This was nothing at all like the spanking he’d given her in Newcastle. Then, she had cried and wished for it to end. Now she only wanted more.

  He gave her more. Sharper slaps that heightened the tingling to an aching pain. She threw a glimpse over her shoulder to find him watching her with a dark, assessing gaze. She was aware of his hard thighs beneath her belly and his other hand braced at her waist. She was aware of his brocade dressing gown against the underside of one arm, and her flimsy silk nightgown whispering across her nipples as she shifted. His blows didn’t hurt much in isolation; it was the continued assault that made her feel curiously close to some edge. She wanted to cry, not from pain, but the sheer intensity of their interaction. He had been correct. Spanking could bring them closer. This realization resulted in a small, shocked sob. Upon hearing it, he ceased spanking and caressed her burning bottom.

  “Good girl.” His voice was a caress in itself. She was lifted, righted. She felt loose and floppy, like a doll he manipulated with his great hands. He stood her before him, letting her nightgown fall back down to her ankles. His face looked severe, but not in a cruel way.

  She gazed back in a kind of stupor, beyond explaining the way he’d made her feel. The way he still made her feel, just by looking at her that way. “I understand now,” she finally said. “I understand what you meant. About…about the closeness.”

  His fingertips strayed over the curves of her heated bottom. “I’m glad.”

  She shifted, his desultory caress increasing the taunting ache in her
center. “Will you do that to me every night?”

  “Spank you? Not likely. The other, perhaps.” His lips widened in a slow smile. “Every night would suit me very well.”

  Harmony thought she knew what he meant, but she wasn’t taking anything for granted on this night of such surprises. “What other?”

  His smile disappeared as his expression turned intent again. “Lie down and I’ll show you, my love.”

  Chapter Eleven: The Best Part

  He will not hurt me. He is kind and caring. Harmony repeated that to herself as he guided her back on the bed and slid under the covers beside her. He shrugged out of his dressing gown, carelessly, impatiently, and Harmony thought he would fall on her and strip her next. She feared roughness and abruptness, but he was gentle. He touched the neckline of her nightgown, traced the delicate ivory ribbon that drew it closed. Only then did he slowly untie it. She stared transfixed at his broad naked chest, his shoulders so different in form and breadth from hers, and his taut stomach below, a compelling ladder of muscles. She wanted to touch them so badly her fingertips ached.

  “I— I never thought I would marry,” she whispered as he parted the collar of her gown. “I never really thought much about…what we are to do.”

  He leaned close and kissed her just beneath her ear. “Very little thinking is required.”

  “Oh.” She sighed as his lips brushed across her neck, followed by more lingering kisses. He plundered her mouth, then licked beneath her chin as his hands came to rest at the base of her throat. With a smooth, easing movement, he brushed his palms down over her breasts. She leaned forward into his hands, needing his touch, his contact. He pressed her back instead and kissed her again. As he did, his hands opened over her nipples. His fingers sought and traced them, and Harmony’s whole body reacted with flaring, racing…desire.

  That had to be what this was. Desire, arousal. Wicked cravings. “Oh…” she whispered.

  “Oh,” he echoed softly, stroking her again. He was so calm, his touch so deft and practiced. She stared at him in a kind of shock. His manner of touching was like no other touch she’d experienced before. It was gentle and yet so powerful. She didn’t only feel the contact in her nipples, but in the ache of her bottom and the heated throb between her legs. She grasped at his hand, halting him.