Under A Duke's Hand Read online

  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.

  “It’s natural to feel nervous.” He wiped her tears away, and brushed her hair back from her face. “But you should know there’s nothing to fear. Just submit to me as a good wife should, and everything shall proceed smoothly. Do you think you can manage that?”

  He looked at her expectantly. She knew the proper answer, as much as she hated to say it. “Yes, Sir.”

  She walked beside him as he led her to the bed, only because she didn’t wish the humiliation of being dragged. When they got there, he pressed her back upon the covers and crawled over her, so she was trapped within the cage of his body.

  “Stop crying now,” he said, as if this was as easy to accomplish as opening a door or drinking a cup of tea. “I happen to remember you are a very responsive and sensual woman. I’ll make you feel good if you’ll let me.”

  “I’m not allowed to stop you, am I?” she asked, swiping angrily at her cheeks.

  “It would not be advisable, no.” One corner of his mouth turned up in a smile. “At least your father isn’t standing at the foot of the bed to witness this, along with your brothers and all the neighbors hereabouts. That would have been more difficult, wouldn’t it?”

  She didn’t answer, only stared at him peevishly, trying to hold onto her anger and distaste. If only he wouldn’t gaze at her so intently, and bespell her with his Viking handsomeness and pleasing physique. He’d freed his hair from its queue, so it hung down and framed his face. The tousled mane granted him a wild and predatory look.

  “You’re trembling,” he said.

  She didn’t respond to this observation. She was ashamed to be so afraid. She couldn’t control her body’s tremors now that he lay over her.

  His fingers trailed up and down her arm, then traced around her shoulder. “Do you know the reason marriages are ‘consummated,’ as they say, on the wedding night? And why royal consummations are sometimes still witnessed to this day?”

  She shook her head, even though he’d scolded her for it earlier.

  “Many centuries ago, warriors and invaders used to vie for the most politically advantageous brides. You know, the ones whose fathers had the most money and the most property, and the best-situated lands. If the bride was beautiful too, well, you can imagine how men clamored for her hand.”

  As he said this, he stroked her breasts, light touches that sent cascades of sensation to her belly and legs. Warriors. Invaders. Vikings, she thought, with long blond hair, and muscular arms.

  “So when one of these men married a woman, he bedded her at once, to ensure none of the other men would try to steal her away, because a marriage wasn’t official until the husband had been inside the bride. Back then, marriage was a matter of staking a claim, of getting there first and planting your seed in her belly.”

  Gwen drew in a breath. How savage. How coarse and appalling, and yet a frisson of arousal bloomed between her legs. She prayed he didn’t notice.

  “Picture it,” he said, his fingers circling down to her waist. “A newly married Druid princess, and the head of a neighboring clan approaching from the north. Her groom would have one thought only: to possess her well and thoroughly, in front of witnesses, before his rival arrived.” He chuckled, his lips so close to hers. “You might almost be a Druid princess, with your black hair, and those jade eyes. I daresay you would have enjoyed being fought over by sweaty, growling men.”

  “I wouldn’t,” she said.

  But she was imagining the entire scenario in her head, the intensity and intrigue, and her husband eager to claim her even as witnesses looked on. It made her ashamed, the excited pulse in her center. She jerked as he slid his shaft against her dampening folds.

  “They were so awfully uncivilized back then.” He drew back and spread his fingers where his shaft had been, touching her in unseen and unknown places. “Now we have betrothal contracts, and wedding dinners, and rosemary upon the bed.”

  Ohh. She pressed her legs together. He stroked her too intimately, and caused too much need and wetness down there. Only a villain would force a woman against her will. But the more he stroked her, the less resistance she felt. Desire overran her despair.

  “I don’t...” She couldn’t complete her protest. It would have been a lie. She hated him still, but she wanted him to keep arousing her, and teasing her sensitive nipples with his tongue. Her body moved when she didn’t wish it to; her hips strained against him as she sought more of his caresses. When he kissed her, it felt like a lie. But when he touched her, her body didn’t care about lies or truth, or love, or honor. He slipped a finger inside her, easing it in and out.

  “I got here first, didn’t I?” he said with sultry satisfaction. “No marauders. No rival chieftains.”

  “I’m afraid,” she blurted out.

  But she wasn’t. Sometime in the last pair of days she’d turned into a feckless liar. What she really felt was craving and anticipation. She wanted him to maraud her, like that rival from the north. Like a Viking laying waste to a captured Druid princess. I’m afraid, said the Druid princess.

  Liar. You lie.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he said, and she could tell by his tone that he knew her for a liar. He ran his hands up her arms, raising them over her head and holding them against the bed as if to brace her. His knees spread her thighs wide, and his hips aligned with hers. His hard length pressed against her opening. She was so hot, so wet there. He must feel how excited she was, and know precisely what sort of wanton he had wed.

  She bit her lip and turned away from his kiss as he pushed inside her body. It hurt, a shocking, invading burn which somehow heightened her arousal to an even loftier plane. She fought against his advance, half in the moment, half in fantasy of medieval claimings, and the tales he’d murmured in her ears.

  “Yes,” he whispered. “That’s right.” He wasn’t angry that she fought him. It seemed to please him. He thrust forward again, chuckling softly when she refused to kiss him. She was still too conflicted to do that, but her body welcomed the breadth of his shaft driving deep between her legs. The sensation was not to be believed. The Duke of Arlington had taken up residence inside her, filling her body with his body over and over, a continual ebb and flow she could not escape.

  But she didn’t want to escape. His chest hair scratched her nipples as he arched over her, and his breath whispered across her cheek. He let one of her arms go, and reached beneath her to grasp her bottom and angle her for his thrusts.

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