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When it became apparent she wouldn’t undress on her own, he crossed to her and turned her about, and began working at her laces. One good thing about his lustful bachelorhood: he was very quick at managing ladies’ clothing. He unlaced her bodice and pulled her heavy, voluminous gown over her head, disregarding her half-hearted attempts to impede him. He stripped off her petticoats next, and her underthings, her shift and stockings.
“You will tear them,” she said, as he bent to tug the latter off her kicking legs.
“I’ll buy you more. Better ones, befitting a duchess.”
“I despise you.”
He straightened and gazed at her. She glared back, her arms covering her breasts.
“All I did was ask you to eat something,” he said. “It was a simple request I made for your well-being. Your peevish behavior has nothing at all to do with my actions, and everything to do with your frustration and determination to annoy me.” He took her arm and led her over toward the bed. “Since I dislike being annoyed, I shall teach you not to do it again.”
“You’re not going to teach me anything,” she cried, pulling away from him. “Except to hate you more.”
“If you don’t learn anything, then the lesson will be repeated until you do. Bend over, darling.”
As expected, his hellion refused. With a sigh, he forced her down over the mattress, drawing her flailing hands behind her back. Pressing her to the ticking with one hand, he lifted the birch with the other and gave her a smart whack across her bottom. She made a muffled sound into the sheets, her muscles held rigidly tight. She was trying to be brave, he supposed, and remain unaffected.
But it was very difficult to pretend a birching didn’t hurt.
* * * * *
Gwen bit the inside of her lip as the birch connected again. It hurt so much worse than she imagined. Each blow felt like a thousand pin-pricks spreading out across her backside. Before she could recover from the sting, he swatted her again. She was determined not to give him the satisfaction of hearing her beg for mercy. He was bigger than her, much bigger, so he could bend her over this bed and punish her with his godforsaken birch rod, but he couldn’t make her change her attitude. He couldn’t make her stop hating him. It would take much more than a birching to accomplish that.
But oh, it hurt so badly. She tried to be still, but her body jerked and squirmed instinctively. Ow, ow, oww. First she would hear a swish, and then a horrible whack as pain exploded in spreading heat. Then she’d wait, trembling and fearing the next.
“How many times are you going to strike me?” she asked after an especially smarting blow.
“As many times as it takes to break you, my dear.”
A soft whimper escaped her, and she hated the sound of that whimper. It was her first show of weakness. Now he knew he was hurting her. Of course he knows he’s hurting you, Gwen. Her bottom must be beet red by now, striped all over with livid birch lines. She bit her lip harder. She would not, would not give him the satisfaction of hearing her mewl and weep, although she wanted to mewl and weep more than anything. She went up on her toes as he whacked the underside of her buttocks.
“Not feeling it yet?” he asked.
Good God, she was feeling more pain than she’d ever felt in her life. The sting’s intensity built with each stroke, or perhaps he hit her harder. The birch caught her under her bottom again and her legs kicked up in agony. How long would this go on? He would not ease his hold on her wrists, even when she began to struggle. Another whack. That one was definitely harder.
“Feeling it now?” he asked.
“No,” she said stubbornly, but it came out like noooo...
“I suppose your punishment will continue then,” he said.
Oh, how she hated him. But he would get his way eventually, she knew. She couldn’t hold out much longer. Her bottom radiated heat, her buttocks clenching at each tormenting stripe of the birch. Moisture squeezed from her eyes, as much as she didn’t want to cry. The tears fell anyway, dripping down until the blanket beneath her was damp. She lost the battle to be quiet. A shriek erupted from her lips, a rough, desperate squawk. Not no, or stop. She would not beg. But she cried because it hurt, and because he wasn’t going to stop until she bent to his will. Swish, whack. Swish, whack. Swish, whack.
He owns you. He controls you. Give up and accept your fate.
She tried to steel herself, tried to keep the sobs inside, but they burst out anyway. How would she sit in the carriage tomorrow? Why was she enduring all this only for refusing to eat?
But it was not only that. She was being punished for refusing to respect his authority. Much good it had done.
“I won’t— I won’t—” she began.
He paused. “You won’t what?”
“I won’t...” She could barely talk, she was crying so hard. “I won’t be peevish anymore. I’ll be...respectful.”
She told herself it was not capitulation. She only said it to make the punishment end. But in her heart, she knew she would guard her temper around him now, lest this sort of punishment be repeated. And so he had broken her after all, and taught her a lesson, and it made her want to scream and spit and throw things.
“Very well,” he said. “Three more strokes, and then a bit of corner time so you can think about what you’ve just said.”
She hoped the last three might be gentler, now that she had given in to him, but they were the hardest yet. She shuddered at each one, bawling into the sheets. At last he placed the birch rod on the bed and lifted her upright. Her bottom throbbed as he led her to the corner closest to the fire.
“Put your hands on the wall,” he said as he positioned her. “No rubbing your backside. That sting you feel is part of your punishment.”
As he said it, Gwen realized her buttocks felt almost as hot now as they had felt under the birch. Perhaps even hotter. Fresh agony bloomed every time she shifted. She put her hands on the wall and leaned her forehead against the back of them.
“While you wait there for the next few minutes, think about how you’ll do better next time.”
I’m going to think about how much I hate you, she said to herself.
While she endured this humiliating “corner time,” she heard the duke moving about the room. He stowed the birch rod in one of the trunks, poked at the fire, and put out the candles.
I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, she thought.
And I feel so very sad.
I miss my family, and my home in Wales.
I’ll never love you, and I have always dreamed of a loving marriage.
My bottom hurts almost as much as my heart right now.
After what seemed like an hour, but was probably only ten minutes, he said, “Come here.”
She turned, but she didn’t want to go to him. He stood by the bed, still in his rich, dark dressing gown. She felt very naked and ashamed as she crossed to his side. The worst part was the way he looked at her, as if he pitied her.
She could not bear to be his object of scorn. She wanted to go home and curl up in her childhood bed, and escape all of this. She broke down in ugly tears as his arms came around her. She didn’t want him to hold her but there was no one else to do it, and she was so sad.
“It’s all right,” he said. “Let it out, all your misery and frustration. You’ve had a trying pair of days.”
“I want to go home!”
He held her closer and rubbed her back. His dressing gown felt smooth beneath her cheek.
“I know it’s been a difficult adjustment,” he said. “Cry for a while. Let those feelings go.?
??
So she cried, and cried, and cried until she felt too wrung out to cry anymore, and then he sat on the bed and pulled her into his lap, and she cried some more against the curve of his neck. She felt utterly demoralized. Defeated. How depressing, to yearn her entire life for love and closeness, and end up with this.
“There now,” he said, when she finally ran out of tears. “I suppose that birching wasn’t much fun for either of us, but we’ve straightened some things out. You’ve learned that revolt and disrespect won’t be tolerated, and you’ve had a good cry. May I kiss you?”
Gwen sat unmoving, her face hidden in his neck.
“Very well,” he said. “But I’m still going to take you to bed. You can expect to accommodate me every night. It’s the best way, you know, if we wish to start a family. Heirs are important to a dukedom. Are you eager to have children?”
She blinked at his friendly, conversational tone, as if he hadn’t just birched her so awfully. Yes, I would like to have children. No, not with you.
He slid his palms down over her shoulders and to her chest, and cupped her breasts. “Are you eager for children?” he asked again.
“I don’t know.”
He rolled her nipples between his fingertips with a thoughtful expression. She hated that it felt good, that he was arousing her when she did not wish to become aroused. He pressed kisses beneath her earlobe, and on her neck. He pinched her nipples again. “Spread your legs for me.”
She felt too worn out to fight him, so she obeyed. He placed his palm right over the place that most liked to be touched, and teased her sensitive spot with the tip of a finger. She bit her lip again, this time to hold back sounds of pleasure. She would not make those sounds for him. She would not.
But it became very hard to maintain her control as he slipped his fingertip over and around that little nub of flesh. The teasing tingles set her whole body trembling. She wanted to protest and say no to him, but it would be ridiculous. She was wet as a river. Her head fell back against his shoulder as he stimulated her, urging her toward release.
