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Arlington reached in his finely tailored coat to extract an even more finely crafted gold watch. “It’s getting on, August. We ought to head out.” He turned to Warren. “I don’t suppose you’d like to go to the club with us, and Pearl’s afterward?”
Warren thought a moment and realized he didn’t want to go anywhere but upstairs, where he might molest his wife’s luscious body for several hours. “I think I won’t tonight, gents.” He forced a sigh. “But I hope your adventures prove entertaining.”
“Towns and now Warren,” August groused, shaking his head as he walked to the door. “It’s spreading like some disease, woul
dn’t you say, Arlington?”
The duke grinned. “Something like that. And you’ll be the next one infected, if Lord Colton has his way.”
August’s voice echoed down the hallway. “I’ll not marry Lady Priscilla. I’ll find some way to get out of it.”
Arlington turned back to Warren before he left. “You’re a good man,” he said. “I commend you on your selfless act, even though I suspect it was not entirely selfless.”
With those words, and another waggish grin, the Duke of Arlington received his hat and gloves from the butler and followed the Earl of Augustine out the door.
Chapter Ten: Spaces
As Minette predicted, hordes of callers descended on the Warren household after the first ball invitations were sent, sometimes four or five parties at once. Lord Warren made Josephine sit with him in the grand parlor, and relate over and over how they had fallen in love at Lord Baxter’s house party, and how blissfully happy they were. If she complained about it, or said the wrong sort of things in company, he took her upstairs and spanked her bottom until it smarted to sit down.
Meanwhile, planning for the ball continued. Josephine overheard the servants muttering about the size of the guest list—five hundred confirmed and counting. Five hundred? The idea of it filled her with terror. She wished some natural disaster would happen before the appointed night, some cyclone or monsoon to deliver her from her fate, but English weather was nothing like Africa’s or India’s. Josephine thought of running away, at least until after the ball, but where would she go? And how? Even if she could flee to Maitland Glen, it was a hollow wreck of a place not fit for inhabitants, and Lord Warren would only fetch her and make her come back.
At night, he spent hours in her room, distracting her when she fretted about the ball. “There will be too many people,” she complained, to which he replied that the Warren ballroom easily held one thousand. “I don’t know how to dance,” she’d cry, and he’d say something low and sensual like, “Let me show you this dance I know. You do it lying down.”
And then he would strip her naked, and caress her, and do things that swept away her senses. Sometimes he tied her to the bed, which seemed designed for that very purpose with lots of sturdy spindles. He caressed her everywhere, her breasts, her quim, her backside, her shoulders, the sensitive hollow beneath her ears, her nape, her hips. He traced her ankles, her calves, and the spaces between her toes. “You’re all mine,” he’d whisper. Once she was aroused to a fever pitch, he would invade her body in all types of positions, in all types of ways—fast, slow, hard, soft, backwards and upside down while she clung to him and mewled in helpless pleasure.
She suspected such activities weren’t proper, but he guided her into them so deftly that she never thought about stopping him until after the salacious acts were in progress, and her body quite engaged in the heated magic of his attentions. Next time, she would say to herself. Next time I will resist him.
But she never did.
In preparation for the ball, a French dressmaker was called to make alterations to the embellished sage gown she’d acquired from Minette, and to consult with “milord’s new comtesse” on what other gowns she might like to order for her season’s wardrobe.
The appointment did not go well.
Madame Lafleur insisted she must have Josephine’s selections right away, as the season was already in progress. Minette tried to help, but Josephine felt pressured and uncooperative, and snapped at Madame that none of the gowns in her fashion plates looked like anything she might wear anyway. It was rude of her, and when Warren began to glower and clear his throat, she knew she had earned herself a punishment. After that she grew positively churlish, and her husband’s eyes promised a great deal of retribution indeed.
Directly after dinner he sent her up to her room. As she sat pouting and waiting for her husband to arrive, a maid tapped at the door and brought in a silver covered plate to set on the table by the bed. “By Lord Warren’s instructions,” she said, bobbing a curtsy. The girl blushed hotly and would not meet Josephine’s eyes.
By Lord Warren’s instructions indeed, thought Josephine. She lifted the cover to see what he had sent up for himself. More cakes? An after dinner pudding? What she found instead was a redolent and freshly peeled root of ginger, one end of it carved into a bulb and feathered at the tip. She stared at it in puzzlement, wondering what he meant to do with raw ginger, then turned to find him entering the room.
“Leave it alone,” he said. He paused to remove his coat and waistcoat, then approached her in his shirtsleeves. “Do you understand why I’m not pleased with you, Josephine?”
“Yes,” she said, wishing she might burrow beneath the bedcovers and disappear.
“Yes what?”
“Yes, my lord. I understand why.”
“Turn around.”
She obeyed, and felt his fingers tugging at the back of her gown and then the laces of her stays. She felt horribly guilty and vulnerable at times like these, when he stripped her and made preparations to punish her.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t like Madame Lafleur. She was unpleasant and rude.”
“No, you were unpleasant and rude. Madame Lafleur was only trying to do her job. The job I hired her to do, which is to outfit my countess with an appropriate wardrobe for the season on very short notice.”
He drew her gown off, along with her stays, and set the garments aside. Her filmy shift followed next, so her entire back and bottom was bared to his gaze.
“Bend over,” he instructed.
“Please… Warren…”
He didn’t bother to argue, only pushed her forward with a firm palm planted between her shoulder blades. “You knew when you went too far, when you pushed past the confines of my patience, and still you continued to snap and whine like a sniveling child.”
“I’m sorry.” It was true. All of it was true. “It’s only that I don’t want new gowns. I don’t want to attend this ball so all the town may come and gawp at us.” She said this in the same peevish and whining tones that had gotten her into trouble so many times before.
“I don’t want to hear another word about the damn ball, do you understand?” He crossed to the table to fetch the ginger root and returned to hold it in front of her face. “You have pushed and complained and irritated me to the point that a regular spanking won’t suffice. This is going in your bottom as an extra measure of punishment, and then you’ll be paddled over my lap.”
The ginger was going…in her bottom? What on earth was the point of that? She remembered the blushing, bashful maid, and her words. By Lord Warren’s instructions. Had they known below stairs what he intended to do with it? It had been carefully carved into a phallic shape. She felt ill with embarrassment as he pressed the tip of it against her bottom hole. It wasn’t the first time he’d touched her there, for he sometimes pressed his fingers inside her there during the course of their love play. But this wasn’t love play.
She tensed as he forced her to spread her legs wider. He held her bottom cheeks apart and inserted the ginger all the way in, until the flange impeded further progress. It went farther inside than his fingers had ever been, and Josephine squirmed uncomfortably. It was certainly a punishment to be humiliated like this.
He left again, and when he returned he held her wooden hair brush in his hand. The cursed thing. She would have to hide it where he could never find it. He pulled her up by the arm and sat on the bed, and arranged her over his lap, a position she was coming to know well. The ginger in her bottom, by this point, had come to feel uncomfortably warm. She braced as he raised his arm to paddle her.
“Oh,” she cried. “Wait, it’s hurting me. The ginger. It stings!”
“I should hope so.” The back of the hair brush cracked against her bottom. She squealed and tensed, and then tried to pull away as the ginger burned her inner passage.
“Oh, please. Please,” she begged. “Something is wrong. It feels like my bottom is on fire.”
“The more you tense, the more it stings,” he explained. “If you relax, it won’t sting as much.”
“But how can I relax—ow!” He gave her an especially sharp crack. “Oh, please. Warren!”
“I perceive you’ve discovered the point of the ginger. You had your chance to curb your behavior earlier today, and you chose not to. You knew what the consequences would be. Honestly, Josephine, it’s been less than a month since we married, and you’ve had nearly a dozen spankings. You must understand by now that poor behavior will be met with consequences, at least in this house.”
“Oh. Owww!” She kicked her legs, trying to escape the hot progression of blows. “I know. I’m sorry!”
“Most ladies are pleased to have new gowns and fripperies. I had to marry the one who”—whap, whap, whap!—“takes any sort of kindness as a personal affront.”
“I’m sorry,” she cried. “I should have appreciated your generosity.” Sometimes, if she apologized prettily enough, he took mercy on her, but he didn’t seem in such a mood today. The ginger stung her bottom relentlessly, but when she tried not to tense, the hair brush paddling felt so much worse. It was an impossible situation.
“Madame Lafleur is one of the best modistes in town,” he continued, cracking now at the tender skin between her backside and upper thighs. “One might expect one’s wife to be delighted with the prospect of a Lafleur wardrobe. Instead I had to pay Madame extra money to smooth over the feathers you ruffled. She has made Minette’s gowns for years and has always had our family’s custom. You nearly put that in jeopardy today.”
Josephine could barely focus on his lecture, the paddling hurt so badly. “Please, when will you take the ginger out? Oww. Please!”
