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“I won’t then,” Gwen cried. “I’ll wait to ride her, as long as it takes you to be satisfied she is tame. The grooms will train her, I know.” She grasped his arm, tears brimming in her eyes. “Please, Aidan, you were so wise to choose her. She’s smart and lively, with so much potential. She only needs a little more time.”
“I was wise to choose her, you say, but not wise enough to know when she’s ready to be ridden?”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I didn’t listen to you. Please! Please don’t take Eira away from me.”
She threw her arms around him, sobbing against his chest. He wanted to stay angry, and he meant to get rid of the mare at the first opportunity, but Gwen’s grief was so raw, so deep, he couldn’t steel himself against it.
“That beast might have killed you,” he said, running a hand over her hair.
“No, she wouldn’t. It wasn’t her fault. She didn’t do anything to endanger me. It was my fault for galloping off when you didn’t want me to. I won’t do things like that anymore, I promise.”
“I understand that you’re upset, but she’s not working out. We’ll find a better tempered one, just as beautiful.”
“No, I love her. Please.” She gripped the front of his coat and gazed at him through tears. “Eira and I talked together. I know that sounds silly, but I looked into her eyes and I saw that she belongs to me. She knows she belongs to me too. I can’t explain it, but she’s special. I know she’ll get better and...and so will I. I’ll be a perfect, obedient duchess from now on. I promise. I swear.”
He loosened her fingers before she started popping off his buttons. “That’s a pretty promise, but I don’t believe you.”
“Please! I’ll say whatever you want, and do whatever you want. Please, please, don’t take my Eira away.”
He’d seen her upset, and he’d seen her cry, but he’d never seen her like this. My Eira. How could she care so much about a dumb, wild creature and yet think so poorly of him? He brushed away her tears before she could wipe them again on his coat.
“All right,” he finally said in exasperation. “I won’t send her away yet. But you are not to go anywhere near the paddock unless I allow it, and if the grooms aren’t able to improve her, we’ll have to let her go. Do you understand? You’re too valuable to me, more valuable than any horse.”
She gripped his sleeves and sniffled. “Do you swear? You aren’t just saying it so I’ll stop crying?”
“I swear. I’m a man of my word.” He frowned as he stared down at her. “And I wait with great anticipation for this perfect, obedient duchess you’ve promised to be.”
She took a step back and sank into a low curtsy, bowing her head before him. It was certainly the most graceful reverence she’d ever shown. “Very pretty,” he said. “I hope you’ll be as biddable in London.”
He doubted her sudden reformation would last more than an hour or two, but with her love for the mare, he had a threat to hold over her head, a surefire way to bring her to heel. She might even make it through their audience with the king without setting Welsh-English relations back a century or two.
“Come along then,” he said, guiding her over to his stallion. He mounted first and hauled her up before him. She settled in his lap, her body still shuddering with the occasional sniffle. He slid an arm about her waist to hold her in the saddle.
Perhaps later, when he had calmed down completely, he would spank her for shearing a full ten years off his life. But he knew he probably wouldn’t.
He was still too stricken by the idea that she might have been lost.
Chapter Nine: In London
A few days later, Gwen bid farewell to Eira and her private garden in Oxfordshire, and set out with the duke on her very first journey to London. Being a perfect, obedient duchess wasn’t easy when one was trapped in a carriage with one’s demanding husband. But no innkeepers were asked to assemble any fresh birch rods, so in that way, this journey went better than the last.
Arlington House, her husband’s London home, turned out to be even grander than his manor in Oxfordshire, comprising twenty-two windows across the front and eight windows across the side. By this particular form of measurement, Gwen perceived that his town house was one of the grandest in the city proper, with an elevated portico and staircases and a long balustrade along the front with shining iron gates.
There was not as much land around the house as he had in the country, but still more than any of the other homes about. Behind the house stretched a landscaped garden with walking paths and follies, including a great Greek temple carved and detailed to look like the real thing. When she asked him the purpose of this temple in the midst of his gardens, he winked at her and said, “For fun.”
A house that was twenty-two windows wide and eight windows deep was not very fun for Gwen, because she was constantly lost in its corridors. While she flailed about trying to find her place in this new London home, Arlington came and went, riding out on his prized black stallion. She did not ask his business, although she supposed he had any number of ducal interests to see to now that he’d returned to town. He still visited her each night, exposing her to more perversions. As much as she wished to resist him, he made her crave ever more wanton things.
Sometimes she wondered if he did it as an exercise in power, for he dealt skillfully in power. She watched him now in the looking glass, as he scrutinized her diamonds and the silver gown she wore. It was the same gown she’d worn at their wedding, the gown the duke had chosen for their formal portrait. London’s best artist waited downstairs in the grand hall. Pascale had done her hair to the duke’s specifications, some of it curling down over her bare shoulders, and the rest of it braided and piled upon her head, rather as it had been the first day she met him. Well, officially met him. He came over and smoothed one of the coils, and adjusted the pin that secured it.
“Your lady’s maid does well,” he said. “Are you pleased with her?”
“I suppose.” In truth, Pascale was nearly as lofty as the duke.
He smoothed a hand down the bodice of her gown, to the fitted waist. “I like this color with your eyes. The diamonds too. Anything else would be too showy, and you are already showy enough.” He stood back and met her gaze in the glass. “How do I look? Our grandchildren and great-grandchildren will study this portrait one day, and remember us as we appear.”
“But you’ve had other portraits made.” She had seen them, expert renderings of him as a child, and as a willowy, slightly sneering young man. There was a more recent likeness of him in the gallery that perfectly captured his powerful masculinity. She stood from the bench and turned to assess him. “I think you look very fine.”
“Fine” was always an understatement when it came to her husband. He wore a deep blue coat and breeches embroidered with silver to match her dress, a lace-cuffed shirt, and a sumptuous fur-lined cape that buttoned at the neck with a garish jewel. He flipped one side of the cape back over his coat, revealing decorations and medals, shining ducal things. In truth, he awed her, clad in such finery. He seemed at home in it, while she felt stiff and overdressed. “I have never seen you wear a sword,” she said.
“It’s ceremonial. It was my father’s, and my grandfather’s before him. Would you like to see it?”
He drew the gleaming thing from its scabbard and Gwen jumped back.
He chuckled. “If I haven’t stabbed you yet, I won’t do it now.” He stepped to the side and adopted a ready stance, his sword arm extended before him. “Like any well-reared man, I took lessons in fencing and swordplay. I’ve never cut anyone to pieces, but I could if I wanted to.”
“A useful talent.”
He shot her a piratical look. His hair was pulled back, shining gold even in the dim dressing room. She felt a pang of arousal, a c
raving for his touch. His force. She wanted him to threaten and subdue her, and run her through. Not with the sword, of course, but something else. Then she remembered that he disdained her, and only valued her as another exercise in power. My elegant duchess. My obedient wife. My cooperative lover. She was here to please the king and give the duke children.
And to look pretty in his portrait.
“I suppose we ought to go down,” he said, sheathing the sword. He still retained the dangerous aura that attracted and repelled her at once. “Are you ready to sit motionless for an hour or more? Have you sat for a portrait before?”
“Once.” Her voice sounded more wistful than she meant it to.
“Ah, yes.” He looked at her with a ghost of a smile. “I remember you did very well that day, sitting still for me.”
You approved of me more that day, she thought, than you have ever approved of me since. “Do you still have that sketch?” she asked aloud.
“Of course I do.” His eyes raked over her, from her face to her breasts, to her waist and hips and skirts. “And I have something better, too. A fairy queen for a wife.” He took her about the waist and pulled her close against his hard, tall body, then tilted his head down and pressed a kiss to the curve of her neck. Her stomach fluttered. He pulled away and touched her diamond necklace where it rested against her chest.
“The portrait,” he said, as if reminding himself. “We must sit for the portrait now. It may take a few days.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” She whispered it, because he didn’t like when she called him by his title. But sometimes, when she looked at him in his rich capes and finery, she couldn’t think of him by any other name. Not Arlington, and certainly not Aidan. He was the duke at his essence, Your Grace through and through.
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