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“But her English is good,” said the king. “Barely an accent, and her manners are fine.”
Aidan could feel Gwen tense beside him. Whenever they discussed her manners at home, she became agitated in the extreme. He gave her a look that said, Do not dare. He could cope with her tantrums at home, her sharp words and peevishness. He could not deal with them here.
“She is excited for the upcoming season,” said Aidan, to change the subject. “She will be pleased to make the acquaintance of your loyal subjects and settle into English life.”
“Yes, indeed,” said the king.
And then Gwen spoke. “If you want to know the truth of it, I would have rather stayed in Wales.”
One sentence. One miserable sentence she might have kept inside. But no, she hadn’t. The room fell silent. Someone tittered, almost inaudibly. The king and queen looked shocked.
“What my wife means,” said Aidan quickly, “is that she is homesick for Wales. She might have said it a better way.” He bowed in apology, and shot his wife a scathing look.
For long moments, the king and queen only looked at them. Aidan felt heat rising beneath his collar.
“I remember what it was to be homesick,” said Charlotte after a moment.
The king turned to his wife and squeezed her hand. Yes, that was love, that glance between them. Perhaps, in this case, it would save them. Charlotte seemed to like Gwen, even if the king thought her terribly rude.
“The best thing for homesickness,” Charlotte continued, “is patience and prayer. And subservience to your husband. You must focus on your duties as a wife.”
“Do you mean bearing his heirs?”
By God, he wished he could clap his hand over her mouth. What had he told her, in no uncertain terms? Don’t say anything at all unless you’re asked a question. He would make her write it out a thousand times as punishment for this debacle. But this debacle was his fault. She was his wife. She was not adequately under his control.
“Well, yes. Heirs are important,” agreed the queen, as more titters sounded from a corner of the room.
Aidan hoped his expression communicated the remorse he felt for his wife’s uncouth behavior. One did not speak of “bearing heirs” in a royal audience. He prayed the king would end this meeting before she made any more mistakes.
“We hope that you shall feel more at home here soon,” said the king with a sharp hint of remonstrance, and with that, they were dismissed.
Aidan wasn’t sure how he made it through the press of courtiers to the carriage without unleashing his temper on his wife. She had utterly humiliated him in front of his contemporaries, not to mention the highest sovereigns of the land. She blinked at him as he collapsed on the seat across from her.
“What is the matter?” she asked.
“What’s the matter? Did you think that went well, that audience?”
He saw a shadow of guilt on her face. “I did my best.”
“Was that your best? The part where you insulted the king—not to mention your husband—by suggesting you would rather have stayed in Wales? What about the part where you said our marriage was ‘well enough’? That was lovely. Oh, and taking up the discussion of bearing my heirs with Queen Charlotte, that was absolutely stunning in its couth. My goodness, Guinevere. You’ve outdone yourself today.”
She shrank at his vicious tone. “You never specified what I could or could not say.”
“Because one would assume you would only say polite things to the crown of England.”
“It seemed that everyone was speaking plainly. I was being honest.”
He held up a hand to silence her. “I’m too angry to speak with you right now.”
“But—”
“No.”
No, he didn’t dare look at her, or say another word. He didn’t want to attempt to spank her in her court dress, in this carriage, but if she riled him any further, that was what he would do. How was he to proceed from here? He’d have to beg pardon of the king, and he would have to fix his wife and his marriage before the season began. He did not like to be a laughingstock. He would not be made a laughingstock by a slip of a Welsh girl, at any rate.
They were nearly back at home when she asked in a troubled voice, “Will you still let me see my horse?”
“Your goddamned horse.” He wanted to throttle her. All the turmoil and irritation she’d brought to his life, and all she cared for was the blasted horse. “I ought to take her away from you,” he said as the coach rattled to a stop. “It would be an appropriate punishment, since you have taken away my pride, my reputation. You knew exactly what you were up to during that audience, and believe me, you shall be brought to account for it, as soon as I have regained my temper.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you won’t sit comfortably on that horse, even if I decide to let you keep her.”
With those words, he disembarked from the carriage and stalked into the house, leaving the grooms to extricate his lavishly skirted wife.
* * * * *
After her lady’s maid divested her of her court clothes, Gwen waited to be called to the duke’s room—for she knew she’d be called to his room. She deserved to be. She had acted foolishly, because she was nervous and reluctant, and irritated by the outfit she had to wear. She understood about royalty, but she didn’t see why she had to participate in all the pomp and circumstance.
Well, she knew why.
A somber-faced footman escorted her to Arlington’s private sitting room an hour or so after they’d arrived home. He still looked angry, but his color wasn’t as high as it had been in the carriage.
“I’m very sorry,” she began. “I’ve spent this last hour reflecting—”
“Take off your clothes.”
“Please, Sir—”
“Do not infuriate me further by refusing to comply. Remove your clothes.”
His gaze darkened as his words snapped across the distance between them. Gwen swallowed hard and removed her slippers, and her stockings and garters. She reached behind to unlace her gown but could not manage it. Arlington crossed to her and unlaced her himself, with rough, impatient tugs. The dread that had fluttered in her stomach the past hour rose and settled in her chest.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so very sorry I embarrassed you.”
He ignored her, yanking her gown over her head as she tried in vain to impede him. She fumbled at her petticoat’s ties to have something to do besides panic. Once
they dropped to the floor, she was bared to his gaze.
She searched his face for any softness, any comfort. Nothing. He took her elbow and drew her toward his bedroom.
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
“Punish you.”
“But you are still so angry. You’re frightening me.”
He stopped beside his great, raised bed and forced her to face him. “I think you deserve to be frightened. And I think I deserve to be angry. There is nothing more humiliating to a man than a wife who is not within his control. I’m tired of battling with you, Guinevere. One of us is going to break in this marriage, and it shall not be me.”
“It won’t be me, either,” she said with false bravado. “You’re not allowed to hurt me.”
“I’m allowed to discipline you, and you are due a correction for your insouciance today. Lie on your stomach on the bed. You are going to be caned. Ten strokes.”
“Ten strokes!” she cried. “I said I was sorry.”
“And I said to lie on the bed.”
Gwen had never been caned before, but she knew it was a vicious form of punishment. “Please don’t do this,” she begged him.
“Would you like me to help you lie down?” he asked, fetching the whippy looking cane from the bedtable. “If I must help you, I’ll add five additional strokes.”
If she was not so naked and frightened, she might have resisted him, but what good would it do? He was determined to make her hurt because she had offended his lofty English pride. She climbed onto his bed where he indicated, and lay on her front with her legs pressed together.
“I think this English tradition of husbands punishing wives is very uncivilized and cruel,” she said.
“And yet you live in England now, whether you like it or not.”
Goosebumps rose on her arms as the duke positioned himself beside the bed. He tapped her bottom with the cane, once, twice, as if perfecting his aim. She gazed up at him in entreaty.
