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“He was Townsend,” she replied, making everyone laugh. “But they’ve made peace now. Mostly.”
The other three women seemed to sense Rosalind’s high emotions and drew her into a less stressful conversation about the small, private wedding Felicity and Prince Carlo would host. They decided to hold it two days hence, and though Rosalind asked for something simple, Felicity reminded her that it was to be presided over by her husband, a member of Tuscany’s royal family.
“Married by a prince,” said Jane. “Indeed, it must be something very dignified.”
Her mama insisted on ivy and white flowers for decoration, and Felicity offered to loan her veil, which Rosalind remembered for its outsized length and fine embroidery. It was decided she must have a grand new dress with a train, so they moved the nuptials out another three days to allow the court seamstress and her army of assistants to design and create it.
“It will be a crunch,” said Felicity, “but you’re my baby sister. Nothing is too fine.”
“We were already married,” she said softly, just to remind them. “That was not a lie.”
“No one thinks you were lying,” said her mother. “It’s only that…when you’re the daughter of an English duke and enjoy connections to royalty, it doesn’t do to have your marriage lines written in some parish book in rural Sicilia. It harms nothing to have another ceremony and a more official document. When we return to London, we can truthfully put about that you were wed in an Italian court. Not that your other wedding wasn’t meaningful,” she added, seeing Rosalind’s frown. “We just don’t want talk. You understand what I mean.”
“People love to gossip,” said Jane. “You recall I was a victim of gossip myself. If you and Elizabeth hadn’t been there to comfort me, I don’t know how I would have survived. Dear Rosalind, I don’t wish you to be hurt.”
Felicity nodded. “Indeed, you and Marlow have been through enough. We shall ensure your return to society goes as well as can be managed. There now, don’t be sad.”
Rosalind found she’d turned into a sobbing mess again. “I’m just sorry for all of it,” she said. “I regret everything so much, but I cannot be sorry about Marlow. If we must have a fine wedding in a palace for everything to be proper, then we shall. Oh, I am thankful, Felicity. Don’t think I’m not.”
That night, when she and Marlow were finally alone, Rosalind sobbed in his arms, pouring out all the guilt she’d shoved down over the course of their adventures, because it had been too stressful and inconvenient to entertain. Now it weighed on her like a ship’s anchor about her neck. There were too many people around her who knew the old Rosalind, the sweet, biddable one, and now looked at her with new eyes.
“That’s the way it is,” he said, stroking her hair as she cried in his lap. “Of course they look at you differently now. You’re a grown woman, a married woman. And they almost lost you. It’s not all recrimination, dearest. Some of it must be relief.”
“It doesn’t feel that way. It feels all recrimination and I deserve it. But oh, how long will that feeling last?”
He lifted her chin with one hand and wiped at her tears with the other. “That’s enough for now, sweet girl. You can’t hold on to all this guilt. Perhaps you need a good, long spanking to dissipate it. A proper, strict spanking to make you feel you’ve paid for your behavior. What do you think?”
“I don’t think I could ever pay for it all,” she said.
“That isn’t a no. Good. I rather feel like dissipating some bad energy myself.”
“By spanking me?”
“I think it’s a perfect solution. Think how soundly we’ll sleep afterward.”
He spoke so lightly of spanking, yet the spankings were serious to her and hurt very much, even when he was being playful. Did she want a spanking now?
Yes. Sort of.
What was happening, that she craved her husband’s discipline even though she hated it?
“What if they hear you punishing me?” she asked, stalling.
“In this great beast of a castle? Not very likely. The walls are two feet thick.”
“I’m not sure…”
“I believe you’ll feel much better afterward. Here, darling. Lie across my lap. I’ll use my hand, though a birch would probably be more effective. It might raise eyebrows if I send for one to be assembled at this late hour.”
Rosalind allowed herself to be lifted, rearranged. Exposed. Her bottom was bared with businesslike alacrity as he flipped up her skirts. Small comfort he wasn’t using a birch—she’d learned his hand could dole out a surprising amount of pain.
“Please remember, Marlow…sir…” She squirmed about to look up at him, pleading. “Remember I am already quite regretful of my behavior.”
He pushed her back into the correct position, her arms before her and her toes neatly pressed to the floor. “No tossing about,” he said in his stern voice. “Take this punishment well, or you’ll only feel more guilt.”
“Yes, my lord.” Her meek, whispered answer held all the tortured emotion she’d been living with. She hoped he would take it away! She hoped he could.
He commenced to spanking her. In the few short weeks of their marriage, she’d come to recognize when his spankings were playful and when they were meant to impart a lesson, and she could already tell she was about to be lessoned. But she deserved it so she held to her control—and her position—as well as she could, though each spank made her body jerk from the stinging pain.
