The Westerfield Trilogy Read online

  He picked up her hand, which was bare since she’d lost her glove, and kissed it. He could feel it tremble against his lips and he pulled it into his lap and held it in both his hands.

  “You frightened me,” he offered by way of apology.

  “Yes,” she said breathlessly, her chest still heaving, her hair plastered to her slender neck. He plucked out several hairpins dangling precariously and pressed them into her hand, which he still held captured on his lap.

  “I’m glad you’re all right.”

  She blinked rapidly, but did not manage to look at him again.

  He ordered a warm bath for her the moment they arrived at home and sent hot chocolate up to her room.

  When they met on the landing to go to dinner, he offered his arm. She took it, blushing and lifting her eyes only as high as his collar.

  Preferring to address things directly, he touched her hand. “Still blushing over your spanking?”

  That caught her ire. She frowned up at him. “Was it supposed to make me sorry? Because it didn’t—it only vexed me.”

  He laughed. “I imagine that’s because I let you up too soon. If you like, I can take you into my room and do it properly.”

  She flushed a deep shade of pink.

  He softened. “No, little dove. It wasn’t to make you sorry; it was merely an expression of my frustration.”

  He stopped and turned to face her, picking her hand up off his arm and lifting her fingers to his lips. He held them there until she dragged her eyes up to meet his.

  “You frightened me.”

  Her eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them back.

  “Forgive me my temper,” he said coaxingly.

  She shook her head, and he thought she would say she could not forgive him, but instead she shrugged, “I saw no temper. Though if that’s how you behave when you’re frustrated, I should hate to feel your hand when you’re truly angry.”

  He released her hand and cupped her face, tracing the line of her jaw with his thumb. “You never will, love.”

  Her chest began to heave, straining against the constriction of her stays and he wondered what reaction she was having to those words. Or perhaps it was his touch that incited her.

  “Forgive me my ill grace,” she murmured.

  “You were as graceful as can be expected of a young lady who’s been upended over a man’s knee. Are you hurt at all?”

  She shook her head. “Just my pride.”

  He grinned. “It’s probably reparable. I will let you spank me later to put me back in my place.”

  She blew out her breath with a low laugh. “I might like that.”

  He waggled his eyebrows. “Well, you know where to find me,” he said, leading her down the stairs and into the dining room.

  “Were you really so worried about me?” she asked, as if she could not believe it could be true.

  He stopped and stared at her. “My heart did not beat the entire time you were in the water. Does that seem surprising?”

  “Well, I suppose you would have felt so if any lady had fallen in the water.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “Are you fishing for a compliment, dear lady?” Ignoring her flush, he went on. “No, I am growing rather attached to you, my love. I have no intention of losing my new bride tragically or otherwise.”

  Still blushing, she shook her head. “You say such things,” she mumbled.

  When they sat down to eat, he addressed both ladies. “Do you know what we should do?”

  “No, what?”

  “Hold a reception to celebrate the marriage. You know, like Kitty and Harry did, after their affair.”

  “Yes, that’s a splendid idea!” Wynn exclaimed. “Do you think we could entice Mother to come? Then perhaps she will not feel as though she missed out.”

  “Yes, perhaps we can. If you ladies set the date, I’ll write her a letter she cannot refuse.”

  “What will she think of me?”

  He admired Phoebe for asking. “She will love you.”

  “No, I meant…”

  “She will be disappointed you don’t plan to produce heirs, but she will adjust.”

  Phoebe’s eyebrows drew together. “Are you disappointed?” she ventured.

  “Heavens, no. I never planned to marry, so I never planned to produce heirs.”

  “But who will inherit the title?”

  He waved his hand. “I have loads of cousins. And even if they all happened to die, my father left a string of bastards from here to Scotland and back again.”

  She froze, her spoon halfway to her mouth. She set the spoon back down and considered her soup a moment. He knew her question before she asked it.

  “Do you have any bastards?” She kept the timber of her voice natural and light, though her body was still, waiting for his answer.

  “None. I’ve been very careful and with a dash of luck as well, have never fathered a child, as far as I know.”

  Her shoulders relaxed. “Well, that must be a comfort to you,” she said snidely.

  His stiffened, setting down his fork and staring at his food. He’d lost all appetite. Something about her remark was all too familiar. No, it was the tone—the same his mother always used with his father. They had this sort of marriage—biting words and cold silences, all related to his father’s philandering. This was the kind of marriage he’d tried so hard to avoid. A sense of panic overcame him—this was the beginning of it for them. Not even one week of peace before it started, despite her offer of his freedom to take other women.

  His mind cast about for solutions—putting distance between them, even separate residences, but all of it smacked of the same misery he’d been raised in.

  “Forgive me. That sounded quite rude, didn’t it?”

  He looked up, surprised.

  She shook her head. “I have no right to judge.”

  He sat back in his chair and tossed his napkin on the table. “Of course you have a right to judge,” he said, sounding more bitter than he intended. “Isn’t that a wife’s duty?” He stood from the table and gave a slight bow. “If you’ll excuse me, ladies,” he said and escaped without awaiting a reply.

  Chapter Three

  Courage is no more

  than spots in the eye

  A brief and thirsty burst—

  and when it is spent

  and time already rent

  there is nothing save pain evermore

  Phoebe sighed and scratched out the word ‘pain,’ searching her mind for a different word. It was the first evening she’d had alone since she married three weeks earlier. As much as she enjoyed Wynn’s company, she’d been anxious to have a stretch of time alone with her poetry. When her sister-in-law had invited her to go to a ball with the Westerfields, she’d begged off, eager for the opportunity to indulge in her secret passion uninterrupted.

  She sat at Fenton’s desk, her poems sprawled across the mahogany surface, the mere sight of them warming her, as if they were the faces of dear friends. Fenton had an expensive tortoise-shell pen with a perfect quill tip, which made writing all the more delicious. She sat with her eyes half closed, words dancing around her, each with its own nuance, each with its own story. They seemed to buzz at her, enticing her to pick one of them to be scrawled on her fine paper.

  Except her thoughts kept spinning on words like ‘spank’ and ‘husband.’ The mere memory of the wet-bottomed spanking he’d given turned her stomach to butterflies. She’d gone over the scene in her mind again and again, trying on different reactions she might have had to it—like slapping his face, or begging him to stop. Or laughing.

  What reaction had he expected of her? An apology? Sulking? Try as she might, she could not understand the nuance of it all. Had it been a punishment? Or for him was it part of a seduction? She found herself imagining a real punishment at his hands, the embarrassment of accepting his authority somehow titillating to her.

  Perhaps she should have apologized.

  She’d seen littl
e of Fenton since the night when she’d asked if he had any bastards. He’d taken offense to her critical remark, which she admitted had not been merited. There was no love between them, nor a promise of fidelity. He owed her nothing in that manner, yet she’d still lashed out at him.

  They’d fallen into an uneasy but polite existence since then. Breakfast together, then he left for Parliament whilst she and Wynn received callers or made calls. Lord Fenton returned home for dinner, but then often went out again until late in the night. Whether it was because she’d offended him or if that was his normal daily rhythm, she did not know, and she could not bring herself to ask Wynn or one of the servants.

  Perhaps he left to meet with his mistress. Or mistresses.

  The memory of her sister’s giggles floating through the wall into her bedroom from their tryst surfaced and caused her to press too hard on the quill, breaking the tip. White-hot jealousy burned in her chest at the idea Maud may still be indulging her fancies with Fenton—with her husband.

  Please, God, no. Anyone but Maud.

  She suddenly wanted to scratch her sister’s eyes out.

  The door to the study clicked open and she gasped, jumping. It was Lord Fenton, himself, who looked just as surprised to catch her in his chair as she was to be found there.

  “Oh! Excuse me, my lord!” Blotting the ink, she hurriedly shuffled the poems into a stack, abandoning the ribbon that usually bound them, and shoving them into her little wooden box.

  Fenton smiled a slow, predatory smile, prowling around the desk, looking satisfied to catch her looking guilty. “What are you doing, my dear?” he drawled.

  “Nothing! Nothing at all. I—I was just leaving. Forgive me.”

  He blocked her exit from behind the desk. “Writing something?”

  “No! I was just—” she cast her mind about wildly, “reading some old school notes. My studies, you know.”

  Fenton laughed, slipping past her to sit in his chair with his arm catching her waist. To her shock, he pulled her face down over his lap, slapping her upturned bottom as soon as she arrived.

  She kicked her legs. “What? Stop it!”

  “Never lie to your husband, Phoebe. He does not take kindly to it.” He slapped several more times in rapid succession, then threw her skirts over her head, causing her real panic. She squirmed to free herself.

  Fenton was chuckling. “No, there’s no getting free. You’ve earned your spanking, now you’ll have to take it.”

  To her utter mortification, he parted the slit of her drawers, exposing her bare bottom to the cool air and continued spanking her with hard, stinging slaps. She could not breathe at all.

  “Lord Fenton! I mean, Teddy!” she gasped.

  He chuckled again, smoothing his large palm over her bottom, which prickled with heat. “Thank you for remembering. I do believe I promised you a spanking for that mistake, as well.” He opened his desk drawer.

  “Unlucky girl. I have tools in here, like rulers and such.” He snapped what must be a wooden ruler across her cheeks, and she felt a searing pain.

  “Ow! Please, my lord!”

  “Hmm. Can you breathe? Let’s open this,” he said, pulling the laces of her corset. “There. Now I can spank as hard as I like.”

  “No!” she exclaimed as the ruler smacked down on her bare skin in another flurry of spanks.

  “Please!”

  “When I ask you a question, I want an honest answer, little dove. What were you writing? A love letter?”

  “No!”

  He applied the ruler again, five times in rapid succession.

  She whimpered. “It’s poetry!” She braced herself, though whether it was from ridicule or the ruler, she wasn’t sure.

  “Poetry,” he repeated, sounding interested. “That you wrote?”

  When she didn’t answer, he smacked her three more times with the ruler.

  “Yes!” she exclaimed.

  He was silent for a moment, and when he spoke again, the humor was replaced with what sounded like honest interest. “May I read it?”

  “No!” she cried immediately.

  The ruler snapped down on her again, beating a steady rhythm, causing her to buck on his lap in a vain attempt to escape it. “Wrong answer, my love. Don’t you know, you cannot refuse the man who holds the wooden ruler?” With the next spank, though, the ruler cracked, and she could not help but giggle. The rich sound of his laughter filled her ears, warming her, as if they were sharing some kind of joke that made this humiliating event easier. He rubbed her smarting bottom.

  “Well, I still have my hand. Would you care to try that answer again? Or shall I continue to spank?”

  “No—I mean yes!”

  He chuckled, rubbing a slow circle over her bare skin. “Yes, I may read your poetry?”

  She hesitated. She certainly did not wish to be spanked any longer. Nor did she wish to turn over the pages that contained her very heart and soul to him. Except some small part of her did long to share her writing, as terrifying as the idea was.

  He waited patiently for her answer, stroking and massaging her buttocks with one hand, as the other caressed the nape of her neck.

  “Yes,” she answered at last in a small voice.

  “Thank you,” he murmured, and pulled her up to stand beside him, one hand still under her skirt, cupping her bare bottom. He picked up the poem on top and began to read it as if it were the most absorbing thing he’d ever laid eyes upon, while his finger began absently tracing the line of her cleft. She could not breathe—the invasion of his finger no less disturbing than waiting for his assessment of her poem. Her knees felt weak and her upper thighs trembled. The hand moved to stroke the place where thigh met buttock, delving closer to her most intimate core. She tried to wiggle away, but he gave her sore cheek a sharp automatic slap, then looked up as if only just realizing he’d been holding her captive beside him with this hand most inappropriately up her skirt.

  * * *

  His hands had wandered. Sometimes they did that of their own accord. “Oh, my!” He hurriedly retracted his fingers from where they cupped the perfect curve of his wife’s sweet bottom and, realizing he’d been completely remiss in offering her comfort after her spanking, reached for her waist and pulled her onto his lap, drawing her knees up as well, so she lay curled in a fetal position against him. “Come here, little dove. You certainly deserve a cuddle after the ordeal I just put you through.”

  Her body trembled and she buried her face in his shoulder, as if too embarrassed to look at him. “Yes,” he said soothingly, stroking her silky hair, “hide your face so you don’t have to see me—that’s it.” He planted little kisses all over the top of her head. “Poor little dove.”

  He rocked her, holding her snugly and murmuring endearments.

  His.

  There was a satisfaction in holding her, knowing she was his wife. The burden of responsibility he felt for her was tempered by the possibility of more of this sweetness. He had always chosen experienced, worldly women. Phoebe’s innocence inspired a tenderness and protectiveness he was not accustomed to feeling.

  Her poetry was beautiful. He wanted to tell her in a way she would believe him. After a moment, he tipped her head up, cradling her face in both hands. “I love your poem,” he whispered, and bent his face toward hers, his lips seeking hers, brushing lightly first, then kissing more firmly. Her hand came up to touch his cheek, and he caught and held it against his face, his tongue probing her lips.

  But she spooked, the hand at his face suddenly pushing him away as she straightened, her eyes wide and frightened. “Please,” she whispered hoarsely. “Let me go.”

  He was incapable of denying her anything, though giving up the feel of her warm body on his own was a great disappointment. He helped her to her feet, and stood himself, as a gentleman should.

  She reached to snatch up her little box, but he covered her hand to stay it. “I would like to read them all, Phoebe. May I take this box? Just for the night?�
��

  Her eyes searched his, the movement of her pulse rapid on her slender neck.

  “Please? I promise you, I read with the utmost respect.”

  Her head fell back slightly, as if her neck was too weak to hold it. She swallowed. “Yes—all right,” she said. “Just for the night?”

  He nodded, removing his hand so she could slip hers out. He picked up the box and dropped it into his jacket pocket. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

  She dropped a curtsy. “My lord,” she murmured and turned and left the room, her tail tucked a little as if she wished to hide the part of her anatomy he had just chastised. He felt a curious ache watching her go. She’d produced it in him from the very start—from the first night he met her—and it had kept him from lying with any woman since the day he’d wed, though she’d offered him freedom and he itched for release. He’d been to the gambling halls and had been urged to join gentlemen on their way to brothels, but he could not bring himself to seek pleasure there.

  He wanted his little bride.

  Against all reason, she’d become the one thought he could not press from his mind. And now he possessed something that might help him understand her. He carried the little wooden box to his bedroom and asked his valet to light every lamp.

  Poring over the poetry, he absorbed the essence of her. They reflected a deep appreciation for the natural world, clever understanding of the human one (including some witty depictions of her sister) and an overall buoyancy of spirit. The light he’d glimpsed in her face at the bookstore shone clearly here. She poured her passion onto the page, revealing a perfect balance between romantic and practical. She was as unique as her eye color, a treasure meant to be held in the light. He read until late in the night, organizing and sorting her poems into little piles, placing them in different orderings and reading the effect.

  In the morning, when he heard her stir, he opened the door between their rooms without knocking and strode in, carrying the poems in the order he’d sorted them. She had the back of her nightgown lifted and the slit in her drawers parted and was twisting around to look at her buttocks.