Veronica. Nattie Jones
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you seem to feel the same desires.”
I snatched my arm from his grasp. “How can you talk to me of Mistresses?”
“Because you ask for honesty. And I also proposed to you because you are always reading. I am Master in my home, Veronica, and even though you think I did not see you, I watched you escape to my library every chance you got. I watched you smirk at Lady Caroline's audacious manners and Lady Bridget's changeable sweetness. All year I have felt your gaze upon me, whether at parties, dances, or even from my own window.”
His fingers grabbed my chin, holding my gaze to him. “Look at me, Veronica, and see me. I adore the way you go inside yourself, as if you are visiting another mysterious world. I love the smoothness of your skin, the pinkness of your lips, and this golden brown hair you have that shines in the sun.”
I couldn't think of a thing to say.
“And I thought you intriguing, perhaps a convenient choice, until the night you offered me your other hand to strike with my crop.”
I blushed and he grinned.
“I cannot get that out of my mind, the way you trusted me, the way you were so brave, so eager for the game.” He bent, snapped the stem of a crocus and presented it to me.
I was so embarrassed at his complimentary words that I blurted, “Lord Riverchurch suspects things are not proper between us.”
“What did he say?”
His gaze switched to anger so quickly it frightened me. “He said nothing, Your Grace. It was just a feeling I had.”
The Duke relaxed. “I am fond of the way you say 'Your Grace.'“ He took a step toward me, looked at me in way that made me feel like prey.
“Don't move,” he said.
I froze, fearful a bee was on me. Then I remembered it was too cold for bees. A snake? I looked at my feet. “What is it?”
“I'm going to kiss you again.”
I stepped back, looked around to make sure we were not in view of anyone. We were behind a large set of bushes. Although there were only a few leaves, the branches were thick enough that we were not in view of the windows of the house.
He growled.
I had never expected that sound from him. He had a relaxed way about him, but still he always radiated energy. His very presence commanded attention, so growling was just this side of frightening. And funny. But not either at all.
“Come here, Veronica.”
“Why?” His gaze pinned me in place; I could not obey him.
“I told you not to move.”
At his words, a thrill raced through me. Would he punish me?
“Are you disobeying me?” he asked. His face was hard, but there was an affection in his expression that let me know he was not truly upset.
“No, Your Grace.” I nibbled at my lip. “I'm just not obeying you.”
His eyebrows were already shaped in a way that naturally made him look skeptical. When he lifted one eyebrow, it made one eye look surprised. The other eyebrow was forced down in a way that looked almost angry.
The two expressions combined made my hand tingle. I glanced at his hands, but they were holding no crop.
He stepped toward me, towering over me. His hand touched my arm, and my whole body quivered. It felt so good to be touched by him; it was as if my body recognized his as its other half.
Running his hand down my arm, he forced it behind me. Our gazes were locked as he did the same with my other arm, and then circled both wrists with his hand. He held me captive loosely, as if he knew I wouldn't fight.
But I had to test my bond. I tried to pull my hands away, but his hand clasped tighter. And the tighter they squeezed, the more I liked it. I struggled more, and he squeezed so that it hurt just a little bit.
Calm washed over me, and I settled. He did not loosen his grip, but he took his other hand and softly stroked my cheek.
“Whether you disobey me or not obey me, you will be punished.” He cupped my chin with his thumb and used his finger to toy with my lips. “So pretty,” he said. He leaned down and kissed me, both gentle and firm. His lips nibbled at mine, as if he were blind and trying to memorize the shape of them by touch only.
When he was done, I could not catch my breath. “How will you punish me?” My voice sounded lower than I'd ever heard it, almost gruff. Hardly the sweet pleasantness my mother had tried to cultivate in me.
“The morning after we are married, I will carry you over the threshold and then put you across my knee. Right there, in the front foyer, I will pull up your dress and run my hand over your bare bottom. And then I will spank you with my hand until I am pleased with your squeals and cries.”
Heat rolled over my skin. Even in the chilly air, I was hot.
He released my hands and held out his arm. “Come,” he said. “Let's go back inside and visit with my sister.”
He wore an easy smile, as if what had just happened between us had not transpired. I felt I wanted to growl at him. I think I did, because he laughed.
“You are going to enjoy your wedding night, Veronica.”
That made me stiffen. “I will do my duty, Your Grace.”
Now I had shocked him. “You will do your duty?” he asked. “You are greedy for your husband to spank you, and yet you do not want to lie with him?”
I ignored his offered arm and turned back to the house. He followed.
“I am not a fallen woman.”
“I never once imagined you as one.” For the first time, he looked displeased with me. I hated the feeling it gave me, so I tried to hate him instead. He shook his head. “You know nothing of such things. I promise you will enjoy it.”
While I was comfortable speaking of punishments and such, I was not comfortable about our wedding night. Or any night thereafter. I gave a quick curtsey and fled to my room.
He left before I came down for supper, and I feared he would send a note cancelling our engagement.
No such note came. No flowers, either. No more visits.
I knew I should write letters to my sister, to Jeanette, and to Lady Bridget, but I feared he would cancel the engagement and I would just embarrass myself.
Georgette seemed to think all was in order. Even though a whole week passed and I had not heard from him. Snow came, interrupting spring, and I spent more time looking out the window, hoping the Duke would visit.
I was so self-involved, that I did not notice Georgette doing the same thing. Six days before my wedding, I noticed tears in her eyes as she was doing needlepoint. I had been pretending to read and hoping for a visitor.
I realized I had been a poor companion to Georgette. A poor friend. A poor guest. We were not so close that I felt confident asking her what was wrong. Should I pretend I hadn't seen?
But she wanted to be sisters.
“Georgette, you are crying!” I said. “I have been a poor, brooding guest in your house, when you have been the sweetest hostess a girl like me could ever hope for.” Then, aghast at myself, I added, “That anyone could ever hope for.”
She put down her needlework and came to sit on the edge of my window seat as if we were sisters already. She opened her mouth to speak, but we both heard a piercing scream from her son.
It happened again.
We both ran through the house and out the back. Lord Riverchurch was swooping him up and down, and at first I thought he was terrified.