Chapter 24

CHAPTER 24

“ I was starting to think she’d never leave,” Beatrice mumbled, finally able to abandon the parlor and head upstairs.

After breakfast, Theodosia had made herself comfortable in the parlor, showing no intention of leaving to promenade. Beatrice had sat on the edge of her seat, trying not to fidget, making conversation.

But at long last, Theodosia had gone, and Beatrice was free to take out the purloined key and get started.

She held her breath, inserting the key into the door that led up to the observatory. Part of her had expected it not to turn, which would take her straight back to square one, but no. It turned, and the door opened, revealing a spiral staircase leading upwards.

Her heart thudded.

Would it really be such a great invasion of his privacy? After all, it’s only a room. It’s not as if he has another wife locked up in there.

At least, I hope not.

Pausing to strain her ears for any sign that Stephen was coming back early, Beatrice held her breath and began to climb.

The air grew warmer the higher she climbed, and she soon realized why. At the top of the staircase was a huge, circular room, the roof a glass dome.

Most of the roof was covered by immense panels, but there was one section where the panels had been pulled back, revealing a slice of the glass roof. The day was gray and cloudy, the sunshine weak, but even so, the room was faintly warm. Sunlight filtered through the glass, illuminating dancing dust motes.

Beatrice stood in the center of the room, taking it all in. She had never seen a place like this. Never.

There were telescopes of varying sizes everywhere, and a mechanism at the side of the room that she suspected worked the roof panels, which doubtless could be altered and shifted to reveal any part of the sky.

And the books! Beatrice had seen large collections of books, of course, but never quite as disorganized as this one. Piles sprouted all over the floor. There were desks and chairs all but hidden beneath papers and unfamiliar apparatus. The room was dominated by a large desk, which was similarly covered in paper and other things.

She noticed that there were plants up here, too, scattered seemingly at random around the room. A plant with heavy wax leaves sprouted red flowers beside a half-disassembled telescope, and a pot full of rioting English ivy had been balanced precariously on a pile of dusty old tomes.

Beatrice circled the room several times, the old wooden boards creaking beneath her feet. Every time she completed her circuit, she began again, seeing new things. The room was in need of a good clean.

The floor was gritty, with knots of dust sweeping along beside her skirts. She paused behind a telescope that was at least twice as tall as her and ran a finger over the lens. Her fingertip came away covered in dust. She experimentally peered through the part where one was meant to put one’s eye, but all she could see was a gray blur.

She moved across the room and paused by an instrument that seemed to have been recently moved. Curious, she picked it up. It was roughly triangular-shaped, complicated, and heavy, with a few brass parts. There was a curved ruler on it and a place to look through, but she had never seen a thing like it.

“What on earth is this for?” she murmured, trying to peer through it again. “Am I doing this right? No, I daresay I am not. Perhaps it’s just a very fancy paperweight.”

“It is a sextant.”

The voice almost made her jump out of her skin and drop the apparatus. Beatrice whirled around, red-faced as a child caught with their fingers in the jam-jar.

It was Stephen. Of course, it was Stephen. He must have crept up the stairs as quietly as a cat, and now he stood at the opposite end of the room, his hands on his hips.

Beatrice bit her lip, clutching the item to her chest. “Oh. Oh, I didn’t… I didn’t know you were coming home so soon. H-How is Anna? And the baby?”

Really, Beatrice, she scolded herself. Could you not think of anything else? You seem remarkably guilty now.

Well, I have been caught red-handed in the forbidden room.

Stephen smiled wryly, swaggering towards her. “What a pleasant surprise it must be for you. My arrival home, that is. Anna and her infant are well, and they send their regards.”

He took the sextant out of her hand and lifted it to his eye, peering through the lens.

“A sextant is an instrument of celestial navigation,” he announced, then shot her a wry smile. “That sounds grand, does it not? Simply put, it’s designed to allow sailors and travelers to use the stars for guidance. I’m sure you know that one can use the stars to find one’s way.”

“I know that the practice exists, but I’m afraid that I do not know how to do it.”

“It’s easy enough, once you know what you are doing.”

He carefully put down the sextant exactly in the place it he had found it. Then, he turned to face Beatrice, his arms folded.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted out before he could say a word. “I know I was not meant to come up here. But you hide so much from me. So many secrets. I thought perhaps I could discover a little more about you if I came up. I never intended for you to find out that I’d been here.”

He let out a short laugh. “Is that meant to reassure me? Don’t worry, Beatrice. I would have known that somebody had been up here the instant I set foot in the place.”

“Why? Have I disturbed the dust?”

Stephen shot her an amused grin. “You have, actually. I can track your footsteps all over the floor. I can see where you have moved things, and I believe that those are traces of your fingerprints on the telescope lens over there. I shall have to spend quite a while polishing it, later.”

He didn’t seem angry. More amused, if anything else. Beatrice bit her lip, staring up at him. The wanting simmered in her gut again, and it was frankly useless trying to make it go away.

She folded her arms behind her back, leaning against the table that held the sextant. “I am sorry.”

He shrugged. “What have you learned, then, about me?”

“Not much. You’re rather interested in celestial navigation , at least.”

“Ha! It’s a useful skill, to be sure, but one that every sailor and traveler already has.”

“Not every traveler, I’m sure.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Are you trying to score a point in the conversation, my dear Duchess, after violating my privacy so entirely? If you remember, staying out of this room was a rule .”

Beatrice was conscious of a flash of guilt.

“I know. You’re right, I shouldn’t have done it. I’ll leave.”

She made to step past him, but Stephen’s hand shot out, his fingers curling around her shoulder. Perhaps it was an accident, but his fingertips grazed the smooth skin at the base of her neck, sending shivers of excitement down her spine. Beatrice stopped dead and felt as though her breathing stopped, too.

“Not so fast,” he said smoothly. “You broke a rule, dearest. I’m sure you know what that means.”

“I’m sure you’re about to tell me,” she retorted, hating how breathless she felt. At least her voice was steady.

“It means…” He paused, sighing theatrically. “It means that you must be punished.”

There was a brief silence. The tingling in Beatrice’s gut tightened and pulsed. She had to wet her lips before she spoke.

“Punished?” she repeated, trying to sound unimpressed. “Do you intend to have me write lines on a chalkboard? Send me to bed without supper? Inform my mother?”

He released her shoulder, and she found that she missed the weight and warmth of his hand.

“Not quite,” he responded. “Let me think. A fitting punishment… hm. You shall help Mouse with his daily rounds of the conservatory, how about that? Help him water and care for the plants.”

Something deflated inside Beatrice. She was conscious of disappointment . It must have flickered across her face, and Stephen would undoubtedly have seen it. His eyes narrowed in the instant before she turned away.

“Mouse is a tyrant when it comes to those plants,” Beatrice heard herself say. “We are no longer duchess and butler when those plants are at stake, but master and slave. And I am the slave. I’d rather not be.”

“I see. Well, let me make another suggestion.” Stephen’s voice dropped to a rasping purr, and he slid closer still. Before Beatrice knew what was going on, his cool fingers were curled underneath her chin, tilting her face up so that she was obliged to look at him. “How about something a little more old-fashioned?”

Beatrice swallowed, unable to look away. Not because of Stephen’s grip on her chin, but because she was simply rooted to the spot.

“Oh?” she managed.

He grinned, his eyes sharp and vulpine. “I shall spank you.”

Whatever Beatrice had been expecting, it was not that. She flinched, and he released her chin.

“You want to spank me?” she spluttered. “Like a child? You’re going to cane me?”

“I never mentioned a cane.” Stephen glanced down at his hands, flexing his fingers. “I shan’t need a cane.”

Beatrice wondered, not for the first time, whether this was a dream. One of the hot, sticky, confusing, and thoroughly frustrating dreams she’d been having of late. Swallowing hard, she stared at Stephen’s well-shaped hands and tried to imagine them delivering a hard slap to… Where would he want to spank her? Only one location suggested itself.

“Of course, if you’d prefer not to take your punishment like a grown woman,” Stephen said carelessly, “I cannot make you do anything. I’m sure Mouse would be delighted with a little extra help with the plants.”

Beatrice cleared her throat, smoothing her bodice. Her hands, to her horror, were shaking. She was speaking before she even realized that she had decided to speak.

“I didn’t say no.”

Stephen turned the full force of his sharp gaze on her, and she saw something like desire glimmering in their depths.

Beatrice felt the place between her legs pulse with anticipation. She wasn’t entirely sure how that suggestion could elicit this reaction, but there seemed little point in questioning it.

“And how many… how many repetitions would be necessary?” she heard herself say, determinedly meeting his gaze.

Stephen eyed her, pursing his lips. “Twenty.”

“ Twenty ! I should think not. Five.”

“Five? Five is hardly a punishment. Fifteen, then.”

Beatrice tilted up her chin. “Seven.”

“Seven is barely better than five. Fifteen .”

The haggling was making Beatrice’s breath come harder. Stephen was inching closer without seeming to move at all, and now he was within arm’s reach. At some point, Beatrice had shifted away from the small table with the sextant, and now her back was pressed against the larger table covered in books and papers.

“Ten. Final offer,” she said, narrowing her eyes.

Stephen held her gaze for a long moment. “Done.”

Beatrice exhaled, suddenly shaky.

What exactly have I agreed to?

Stephen came closer, placing both hands on her shoulders. The edge of the table pressed against her hips.

“You are going to have to turn around,” he said, sounding faintly amused.

Beatrice obeyed, her heart thudding.

Arousal pulsed through her, and she was not entirely sure whether it was warranted or not. She might as well waddle out of this room in a moment, with her backside stinging, feeling sore and stupid and thoroughly humiliated.

She placed her hands on the table, but Stephen tutted under his breath.

“A little lower than that, I think, my dear Duchess.”

Biting her lip, Beatrice lowered herself to her elbows. Papers crackled under her elbows. The whole situation was so ludicrous she wanted to laugh if her nerves would allow it.

She flinched at the warm weight of Stephen’s hand on the small of her back. He hesitated, just for a moment.

“If you would like me to stop,” he said, sounding faintly amused as always, “you only have to ask.”

“Thank you for enlightening me,” she retorted. “Shall we get on with it?”

He chuckled. His hand slipped lower, curving around the voluminous skirts that covered Beatrice’s rear. Through the layers, she could scarcely feel a thing.

He tutted again. “Well, we shall have to get all of this out of the way, I think.”

Before Beatrice could say a thing, or utter a word of protest, her skirts and several layers of petticoats were pushed up over her back, revealing her underthings. Her hems tickled her ears, and she was suddenly shut into a world of dark warmth, the sweet smell of laundered clothes filling her nose.

Anything was better than the smell of old paper and dust.

Her legs felt cold and exposed without the protective layers of fabric. When Stephen’s hand carefully cupped her backside, she flinched at the sudden touch.

There was movement at the edge of her vision, and Beatrice glanced down to see that it was Stephen’s hand, where he steadied himself on the table.

“You may put your hand on mine if you like,” he said, almost off-handedly. And then, before Beatrice had the opportunity to say a word, his palm came down on her backside where it had been caressing it only a moment before.

She yelped in shock.

It did not hurt , of course, only a faint, invigorating sting.

To Beatrice’s horror and amazement, the teasing slap sent a pulse through her body—a powerful one. She pressed her thighs together without even knowing it and only realized that Stephen would be able to see what she was doing when she heard him chuckle.

“Shall I count, or shall you?”

“I… what?”

“Well, that was one. And this is two .”

The slap came again, and this time Beatrice was ready for it. She did not yelp this time, although it was probably a little too late to think about salvaging her dignity.

“Three,” Stephen counted, sounding almost bored . “Really, I should have insisted on twenty, or at least fifteen. You’ll still be able to sit down after this. Four.”

“I should hope s–Oh!”

The heat and pressure were building inside her. Beatrice closed her eyes in the warm darkness of her skirts, biting her lower lip.

“Five,” Stephen counted—was the man smothering a yawn? “Six.”

Beatrice was grateful she had insisted on only ten. The pleasurable heat and sting from Stephen’s half-hearted slaps would certainly turn into something more uncomfortable soon enough, she thought.

“Seven.”

The pulsing between her legs was growing too intense to ignore. Sucking in a breath, Beatrice pressed her thighs together, desperately trying to seek some friction.

“Eight. And enough of that, my girl.”

She flinched, her eyes flying open. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, yes, you do. Legs a little wider apart, if you please.”

“Certainly not!”

“I hope you don’t wish me to go back to the beginning. I might lose count.”

“No, you won’t,” she retorted. “You’re at eight.”

Abruptly, her skirts were pulled down.

Beatrice blinked in the sudden light, aware that she was red-faced and disoriented and disheveled. Stephen was leaning over her, grinning like some sort of wolfish demon.

“So you have been paying attention,” he murmured, his breath tickling her ear.

He leaned close to her, close enough to press his front against her back. With a jolt, Beatrice realized that she could feel a familiar hardness pressing against her hip.

He is excited, just as I am.

It was a thrilling notion. Stephen must have read some of what she was thinking in her eyes. He pulled back abruptly and delivered a slightly sharper slap than before, enough to make her yelp.

“Nine.”

She lowered her head until her forehead rested on the table. One left. And then what?

There was a pause. She felt the tug on her thin underthings a fraction of a second before it happened. She only had time to open her eyes and gasp before they were torn away altogether, the fabric tearing under Stephen’s grip, and then there was nothing at all between his palm and her flesh, the heat of his hand burning into her skin.

“Ten,” he murmured, sounding as if it were wrenched out of him.

Beatrice let out a shuddering breath. “Did you not say that fifteen would be more fair?”

He gasped, a ragged sound that Beatrice had never heard before. She found herself whisked off her feet and deposited none-too-gently on her back on the table, papers and books sliding away from her. Stephen was on top of her, his weight thrilling and breathless, and he kissed her roughly and carelessly, his teeth nipping her lower lip.

Beatrice wrapped her arms around his shoulders, hooking one bare leg over his hip.

“I want you to touch me again,” she gasped, the words barely above a whisper. If he hadn’t been so close to her, his lips grazing her throat, he might not have heard.

He made no response, and for a moment, Beatrice thought he had not heard. Then, he pressed a quick, careless kiss to her lips and drew back.

She blinked, breathless, and propped herself up on her elbows. “Stephen?”

“Lie back,” he instructed, his voice hoarse. “Arms by your sides.”

She flinched, obeying. With her skirts bunched up around her waist, she could not see exactly what Stephen was doing. When his lips first touched the soft, damp skin of her inner thighs, she nearly fell off the table.

His mouth moved upwards, tongue and lips and teeth a delightful counterpoint to each other. He had ordered her to keep her arms by her sides, but when his tongue slid over the hot, aching place between her thighs, she could not help reaching down, her fingers tangling in his hair. She was sure she heard him chuckle, the noise a low vibration against her skin.

Her climax came faster and more powerfully than before, making her arch her back, her thighs quivering against Stephen’s hands. It could have been minutes even, before she came back to herself, gasping and shuddering.

She blinked, propping herself up on her elbows again. Stephen looked faintly smug, wiping his chin with the back of his hand.

“A fitting punishment, I think,” he said, and she was not sure whether he was talking to himself or her.

“It’s your turn,” Beatrice heard herself say. “Come on. Fair is fair.”

He laughed aloud. “Fair is fair, eh? Nobody has ever accused you of being a romantic, my dear Duchess.”

She struggled into a sitting position and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pulling him close. “No,” she said staunchly. “Never.”

And then she kissed him, her hand skimming down to the front of his trousers.