Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

E vangeline could barely contain her rage as the rest of the evening played out. She found Lord and Lady Cavendish to be vulgar and inappropriate, including to the extent that she suspected Lady Cavendish had aspirations toward Hugh. The rest of their company was below par.

As for Hugh—she hardly knew what to think about him, save that if he thought she would sit down and take his behavior without a word in her defense, then he was very much mistaken.

By the time it came to say goodbye and return to their carriage, the night was turning into early morning, and her rage had festered.

Hugh took her hand and placed it on his arm.

"How do you think the evening went?" he asked blandly as they made their way to the waiting carriage.

Knowing the footmen were listening, she was forced to say, "Tolerably well, I think."

A dangerous glint appeared in his eyes. "Is that so?"

"How do you think it went, husband?"

He handed her into the carriage.

"Tolerably well," he said, with a slight incline of his head. "Although I do feel as though it could have gone better."

"Oh?"

"There was the moment of disrespect at dinner," he said as the door closed behind them.

But for the swinging lamp, they would have been cast in darkness.

The anger, her bitterness and resentment she had been suppressing all evening, rose inside her.

"Am I not to give my opinions now?"

"Not when they disparage the north."

"I did no such thing," she snapped. "You were disparaging London and the very need for a Season, which as you know opens possibilities for ladies to marry gentlemen outside of their immediate vicinity. As for London not being beautiful—why, perhaps some of it is not, but how can you tell me Hyde Park is not beautiful? Or Westminster Abbey?"

"The fact remains that you should have laid claim to the north as being first and foremost in your affection," he said, shifting closer now. "It may not be your birthright, but as my wife, it's your duty."

"My duty to think the land more beautiful than any other?"

"Yes," he said simply.

Her ire rose still further. "And I suppose you command my opinions too, do you? Is that your role as my husband? Am I to have nothing that you have not forced down my throat?"

She shook the skirts of her gown that, when she had first seen it, had seemed so beautiful, and now seemed like yet another form of control.

"Is nothing I have sacred to you?"

His gaze roamed across her face. "Plenty."

"Then why am I not permitted to express myself? Explain that to me. Why do you feel the need to dress me like a doll? If you had wanted me to find something new to wear—something in red, even—then you could have expressed that to me, and I would have yielded. I would have visited a modiste myself and had a gown made up. Instead, you left me with no choice."

He tilted his head as though seeing her for the first time. "And in yielding to my request, would you have had a greater choice?"

"Than this? Of course, I would."

"But you already confessed that you would have yielded." He moved closer and took a handful of her hair, holding it tightly in her hands. "You said that you would have granted me my request, and thus, the outcome was the same."

"But I might have still had the option of declining."

"No," he said, still surveying her. "Because I would not have permitted it."

She lifted her chin. "I am not your puppet to command. If that is what you thought I would be upon marrying you, then you will find yourself mistaken."

He leaned in closer, inhaling at her jaw as though the scent of her intoxicated him. "I never once thought you would be a little miss to yield. And as it happened, I enjoyed the thought of your defiance."

"Then why do you go out of your way to dominate me?"

Perhaps it was her, but it looked as though his eyes sparkled at the mention of ‘dominate'.

"Because you are mine."

"I am your wife, not your slave!"

His hand moved to the base of her neck, holding her in place. "And would a man dress his slave in pretty gowns and show them off as equals?"

"Which part of tonight had me acting as your equal? You humiliated me for expressing a simple opinion."

"I didn't humiliate you, pet."

"No? Is that not what you intended when you touched me?"

"If you think the only response you had to my touch was disgust, then you're lying to yourself," he growled in her ear.

Then his hand was on her again, on her thigh, lifting her skirts even as the carriage rattled along into the night. "I felt your arousal, my sweet."

She shook her head, refusing to accept it. "No."

"You enjoyed it when I laid my hands on you where no one else could see. You enjoyed it, and you despised that you enjoyed it." His chuckle was rough, and his bare skin just brushed the inner skin of her bare thigh. "You want to hate me, don't you, pet? You want to wish I never saw you again, but you don't."

How was it that he could see every single thought that had passed through her head as though it was written across her face?

"You have no idea what you're saying," she said, though it was more of a gasp as his fingers touched her— there .

"I am your husband," he growled. "I own half of the north, and I own you too."

"You can't touch me like this."

"No?" Achingly slowly, he traced his fingers around her center, his other hand moving to her throat and gripping her there.

His fingers tightened, and her breath rasped from her. But the rush of fear she had anticipated never came. Instead, it was as though the feel of his hand against her skin heightened the pleasure that came from the hand between her legs.

"Tell me where I can't touch you," he murmured, still tracing around her soft, delicate skin.

The night air felt sticky and too cold against her heated skin.

"Here?" He scraped the back of his knuckle against the thatch of hair between her thighs. "Or perhaps here?" He curled a finger through her slickness, and she cried out. "Is that what you hate, wife of mine? Please, be more specific."

She couldn't bear this. It was too much pleasure, so much that she felt as though she would fall apart there and then, as though the stitching that held flesh and bones together was being ripped apart at the seams. All these new sensations were too much for her to handle.

How had she never known her body could do this? After twenty years inhabiting it, she had thought she knew all it was capable of, but this was so wildly new, so devastatingly overwhelming that she thought she might never recover.

"You are my wife, and I have every right to touch you." He leaned in even closer until she thought he might kiss her—but he didn't. "And you enjoy it."

There was no point denying it when her body arched toward his of its own volition.

"This is how you choose to touch me?" she demanded, though his fingers prompted more breathlessness from her than outrage. "The first time you touch your wife, and it's in a moving carriage."

"Why, did you think it's an act of love? No, my dear; this is your punishment."

His other hand tightened around the back of her neck, and she had never felt so trapped—or so hot. She could continue to hate him and still want him to touch her; that was acceptable.

"Do you always punish the people in your life this way?"

"No." His voice was dispassionate, but he touched her with renewed vigor. Annoyance, that was what it was, she realized. "Only my wife."

"Is that so?" She arched her back again, wishing for more, even if she didn't know what that would entail. "Lady Cavendish seemed to wish to be the recipient of your ‘punishments'."

"Perhaps she was. That's of no concern."

"No? Then you would not object if Lord Cavendish made similar advances to me?"

"Why should I object, so long as you refuse him, and he oversteps no boundaries?"

His finger teased around her entrance, and she clenched around nothing. Strange, how she had never known she felt empty inside until this moment.

"I have no objection to any man wanting my wife. The thing you must understand is that any man can want. But no other man is permitted to take. Only me."

His eyes were hard in the darkness, and she knew she should be railing against his blatant claiming of her. After all, he had not so much as allowed himself to sleep with her. She was his wife in name alone—it was hardly as though he was taking her for himself.

Perhaps she would have felt differently if she had wanted another man. But his presence filled the carriage; it filled every room he was in. His power compelled her, and with his hands between her legs, she could hardly bring herself to mind. There were worse things than being possessed by a man so possessing himself.

"Only you," she repeated.

"Take your punishment now, like a good girl." He released her neck and brought his other hand to her knee, pushing her leg up and open, spreading herself to him.

With the swinging light of the lamp, she knew he could see everything.

The thought was oddly compelling. Erotic.

"There you are," he murmured. "Wet for me."

She didn't know what he meant, but the slight dampness between her thighs told her that what he said was true.

"It means you're aroused," he informed her, and finally, finally pushed one finger inside.

She gave a little whimper at the sensation, the raw pleasure of it. Nothing had ever entered her there, and she had never known how much she was missing.

He gave a low curse. "And tight."

"That's right," he said as she squeezed inadvertently. "Yes. That's right."

Her head fell back as she pushed herself up on the seat. It was a good thing they were traveling at speed, or she feared the coachman would hear her. It would be impossible for her to keep quiet.

"This is what I wanted to do to you at the dinner table," he said, his voice low and almost vicious, as though the confession pained him in a way. "I wanted to slide inside you and watch the pleasure play out on your face. I wanted to watch as you tried to hide it and talk to the guests all the while."

She merely managed to gasp in response. The words sank deep into her, adding to the heat that was rapidly building in her core.

"You like that, don't you?" He withdrew and pushed two fingers inside her.

The stretch was perfect, too much, not enough, and she heard herself moan as though she was separate from her body.

"Tell me you like it, Evangeline."

It was almost odd, hearing the sound of her name on his lips. So often he referred to her as ‘wife' or ‘the duchess' to others. But more than that, she found herself nodding. "I like it," she whispered.

"Say it again."

"I like it."

"Do you want me to keep going?"

She never wanted him to stop. She wanted to live out the rest of her days in this carriage with him touching her in all the most precious of places. She burned for him, right down to her fingertips, and she needed, she needed ?—

"That's right," he crooned, one hand drawing circles across her core while his other plunged deep inside her. "I want you to get close."

Close to what? But she didn't have the breath to answer, and it certainly felt as though her body was drawing near to something, the tension in her lower belly tightening and tightening, heat gathering near her fingers as the pleasure grew and grew.

Her breathing shattered as she hovered on the brink of the most excruciating ecstasy, and?—

He removed his hands from her and leaned back, a satisfied smile on his handsome, cold face. There was nothing cold about him now, however: a flush suffused his cheeks, and his eyes gleamed in the light. He shifted on the seat, and Evangeline propped herself up, confused, the sensation already fading even as she throbbed for more.

"What?" she managed.

"That was your punishment," he said.

"My…" She had forgotten he was punishing her.

When he had started, she had thought it odd that he was being so nice to her, but now it all made sense, in a twisted sort of way.

"Denial," he said, and a smirk twisted his thin lips. "Where you are close to your climax, but I've stopped you from getting any closer. Painful, I'm certain."

She pressed a hand to her chest and tried to control her breathing. "So you won't finish?"

"No." He caught her hand before she could even think about bringing it back down to herself. "And you won't touch yourself either, pet. You'll wait until I see fit to make you climax, and then you will thank me for it like a good girl."

"And if I don't?"

She didn't miss the way his eyes flashed. "Then I will punish you until you get the message. Would you like me to lay you across my lap and spank you until you are red with the shape of my hand? Perhaps you'll like the pain."

She imagined being naked and folded over his knees, imagined the flat of his palm coming down on her backside, and some of her repulsion morphed into something approaching eagerness.

Perhaps it would not be so bad after all.

He brought out his handkerchief and wiped his fingers, which were still glistening from her juices.

"Perhaps now you will behave," he said. "If not, then we'll have to try it. But be warned, wife of mine. I will not tolerate defiance or insolence. And I will not allow you to disobey me."

"Even if you are being unreasonable?"

"I do everything for a reason, even if it's not of your understanding." He replaced his handkerchief in his inner waistcoat pocket. "Is that clear?"

She still throbbed with desire. Ached for him to finish what he had started. Even if she attempted it in the privacy of her own bedchamber, she did not think she could achieve what he had.

But if this was what he intended to do to her, he would find that his new kitten came with claws—and she would use them. He had proven to her time and time again that he was not impervious to her. Even now, when she looked down, she saw the evidence of his arousal—and when he had kissed her, it had been obvious he wanted her then, too.

Perhaps he had no intention of taking her the way she now wished he would, but that did not mean he didn't want to.

And that was an advantage she would use to the best of her ability.