Chapter 10
CHAPTER 10
For several days after the Duke of Amherst's proposal, my mind whirled. I told myself the sudden change in my circumstances caused the confusion, but truth be told, the experience of sitting in my fiancé's lap, his firm arms around me as we kissed, etched itself in my memory. Having never experienced a man's lips pressed to mine before—the last man who tried ended up with a blackened eye—my conclusion was simple. I liked it very much.
During moments alone, I closed my eyes to relive the scene. The scent of soap and fresh air enveloped me while so near to the man who would be my husband. The awareness created by his lips upon my own haunted me. Despite the many tasks he needed to complete before our marriage, my intended called upon me every afternoon and often stayed for dinner.
Mrs. White, as well as Father, deferred to him. I began to think of my future husband with admiration and curiosity, though I often wondered why he had not simply sent me back to America.
Each afternoon, I eagerly anticipated his arrival. My attitude toward marriage had changed significantly. It seemed possible the two of us might share some felicity in matrimony.
"Tomorrow, at this time, you shall be my wife." The golden flecks in his eyes darkened with emotion.
"Yes." My cheeks heated. My bravado left and I turned into a demure lady.
"Do you understand all that is entailed in becoming the Duchess of Amherst?" he asked.
I stuttered and stammered and stared. Was he honestly talking about marital relations? My lips moved until, at last, some words came out. "Are you referring to…to…my wifely duties?" I longed to run to my bedchamber to bury my head in a bowl of cold water to extinguish the flush of sheer embarrassment burning my face.
Jeffrey did his best to stifle a laugh, but his levity still angered me.
"Is it not bad enough that you force me to speak of such private things, but now you laugh at me?"
"My apologies." He wiped a laughter-induced tear from his eye. "I did not intend to force you to speak of private things. I simply referred to the many responsibilities incumbent upon you as my duchess in a social setting in addition to within the household as well as within the duchy…not necessarily in the bedroom."
We were seated together on the sofa. Mrs. White had absented herself on some excuse—probably chasing after my father—so my fiancé and I conversed alone in the drawing room. I focused on my hands, which were tightly clasped in my lap, so mortified I could not look at my future husband. If only Mrs. White would appear so we could leave this horrid subject.
But, as was her contrary nature, she did not comply with my wish. I continued to keep my head down, my face inflamed with embarrassment.
"It would seem," Jeffrey spoke softly, leaning down until his face reached mine, "that perhaps you are a bit nervous about what will happen in our marriage bed. Is that correct, Yankee girl?"
Could the humiliation get any worse? Speechless, I closed my eyes and regretted the last few minutes.
To my horror, my fiancé closed the gap between us, rested his hand on my shoulder, and slid his fingers around the nape of my neck. The warmth of his caress infiltrated my body, and I relaxed. Touching my chin, he tipped my face up, leaving me no choice but to stare directly into his eyes. The corners of his mouth lifted in a small, sweet smile. "Do not be afraid, my little poppet, for I shall take tender care of you. I want us both to be happy in this marriage, including our marriage bed."
His mouth covered mine in a kiss demonstrating the tender care he promised. He pulled me close with one hand at the small of my back. The other softly embraced my nape. A sigh escaped my mouth. When I opened my lips, he deepened the kiss.
The sensations were completely foreign to me. I am unsure how to describe them even now other than to say my response resembled that of a wanton harlot. By the time the kiss ended, I clung to my fiancé's lapels and panted like someone who had been saved from drowning.
He ran his thumb over my lips, which were tender and swollen. "I thought it might be wise to wait before consummating our marriage since we have not known each other long. However, I now believe it might be best if we did not." He stroked his thumb along my jawline then down my throat. "Would you agree?"
How could I answer such a question? If I said yes, I would sound like a randy tart. If I said no, I would be lying.
Instead, I broke from his embrace and stood up. "Whatever you wish, your grace." I gazed out the window in an effort to appear unaffected.
My soon-to-be-groom simply smiled, pulled me down across his knees, and before I could squeal an objection, he landed five firm swats on my backside.
"What is the meaning of this?" I struggled against his firm hold.
"You said, ‘whatever you wish.' What I wish is for you to stop pretending you have no regard for me, because I know you do."
"Oh, do you now?" Why did my feelings for him matter?
"Yes. I have proof." He yanked my skirts up until only my pantalets covered my cheeks, a position we had both experienced before.
He tugged at the ribbons holding my undergarments in place and, soon, my rear end was exposed to him. His hand skimmed the flesh of my behind; a quiver tingled through my nether region. A unique feeling, it frightened yet fascinated me.
The Duke's fingers were cool against my flesh, which heated from the swats he gave me, as well as from my embarrassment. I ought to have struggled against him and his intentions, but the awareness created by his touch mesmerized me. My breath caught in my throat as I awaited his next move.
Languidly, he teased the curves of my naked cheeks. The intimacy of his caress strummed through me. Was this part of my wifely duties? My heart pounded, while I bit my lip to keep from crying out for more as he worked the flesh near my most private places.
"Lovely." His voice softened. His praise filled me with pleasure.
His hand left my behind. I mourned the loss and raised my bottom seeking more contact.
He fulfilled my desire, but not in the way I expected. His hand came down upon my buttocks with a resounding smack. I inhaled sharply, wondering what caused this sudden transformation from pampering to punishment.
Before my brain assimilated to this change, he struck again. And again. A flurry of spanks landed on the same spot in the middle of my behind. Between the swats, which took my breath away, I panted. "Why? What did I do?"
"I told you," he conversed as though we were discussing the weather, not my unprotected backside, "I could prove you do care for me." He spanked a series of slaps on the upturned curve of my bottom then moved down to the tops of my legs where he smacked so thoroughly, I would not be able to sit without wincing for the entirety of my wedding day and beyond.
"This is your method for proving it?" I turned so he could see the incredulity, coupled with annoyance, in my expression.
"Yes," he replied, then landed two more spanks on my sit spot before he resumed the gentle fondling which began the interlude.
Confusion mixed with consternation in my brain. The feelings his touch evoked mystified and frightened me. Although I often speak out of turn, in all other matters my emotions were under tight control. I had learned long before that any sign of weakness or emotional attachment only led to suffering, a type of suffering much worse than my scorched and tingling behind.
Yet, there I lay, my buttocks on display for a man who believed himself entitled to take me across his knee at his whim. Why was I not angrily thrashing against him? His tender ministrations on my hindquarters and thighs soothed me in a way I had not experienced in a very long time. A sigh escaped my lips, while I wriggled into a comfortable position.
My movements opened my legs. My betrothed's fingers trailed along the quivering flesh of my leg, spreading exquisite warmth through my body. I held my breath, unsure of what would happen next, but not wanting him to stop, either.
He gently stroked the opening to my most feminine place. I gulped. His tentative exploration continued. A low moan emanated from somewhere deep in my soul.
"Ah, you see? I knew you liked me." My husband-to-be's voice, though rich and rumbling, thickened with emotion that sent a shiver through my body. Pressing back into his probing, I wanted to deny his accusations, but my mouth went dry and I could not form words. My brain spun in circles. The only vaguely coherent thought centered on a profound determination to prolong his attentions.
Thankfully, we were in accord. He continued to massage the moisture in my nether region. I whimpered and squirmed in a quest to extend the contact.
Pressure built and coiled tighter and tighter within me. My hips quivered and bucked against Jeffrey's lap. His labored breathing matched my own.
Just when it seemed the coil tightening within me would spring loose, he stopped. I slouched over his thighs, my eyes closed, my breathing shallow. Bewilderment washed over me. What had happened to me, to my body, to my self-control? What was this skill my future husband possessed to make me forget everything I ever knew or thought about myself?
He once again stroked his hand over my buttocks, whether to calm himself or me, I do not know.
"I am sorry, poppet," he whispered. "Your first time should not be this way." He replaced my pantalets over my heated, squirming bottom, righted my skirt, then set me on his knee.
I chewed my lip, attempting to sort my emotions. Shame at my wantonness flowed through my body, along with confusion over the sensations I had experienced. Why did he stop? Did I do something wrong?
What did he mean about my first time? Was this what married people did together? Was my maidenhood intact?
Jeffrey turned me so I was forced, again, to look at him. He appeared sad. I wondered if I had disappointed him. So I asked.
"No." He smiled tenderly and brushed my hair away from my face. "The disappointment is with myself." He set me away from him. I missed the contact with his warm body. I perched next to him on the sofa, confusion rampant in my being. Moments before he had filled me with euphoric sensations unlike any I had experienced, yet now I sat next to the man who would soon be my husband, and he appeared mad at himself for touching me.
Was caressing me so abhorrent? Was he disappointed he agreed to bind himself to me for eternity?
"I'm sorry," I said. "Perhaps I should go back to America. I am not wife material."
The sadness around his eyes disappeared. He smiled ruefully. "Oh no, my poppet, you are most definitely wife material, and I intend to prove it to you once we are wed. Until then, I bid you adieu, my little Yankee girl." His lips brushed softly along my temple and then he stood.
He exited the room, leaving me to wonder at all that had taken place.
Of course, Mrs. White chose that time to return to the drawing room to quiz me about his departure. "Why has his grace left so soon? Did you say something to upset him? Oh, I shall be relieved once this marriage takes place as I fear if you have enough time, you shall surely wear out the man's good humor until he decides not to marry you after all."
Yes, she was a bounty of joyful good tidings. I shoved to my feet and glared at her. "Should not you be packing your things as well? After my wedding, your work here will be done so you will be free to torment some other poor girl." Then I left the room without a backward glance at the old prune.