Chapter 12

Emmeline thought for certain she must be dreaming. Adam's heavy body pressed against hers, the weight delicious, his mouth devouring, and his hands, those wicked hands, coaxing sensations from her she hadn't known existed.

This is your punishment.

If she had known he would ravish her as a punishment—if she had known just how much she would enjoy it—she would not have ever feared disobeying him or breaking his rules.

Every time he was rough with her, sparks erupted in her belly, and she felt herself grow slick between her legs. Want and need mingled until it was an inferno inside her, but she wasn't sure what came next.

Would he take what was due?

Would it hurt?

One of his hands remained on her breast, pinching her nipple until her core squeezed around nothing in a desperate display of desire. Something hard pressed against her stomach, and every so often, he would thrust, the movement almost unconscious, unintentional. As though he was helpless under his body's urgings, just as she was.

"You should know the punishment for disobeying me is severe," he said into her mouth as his other hand tugged at her dress, pulling it up. Next came her chemise, and he rolled off her to pull these items over her head. Her stays remained, and he unfastened them with nimble fingers.

All that remained were her stockings, but he left them where they were, looking down at her almost naked body with an almost savage hunger.

Insatiable, that was the word for the look on his face as he surveyed her.

"Well?" she asked, squaring her shoulders and pulling her knees together. Perhaps she ought to be embarrassed, but the way he was looking at her was eliminating any chance of embarrassment. "Do you like the way I look, Your Grace?"

"You are insolent," he growled, sitting on the edge of the bed. With one easy movement, he picked her up and deposited her across his lap, face down, her legs to one side and her upper body half lying on the bed. "And this is your punishment."

She had known what he was about to do, having been punished by enough nannies when she was a child, but her body still sang with nervous excitement in the space before he brought his hand down on her bare buttocks with a stinging blow. The pain was shocking, melting into something warm that went straight to her core. She whimpered, wiggling in his hold, not really trying to escape.

"You wanted to know if I like the way you look?" he asked, striking her again.

Her eyes watered, and she squeezed her legs shut, desperate for friction.

"I love the way you look now." He slid a hand up her thigh, opening her legs for him. "Will you defy me again, Emmeline?"

"If you do not give me a good reason to obey you," she managed.

He brought his hand down for another slap. The pain was just below her threshold, as though he instinctively knew what would be too much. His other hand caressed her leg, and the dichotomy of hard against soft made her chest swell with emotion.

"This is what you get for disobeying me," he said. "You are my wife, and I am your husband."

"How many?" she choked out.

"Seven more."

One.

She moaned, squirming against him, deliberately pressing against that hardness she knew instinctively was connected to his pleasure.

Two.

His hand pushed higher between her legs, and she opened herself to him.

Three.

Four.

Five.

All three were in quick succession, and her core throbbed with frustrated need. Her buttocks were on fire, and the pain and pleasure combined, twisting and melding until she could not tell where one ended and the other began. She had never known it could feel like this.

Six.

His fingers finally touched the slickness between her legs, and the rush of pleasure was so potent that her head swam. He cursed under his breath, the filthy word only adding to the fire in her veins.

"So you like this, don't you, love?"

She was unable to answer, merely trembling in anticipation of his fingers traveling deeper into her secret place. She had never touched herself there—or at least not when she felt like this—and she had never known it had such potential for pleasure.

How much pleasure could one woman take? She felt as though she was drowning in it.

Seven.

The final blow came as a shock, igniting her already tender flesh. His hand remained there, caressing her flaming skin for a moment as his other hand probed between her legs.

Then he scooped her back up and placed her against the silken sheets. Her bottom briefly protested, but the coolness of the sheets was soothing, and all thoughts left her head save for Adam.

He kissed her, smoothing the damp hair from her face. Everything about him now was tender as he stroked down her body, palms flat, the gesture reassuring.

"You took your punishment wonderfully, Emmeline," he murmured against her neck, holding her close. "You're a good girl."

In any other scenario, Emmeline would have balked, but his voice was not patronizing, and the words soothed something inside her. Just for now, while they were in this bed and his hands were on her, she wanted to be his good girl. She wanted his tenderness, his praise.

"Touch me," she managed to say through her swirling thoughts. She clutched at his waistcoat, wondering why he was wearing so many clothes. "Please, Adam."

"As though I could ever deny you." His voice was low and rough, and he spread her legs. She parted them willingly.

Now, all their barriers had gone, and the walls between them had fallen. Once they left the comfort of this bed and this intimacy, perhaps it would be different. But now—now there was nothing but pleasure and his hands.

"You're so wet for me, love," he murmured as he touched her there once more, stroking her most sensitive flesh. "Is that good? You must tell me what you like."

"I don't know." She tossed her head. "I don't know what I like, Adam. Don't stop."

"I won't," he promised, and she clung to that reassurance as he drew small circles around that bud of pleasure.

But there was something missing, something more she wanted, that she yearned for, and she arched her back. His other hand came to play with her breasts.

"I love these," he said forcefully, bending to flick his tongue across her nipple. "You're even better than I imagined."

"You imagined me?"

"Frequently. I couldn't stop myself." His fingers slid lower, to her opening, and he pushed a finger inside. Slowly, slowly, slowly entering her and hooking his finger until she dissolved in a wash of overwhelming pleasure. "But in all my dreams, you were never this responsive. Lord, Emmeline."

He groaned in response to her moan. She was making the sorts of noises she should be ashamed of, but no shame was forthcoming.

"You make me want to do things to you that would make any respectable lady blush."

"I suspect," she said as he pushed another finger inside her, the stretch exquisite. There was tension coiling inside her that made it hard to think, never mind speak. "I suspect I am not a respectable lady."

"Not when you're spread before me like this." He made a noise of appreciation. "Are you close, love?"

"Close to what?"

"Your climax."

"I don't know."

She tossed her head impatiently. The tension inside her was building, and she did feel as though she was closer to a peak. Everything was so new and unknown—and yet she never wanted to stop. She wanted to draw this moment out as long as possible.

"How should I know?"

"You'll feel it." He continued to hook his fingers inside her and moved his other hand to stroke her little nub of pleasure. "Let it happen. Don't hold back."

He was being so gentle yet so authoritative, and there was no way she could stop it now. Her body was out of her control, and he held the reins, commanding her into new depths of pleasure hitherto unknown.

When Emmeline came apart, it felt as though her soul splintered with it, a transcendent moment that had her calling out Adam's name. He held her through it, the same hands that had punished her—though could it be called punishment when she had enjoyed it?—now holding her tight, drawing out every last drop of sensation until she shuddered, boneless, in his arms.

"There," he said tenderly, smoothing the hair back from her face. "That was your climax, love."

She stared up at him, noting the details of his face, which was fast becoming familiar to her. "That was…" Words failed her. "Wonderful."

"Good." He took her hand and kissed the back of it in an archaic, surprisingly sweet gesture. "Come, put your clothes back on before you catch a chill."

"My clothes?" She looked at him in astonishment. The bulge in his breeches hadn't decreased, and he looked a little in pain. "But what about you?"

"Not today," he said, and shook his head when she frowned. "Today was a lot for you. I never intended…" He ran a hand through his hair, visibly frustrated. "I never intended for it to get so far. You disobeyed me."

"And you punished me," she said slyly.

"We both know that was not punishment for either of us." He stood up, handing her back her clothes. "I should not have lost control. I should not have kissed you in anger, or—" He cut himself off abruptly. "Dress and leave me."

"Adam—"

"I said leave me!"

Stung, the warmth from their encounter fading, Emmeline snatched up her dress and chemise and stays, sliding off the bed and walking to the door that connected their rooms.

Before leaving, she turned to him and said, "I may submit to the commands of your hands, My Lord Husband, but I will not submit to those of your tongue. Be careful how you treat me, or else you may lose me entirely."

He stood before the fire, head bowed, the picture of dejection. After a few seconds passed and he made no move, she exited the room and closed the door behind her.

* * *

Adam's body thrummed with need as he strode out of his room, calling for his horse to be saddled. Emmeline was in her bedchamber, quite possibly hating him, and perhaps that was necessary because he now knew he could not trust himself around her.

She was a maid, innocent but for him, and he had taken that innocence in the most uncontrolled way possible. She did not know what he was doing; she was not accustomed to such acts.

He could not allow himself to be around her until he knew he had mastered himself and would not treat her the way he had.

Heavens, no, he could not allow himself to get carried away.

Some distance between them was necessary. He had spent time away before, searching for the truth behind his brother's death, but this time he would go to London and visit some of William's closest friends. Nicholas, of course, but some others.

Someone had to know something. There had to be a reason no body was discovered. Foul play?

The servants knew nothing, he was certain of that. But someone had to know something—that was the way of things. If William had dropped dead of his own accord in the house, there would be evidence of that. Proof. He would have had a body to bury, unlike when his mother had died.

The similarities between the two cases made his jaw clench, even if in reality there were very few similarities at all. William had not perished in a fire—no one could claim that, even if they wanted to, given the lack of evidence—and he was not the reason behind his brother's death.

And yet the thought of having lost another member of his family with nothing left to mourn him but an empty grave made something ache inside him.

By the time he changed into his riding breeches, his gelding had been saddled and bridled, and he swung himself onto the horse's back.

"Send Jarvis in the carriage to Picard Place," he said, referring to his valet and Nicholas's estate. "From there, I'll travel to London."

The groom looked at him dubiously. "Do you not want to wait for the morning, Your Grace?"

Adam knew how it looked—the Duke running wild across the country. But if he stayed in that house a moment longer, who knew what he would do?

Emmeline would hate him, and although he had once thought himself resigned to the idea that his wife would despise him, now he found he couldn't quite bear it. The guilt was too much, weighing him down.

He had been the one to bring her here. The least he could do was ensure she was as comfortable as he could allow.

"Send a message to Mrs. Pentwhistle," he said, gathering the reins in his gloved hands. "Ask her to do her best, if she pleases, to dissuade Her Grace from entering the east wing. I suspect she won't try again, but there are things there that could harm her if she's not careful, and I don't want her getting injured while I'm gone."

The groom touched his forelock. "Yes, Your Grace."

"Very well. I'll be off."

Adam nudged his horse's powerful flanks, and with a toss of his head, the gelding broke into a trot, then a canter. He still had some time before dark, and Nicholas's estate was only twenty-five miles away, so he arrived in good time.

"Adam," Nicholas said as he was shown into the dining room.

His wife, a pale lady with red hair and freckles that reminded Adam of Emmeline, rose to her feet immediately.

"This is my friend, the Duke of Kant," Nicholas said with an absent wave of his hand. "No need to stand on ceremony with him, my dear. Our families have been thick as thieves for years."

Still, the new Viscountess dropped into a curtsy. "Your Grace," she said in a low, melodic voice that didn't entirely conceal her shyness. "It's a pleasure to welcome you to our home."

Nicholas spared her a brief glance of irritation, as though the reminder that she considered it ‘their' home rankled. Adam couldn't help the thought that he had once felt the same way about Emmeline. In fact, he wasn't entirely sure when he had changed his mind. If, indeed, he even truly had.

All he knew was that he was not the one resenting her for her presence in his life. Rather, he suspected it was the opposite.

Although he really did wish she would listen to him and accept that he had her best wishes at heart, even if their marriage had not begun on the best of footings.

"Sit," Nicholas said, waving a hand to an empty chair. "Why have you come? Bored of domestic life already?"

"I'm on my way to London." Adam took a seat and accepted the plate a footman placed before him. "Thought I would drop by on my way. Hope it's not too inconvenient."

"Nonsense. Will you be staying the night? I'll have a room prepared for you."

"Thank you."

Nicholas nodded to one of the servants, who left the room discreetly. "What brings you to London? And without your wife? I wanted to meet her. When I last visited, I saw no evidence you had married at all."

Adam thought of his friend's reaction if he had arrived during the era of the terrible curtains and suppressed a smile. "She has been adjusting to life. I didn't want to uproot her."

"A mistake," Nicholas said. "Ladies love to live in London, don't they, my dear?" He tossed the question to his wife a little lazily, but her eyes lit up at the attention.

"I suppose it depends where their husbands are. If they are in London, then I am sure their wives would want to be, too."

Nicholas turned his laughing eyes to Adam. "Is that so? Will your wife pine for you?"

"I doubt it," Adam said shortly. "We have not long been married and did not know each other well before that. Will you be going to London?"

They spent the remainder of the meal engaging in idle conversation, before the young Viscountess rose to retire to her chambers. When at home, it was a custom Adam rarely adhered to, but it appeared that their marriage was not one born of familiarity or affection.

"So," Nicholas said the moment she left the room. "I gather you arrived to speak to me about something important?"

"As it happens, I did." Adam leaned forward. "Can you please run me through what happened the very last time you saw my brother alive?"