Free Under A Duke's Hand by Annabel Joseph Page A

anyway. How would she sit in the
carriage tomorrow? Why was she enduring all this only for refusing
to eat?
    But it was not only that. She was being
punished for refusing to respect his authority. Much good it had
done.
    “I won’t— I won’t—” she began.
    He paused. “You won’t what?”
    “I won’t...” She could barely talk, she was
crying so hard. “I won’t be peevish anymore. I’ll
be...respectful.”
    She told herself it was not capitulation. She
only said it to make the punishment end. But in her heart, she knew
she would guard her temper around him now, lest this sort of
punishment be repeated. And so he had broken her after all, and
taught her a lesson, and it made her want to scream and spit and
throw things.
    “Very well,” he said. “Three more strokes,
and then a bit of corner time so you can think about what you’ve
just said.”
    She hoped the last three might be gentler,
now that she had given in to him, but they were the hardest yet.
She shuddered at each one, bawling into the sheets. At last he
placed the birch rod on the bed and lifted her upright. Her bottom
throbbed as he led her to the corner closest to the fire.
    “Put your hands on the wall,” he said as he
positioned her. “No rubbing your backside. That sting you feel is
part of your punishment.”
    As he said it, Gwen realized her buttocks
felt almost as hot now as they had felt under the birch. Perhaps
even hotter. Fresh agony bloomed every time she shifted. She put
her hands on the wall and leaned her forehead against the back of
them.
    “While you wait there for the next few
minutes, think about how you’ll do better next time.”
    I’m going to think about how much I hate
you , she said to herself.
    While she endured this humiliating “corner
time,” she heard the duke moving about the room. He stowed the
birch rod in one of the trunks, poked at the fire, and put out the
candles.
    I hate you, I hate you, I hate you ,
she thought.
    And I feel so very sad.
    I miss my family, and my home in Wales.
    I’ll never love you, and I have always
dreamed of a loving marriage.
    My bottom hurts almost as much as my heart
right now.
    After what seemed like an hour, but was
probably only ten minutes, he said, “Come here.”
    She turned, but she didn’t want to go to him.
He stood by the bed, still in his rich, dark dressing gown. She
felt very naked and ashamed as she crossed to his side. The worst
part was the way he looked at her, as if he pitied her.
    She could not bear to be his object of scorn.
She wanted to go home and curl up in her childhood bed, and escape
all of this. She broke down in ugly tears as his arms came around
her. She didn’t want him to hold her but there was no one else to
do it, and she was so sad.
    “It’s all right,” he said. “Let it out, all
your misery and frustration. You’ve had a trying pair of days.”
    “I want to go home!”
    He held her closer and rubbed her back. His
dressing gown felt smooth beneath her cheek.
    “I know it’s been a difficult adjustment,” he
said. “Cry for a while. Let those feelings go.”
    So she cried, and cried, and cried until she
felt too wrung out to cry anymore, and then he sat on the bed and
pulled her into his lap, and she cried some more against the curve
of his neck. She felt utterly demoralized. Defeated. How
depressing, to yearn her entire life for love and closeness, and
end up with this.
    “There now,” he said, when she finally ran
out of tears. “I suppose that birching wasn’t much fun for either
of us, but we’ve straightened some things out. You’ve learned that
revolt and disrespect won’t be tolerated, and you’ve had a good
cry. May I kiss you?”
    Gwen sat unmoving, her face hidden in his
neck.
    “Very well,” he said. “But I’m still going to
take you to bed. You can expect to accommodate me every night. It’s
the best way, you know, if we wish to start a family. Heirs are
important to a dukedom. Are you eager to have