The Duchess and the Highwayman (Hearts in Hiding 1)

No dutiful wife would do such a thing.

Unless her husband demanded it.

It hadn’t been hard to take that first step, she had to admit. And the first time had been magical. Wentworth had caressed her limbs, smoothing, massaging, whipping her into unimaginable ecstasy with his hands, his mouth, his tongue.

It wasn’t long, though, before her whimpers of ecstasy in a tangle of bedclothes were whimpers of fear in any corner Wentworth chose to force himself upon her. Wentworth liked to dominate.

Wentworth liked to inflict pain and humiliation.

Yet with Ulrick tonight as insistent as Wentworth that she submit like an animal, Phoebe had no choice but to do his bidding, taking refuge once again into her own imaginary world.

She was brought back to the present when her unwelcome lover suddenly withdrew and pushed her out of the way. Phoebe blinked open her eyes and saw with dismay that Wentworth still had a way to go before he was finished.

“Onto the floor,” he demanded, eyes as black as the devil’s. “Now!”

Oh yes, Wentworth liked to dominate, and there was no point in arguing though she burned with humiliation.

Tears sprang to her eyes and she tried not to whimper. “Please, Wentworth…”

The pain in her voice seemed to only excite him but he relented. Roughly he parted her legs, and thrust into her with a cry of triumph.

“If you weren’t with child before, you certainly are now!” He was panting heavily, grinning as if he expected her to gaze at him with adoration.

Phoebe was not in the mood to pander to him. He’d hurt her physically, though the wounds to her soul and her dignity distressed her more, and she was trying hard not to cry.

But he was clearly angered that she turned her head away, her expression more sullen than was wise.

He gripped her chin and made her face him. “Ulrick is not destined to remain long on this earth, and you’ll not be a widow long, either. Think on that, Phoebe, before you show me such lack of deference.”

Suddenly, the idea of belonging to any man ever again was an abomination. Shrugging out of his grip she rose and faced him, eyes blazing. “You take a great deal for granted, Wentworth,” she rasped. “It’s true I look forward to being a widow. I also look forward to remaining one. No one can force me to become a wife if I do not choose it.”

He stilled, and in the pale glow of candlelight, she saw the evil transformation of his features, as he rose into a sitting position and moved to sit with his legs hanging over the edge of the bed.

“You will be the mother of my child.” His voice was low and dangerous.

“I will be the mother of Ulrick’s child. The mother of his heir.” She dared to whisper it. He could not, would not, hurt her when there was the possibility she carried such precious cargo. For one of the few times in her life, surely Phoebe could revel in a degree of power. Wentworth needed her far more than she needed him.

She bent to pick up her discarded chemise that lay in a tangle of stays, gown, and paisley shawl.

“You may go now, Wentworth.” Though she was naked and her hair a tangle of gold that brushed her waist, she strove for dignity. “Our business is at an end.”

He interpreted her meaning correctly for he had his argument ready. “If Ulrick dies without an heir, where will you live? Not here, in comfort, that’s certain. You’ll be the wife who failed to do her duty…failed to fill the nursery which was the only reason Ulrick married you. Unless you’re mother to Ulrick’s heir, you’ll be cast out to live in the country in penury. Your father made a poor bargain when he signed the marriage contract. And don’t think I haven’t seen it.”

He spoke the truth. Her father had cared little for her beyond her ability to provide him a reprieve when he was dunned. She’d had no say in this hateful marriage. With widowhood beckoning, her future was even more perilous. Had Ulrick made any provision for her in his will?

“

There are others who can fulfill your role as well as you, Wentworth,” she hissed, turning her back on him as she pulled on her chemise. “You’ve done little enough to win my heart, and to tell the truth, I desire marriage with you as much as I ever did with Ulrick.”

When he rose above her, she regretted speaking with such bravado. He would make her pay for her belittling words. Fear bloomed, and she retreated, still only in her chemise, eyeing the door.

These were her apartments, and he was not going to vacate them, warm and comfortable as they were. But if she ran, she could find a refuge in some cold guest room and she could lock the door against him, surely?

An unexpected rapping on the other side offered salvation. Sagging against the four-poster, she called faintly, “Come!” without a thought for Wentworth in all his naked glory just a foot away.

“Ma’am! Terrible news!” Her maid, Barbara, hurried into the room, squeaking when she saw Wentworth. She brought her apron up to her face as she continued in a rush, “Oh ma’am, His Lordship’s heir is dead!”

“My brother?”