Rival Desires (Properly Spanked Legacy 1)

“So you want to do…that…again?” Now that she’d found her tongue, the question came out cloaked in bitterness.

He made an impatient sound, tugging down the bed sheets. “It’s customarily done after a marriage. You can’t have children any other way. Do you like children, Ophelia?”

“Would it matter if I didn’t?”

He’d pulled the sheets down enough to reveal her chest and shoulders. Her sheer, beribboned nightgown had been purchased especially for her wedding night, but she felt like an imposter wearing it. She didn’t feel pretty, or wifely. She brought her hands up to shield her breasts, lest he see the pink tips of her nipples.

“Don’t hide from me,” he said. “Why are you cross? You liked my touch enough the night of the fire.”

“I don’t want to talk about the fire.” She scooted back from him, pulling the sheets with her. The rush of emotion startled her even as she blurted out her thoughts. “I hated the night of the fire and I’m ashamed of what you did to me. I never wanted to be married in this hurried, embarrassing fashion, by special license. I especially didn’t want to marry you.”

“Is that so?” He held her gaze, his regard unsympathetic. “Then you ought to have stopped me when I nudged your thighs apart.”

“I didn’t know what you were doing. How was I to know?”

He sighed in irritation. “We can’t do anything about it now. Am I such an awful prospect? Women competed for my affections on the marriage market. Am I not handsome enough? Rich enough for your tastes?”

“It has nothing to do with that.”

“But you don’t wish to be married to me?”

“No, I don’t. I don’t wish to be married at all.” To her horror, she burst into tears, her voice breaking as she tried to hold herself together. “I don’t think I can forgive you for what you did to me at the inn, or forgive myself. I feel so…so ashamed about everything.”

He frowned at her tears, as if they made him angry. At the same time, he pulled her into his arms so firmly that she couldn’t resist him. He was warm, solid, but still, really, a stranger. It made her cry harder, even as he held her close.

“You needn’t feel ashamed anymore, my little songbird,” he said. “I’ve made you an honest woman.”

She hated that expression, an honest woman, and shuddered at the pet name, little songbird, which seemed kind and insulting at once. She tried to push away from him, but he wouldn’t let her. Now that she’d begun crying, the tears gushed out of her, along with all the feelings she’d tried to keep at bay.

“I don’t like that I am one of those women,” she sobbed.

“You aren’t. By God, I wish you wouldn’t feel that way. We’re married. You’re my wife.”

“But I don’t want to be your wife. I don’t want to be anyone’s wife, not after all of this. I should have told you who I was that night,” she cried, hating the fear she felt. “You should have told me who you were.”

“But I didn’t, and you didn’t, and here we are. My dear girl, what shall we do with all this guilt and angst?” He tilted her head up, forcing her to look at him. “Would it help if I punished you for what you did?”

She blinked into his wide, green eyes. “If you punished me?”

“Yes. If your guilt is so great you can’t get past it, it doesn’t bode well for our marriage or our intimate life. I believe the best solution is for me to punish you for your perceived transgressions at the inn, so you can forgive yourself, as I have. A good spanking should do the trick.”

He looked bigger and scarier than ever, saying those words.

“A spanking?” she said, trying again to pull away. “I don’t want you to spank me. I wouldn’t like that at all.”

“That’s the point,” he said, terrifyingly sure of himself. “A proper spanking, one that hurts you to an adequate degree, will allow you to express true remorse. And once you’ve paid that price for your bad behavior, both of us will be able to move on.”

Move on? To what? Her marital duties, which he clearly intended to demand of her? She shook her head. “No. I don’t like that idea.”

“Well, I do. It’s rather late to cut a switch or fix a birch rod. Come with me.” Before she knew what he was up to, he’d plucked her from her bed and walked her toward her dressing room. “I’m sure you’ve an adequate hairbrush we can use.”

“A hairbrush? Lord Wescott!” She should have resisted, or dragged her feet or something, but that seemed childish, and he surely didn’t mean to…

“Ah, this will work.” He lifted the largest wooden hairbrush from her dressing room table and sat in the chair. “Come, lie over my lap.”