Rival Desires (Properly Spanked Legacy 1)

“I wish you wouldn’t call me names, Ophelia. If you make a habit of it, I shall have to make a habit of taking this hairbrush to your bottom.”

She gave him a look of icy reproof. “How uncivilized you are. I wish I could have married Lord Townsend. He’d never think of spanking me.”

It took all Wescott’s strength not to laugh at that, since out of all of them, Townsend had the greatest fondness for exacting strict discipline.

“Lord Townsend is not your husband,” he told her. “I am, with all the rights and privileges that entails. So, dear wife…” He set her on her feet. “I believe we ought to be getting to bed.”

She followed him into her bedroom calmly enough, and got under her covers to await him, but when he started to remove his robe, she burst into tears.

“Must we do that?” she asked. “Must we lie together and repeat what we did at the inn?”

He froze, surprised by her outburst. “Why wouldn’t we?”

“I can’t. Not yet, please. My bottom hurts. You just spanked me, and you married me when I didn’t want to get married, and now…now you want to do that to me again?”

“Curse you, woman, you enjoyed it before.” His memories of that night were scattered at best, after all that had come afterward, but he was certain she’d enjoyed herself in the moment. He remembered her shaking in his arms, not the bad, frightened shaking she was doing now, but warm, wild shaking. “Do you remember how things went that night? You clung to me, flush with satisfaction.”

“Please don’t remind me of that. I didn’t know how sinful it was.”

Sinful. Wescott’s spirits sank. She felt guilty as ever, spanking or no.

“See here,” he said, raising his voice. “What happened that night was a mistake, yes, but we’ve moved past it. We’re married. I’m your husband, you’re my wife.”

“I know.” Her tears increased, her voice rasping as it rose. “But I can’t… I can’t yet. Not tonight. I don’t know how I would manage it. Please, you must understand that I’m not ready. I just…can’t.”

Scoundrel and pervert that he was, his tastes did not extend to rape. His erection ebbed, because these weren’t the type of tears that aroused him.

“What can I do to soothe you?” he asked, tying his robe closed.

“You can leave me alone. Please, you must understand. I did not want this marriage.”

“So you’ve said several times, but it’s happened, so what shall we do now? Sleep apart, as if we aren’t married at all?”

“Yes. At least for now. At least…tonight.”

She was crying, practically weeping, for fear he would exercise his marital rights. How his friends would laugh if they could see him now.

“Very well,” he said, not very kindly. “I’ll leave you alone if that’s what you wish.”

“It is what I wish, especially since we must travel tomorrow. Thank you.”

He had more to say on the subject, and many misgivings to express, but he held his tongue and left the room. He’d been trained in statecraft and governance since birth, due to his father’s high station, and one thing he’d learned early on was when to stay silent and bide his time. She would not be swayed tonight, it seemed, especially since he’d taken a hairbrush to her arse.

For now, he would retreat and consider his options, and take solace in the fact that he was the husband, and at some point in the near future, he would eventually get his way.

Chapter Seven

Another Lesson

Ophelia came awake to the sounds of a large house preparing for travel. Servants called to one another downstairs, loading baggage carts that would go before them to Wescott Abbey, her husband’s country estate.

She sank down beneath the covers, pulling them over her head. If she was quiet enough, and hid here in the bedroom, might they all leave without her?

“Lady Wescott?”

Her new maid’s voice quashed that daydream. Rochelle was English, not French, and while French maids were considered more fashionable, her own had run off and deserted her, so Ophelia was glad for Rochelle’s English manners and kindly smile. Jacqueline had been a bit tart in her interactions, as if she hadn’t found Ophelia worthy of her service.

Jacqueline is gone now, she reminded herself, and you’re a married woman. She was Lady Wescott, rather than Lady Ophelia. She was stuck with her husband’s name forever and ever, which was unfortunate, since she didn’t like him very much. He’d spanked her on their wedding night, which had to make him one of the worst husbands of all time.

“Lord Wescott has sent you a note, my lady,” Rochelle said, presenting it to her in bed, propped on a shiny silver platter.

She took the folded card, embellished with a gold-embossed W, and opened it with some trepidation. Would he scold her for last night? Would he threaten more spankings? Would he be pleasant, as a husband should?