Rival Desires (Properly Spanked Legacy 1)

It was what she wanted, wasn’t it? To be free of his company?

She tossed the note aside and turned over in bed, hugging herself and willing away tears. She would not cry again, even if she felt embarrassed and rebuked by his sudden departure. Well, perhaps she’d cry a little, since she was alone, and she’d have to put on a brave expression soon to face the servants and Wescott’s family.

Which would be difficult, for she felt unaccountably hurt. She’d pushed him away and denied his advances, and been an unpleasant wife in every way, but she hadn’t expected him to desert their marriage so quickly and go to visit…visit…well, that awful word. Whores.

She tried to cry quietly, muffling her sobs in her pillow, but soon she was weeping in earnest, so her eyes and her head hurt. He’d said he wouldn’t give up on their marriage, but maybe, as he carried her down the stairs to put her in bed, he’d changed his mind. She’d been such a trial, such an ornery grump, as he said. She wouldn’t have fought with him if she’d known how close he was to abandoning her.

Now she’d broken everything, set everything on fire in a way that might never be fixed.

Chapter Thirteen

Doomed

“For God’s sake, look at him go.”

August’s wry words carried across the echoing studio, as Wescott hacked away at a practice dummy that had long since lost its head and arms.

“Perhaps settling down to married life in the countryside disagrees with him,” said Marlow. “I sense a great deal of pent up angst.”

“Pent up something, that’s certain,” August agreed.

Wescott spun on his friends, pointing with his sword. “You said you would be quiet. Get out.”

“We’re not leaving you alone with that poor clump of straw and canvas.” Marlow crossed his arms over his chest. “Next you’ll be attacking the bloody walls. It’s been three days, friend. When are we going to do something fun?”

“Yes, something fun. Wine and women.” August glanced at the tattered dummy. “It would be good for you. Might help you cool your head.”

“And your temper,” Marlow added.

Wescott frowned and turned his back to them, his mind churning on many frustrations, first and foremost his failing marriage. He’d practiced with his teacher for the last two days, until the man walked out in disgust. A swordsman requires control. We’ll spar again when you’ve regained yours.

“Did you sleep last night?” August asked, persistent. “Or the night before? Perhaps you ought to go back to the Abbey and try to straighten out whatever’s driven you away from Ophelia.”

“I’m not sure it’s straighten-able.” He drove his sword into the dummy’s heart for the twelfth time. “My wife hates me. Do you understand? She hates being married to me and never lets me forget it. All of this because I tried to do a good deed, and save her from a bloody fire.”

“You slept with her, too,” Marlow reminded him.

“Because I thought she was a damned actress.”

He drove his sword into the dummy’s heart a thirteenth time and left it there. His arms ached and sweat dripped from his forehead. He pushed his hair back and strode to the window, shoving it open to cool his face in the crisp night air. Yes, he’d behaved badly that night. He’d been lustful and lecherous, and taken advantage of an actress he’d rescued, who was really a lady.

But how long must he pay for it? How long would she hate him for that “crime”?

“She won’t sing for me,” he said. “Did you know that? She’s a damned singer but she won’t sing a note for me, even though she has a celebrated voice.”

“Perhaps her voice is still healing from the fire,” August said.

He took up the sword again, stabbing the dummy in the groin this time. “No, it’s because she hates me. I’ve heard her mouthing words beneath her breath when she doesn’t know I’m around, as if the songs are trapped inside her. I’ve done that. I’ve taken that joy from her. She doesn’t sing to spite me.”

“Come now,” said Marlow. “I don’t think she’s known you long enough to really hate you, the way the rest of us do.”

“This isn’t a time for jokes,” August said, shoving him on the shoulder. He turned to Wescott. “I’m sure she doesn’t hate you.”

“She hates me.” He stopped flailing at the dummy and leaned against the wall, blowing out a breath. “She’s so beautiful. So alluring. I want to do so many things to her.”

“Then you ought to. Hurry home to Oxfordshire and spend all your time doing things to her. You did say that was the only time she hated you…well…slightly less.”

Wescott answered his suggestive grin with a frown. “If you must know, gentlemen, the only intimacy I’ve shared with her since our marriage is a handful of spankings—and not the fun kind.”