Disciplining the Duchess

“Remove your chemise,” he said, “but leave the stockings.” Some savage wildness sparkled behind the benevolent regard of his eyes. He came toward her as she shimmied out of the filmy garment, letting it drop to the floor. He turned her away from him, delivering another smart slap to her bottom before he pressed his front against her back. The ache in her bottom—doubled by his hard spank—now faded away, replaced by the sensation of his hands cupping her breasts. He manipulated them with care, knowing they’d become more tender with her condition. So far, they were the only area of her body where her pregnancy showed.

“Bend over the bed.” His voice was hard yet affectionate. Bending over for this was so much easier than bending over the chest of drawers. He pressed behind her, fitting his long legs to her shaking ones, and fastened his hands to her hips.

This was never like their marital bed, but she liked it anyway. Guiltily, she liked it perhaps a bit more. The slow invasion of his thick length nudged her forward and she braced on the bed for balance. The ginger’s burn intensified in a thrilling way as he seated himself inside her and began to take her with firm, measured strokes. Her hips arched to him, her entire body feeling opened and given to him without resistance.

While his thrusts were crude in nature, his hands were infinitely gentle. He caressed her, tracing every part of her with a touch that bespoke ownership as much as love. When he neared his release, and his strokes grew quick with intensity, he helped her find her peak too, deftly massaging the pearl between the secret lips of her sex, the pearl he knew how to manipulate with magical skill.

“Oh…oh, it’s not possible,” she sighed. “It cannot feel this good.”

It was possible, though. Her husband urged her to nerve-rending completion and embraced her through the fit of his own release.

“Again, beloved?” he sighed after they’d rested.

“Oh, yes, please.” She slid her hands about his neck. “Yes, please. Again.”

*** *** ***

Court stood still and let his valet fuss over the folds of his neckcloth while his mind wandered miles away. Or rooms away, where he’d left his wife to prepare for the ball with the help of Mrs. Redcliff. Their magic afternoon of discipline and lovemaking lingered in his mind like the scent of flowers on a breeze. When his lace-edged cravat was finally arranged and pinned to his valet’s liking, Court set off to fetch his Duchess of Chaos and escort her downstairs to a ball that had become the talk of the ton.

God help them all.

Not that he cared what happened, good or bad. He had made peace with his wife’s oddities and accepted that he would be ridiculous in his love for her. In fact, he was eager to see what kind of bedlam she’d cause with the guests, especially her dance partners. His wife was the curiosity of the budding season and everyone wanted to observe her in person. Calling cards had accumulated at a shocking pace as the gentry returned to town from their country homes. Court believed they would all come to love her, but whether they accepted or rejected her this evening, he did not care.

He knocked and entered his wife’s dressing room. Redcliff blushed as she curtsied and greeted him with a mild “Your Grace.”

Harmony did not stand on such formalities. “Oh,” she exclaimed, clapping her hands. “You are too dashing.” She flew to his side with a gratifying squeal. He was in his most formal wear of tightly fitted breeches, coat, sash and glittering medals. He allowed her to coo and flutter over his decorations while he stole a look down the bodice of her gown.

“As for your finery,” he said, nudging her away so he could drink in the full effect, “your gown is far too beguiling. I must insist you take it off.”

She giggled at his lurid stare as Redcliff clucked and quit the room with mutters of “husbandly rogues.” Court watched her go with a smile. He would charm the old biddy yet and win her over. But apparently not tonight.

He turned back to his wife, making her turn and pose for him. The dress was a silken sky blue chosen for the way it flattered her eyes. Pearls, lace, and bows framed the stylishly low neckline and the cut of the dress accentuated her petite stature and curves. The tips of shimmering blue slippers peeked from beneath the gown’s embroidered hem. To complete the effect, Redcliff had woven matching blue ribbons into his wife’s hair, along with artfully placed miniature white flowers. Beneath her halo of soft curls her face shone with delight. “Is it not a magnificent ensemble, Benny? What do you think of it now that you see it on?”

He shook his head as he drew her into his arms. “It is much worse than I imagined. Really de trop. The other ladies will wilt into vapors with jealousy, and the gentlemen run riot with lust. You will ruin the ball and I’ll hear no end of it from my mother.”

She waved her fan at him, her giggles rising to shrieks as he buried his face in the pillows of her breasts. “Stop it, you barbarian,” she cried, rapping him on the head. “That is undignified.”

“Your dress is undignified,” he moaned against her cleavage, but he released her. He made a great show of rearranging his cravat, but it was the engorged cock in his form-fitting breeches that really needed adjustment. “I shall have to punish you for torturing me with this dress.”

She plucked her matching gloves from a table. “You may punish me for it next week. I cannot withstand any more today.” He stared at her as she smoothed the pretty things up her arms, adjusting the fingers with care. He made some audible lusty noise even though he meant not to. She looked up at him. “Or any more of that either,” she said in a husky undertone. “Please, love, have mercy.”

He took her proffered hand. “Yes, I will have mercy, only because we are unforgivably late. Mother will want your head.”

She blew out a breath, her pretty blonde curls dancing against her cheeks. “More punishments! If I manage to please her tonight, perhaps you will establish a period of clemency in reward for my efforts.”

He believed she only teased him, but he took her in his arms with all seriousness and held her close. “Do not worry about pleasing me or her,” he said feelingly. “That silly competition with my mother is a thing of the past. You never believed I cared about it, did you?”

She glared into his eyes. “Yes, I believed you did, or why would I have tried so hard to put up with that provoking Lady Archleigh and that blasted deportment tutor? What was her name?”

“Lady Renfrew-Burress,” provided Court, blithely recording Harmony’s heated trespasses to use against her later…for both their pleasures, of course. “Your conversation still tends to the rough side. Perhaps I should re-engage the ladies’ services.”

She poked him and palmed her fan. “Do not torment me. This ball shall be trying enough, although this gown is truly beautiful. I feel like a princess.”

“Or a duchess?”

“Especially a duchess,” she said, grinning at him. “Thank you for giving it to me.”

“It is my pleasure to give beautiful things to my beautiful wife. Now…” He reached beside him to the table where he’d laid a weathered mahogany box. He opened it to reveal a velvet-lined interior and the richest and most famous of the Courtland jewels. “The matrimonial set,” he said, tilting the box so the polished sapphires sparkled in the light. “As reprehensible as it is, they were never given to any Courtland duchess until she showed a talent to breed.” Harmony made a face at that. “Yes, it was positively medieval. Nonetheless, we will cleave to tradition since you are so conveniently in the family way.”

Her mouth made a round, admiring “o” as he drew the pieces from their velvet pillows. “My goodness,” she breathed. “Are they horridly valuable and expensive?”

“You are very gauche to ask it, my darling. But yes. Endeavor not to lose them in one of your quintessential scrapes.”

He fastened the heavy rope of sapphires about her neck and fixed a pair of matching teardrops on her ears. A glittering sapphire bracelet completed the set, slipped over her glove to nestle perfectly about her wrist. Knowing Harmony, he’d had th

e clasps specially reinforced just in case. He regarded his adorned wife, feeling a primal surge of ownership, of provision for this otherworldly creature of beauty.

“They are captivating with the blue of your eyes, dear. And the dress.” His voice choked off, with emotion and pride and who knew what else. Ridiculous things that he now accepted as his bride price. He kissed her forehead, then cupped her chin to brush tender embraces across her lips. “The entire ton can see you wear them tonight and make of it what they will. I love you and claim you, rapscallion or no.”

She touched his cheek and he thought he would lose his manners altogether if they did not leave the room. “Come,” he said gruffly. “Our guests await.”

The ballroom was awash in a sea of gaily attired ladies and proper gentlemen, even though the night was young and the dancing not yet started. His mother the dowager stood near the east entrance, beaming in her specially commissioned gown. The confection of deep green and tea-brown lace was complimented by matching gloves, another set of Courtland jewels—emeralds—and, oh, a truly unfortunate hat. The “barnswallow” turban, as his saucy-mouthed wife had christened it, but his mother loved it and felt pretty in it, so it made her look beautiful. Lord Morrow much admired it, whether from true regard or self-preservation, it was difficult to say. He was as much a rapscallion as his daughter, Court was coming to learn. Perhaps more.

Even though his mother had chosen to retain her title rather than take Morrow’s, the love between her and Harmony’s father was evident. Court would never have imagined it, their quiet wedding in a glade at Courtland Manor. Thus were Court and Harmony made into step-siblings, an unfortunate outcome they both chose to ignore.

“Lord and Lady Wembley are here,” Harmony pointed out. “How kind of them to attend.”

“You mean, after you caused them to be doused in soup and dog fur?” His jest was met with silence. He looked down to find his wife regarding Gwen with such an air of vulnerability, it was all he could do not to gather her in his arms.

“If you are wondering whether I still have feelings for her,” he murmured, “I do. But only as a dear old friend. Come, we will make our addresses.”

They crossed to welcome the couple, who greeted them effusively.

“I can barely believe it,” said Gwen. “Another Courtland ball already. Hasn’t the year flown by?”

Court looked sideways at his wife. “It has been a particularly eventful year for us. For you too,” he said, congratulating them on the upcoming anniversary of their marriage. They talked briefly of local Hertfordshire matters and other niceties, and then Gwen touched Harmony on the arm.

“Your Grace, how beautiful the Courtland jewels look on you.” Her eyes shone in earnest admiration. “Truly, they are a perfect fit.” Then Gwen looked to him, and some silent understanding passed between them, an acceptance of their past and an avowal of continuing friendship.

“I think so too,” said Court, as Harmony blushed and stammered out thanks. A short time later they took leave of the Wembleys, exchanging promises to pay calls.