Disciplining the Duchess (34 page)

Harmony grinned, not at all intimidated, and pointed at the clear sky. “It looks the same,” she said. “Don’t you think? It looks almost exactly the same as it did the first time we were here. Do you remember?”

“How could I forget? You were full of wonder that day.”

“Wonder?”

“
I wonder this. I wonder that.
You wondered about everything. It was charming.”

His wife pulled a face. “I am certain you were anything but charmed, considering you’d just found yourself saddled with me for all eternity.”

He tugged one of her curls. “Things did not turn out so bad.”

The nursemaids finally settled the children and brought them over to share a picnic lunch. Henry, the oldest, was dark like him, while Arthur and young James favored his wife, down to their heads of raucous blond hair. “Use your manners,” she chided when they poked at one another. “You must grow up to be refined gentlemen like your papa. See how politely he eats.”

Comically, all three boys began to ape him. They straightened their backs and used flawless manners, not for fear of reprisal, but for love of their mama. It occurred to Court they also probably did it because they admired him and truly wished to be like him one day. It was an affecting thought. He looked at his wife, who had been, from the start, such a serene and proficient mother. He would never have imagined it. He would never have imagined any of this magic in his life.

After the children had eaten their fill, they went for a walk along the wall, shepherded by their nurses who seemed determined to give the duke and duchess a moment of peace. Harmony rested her head on his shoulder. They held hands, enjoying the fresh breezes of the summer day.

“Do you know,” he said quietly, “I believe I feel the earth moving under us.”

She peeked up at him, flushing pink. “Did I truly say such things to you?”

“You did. You also compelled me, quite against my nature, to lie down and stare up at the sky alongside you.”

He lay back upon the blanket, pulling her with him. They sprawled shoulder to shoulder, their fingers linked.

“I wonder,” he said after a moment, “if someone ever lay here and fell in love with an impulsive young woman who was not at all the thing?”

“Hmm.” Harmony’s voice held a tender note. “A duke perhaps, falling in love with a mere ‘miss’ who was very poorly behaved?”

“Yes, something outrageous like that. I wonder if such a thing has ever happened, quite near this spot. Perhaps in this very place where we lie.”

She grinned at him, rising up on one elbow. “I’m certain it’s happened at least once in the vast history of the earth. Quite certain, in fact.”

“Well.” He tapped her chin. “You are the historian. I shall take your word for it.”

He kissed his wife, long and deep, here in this place he’d first come to know her, here where the earth rocked them both to a fragile understanding, then a blessed marriage and three strong sons.

Fate?

Chance?

No. Magic. It had to be.

If you enjoyed
Disciplining the Duchess
, you may want to do more reading in the area of spanking and domestic discipline. They’re fun kinks—even more fun when you add the period costumes! You may also want to check out my other historical spanking novel,
Lily Mine
.

In closing, I have to thank my editor Audrey as well as my beta-readers extraodinaire: Linzy Antoinette, J. Luna Scuro, Renee Regent, Doris S., Melisa T. (who devoured it in one night!) and Melissa R. You always make my books better and I treasure your advice.

Since I was a little girl, I’ve wanted to be invisible. Not in a cool, magical kind of way, but in that way of
please don’t look at me too hard
. Ballet has always been a compulsion for me, not a pleasure. It was something I got serious about because I had to, despite the trauma of being poked and prodded from the most tender years of my childhood, judged and lambasted because my turnout was weak or my
port de bras
one degree off center. That stuff will drive you nuts, but it’s always been worth it to me, like jumping upstream is worth it to a salmon. It was a survival thing.

That’s why I really didn’t want to dance center stage with The Great Rubio in our company’s heralded production of
Sleeping Beauty
. I’m not being coy. I’m not pretending I didn’t want to when secretly I would have killed for the chance. No. I really didn’t want to do it and it never should have happened in the first place. There was a clause in his contract with the London City Ballet to prevent such a farce.
Mr. Rubio will dance with prima level ballerinas only. In the event a prima dancer is not available, Mr. Rubio shall not be compelled to perform and a substitution shall be made.

But in this case, Princess Aurora pulled a muscle stretching backstage before her Act Three entrance and I was the only other available dancer with her shade of jet black hair. A stagehand yanked me from the palace set by the long skirt of my ball gown.

“What are you doing?” I asked, pulling my costume from his grubby fingers.

“Do you know it?” His words didn’t make sense until I saw Mariel, the injured Sleeping Beauty, sobbing a few yards away as a swarm of helpers stripped off her crystal-embroidered tutu.

“Do you know it?” He shook me, tugging at the straps of my “Fourteenth Wedding Guest” costume. Of course I knew it. Every corps girl knew the part of the Sleeping Beauty from the opening
pas de chats
to the closing
arabesque
. Every one of us had watched Mariel dance it in practice over and over while imagining ourselves in The Great Rubio’s arms. Fernando Rubio was a God to us—capital letter. He was a celebrity recognized by people who weren’t even into ballet, a superstar we’d all been warned not to look at or talk to backstage.

“Yes, I know it,” I said automatically, before I processed what that meant.

Four pairs of hands stripped off my ball gown costume and strong-armed me into Mariel’s tutu. Oh, okay. Oh.
No
. I couldn’t dance with Rubio, not center stage in front of a packed theater. I averted my eyes from him not because I was contractually obligated to, but because I wasn’t worthy to look on him. I certainly wasn’t worthy to dance with him.

“I can’t,” I said in a panic. “I won’t be able to do it. My shoes are too soft.”

They were twisting knots in the stretchy clear shoulder straps of the costume since Mariel was taller than me. I tried again. “Uh, guys, I can’t do this. My shoes...”

See, the boxes, or tips, of toe shoes are constructed of layers of fabric, material, and glue hardened into a molded point. If they’re not broken in, those boxes sound obnoxious on stage, like the clopping of a horse. If they’re very broken in, like mine, they’re nice and quiet but it’s impossible to do demanding pointe work—and Princess Aurora required demanding pointe work. “My shoes are too soft.” I think I said it two more times but everyone ignored me. “Why aren’t you listening to me?”

A vein throbbed in the stage manager’s temple. “You’ve got to dance, shoes or not.”

“Then I need to go grab a better pair.”

“You’re on in eight minutes.” He looked around for someone to send but they wouldn’t know which pair I needed. Hell, I didn’t know which pair I needed. I didn’t have a single pair of shoes that would make me good enough to dance with Fernando Rubio.
Oh my God.
“I’ll be back,” I said, darting away.

He trailed me for a second but then he stopped and hissed, “Seven minutes, or else!”

Shit. Shit.
Shit.
I banged through the door into the backstage corridor toward the dressing rooms. I took the corner so fast I almost slid into the opposite wall. I couldn’t fall down in this two-thousand-dollar tutu, and I definitely couldn’t dance in these flimsy shoes. I reached the corps dressing rooms and yanked the doorknob to the women’s door. No. Oh God, no.
Locked.

“No, no, no, no,” I pleaded with the universe. “Oh, no. No, no, no.” Every time I said no, I yanked down on the doorknob, like maybe this time it might miraculously open. I turned in a panic. Someone backstage had to have a key. How long would it take to find them? Oh God, I was fucked. I was going to have to dance the third act of
Sleeping Beauty
with my idol in the world’s shittiest pointe shoes.

I barreled down the corridor and collided full speed into what felt like a brick wall but was actually a very solid man.

“Hey,” he said, catching me. “Where’s the fire?”

“Key,” I said, shaking my hands at him. “Key, key, key, key.
Key!
”

“I’m sensing you need a key,” he said, his lips quirking into a half smile. I gave myself a second—no, half a second—to appreciate how handsome he was. Designer suit, long honey brown hair curling around his shoulders, gorgeous amber eyes and a strong shape to his face. He had a golden-tan complexion like Rubio but based on his accent, he was American like me. I gave myself another half second to mourn the fact that this guy probably didn’t have a key.

“I need to get into the dressing room,” I practically sobbed. “It’s locked.”

“Show me. I’ll open it for you.”

“I need a key.”

“Show me,” he said again. I took him to the women’s dressing room and started rattling the doorknob. “I only have about...I don’t know...five minutes to get back to the wings.”

He looked over my costume. “Okay. Stand back.”

For one wild moment I thought he was going to shoulder through the door. He looked strong enough to do it, but what he actually did was bop the doorknob with a quick, smooth movement of his palm. I heard a popping sound. He turned it and held the door open for me.

“Oh my God,” I babbled. “Thank you.
Thank you.
How did you do that?”

“It doesn’t always work. It depends on the make of the doorknob. With this kind of door—”

“No,” I said, cutting him off. “I don’t have time.”

“What can I do to help?”

“I need shoes. New shoes.” I ran over to my carrel, crouched down and pulled out my basket of pointe shoes. I started knocking the toes on the floor trying to find a pair that was adequately broken in. Oh God. “I’m so screwed,” I said. “So screwed. These are all too hard!”

He took one in his hand and started kneading it. “Want me to help you soften them?”

I grabbed the shoe back. It looked too vulnerable in his huge hands. “No! Oh, God. There’s no time.” I sat in my chair and leaned forward, batting away a faceful of stiff, sequined tutu. “Oh, please. Help me,” I said, trying to reach past the layers of tulle to the ribbons on my ankles. “Help me take these off.”

I was barking orders to a perfect stranger but he complied, untying the pink ribbons and unwinding them from my ankles while I picked out the pair of shoes that was least noisy. I dug my toe pads out of the discarded pair, wrapped them around my toes and jammed them into the new pair. He held my tutu down and out of the way while I bent to adjust the elastics and tie the ribbons.

“Hey,” he said over the rasping of my frantic breaths. “It’s going to be okay.”

“It’s not going to be okay,” I snapped. “I’m about to dance
Sleeping Beauty
with The Great Rubio. And listen to this.” I clopped the toes of my shoes on the floor and then kicked my old, soft ones across the room.

“
The Great Rubio
?” he repeated, chuckling. I was almost to the door when I realized how rude I’d been to him.

“I only had seven minutes,” I said. “I’m sorry. I—” I stammered, not finding the words.

He gave a little wave. “Fly free, little ballerina. Go.”

I ran out the door, thinking I should have at least thanked him. It was too late now. The stage manager was a deep shade of scarlet when I skidded up to him. “About time,” he said. “You’re on in thirty seconds.”

Grunts attacked my scalp with hairpins as they affixed Princess Aurora’s aluminum and rhinestone crown to my head. At least my black hair would hide the blood.
Ouch.
There had to be blood.

“Shake your head,” the lead costumer barked. The crown didn’t budge. Some woman pushed past him. These were Mariel’s people. Me and the other corps dancers didn’t have dedicated staff to do our costumes and makeup. The woman grabbed my face in one hand and used the other to apply a haphazard slash of the dark red lipstick Sleeping Beauty wore. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed the man from the dressing room observing this backstage chaos. His unkempt hair contrasted with his sedate expression, his cultivated bearing. He had a great body but he wasn’t a dancer. I wondered why he was hanging out backstage.

“Do your lips. Do your lips!” the makeup lady hissed, smacking her own together until I mimicked her, smearing oily crimson in what I hoped was an adequate outline.

Someone tugged at my back, fluffing the tutu. The waist and bodice fit like a second skin. Apparently Mariel and I were the same size in the middle if not in height, and in fact we looked very much alike, with pale complexions, black hair and blue eyes. Only difference was that she was a principal who’d danced this role for weeks now, and I was a faceless member of the corps. Also, my shoes weren’t broken in and I was about to possibly have a heart attack.

I looked around for my lockbreaking savior but he’d disappeared again. “Just get through it, Ashleigh,” said a low voice at my side. The company director. His name was Yves Thibault but I would never dare call him by his first name. The Great Rubio could do such a thing, but not me, never. Mr. Thibault was a great director because he understood his dancers. For instance, he understood that I danced best in a group, at the back of the stage out of the spotlight. I appealed silently for him to intervene and save me, perhaps by canceling the rest of the ballet or delaying it until another principal ballerina could be fetched.

It wasn’t happening.

Rubio stretched on the other side of the stage, oblivious to the drama, deep in performance mode. He wasn’t called The Great Rubio for nothing. Such focus, such artistic brilliance—and the body of a Brazilian Adonis. He’d jeté’d from the slums of Rio de Janiero to the top of the ballet world on pure, glorious talent. Me, I’d scratched my way into the City Ballet corps and that was probably as far as I’d manage to go.