Humbled (14 page)

“For what?”

“Stomping on your foot.”

“Good girl,” he said, smoothing her skirts back down. “Now go, before you become too much of a temptation and I take you right here on the workbench.”

She smiled, looking satisfied she had at least one way of manipulating him.

Epilogue

The Montpelier manor was packed with guests in masks. Their annual fête kicked off the pre-Mardi Gras ball season. Jean-Claude had been working day and night to complete a giant silver punch bowl and one hundred matching cups for Madame Montpelier and the lady had so talked about her grand set that every other lady in La Nouvelle-Orléans had placed their orders for replicas.

She scanned the throng for Jean-Claude. Even in a mask he should be easy to pick out with his broad shoulders and graceful carriage. She had refused to show him her gown or mask, going early to help Madame Montpelier and dress at their estate. With her hair tied back, she hoped he would not recognize her and she could spy on him to see how he fared with the dancing she had been teaching him.

“I never enjoy myself at a ball unless Garen is with me,” Madame Montpelier remarked, as if guessing the cause of her restlessness.

She sighed. “Well, I am learning to entertain myself, as my husband seems to think he must work all hours of the day.”

Madame Montpelier arched her brows. “Is he allowing his customers to set his pace? He does not have to do so.”

“No, he sets his own mad pace. He wants to provide me with our own home so we do not impose forever on your generosity.”

The Montpeliers had settled her and Jean-Claude in their city apartment, complete with servants. In truth, apart from never seeing her husband, she had not noticed any change in lifestyle when marrying into the middle class. Madame Montpelier’s connection kept her in the social circles, and her beautifully appointed apartment and staff kept her in luxury.

The older woman patted her arm. “It is admirable, but he needs to care for his wife, too,” she said with sympathy.

Her cheeks grew warm with thoughts of just how well Jean-Claude took care of her. His endless hours of work did not diminish his exhaustive interest in teaching her everything he knew about pleasure and quite a bit more about what it meant to belong to him.

“It is more that I wish to care for him. I have tried to help in his workshop, but at first he forbade me to pass any time there. After months of quarreling, he finally relented and installed a settee and rug in one corner so I may curl up with a book whilst he works. But he will not allow me to serve customers at the counter, and if I so much as pick up a broom to sweep, he has the apprentices running to snatch it from my hands.”

Madame Montpelier laughed. “He wishes you to remain a lady. Do not injure his pride by lowering yourself.”

She thought back to their first trek through the forest. She had been certain he had enjoyed humbling her then. And yet, perhaps he had not. Though he refused her complaints, he had still provided for her needs as best he could—even giving her food and going hungry himself.

A large hand slipped around her waist from behind. “Why are you not dancing?” her husband asked, the rich baritone of his voice warming her.

She whirled to face him. “How did you know it was I?” she demanded, stamping her foot. “Did I fool you for even a moment?”

Madame Montpelier tactfully disappeared.

“It is hard to tell with your skirts, but I do believe you just stamped your foot,” he said, his low voice a teasing threat. “You know I do not tolerate such behavior.”

She flushed with embarrassment and a shiver of excitement, stepping forward to lean her body against his.

“How could I not recognize the most beautiful lady at the ball?” he murmured.

She lifted her mask and beamed a smile at him.

“Are you going to make me dance now?”

She shrugged. “You are the master. But if you do not, I will insist on working the counter at your workshop. If you will not come to my environment, I will come to yours.”

He picked up her gloved hand and found the opening at the wrist, where he ran his thumb over her pulse. “You seem to forget… I
am
the master, which means if I forbid you to do something, you will not do it.” He spoke the last few words with a sternness that made her stomach leap. She had not encountered a serious punishment at his hands in their first year of marriage, but several times he had used a firmness she was certain he would back up, and she had not dared cross him.

Mostly he handled her with an amused authority, punishment always mixed with pleasure, so she came to believe he enjoyed her defiance.

“May I have this dance?” he asked with a bow.

Torn between kicking him and smiling, she pressed her lips together and did not answer.

“Please?”

She gave a huff of exasperation, taking his arm, smiling despite herself.

“If I make a complete ass out of myself, will you drag me out of here and send me home?”

“No, monsieur. If you make an ass out of yourself, it means you require more practice. I shall make you dance until the sun rises.”

He chuckled. “For you, madame, I will dance all night. But I will make you pay for it, later.”

Heat flooded her core. “I am counting on it.”

He led her to the floor and danced admirably, looking as comfortable as any gentleman there. When the music ended, he tugged her outside to the garden.

“Where are we going?”

“I have missed my wife,” he said pulling her toward the edge of the garden, beyond the lamplight.

“Where are you taking me, Jean-Claude?”

He stopped near a low wall, wrapping his arms around her and taking her mouth with a hungry kiss.

She laughed, pulling away. “Not here, monsieur, you will cause a scandal!”

“We will have to be very quiet,” he said turning her around and pushing her torso down.

She gripped the wall for stability. “Jean-Claude!”

“Shh. Remember when I said I would take my wife any time and any way I pleased?”

“No, please, Jean-Claude,” she protested, though her heart pounded more from arousal than fear.

“You do not want a spanking out here, do you, love? They will surely hear the sound of my hand punishing your pretty little bottom.”

“You would not dare!”

He pulled up her skirts, parting the slit in the new drawers she had adopted wearing as part of the new fashion. He stroked his fingers over her slit. “You are already wet for me, darling.” His hand retreated, shocking her when it returned as a light slap right over her delicate sex.

She gasped. “Jean-Claude!”

“To whom does this little pussy belong?”

“To you!” she said quickly, but did not manage to forestall another slap. The sound from her lips was more wanton than protesting though, as her pussy suddenly burned with need. She widened her stance, hollowing her back to offer herself.

His fingers returned. “Good girl,” he purred. She heard the rustle of clothing and the head of Jean-Claude’s cock met her eager slit. He slapped her sex with his cock, making her giggle, then slid deep inside her.

“Oh, yes,” she sighed.

“You like my cock inside you, do you not, Madame Armand?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Say it.”

“I like your cock inside me!” she cried, the shameful words stoking her desire as much as the knowledge they might at any moment be seen by another guest.

Jean-Claude pounded into her, holding her hips and driving deeply until they both smothered their victory cries. He closed her drawers and smoothed her skirts, lifting her from the wall and turning her to face him. “What a good little wife,” he crooned, his arms wrapping around her to hold her close.

She beamed up at him, his praise a delicious elixir. “I adore being your wife.”

His expression grew serious, and he cupped her face in his hands. “You are everything to me. You know that, do you not?”

She nodded, warmth filling her chest. “Oui, monsieur. It is precisely what I love.”

He kissed her, his lips soft and tender, as if she were a delicate flower that might be crushed. “Another dance, Madame Armand?”

“You read my mind,” she said, beaming up at him and taking the arm he so gentlemanly offered.

The End

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