Training Lady Townsend (10 page)

“If that’s true, then you have a lot of work to do, old boy.”

“I can’t, Warren. It’s a ludicrous idea. It would never work.”

His friend stood and brushed at a spot of lint on his rumpled dressing gown. “In the end, you’ve no other choice. Lansing has got you hemmed in. You can go without the finer bedroom games for the rest of your miserable existence, or you can teach your wife to play them with you. Now, if you please, I am dead tired and you are three-parts drunk. Sleep there on the divan if you want. I’m headed to bed.”

By the time Hunter woke with a clashing headache, Warren had summoned the other lads to his place. They drank with him and agreed he was in a hell of a situation, and that Lansing was a wretched old blowhard with more rectitude than wit.

It was evening before he made his way home to Townsend House, mostly sober, but no less unsettled than the night before. He had the damn bad luck to run into his wife at the bottom of the grand staircase. If she could have avoided him, he was certain she would have, but she couldn’t very well flee back up the steps.

“Good evening,” he said, sketching a slight bow. He looked a fright, he knew. Disheveled, puffy eyed, unshaven, not like any sort of gentleman at all.

Miss Perfect Lady Dormouse, on the other hand, was dressed in pristine ivory silk with puffed sleeves, mounds of petticoats, and an ornately splendid bodice that revealed the lovely expanse of her breasts. She blinked at him, a blush spreading over her cheeks. “Good evening, my lord.”

“You can call me Townsend, you know. Or Hunter. We’re married.”

“Good evening, Townsend,” she repeated in a level, hollow tone. “You are well?”

“Perfectly well. I’ve been with my friends.”

He saw in her face that she didn’t believe him. She believed he had spent the past few nights with dissolute women.
If only...
If he had, he wouldn’t feel so roused by her curvaceous figure, her pleasing, upthrust breasts bundled into her lace-trimmed gown. Damn her for such heartless temptation. He’d best get away from her and regain control of his lustful emotions. “I will see you at dinner,” he said.

Her gaze flicked down at his dusty, rumpled clothes in a way that made him feel chastened. “I have a bit of a headache,” she replied, lifting a hand to her forehead.

He had no patience for theatrics at the moment. “Let me restate, then, Lady Townsend. I expect to see you at dinner, headache or no.”

She narrowed her eyes, dropped the briefest of curtsies, then turned from him to continue on her way. Her tightly coiled curls bounced as she fled across the hall and into the southernmost drawing rooms. She did boring, mousy things in there, like reading and embroidery. What a waste of her luscious body. He’d rather fill her hours with training on how to do the perverse acts the women performed at Pearl’s...

Hunter shook his head. Warren was a blighted idiot for suggesting such a thing, since there wasn’t a chance of it coming true. He stalked to the study off the grand, high-ceilinged foyer, and knocked out a half hour of necessary correspondence, then went to his rooms to bathe and dress for dinner. His valet hung up his wrinkled coat and waistcoat and shaved his overgrown stubble without a murmur of judgment or question. The warm water, the rasp of the razor, the familiar ritual of putting himself in order finally worked to calm his nerves.

By the time he headed to the dining room, tidied and proper in his formal dinner wear, he felt considerably better. He would approach his present life one day at a time. One evening at a time. One dinner at a time because there was nothing else to do. Perhaps in a few months Lansing would relent, and Hunter could take up his previous pursuits. Perhaps when Aurelia was with child, the confounded old man would bugger out of their business.

One dinner at a time.

Hunter looked around the dining room, finding no trace of his wife. He knew Aurelia had no more headache than he had virtue. He sat and waited for ten minutes, then beckoned a footman.

“Find Lady Townsend and tell her that I require her presence in the dining room at once.”

The man murmured “Yes, my lord,” and bowed out of the room. Not five minutes later he was back, bowing and scraping even lower.

“Where is my wife?” Hunter snapped.

“Her ladyship begs you to excuse her. She is feeling unwell.”

Feeling unwell, was she? Not as unwell as she’d feel when he was finished with her. “Where is she?” he asked the footman.

“Her chambers, my lord.”

Hunter pushed back his chair. He was not precisely angry, only very disappointed in the direction of his marriage and his life as a whole. He had a luscious and sexually alluring wife he couldn’t make proper use of, and a world of needs with no outlet for the foreseeable future. If he must live in such circumstances, the niceties, at least, would be adhered to. His wife would sit with him at dinner in her revealing bodices, goddamn it, and more importantly, she would obey his reasonable commands.

Or he would become much less reasonable, which she wouldn’t like at all.

He threw open her door when he arrived. Her hatchet-faced lady’s maid was there, fluttering about. Her startled glance toward the window seat told Hunter exactly what he needed to know. “Leave. Now.”

When he used that particular tone of voice, an able-bodied man wouldn’t dare cross him. The maid opened and shut her mouth, dropped a hasty curtsy, and fled, shutting the door.

“Aurelia.” He used the same sharply dangerous tone to draw out the syllables of his wife’s name. “I told you—twice—that I required your presence at dinner.”

There was silence, then a strained reply from the recesses of the window seat. “I am not well.”

“Come here.” If she didn’t come he would go in and drag her out, but the authority in his voice did the trick. She poked her head from the curtains and took a few steps toward him.

“Come.
Here.
” He pointed to the spot of floor in front of him, his expression promising dire consequences if she didn’t comply.

She swallowed hard and crossed to stand before him, all color drained from her cheeks. Let her be afraid. This confrontation was, after all, a result of her very poor choice to ignore his summons. He gave her a stern looking over, from the crown of her glossy, honey-colored curls to the hem of her primrose yellow dress.

“You look well enough, wife. I don’t see you languishing in bed.”

“I am ill. My digestion—”

“You said on the stairs you had a headache.” She fell silent, a flush creeping over her pallid visage. “A headache? Poor digestion? Which is it? Not one lie, but two. I thought you a virtuous woman, Aurelia.”

Her gaze met his but then skittered away. “I did not wish to come to dinner,” she said. “I tried to decline politely.”

“You lied to my face. And I made it clear—twice—that you would not be permitted to decline. When I send a servant to say that I require your presence at dinner, that is exactly what I mean.”

She stared at the buttons of his waistcoat, still silently in rebellion. It would not do.

“Come on then,” he said, taking her arm.

She resisted, digging her heels into the floor. “Come where?”

“Come and receive your spanking, for lying and being a stubborn pain in the arse.”

“I will not,” she cried.

Resist as she might, he was stronger than her. When she wouldn’t follow him to the chair under her own power, he lifted and carried her, then sat and threw her over his lap. He pinned her kicking legs between his, and caught one of her arms to secure it behind her back.

“Listen to me, Aurelia,” he said. “We can do this two ways. You can accept your punishment without fighting me, or you can fight me and receive twice as many blows. Which do you prefer?”

“This is wrong of you,” she said, struggling against him. “I will tell my father.”

“Your father would agree with my right to discipline you, especially when I told him you’d lied to me and behaved as a disobedient wife. He’s such a stickler for proper behavior. Now, will you fight me, or will you submit?”

She struggled even harder. Very well. A lengthy spanking it would be. He jerked up her skirts with his free hand. No traces of her last spanking remained upon her bared buttocks, but that had been a simple introductory spanking. This would be an assertion of dominance, and if he did it correctly, it would leave lingering marks, not just on her bottom but in her memory. He began to punish her rounded globes with sharp, firm spanks.

“Oh!
Oww
,” she cried, jerking her legs in a useless effort to escape him. “You’re hurting me.”

“Of course I’m hurting you, Aurelia. It’s a spanking. Really, this is by your choice.”

“I didn’t choose this. I didn’t want this marriage. I didn’t want
you
!” she yelled.

He ignored her frantic protests, concentrating instead on blistering her bottom. He’d honed his technique over the years, so he could spank a female to any range of severity without tiring his hand. Of course he would eventually need to progress to other implements if she persisted in defying him and behaving as an unruly child. He made a mental note to gather some such implements in his bedroom for the future. Based on her comportment at the moment, he was certain they’d be needed before long.

“Oww,” she wailed. “It hurts. How long are you going to spank me?”

“Until you’ve learned your lesson. I’m not doing this for my own amusement, you know.”
Well, not entirely...
“I’m doing this to teach you that lying and defying my commands will not be tolerated in this marriage. When I tell you to come to dinner, you’ll damn well do so.” He captured an unruly leg that had wiggled loose from between his thighs, and resumed his steady assault. “Furthermore, when I tell you you’re to be punished, you will learn to submit to me without all this nonsense.”

She twisted until she nearly tugged her arm loose, and then pummeled her feet up against his leg. He slid the slipper off one flailing foot and laid it against her bottom.
Whap!

She bucked across his thigh and let out a scream of such bloodcurdling agony he wondered if one of the staff would come crashing in. “No,” she screamed. “Stop! I can’t bear this.” Wails and pleas spilled from her mouth as he belabored her bottom with her slipper’s leather sole.

“Remember, if you had chosen to take your spanking like a remorseful wife, without these struggles and theatrics, I would have already let you up. Instead you’ve kicked me, screamed at me, and continually tried to evade the blows.”

“I’m sorry!”

He paused, running a hand over her heated, scarlet bottom. “Are you truly sorry? Or do you only wish me to stop?”

“I... I...” She shuddered as he caressed her. “I don’t like to be punished.”

“But you admit you lied to me? That you twice defied my direct and very reasonable order to present yourself at dinner?”

“Yes, my lord. I did those things.” She gave a great sniffle and shifted on his lap.

“Do you wish to be released?”

“Yes,” she sobbed. “Yes, please.”

“
Yes, my lord
will suffice. And if I release you, will you take your spanking properly, and submit to what you deserve?”

She hesitated, then shifted again with a soft little moan. “Yes, my lord.”

He dropped the slipper on the floor. As spanking implements went, slippers packed a hefty sting and were always readily available. If he needed it again, it would be there, but Aurelia seemed prepared to dispense with the kicking and screaming.

He made a fuss of arranging her in the more traditional fashion, over both of his thighs, her hands and her feet resting on the floor. “You are not to kick and buck,” he said. “You must stay as you are positioned until I let you up.”

“Yes, my lord,” she said in a chastened whisper.

He resumed the spanking, delivering the same crisp smacks he’d begun with. He would not go easier on her now that he had her cooperation. He was not one to be manipulated by a woman’s tantrums and outbursts, although he had to admit she was taking a considerable punishment to her tender cheeks. He paused to massage her bottom, assessing the damage. Without intention, his finger slipped down within the crevice of her sex.

She tensed and pulled away, but not before he encountered a telltale wetness, a gathering of moisture at her private place. “Be still,” he said. She obeyed, but she whimpered as he probed there. Just a fingertip at first, then to his knuckle.

She was copiously wet.

“Enjoying this, are you?” he said under his breath. His little mouse, wet and aroused from a spanking. He could hardly believe it.

She ducked her head and he started spanking her again, only this time he stopped every few blows to slide his fingers through the evidence of her arousal. She drew herself up each time he did it.

“Please, my lord. Don’t.”

“Why not?” He slipped two fingers inside her. “It pleases me to do this. I believe it pleases you too.”

“It doesn’t. No!”

“What if I touched you here?” He slipped her own moisture down to the thrusting little nubbin of flesh at the apex of her sex.

She groaned in a kind of horror. He spanked her again,
whap, whap, whap
, and then returned to diddling his hapless wife. Perhaps it was cruel to do this, to confront her with this evidence of her own depraved longings, buried beneath years of lessons on virtue. She had cried before. Now she positively wept, but she kept her feet down and her hands in place as he spanked and molested her in turn.

At last, when her bottom was hot to the touch and pleasingly scarlet, he stopped his onslaught and let her up. He made her stand facing him, with her skirts drawn up over her punished arse cheeks.

“Look at me,” he said. “Tell me what you’ve learned.”

Her eyes were stormy, tearful gray, her delicate features flushed and damp. “I’m not to lie to you anymore, my lord. I’m to listen to you when you give me orders. I’m to come to dinner when I’m told and...and be good.”

“Have you learned anything about taking a proper punishment?”

“Yes.” She nodded and sniffled. “I’m not to resist you. I’m to submit to...”