Under A Duke's Hand by Annabel Joseph Page B

could make one
another so happy.
    He toyed with her, maneuvered and manipulated
her until she climaxed in a trembling heat, and then chuckled when
she refused to meet his gaze. “You love to be fucked,” he taunted
softly. “You little liar. You naughty girl.”

Chapter
Seven: The Letter
     
     
     
    Gwen’s hand hovered over the paper, the pen
trembling in her fingers as she searched for the right words. Mama , she prayed silently. Help me, please. Help me know
what to say so Father will let me come home.
    She’d been at Arlington Hall nearly a week,
submitting to the duke’s endless scrutiny, her French maid’s
harassment, and finishing lessons with Lady Langton, a doddering
old scold who made Gwen want to die.
    No matter how hard she tried, Gwen could do
nothing right. The walls of her husband’s palatial estate seemed to
squeeze in around her until she couldn’t breathe. She snuck to her
private garden whenever she could, only to be pulled back inside
for lessons, or styling, or a change of clothes, or luncheon, or
tea, or formal dinner, or some other pointless activity.
    Then night would come and the duke would
visit her bed, and stroke her and bedevil her until she lost all
sense and participated in the most scandalous activities. She only
realized her embarrassment afterward, when he was slumbering beside
her in blissful repletion. It was an awful feeling, that lonely,
shameful aftermath. It was not her fault the duke knew the precise
ways to stimulate her sensual humors. And every time he lay with
her, there was more chance she would fall pregnant with his
child.
    Gwen had never thought it possible to miss
her home so much. She missed her privacy and peace of mind. She
missed wearing comfortable clothes and being who she was, a simple
baron’s daughter. She missed having control of her own body. She
missed her afternoons with Effie, feeding her apples and brushing
her patchy coat. She prayed every day in her garden for fortitude,
and for deliverance, but it didn’t help.
    It was time to take matters into her own
hands, now, before it was too late.
    Dear Papa , she wrote in Welsh.
    I know it was important to you that I wed
the Duke of Arlington. I would not write this letter if I was not
in desperate circumstances.
    I’m afraid our marriage is a failure. The
duke regards me as little better than a savage, and treats me as
such. He fears I will humiliate him before his friends, and so he
is trying to remake me into a completely different person.
    She wished she was a better writer, so she
could explain how devastating this was. She felt like she was
losing herself.
    Papa, I don’t know how much longer I can
survive his exacting authority. He is impossible to please.
Sometimes I believe he truly despises me, and when I do not behave
as he wishes, he punishes me in a brutal and unfeeling manner.
    Well, perhaps that was making things sound
more dire than they were, but she must convince her father to come
to her rescue. The duke did punish her with the birch that once,
and the marks had stayed for three whole days.
    Even worse than the punishments is the way
my husband subjects me to his lewd whims. He commands me to do
things which no gently reared woman should endure. I cannot
describe them here; decency will not allow it. When I try to resist
his advances, he forces me to his will.
    She stopped again. He’s never forced you
to do a thing , her conscience whispered. She was the weak,
wanton one who melted whenever he touched her. But he was indecent
with her. That was not in question, and if her father knew it,
perhaps he would find some way to extricate her from this match.
They were leaving very soon to go to London, and once they were
there, she knew she would never get away. They would attend an
audience with the king and queen, and the duke would paint a rosy
picture of their marriage and expect her to do the same.
    And that would be that. A lifetime with this
haughty, unfeeling aristocrat who didn’t