Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 74156 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 371(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74156 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 371(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
“It’s quite an ancient place,” he said in a conversational, almost blasé tone. “Monks lived here ages ago, before this was Arlington land. The Abbey predates the main house by centuries, being an outbuilding of the original Arlington keep.”
He spoke so casually of centuries, as if he’d truly come to England with the Vikings. She could so easily imagine it, with his long blond hair and light eyes, and his natural propensity for cruelty.
“It’s been worked on over the years,” he said, looking around, “so it’s no shack, but it’s not a palace like my parents’ house, either. I’ll give you a tour of the place when you’re in the mood for it.”
She’d been committed to disliking Wescott Abbey, since anything to do with her husband must be a bad thing, but she found herself fascinated instead. “This is a nice house,” she said, in sullen understatement.
He gave her a look that brought to mind the spanking she’d gotten earlier, as well as the one she’d suffered last night. What could he do, turn her over his knee now, in front of all the servants?
“Mrs. Samuelson will show you to your rooms so you can rest and collect yourself,” he said, indicating the housekeeper at her side. “Her staff is doubtless upstairs already, unpacking your trunks. Dinner is served at eight o’clock here. If necessary, one of the footmen will show you to the dining room. You need only ask.”
There were haughty looking footmen everywhere. Such wealth he must have, to maintain this staff year-round.
No, she would not be impressed, for that would please Lord Wescott. She straightened her bonnet again and set up the stairs after Mrs. Samuelson, feeling his eyes on her backside the entire way.
Chapter Eight
A Honeyed Moon
Wescott ate dinner alone in the Abbey’s echoing dining room. His wife claimed to be too exhausted from the trip, and he let her hide behind this predictable fiction while the servants pretended nothing was amiss. He could have taken a tray upstairs and eaten with her, and spent the remaining evening hours alone with her, giving her pleasure and finding his own, but she wouldn’t welcome that, especially after he’d punished her in the carriage for her poor wifely manners.
Well, she would have to learn.
After dinner, he went directly to his room. She was set up next door to him, in a grand suite recently refurbished for his eventual wife. He could have taken the few short steps to wish her good evening, but he feared receiving a cold reception. He’d try again tomorrow, or the next day. By God, Ophelia had not endeared herself to him so far. They’d have to find some way to present a united front in public, and raise children together when she finally uncrossed her stubborn thighs and let him inside her again.
Ah, he would like to be inside her again. He lay in bed in the dark, palming his cock, stroking its length and remembering how trusting and open she’d been at the inn. He’d experienced how sensual, how abandoned his prim Lady Wescott could be, and now that he couldn’t have her, he seemed to be taking out his annoyance on her backside. Too bad for her.
As for him, it was not such a hardship. He enjoyed the disciplinary arts, and her lovely, round arse had colored beautifully under his hand. He stroked himself faster, imagining more creative ways to punish his new wife. Sodomy, perhaps. A bit of bondage. He imagined her tied face-down on his bed, squirming and pleading for mercy as he oiled her arsehole for a little buggery. There was no more pleasurable or effective way to discipline a naughty woman, and he brought himself off with breathless intensity, relieving the tension that had churned within him since she’d refused him last night.
He fell asleep soon after, relaxing into the clean, crisp sheets. The scents and sounds of this house were familiar enough that he drifted peacefully into dreams. Then, a terrified scream roused him from bed.
“My lord.” His valet bent over him, shaking him to wakefulness. “My lord, it’s Lady Wescott.”
He was on his feet moving to the door as another scream rent the silent night.
“Would you like to dress first, my lord?” his man asked.
Wescott cursed under his breath and threw on the shirt he handed him. By the time he got across the hall, Rochelle was trembling in her night clothes and cap outside his wife’s room.
“My lord, I tried to calm her, but she pushed me away and screamed in fear. Whatever is the matter?”
“Damned if I know. Come with me.”
Ophelia screamed again as they entered, a sustained, ear-piercing wail that would almost have been musical, if it wasn’t so awful. There was no one in the room with her, no specter or marauder, no villain making her scream for her life. She was asleep, caught in the throes of a nightmare.