Page 96 of Surrender Your Grace
“And why is it here?”
“I was protecting Maggie. She and Duncan have been at odds all week.”
“I noticed,” he said dryly. “But we’re not talking about them. We’re talking about you.”
He took the birch and gave it a few experimental flicks. When it whistled through the air, she swallowed hard—uh-ohechoing loudly in her head.
“Are you sure this is what you want?”
“No. I want you.”
“You’ll have me. After.” His grin deepened. “You’re bold tonight.”
“Bold enough to deserve options?”
“Bold enough to earn both.”
“Well,” she huffed, wrinkling her nose. “That didn’t go as I expected.”
He grunted softly, as though amused and holding back laughter. “That’s because I’m in charge of this punishment. But in the interest of knowledge, you can tell me which you regret more, afterward.”
“How reassuring,” she muttered.
He tugged her over his lap. Her hair fell in a curtain, fingertips grazing the thick rug as he lifted the hem of her shift to her waist. His hand smoothed over her bare skin—warm, slow, teasing.
Then the tawse cracked down.
The sting was immediate and scalding. Five measured strokes followed, precise and searing. Her breath hitched, and her legs kicked. The latter uselessly with his arm around her waist holding her in place.
Then the tawse hit the floor with a thud, and his hand soothed over her blazing skin.
“What’s your verdict?”
“I’m vacillating between beastly and horrid.”
He chuckled. “When I was fourteen, my father gave me twenty with a heavier version. I’d taken his new phaeton for a joyride through Hyde Park.”
“You didn’t!”
“Oh, I did. I took my meals standing and walked everywhere for a week. For bringing it back with a dent and several scratches, I deserved it.”
“I hate to admit it, but I’m with your father on this one.”
“Interesting,” he murmured. “Punishment for disobedience. A familiar concept, no?”
“I see the irony. I’m not screaming the house down, am I?”
He introduced his palm—quick but noteworthy. Twice. “Mind your tone.”
“Sorry,” she replied only slight less sarcastic.
“Mmm,” was his only reply to that. “Let’s see how you fare with the birch. Six strokes. For comparison.”
“Must we?”
“You prefer more with the tawse?”
“No!” she yelped. “Birch. Please.”
