Page 59 of A Return of the Wicked Earl (The Shadows 1)

The Marital Duty

Autumn 1739

Blake had returned home drunk. It was common for him to appear at his home in a state of inebriation. He had not seen Annalise, much less come to her bed, since their wedding night. After that night, she’d demanded he never enter her chambers foxed, and since he was always foxed, he’d kept to her wishes.

But tonight was different, wasn’t it?

His father’s funeral had been three nights ago. And no matter their differences, it was Annalise’s duty as his wife to comfort him, wasn’t it?

His wife had already gone to bed. He had learned that from the servants. The feeling of loss and emptiness settled deep in his stomach.

He wished to spend time with her, to be with her, but all of what he knew about marriage was from his father. And everything his father taught him went against Blake’s instincts.

His father was his mentor, his hero; the one Blake had looked up to his entire life and sought respect and admiration from. Now that he was dead, Blake needed more than ever to make his memory proud by following in his footsteps.

No, there would be no seeking comfort from his wife. His father would never have done that. He was tough, and Blake needed to be tough, too. He would go to Annalise’s bed and demand his marital rights. She was in no position to thwart his advances.

Foxed or not, he was her husband, and it was her duty to pleasure him.

Blake remembered in a haze the night of their wedding, her frightened eyes, the way she’d stiffened in his arms.

He had never bedded a virgin. All of his previous liaisons were with the women of low virtue, the ones who gladly lowered themselves to their knees and put his cock between their lips. He never had to think about their pleasure or comfort.

Annalise, on the other hand, was untouched. Did she find him repulsive? He pushed the thought aside.

He climbed up the stairs and stopped in front of her door. They’d been married for over a month, and he hadn’t seen her this entire time. He wondered if she’d enjoyed the reprieve. Or perhaps she was taking lovers herself. The thought painted red over his vision, and he knocked on the door before letting himself in.

Annalise peeked her head out of the covers and looked at him as he entered.

He could see her outline clearly in the moonlight. She was wearing a nightcap—an ugly piece of clothing he wished to throw into the fire. She looked confused, but as she realized it was Blake, she tensed immediately. The realization made Blake even angrier than he was before.

He stalked toward her, slightly swaying on his feet. “What, did you think you got a reprieve from me, wife?” he said with a drunken slur. “No such luck. I still need my heirs from you.” With that, he started undressing.

Annalise didn’t take her eyes off him but didn’t make a sound, either.

He wondered what thoughts were going through her head. Was she frightened of him? Would she rather he left? He finished undressing and climbed into bed beside her.

He was already hard as a rock, and the slide of his limbs against her warm skin didn’t cool his ardor.

Instead of recoiling, Annalise propped herself on one elbow and placed a hand against his cheek. The scent of her enveloped his senses, and he couldn’t help but lean into the warmth of her palm.

“I am sorry about your father,” she whispered. “I know you are grieving. I wish I could help you with it.”

The kind words brought tears to his eyes.Real men don’t cry;his father’s words burned at the back of his mind.Only weaklings do.

“You can and you will,” he said hoarsely.

He climbed half on top of her, and Annalise placed her hands on his shoulders and buried her face in his neck, bracing for him to begin. The trusting gesture sent a pang through his wretched heart. He rolled off her a little and looked at her face. Her eyes were shut, and her face was scrunched in fear.

“Look, you have nothing to be afraid of. It won’t hurt this time. Or at least that’s what they say.” His tone wasn’t reassuring, and the drunken slur wasn’t helping either.

Annalise opened her eyes and looked at him.

Blake slowly lowered his face and kissed her deeply. Annalise put a hand between them and pushed on his chest. Blake stared at her, surprised.

“The taste of alcohol,” she said with a grimace. “I told you I do not like it.”

“Then we’ll get straight to rutting,” he slurred. “Feel this?” He ground his pelvis into hers, rubbing his cock against her quim. “It is your duty as a wife to pleasure me whenever I am hard, or I shall find someone else who will.”

“Blake,” Annalise said softly. “I do not ask a lot of you—”

“Will you leave me be? My father had just died!” Blake cried. “I deserve to drown my sorrows in a bottle.”

“I’d rather you shared your sorrows with me.”

Blake scoffed.What a feminine sentiment.“If you don’t want me drunk, then I shan’t come at all.”

Blake crawled out of bed and started collecting his clothing, swaying drunkenly. “I can find wenches to pleasure me a lot better than you do.” He turned to see Annalise’s shocked face, sketched her a bow, and walked away.

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