Page 27 of The Duke's Pet

She tugged her petticoat into place, then watched as he walked back to his easel. His gait was a little stiff, she wasn’t sure why.

Jemima sat for two hours beside the fire. Her ass throbbed and she remained damp and slick between her thighs.

The duke worked in silence. Occasionally he mixed up paint, but mainly he just painstakingly replicated what he saw onto the paper.

Darkness began to stretch over the room. Twilight was edging closer.

Just as the fire faded, he dropped his brush and let out a loud sigh. “The light has been lost for the day.”

She looked out of the window. The lawn was strewn in the elongated shadows of oak trees. “Yes, it is.”

He raised his hands over his head, linked his fingers and stretched.

His shirt lifted from his waistband, giving Jemima a peek at his lean abdomen. It was coated in fine dark hair, and she had an urge to see more, to touch it, to run her fingers over his skin the way he had hers. It was clear he was a fine specimen of the male form.

Why should he be the only one to explore?

He dropped his hands to his sides. “You should put on your dress. We will eat dinner in the main dining room.”

“Okay.”

“I beg your pardon?”

She folded her arms, covering her breasts.

“You should remember your place, little kitten.” He frowned. “I have just given you an instruction; answer me appropriately.”

She tilted her chin, unable to keep the defiance from her eyes. She didn’t know where it had come from. Perhaps it was the hours sitting quietly by the fire, or the lingering ache on her behind. Maybe it was from her determination to find something to slip into her pocket as payment for being his.

He raised his right hand, showing her his palm. “There are many more spanks in this, do not doubt it, and do not test it.”

She started at his wide hand. Unlike her behind it showed no evidence of the earlier punishment he’d delivered. A flash of humiliation seared her memory. Of being over his knee, ass up, pussy wet and him seeing and touching her, making her cry out.

“Yes, Sir. I’ll dress for dinner.” There’d been a hint of insolence in her tone; it had sneaked in, like candlelight slipping beneath a closed door.

He hesitated, then said, “Good.” He handed the dress to her, and watched as she covered up. “I will find you some more items of clothing to wear for dinner during your stay. I’m guessing you have very little with you.”

“No, and as you wish.”

“I do wish.” He set his hand on the small of her back. “Come, we will indulge in a port before we eat.”

He ushered her from the room in a genteel way. And in that moment his touch on her was comforting, almost reassuring.

It occurred to her that her emotions were on a yo-yo string, going between disliking him immensely and feeling determined to push him, disobey him, to wanting his attention and touch.

“You will come to understand your situation,” he said as they crossed the hallway, their footsteps echoing on the hard wooden flooring.

“What do you mean... Sir?”

“Being mine in this way. I meant what I said, I will care for you and no grave physical harm will befall you, but you must be obedient. I cannot have an out of control woman running around this place.”

He paused at a fine oak dresser with carved bow legs. A shelf at the base held a huge orange and blue vase with long-necked birds flying around its widest point. The surface—a little dusty—was stacked with gold, bronze, and silver ornaments. There was a pair of small pheasants, a large scalloped bowl with gold and pink flowers, a cherub on a marble plinth, a set of two tall candlesticks, and a lion on a black stand, roaring; there was a small chip on his tail.

“One of Mrs. Cook’s misadventures.” The duke pointed at the tail.

“Mmm, shame.” Jemima’s attention had been harnessed by the pheasants. They were small enough to fit in a pocket, and she’d wager they were heavy, probably solid silver.

It would be ages before they noticed one had gone.

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