Lord Horace had warned her what would happen if ever she attempted to refuse him his marital rights, but on the third night after their marriage, Clara decided that nothing could be worse than the indignities he had subjected her to thus far. On their wedding night, he had entered her room in a dressing gown wearing nothing underneath. He quickly shed his garment and climbed atop her, hoisting her own thin nightgown to her waist. One thick knee wedged between her thighs, spreading her wide beneath his weight.
"Easy, girl," he had muttered.
She had tried to lie still, tried to remain obedient during the course of the marital act, but when he began to press that enormous, swollen rod of his into the narrow passage between her legs, she had not been able to stop herself from pushing at his shoulders and struggling beneath him.
Sir Horace had subdued her with the weight of his body, grasping both her wrists in one meaty hand and stretching them above her head as he drove into her full length. After that, he had pumped into her deep and long, the only sounds in the room his heavy panting breath and her sobs and groans, until at last, he pressed all the way inside her and, with a violent shout of satisfaction, shot his seed into her womb.
Afterward, he had pulled his weapon free of her tight clasp and risen from the bed. "You will soon learn to accommodate me," he had said.
"I never shall!" she vowed.
He had looked at her then, brows lowered. "See that you do," he replied. "I will have my rights each night, as I choose. If you deny me, you will not like the consequences."
And then he had left her alone in her bed, shocked and sore and sticky with his leavings.
The next two nights had progressed much the same, except that he now made free with her bosom, squeezing one plump breast in his hand as he thrust himself into her body.
"Please," she had whimpered, during one particularly deep thrust. "You are too big."
"Hush," he had admonished her.
She had closed her eyes tight, listening to the sounds of his flesh slapping against her. She felt terribly stretched and sore, each surge of his enormous rod prying her open. When he finally quickened, she began to cry in earnest.
"Quiet, damn you," he growled. And then he grunted his climax, spurting his seed into her in a series of hot pulses.
Clara lay spread-eagled beneath him, one breast rudely bared through the opening of her expensive linen nightgown and her legs spread painfully wide. She felt exposed and degraded.
She had married Sir Horace for his money. Everyone in the county knew it. He was the only titled gentleman she had every encountered and, though he was more than twenty years her senior, she had decided that she would have him. She wanted to live in a fine house and ride in a fine carriage. She wanted to have gowns more beautiful than any other lady.
If the cost was that she must bear Sir Horace a child or two, then so be it. The marital act was but brief, her aunt had told her, and though sometimes uncomfortable, it was a small price to pay for the satisfaction of being the first lady of the district.
Clara had believed her. She had also believed her married friends who had described their own husband's conjugal visits as short and respectful. But Sir Horace's attentions were not brief. Once he mounted her, he worked inside of her for what felt like an age. And he was not respectful. The way he rode her, she may as well have been a prize mare in his stable.
He had been wed twice before and each wife had died in the act of trying to give him an heir. He wanted children, which was no doubt why he visited her room with such frequency. And yet...Clara had a sinking feeling that what he did to her each night in her bed had more to do with his own unhealthy appetites than it did with procreation.
This gave her even more confidence to deny him her bed when, on the fourth night of their married life, he entered her room through the connecting door.
Sir Horace found her seated in a chair affecting to read a book. He frowned. "You are not in bed, wife."
"No, my lord," she said. "I will not be retiring for some time. I am reading, as you see."
"And you think I will wait upon your pleasure, is that it?"
"I think nothing of the sort, my lord. I mean only to finish my book and then to retire to bed where I will go to sleep."
Sir Horace advanced upon her. He was a big man, tall and broad with a large belly. A thick carpet of hair was visible through the neck of his dressing gown. Really, Clara thought with disgust, he was quite vile. "Are you refusing me my rights, madam?" he asked in a quiet voice.
She curled her lip. "You have not behaved as a gentleman, sir. Had you treated me with respect, had you gone about your business as other husbands do, I may yet have the stamina to receive you a fourth night in a row. As it is, I must have some time to recover from your...attentions."
"I care not what other husbands do with their wives," he retorted. "Nor should you, madam. Your concern lies with your own husband. Under the laws of God and of man your body belongs to me and I shall use it however I see fit."
"Not this evening, sir."
"Get on the bed, madam."
"I said no, Horace," she snapped, using his given name for the first time. "And I meant it."
Sir Horace's brow lowered. He turned and strode across the room. For one hopeful moment she believed he was leaving and that she had won. But then he stopped near the fireplace and gave one decisive tug on the bell pull. The summons was answered immediately by a burly footman—a fellow that Clara had seen about the house once or twice before.
"Thomas," Sir Horace said briskly. "My lady wife will need your assistance arranging herself over the trestle table."
Clara shot to her feet. "I beg your pardon—" she began, but Thomas moved too quickly. He was upon her in seconds, seizing her in a strong grip and bodily lifting her from the ground. "How dare you!" she shouted. "How dare you touch me!"
