How to Love a Duke in Ten Days - Kerrigan Byrne Page 0,2
just what glimmered in his eyes. A desire not only forbidden, but criminal. “More than is seemly. More than is right.”
“Let us not dwell on what is right or wrong.” He motioned to her stolen goods. “I’ve watched you enough to find your eyes search for me, as well.”
A breath of disbelief escaped her. “Only like a rabbit searches the sky for an eagle.”
“You think me a predator, then?”
Indignation scored at her. He wanted her to fear him. “I don’t think of you, at all, sir.”
His handsomeness rearranged itself in the firelight into something undeniably hideous. He tossed the port back and set the glass next to his reclaimed property.
Alexandra admitted her guilt. She’d been caught out for a thief. And yet, his sins far surpassed hers, she knew that intrinsically, with every part of herself.
“What do I do with the three of you?” He eyed her with exaggerated speculation. “Were I feeling unduly punitive, I would contact the police. Were I feeling cruel, I could expel you.”
“No!” Alexandra gasped. As a woman, she’d have a difficult enough time being accepted into a university. If she didn’t produce the recommendation she relied upon from de Chardonne, she’d have no chance, whatsoever. “Please, sir. It was only a bit of harmless fun. I apologize for taking your things. We only intended to borrow them. I promise to make reparations if you’ll just—”
He stooped to gather something from yet another drawer of his desk, retracting a long, slim strap every girl at de Chardonne had come to both fear and despise. The sight of it once again choked the words from her throat.
“After tonight, I will be certain to remain in your thoughts every time you intend to misbehave.”
Alexandra set her own glass down, her cold, stiff fingers no longer able to carry it as he rounded the desk to tower over her.
Her nostrils flared with hatred, but she bore down on her dread and extended her palms to him. She’d never been struck before, had never done anything to warrant it. But she’d seen the strap applied in the classrooms to unruly girls. She’d noted their stiff movements for weeks.
“It is my fault, Monsieur de Marchand. Punish me, but please leave Francesca and Cecelia out of it. I am the instigator. I, alone, deserve this.”
“As you say.” He stared at her upturned palms, leached of color and trembling like hummingbird wings.
He lifted the strap, and she turned her head in an involuntary wince as she prepared for the strike.
The strike that never came.
Releasing her breath, she dared a glance at him and instantly regretted it.
A notion darkened his visage as he lowered his arm.
“No.” He pointed the strap toward the desk. “No, for you the punishment will fit the crime.”
She glanced at the smooth surface of the desk, uncomprehending. “How do you mean?”
“You’ve desired these past four years to be treated like the boys at le Radon?” He grasped her elbow, drawing her toward the desk. “Then you will be punished like one.”
“I—I don’t understand.”
His teeth glowed brilliant white, even in the dim firelight. “Bend over.”
Alexandra’s eyes peeled wide and she took a step back, tugging against his hold. She knew exactly where he wanted to strike her.
“No,” she whispered, her mind searching for an out. Francesca would know what to do. At the very least, she’d use her influence as a countess to bring the headmaster to heel. Even Cecelia could use her wealth as leverage. No one dared risk losing the income she provided the school.
What clout did Alexandra have?
“My father, the Earl of Bentham, will never stand for this.” She planted her heels into the carpet, to no effect. “When he hears of how I’ve been treated, he’ll ruin you.”
De Marchand brought his face alarmingly close to hers. “Everyone knows your father couldn’t ruin a painted whore, let alone a man with my influence.”
He didn’t give Alexandra time to consider his words as he shoved her against the desk. With a strong hand between her shoulder blades, he pressed her chest against the surface.
She gasped out a cry of pain as the sharp edge bit into her hip bones.
“Spread your arms,” he commanded.
So stunned by the pain, so unfamiliar with brutality, Alexandra complied, smoothing her fingers over the cool mahogany. Closing her eyes, she counted the petticoats beneath her heavy skirts.
They’d soften the sting of the strap at least.
With a breath pinned in her lungs, she braced for the first blow.