He realized that there was no hope for it. Hellfire, he muttered under his breath. Aloud, he said, “Very well.”
His voice sounded remote, and it required all her courage not to back away as he slowly unfastened the wide belt from about his waist. He dropped his hands and walked quickly to the dresser. From the bottom drawer, he drew out a soft, narrow leather belt.
“Strip to the waist, Cassandra.”
His jaw tightened as he watched her trembling fingers prod at the tiny buttons on her bodice. She was as white as her chemise when she slowly slipped the lace straps from her shoulders and let the soft satin slip to her waist. Absurdly, she covered her breasts with her hands.
“Pin up your hair, it is covering your back.”
As she jabbed pins haphazardly into the masses of hair, she remembered, foolishly, their verbal battle earlier in the day about what her punishment would be if she wore breeches without his permission. It had been so ridiculous; they had done naught but spar with words. She tried to think objectively about pain, but she could recall nothing but the broken arm she had sustained at ten years old after being thrown from her mare. She must have felt pain, she thought, but there was nothing real for her to grasp. She remembered the possets forced down her throat by Becky Petersham, and the cast that made her skin itch, but no pain. She drew a deep, resolute breath and turned to face the earl, her hands still covering her breasts. She blanched at the sight of the belt, its buckle and clasp wrapped tightly about his hand.
“You may support yourself against the bookshelf.”
She walked numbly to the inset mahogany bookshelves that lined the cabin wall beside his desk, her eyes resting foolishly for an instant on the novel she had been reading. She stretched her arms above her head and firmly clasped her fingers about the edge of a shelf. She rested her forehead against the edge of a lower shelf and clenched her teeth tightly together. Help me not to make a fool of myself, she pleaded, more to herself than to any deity. She tensed her muscles and waited. She knew he was standing behind her, his hand in all likelihood poised in midair, ready to lash the belt across her back.
You are a fool, my girl, she said to herself, her muscles straining in taut fear. You fight him with all your strength, yet the result is unbelievable pleasure. Yet now you stand of your own free will for him to flog you.
The earl lifted the belt only to lower it again. He looked at her slender white back. An errant strand of golden hair had escaped its pin and fell in a long lazy curl down to her waist. His fingers lifted the hair from her back. She quivered. His hand shook and again, he lowered the belt.
“Damn you,” she said suddenly, her voice shrill in her fear. “Are you so cruel that you delight in making me wait, knowing what must come?”
The earl raised the belt and brought it down as lightly as he dared across her shoulders.
She tensed and tightened her fingers more tightly about the shelf edge, more from surprise than from pain. But when the belt slammed against her back again, she felt a tingling of pain that made her start.
Six lashes, the earl counted, knowing that he could give her no less. He rigidly controlled the strength of his arm, but still, it was not enough.
Cassie’s eyes burned as the pain increased, but she made no sound. Her fingers dug into the shelf as she swore over and over that she would not disgrace herself and collapse. Suddenly, the burning pain ceased. She held herself rigid for several moments, waiting. She turned slowly and felt a raw throbbing as the shelf touched her back. She gazed up, unseeing, into his pale face.
“Is it over?”
“Yes.”
“I am so glad. I feared that I would make a fool of myself.”
She blinked her eyes upon his face and said, her voice breathless and high, “May I lie down now?”