Page 39 of His Scandalous Lessons
A pretty, hollow vase for his mantelpiece.
The drawing room was quiet when Kendal entered. Anne rose from the settee, forcing a smile in greeting. He didn’t smile back, simply strode over to where she stood and pressed a kiss to her cheek with hard lips.
He was old, true. But no matter how finely coiffed, Kendal was no gentleman. Just the sight of him nauseated her. It wasn’t his looks — cold blue eyes, tall and thin, wrinkles forming around his forehead and mouth. Truthfully, his features that might have been handsome had he smiled, despite his age. Perhaps if he’d had a kinder heart, one that allowed him to love.
But he was not kind.
He was not gentle.
“Anne.” Though he used her name, it sounded so formal. “I feel it’s been an age.”
His eyes went to her body, clad in a morning dress that she had chosen for his benefit. She hated this, wearing the things she knew he liked. Richard would have loved her in rags.
Kendal gestured for her to sit beside him. Anne tried to hide her wariness as she poured his tea, placed two scones on a plate, and settled next to his thin frame. Too close. He loved her to be too close. She used to set the tea service between them in the hope that he would act a gentleman and sit across from her — but he never did.
After all, he owned her.
“We’ve been invited to Lord and Lady Ashby’s ball,” Kendal said, settling a hand on her thigh. He squeezed hard.
“Have we,” Anne murmured demurely.
Blue eyes, as cold as her father’s. If her father welded most of his power in the Commons, Kendal did in the Lords. Anne often wondered what information Stanton had on the duke to ensure his utmost compliance over the years. She had gone to Richard for help because Kendal would never cry off, even if she were ruined.
He'd already ruined her. Oh, Kendal might not have raped her — he’d considered her virginity a prize for their wedding night — but her father had allowed him liberties no man ought to have with a daughter before she came of age to marry. He said it was incentive.
An exchange.
He had purchased her, and as her owner was to touch and test and fondle her in all the ways he deemed fit.
“It seems you’ve made good friends with the Duchess of Hastings,” Kendal said, barely looking at the tea she set before him.
“Her Grace has been most kind to me.”
“What did she teach you?”
Anne tried not to show any emotion. “Wifely duties. Things my mother would have told me, were she alive.” At Kendal’s intense gaze, Anne looked away. “Here, why don’t you have—”
His hand shot out as she reached for it, clamping tight enough around her wrist to hurt. Anne bit her lip to hold back her gasp as he pulled her into his lap.
“Your Grace—”
“Henry.” His hand was around her upper arm now. Rough. Too rough. She’d be bruised tomorrow. “I’ve given you leave to use my first name. Has the duchess reversed all my teachings?Mine?This?”
His lips were hard on hers. Not coaxing. Not a conversation. Not intended to leave her wanting.
No, intended to brand her. To show her who held power. To show her that there was no question here, no right of refusal, nothing. When his hand squeezed her breast, it was with no tenderness, no care for her person. She had asked Richard if kissing hurt because this was how Kendal kissed: his lips on hers, pillaging as if she were a village in the way of a conquest.
He bit her lip hard enough to make her flinch, then said, “Did she tell you what happens on the wedding night?”
Anne could only lie. She refused to cry. So she nodded.
Kendal’s grip on her tightened. “Disregard it. I’ll teach you the way I like it.”
“Yes, Henry,” Anne whispered.
“Good.” Kendal released her. “Until then, we’ll attend the Ashby ball. We’ll announce our engagement for a fortnight from today.”
Anne went cold. “But—”
