Chapter 2: Stable Lessons
The scent of roses from her hair mixed with the sharp, honest smell of horse and hay. Colin backed her into the stacked bales, the leather riding crop a casual threat in his hand. “Three days,” he said, his voice low. “Three days of you avoiding my eyes across every damned room.” He tapped the crop against her skirts. “You called me yours in that bed. Now prove you can take what’s yours.” Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird. He used the crop to swat her petticoats aside, the sound a sharp crack in the quiet stable. His other hand was already on her, palming her through her drawers, his touch firm and knowing. She gasped, her head tipping back against the rough hay. “Colin, someone could—” “Let them hear,” he muttered, his mouth hot on her neck. He worked her skirts up, the cool air a shock. His fingers found her, slick and ready. “See?” he breathed. “Your body remembers what you try to deny.” He kissed her, hard, as his fingers pushed inside. It was a claiming, quick and desperate. She arched against him, biting back a moane into his shoulder. “Mine,” he growled against her skin, his rhythm relentless. “Say it.” “Yours,” she gasped. He didn’t let up. “Again.” “Yours!” The word tore from her, loud in the quiet. Only then did his movements soften, turning coaxing, until she shattered against his hand, trembling. He held her through it, his own breath ragged. When she could stand again, he smoothed her skirts with a surprising tenderness. His grin was crooked, mischievous. “Now we’re late for tea.”
He brushed a piece of straw from her hair, his thumb lingering on her flushed cheek. “You have hay in places I am deeply envious of,” he murmured, his smile softening the crude words. She swatted his chest, but her laugh was breathless, giddy.
That giddy breathlessness became a memory preserved in amber, beautiful and distant. Years layered upon them, thickening with routine and unspoken grievances. Their once-fevered connections had cooled into polite exchanges over the breakfast table. It had been months since he’d touched her with anything resembling hunger, a fact that sat between them like a silent guest.
The sting of it was a physical weight in Penelope’s chest as she stood at another ball, watching him from across the room. He was laughing with a group of gentlemen, his smile easy, the same one that had once been hers alone. A familiar, handsome viscount—a friend of his, someone she’d known for years—leaned in to ask her a question about the music. His attention was warm, undivided. It felt like sunlight on a frosty day.
She leaned into that warmth, her laugh a little too bright, her hand resting on his arm a moment too long. She was so starved for the feeling of being seen that she didn’t notice Colin’s laughter die. She didn’t see the way his knuckles whitened around his glass. The carriage ride home was a freezing silence. He didn’t speak until the door of their bedroom slammed shut behind them, echoing like a gunshot.
“Did I not tell you,” his voice was low, shredded by a fury she had never heard, “years ago in a garden, that you belong to me and I to you?” He didn’t wait for an answer. His hands were on her, not with passion but a brutal efficiency, tearing at the fastenings of her gown. The fabric gave way with a sickening rip. “How could you?” The words were a raw, wounded thing.
He pushed her face-down onto the bed, his weight pinning her. There was no seduction, no teasing caress. He entered her in one harsh, unyielding thrust. She cried out, more from shock than pain. He didn’t slow. His movements were a relentless, punishing rhythm, each snap of his hips an accusation. This wasn’t about her pleasure; it was a raw reclamation.