Her Honour for an Heir

On my wedding day I was a nervous, terrified virgin. Three years on I remain untouched, the nerves replaced with resentment. Seething anger that my husband, a man almost thirty years my senior, has thieved the youthful life I could have enjoyed. Quieter in nature he prefers to spend his months sequestered away in his study at Tarrick Hall. His months are my months. As the dutiful wife, Vanessa, Duchess of Tarrick, I go where he goes. Each autumn I beg for us to head down to London for the Season, to have a fleeting taste of life and excitement amongst my peers. The Season lasts from November to July. Last year I managed just a few balls in March. It was excruciating to conceal my desperation. To meet people from my generation other than my sister, hear laughter peal around a crowded room. Last season the gossip rags referred to me as the “missing Duchess,” a line that always made the Duke chuckle cruelly at our shared breakfast table. Today, like every other I am sitting in quiet c

The next morning at breakfast I was relieved to find Edmund alone. As soon as the servants poured tea and left, his china cup rattled down into the saucer and he spoke.It was not often he took pains to converse with me. Usually I watched his grey face, limp strands of fading grey hair nodding along with the newspaper and gossip rags he devoured. The paper remained crisply folded, he stared at me with his fingers steepled.“I believe I need to remind you of your duties as a wife, Vanessa.”“In three years I believe I have never caused you displeasure sir?”“I have never asked you for anything. There is a difference. This request is for your security as well as the estates. You know that if I were to die now, you would be in a poorhouse within six months unless your family rescues you.”“My family would never see me struggle,” I replied quickly, a flush of panic rising.“Until a child is born, my will contains a letter. A letter addressed to every gutter press in London, and your mothe

To my surprise the room is warm, lit by a roaring fire and surprisingly inviting. Edmund must have arranged this, to make the experience less miserably cold. The first thing my vision landed on was the huge bed. Unwrinkled, perfectly starched white sheets beaming at me.The images of lewd women, eyes rolling, breasts exposed rose up in my memory. Was this to be my fate tonight? “Good evening Your Graces,” and I realised Fitz was standing behind us, leaning against the wall. He had his sleeves rolled up, his white work shirt unbuttoned by one to reveal a hint of light brown chest hair on his broad chest.He had one foot up, resting on the wall. So impossibly casual I wanted to throttle him. Had he no idea how much torment I had been through to even be standing here tonight?“When you have completed breeding, knock on the door twice. I shall then come through and inspect. I won’t be fooled Fitz.”“I assure you, I have absolutely no intentions of fooling you, Your Grace,” Fitz replied,

Laying still on the bed I watch the last embers die in the black metal grate. The last sparks of orange and red were extinguished. How is this the same room that a few hours ago held a heat, a gaze so powerful it took my breath away. Green eyes, a low emerald glow that thrilled me to my core. I should hate what happened to me tonight. I'm lying here with another man's seed inside me. He'd rubbed, glided inside my most private of places. The panic I felt at my own slickness washed away when I realised its natural purpose. The delicious sensation of his touch was only heightened by what my body produced. The mystery behind the expressions and contortions of the women in the gossip rags was explained. Much more of Fitz manoeuvring, gently twisting inside me and I could have found myself doing exactly the same poses. Even my nipples were stiff. Before he even touched me I could feel them brushing the cotton fabric. It felt as though my mind was catching up to what my body already knew

I was forced to dine with Edmund in the evening. My beautiful dusky pink dress was wasted on his pallid, disinterested expression. As a pudding of soft apple pie, a crumbling soft biscuits topping was served I couldn't help smiling to myself. "Pray tell me what is so amusing about a simple dessert?" Edmund asked, the spoon juddering in his hand. There was a vibrant vein of anger in his tone. I flushed in embarrassment, had it appeared I was mocking his frailty? "Oh, your Grace, it was a mistake of mine today. I took poor Jeremiah some treats from the kitchen as I mentioned at breakfast. Except I had not considered his age. The fresh, crunchy apples I brought were more appropriate for Amber. Almost nothing I gathered he could eat." He smirked and shook his head. "Ah my dear there is a lesson to be learnt there," stopping to slurp at his custard-coated spoon. His suit glittered with gold buttons and the navy jacket sung of expense and grandeur. His frame was not filling it with the sa