Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Through all this, he merely looked on, wordless, letting her continue through to the very end of the debacle. She was too busy to blush, too preoccupied to stop or apologize until the whole wretched attempt at sightreading was played out. Her fingers came to rest on the final trio of notes…two of which were wrong. It was a poor showing, one of her worst so far. She put her hands in her lap and turned to face him.
“Perhaps I ought to try again.”
“Do you think that would help?” he asked dubiously.
“It might, now that I’m properly warmed up. Let me try again.”
His lips tightened to a frown, but he gestured for her to proceed. She shook her fingers as if that might remove some of the clumsiness, the utter ineptitude, really, and started to play again. This time she got half the notes right, which was an improvement, but her tempos still lagged. The composer himself would have struggled to recognize the piece, she played it so poorly.
“Well,” he said, looking at the music, then back at her. “That was still fearfully inept. Atrocious, really. It’s as if you didn’t practice at all.”
“What?” She pretended shock. “My lord, I did practice. A little.”
“You told me you practiced every day.” One of his dark brows rose. “Was that a lie?”
Her heart quickened, racing with excitement in her chest. This part of their game thrilled her. “Perhaps I did not practice as much as I should have.”
“Did you lie to me, Lisbet?” he asked again, in a more dire tone.
She swallowed hard, looking over at him. When he used her childhood nickname, it made her feel even more cowed by his sternness. “I did lie. I’m sorry. I suppose…well… The truth is, I barely practiced at all.”
“You shouldn’t lie about such things. I can tell, you know. I’m quite aware of whether you’ve practiced.”
“I mean to practice every day,” she said, avoiding his steely gaze. “But then…I don’t.”
“Indeed.” He sighed. “You’re so talented, with so much promise. How are you to improve if you don’t apply yourself? We’ve had this discussion before.”
“I know.” She squirmed on the hard piano bench. “I’m so ashamed.”
“Your father pays me handsomely for these lessons. He expects you to become a more accomplished musician, when you’ve barely improved. What am I to tell him?”
“I don’t know. Nothing? No need for him to become upset as well.”
He gave a soft tsk. A dangerous sound, in her experience.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, and she really was. “I ought to have practiced.”
“Yes, you ought to have. If you don’t, you’re wasting my time, and your own.” He stood and gave a deep, sonorous sigh. “I suppose such behavior must be punished. Again.”
“Must it?” she asked meekly.
He began unbuttoning his coat. “You know it must, if you are to become more responsible with your practicing.”
She could only meet his eyes for short seconds. His gaze was so strict, so direct. “I suppose you’re going to spank me, Lord Augustine.”
“Yes, and harder than last time.” He threw his coat over the chair and started rolling up his sleeves. “For you don’t appear to have taken any motivation from it at all.”
Why, last week’s spanking had been the hardest yet. This would be her seventh spanking at the earl’s hands, all of which were entirely her doing, her fault.
It was during their second lesson she’d tremblingly suggested that a punishment might motivate her to practice harder. She did not know from whence she’d gained the courage to say it aloud to her dark-haired friend. She’d heard the stories, she supposed, the whispered tales of who was most into the “English vice” of spanking and whipping. The majority of such gossip concerned Lord Augustine, who purportedly had not married because no woman would be able to withstand his disciplinary proclivities.
His dark looks and large, strong hands did make one think of power and punishment, but she knew the real reason August hadn’t married—he was still in love with his friend’s oldest sister Felicity, long since wed to an Italian prince.
Still, the idea of it…of August’s disciplinary proclivities…
Some imp inside Elizabeth had wanted to see what it would be like to suffer such discipline, and he’d turned her over his lap and shown her, giving her a very real punishment.
Now she asked for it every time, and he accommodated her without fail.
“Come, Elizabeth,” he said. “You must lie across my knees.”
He took a seat on the very bench where she’d disgraced herself and guided her over his lap. Her middle grew hot with the strange, tingly pulses this caused in her. Why did she want him to discipline her, to hurt her? It went beyond curiosity now.
As he arranged her across his knees, she murmured softly that she ought to have practiced, that she was regretful she had not. He answered that yes, she ought to have, and proceeded in a businesslike manner to draw up her skirts, revealing the thin, cotton pantalettes now in fashion for all women, not just the wanton element of society. He paused, tugging at one of the legs. Was he smoothing a wrinkle? Why had his breath changed? Was that another sigh? He pretended each week it was a great chore to punish her, but he never suggested ending their lessons, which would have been the most effective punishment of all.