The Silent Duchess

Hudson stands in his chambers, clad in naught but a robe. He's waiting for his bride, who is presumably going through whatever ritual a maiden does before her consummation. He hardly cared; he wanted the bedding to be done with so that he could close his eyes and finally feel secure. Secure in the knowledge that he would have an heir, someone to take on the name of Argent and manage the estate. His wife would fulfill that purpose admirably; she was of decent breeding and had a suitable figure for it. He was glad that the damned marriage ceremony was over. He had been discomforted by it all, upset with the entire charade. Play-acting at a proper ceremony when it wasn't. He was marrying the girl because it was the proper thing to do. Not for love or any of the nonsense the priest had avowed of. The girl had looked so damnably uncomfortable as well. Her expression had irked them, though he was loath to admit that it may have been justified. He was old enough to be her father, most certainly. Her grandfather, even. But the girl had the sense to be quiet about it. It wasn't her choice anyway; Hudson had provided a sufficient price for her. Her father and brother's debts were paid in full, in exchange for the merger offering of her hand and a piece of unusable land. He'd have it surveyed in the morrow to see if there was something to gain from it. He pours a finger of brandy, brooding by the fireplace. The girl was a beauty; he had to acknowledge it. There would be no hardship in bedding her, so long as she maintained that biddable nature. Perhaps things could be...amicable between them. Hudson chokes back the longing in his heart before it can take hold. Things would be amicable. He wouldn't tolerate a cold and bitter wife. She would perform her duties, as would he. The door finally opens, and he turns. His breath catches for a moment, his eyes widening. She's a vision, the scent of rose petals wafting over to him. His jaw tightens, and he motions towards the bed. "Lie down," he commands brusquely. He begins undoing his robe, letting it fall to the floor. "Lift your gown and part your thighs, girl. I've no desire to prolong this for either of us." Laura does as she was told, as her father instructed her before the wedding. To be compliant, to be obedient. Hudson watches her movements with a cold, appraising eye. There is no tenderness in his gaze, only the satisfaction of a commander inspecting a new acquisition. Her compliance pleases him; he has no patience for hysterics or the dramatic swooning of lesser women. He prefers them biddable, understanding their place in the natural order of things. As she settles against the silk sheets, he approaches the bed, his imposing frame casting a long shadow over her delicate form. His bare chest is lean, marked by the faint silver lines of old battle scars that tell stories of campaigns she could scarcely imagine. The firelight catches the grey of his eyes, making them appear as hard as flint. "Good," he mutters, his British accent clipped and precise. "Remember why you are here, Laura. You are not here for romance or pleasantries. You are here to provide what this House requires." He moves to the edge of the mattress, straddling her hips with practiced ease. The weight of his body settles against her, warm and unyielding. He reaches down, his rougher, older hands finding the hem of her gown. With deliberate motions, he begins to gather the fabric upward, exposing her pale skin to the cool air of the chamber. "Do not tense," he warns, though his tone carries more command than comfort. "It will pass more swiftly if you simply submit to what must be done." Reaching down, he parts her thighs with his knees, positioning himself between them. His c**k, already stirring with a virile readiness despite his years, presses against the fabric of her undergarments. He looks down at her, his expression stern, searching her face for any sign of defiance. Laura’s eyelids slam shut like a portcullis dropping, her entire body locking in place as if braced for a blow. The words scrape out of her throat, "Yes, sir" The title fractures mid-syllable, her voice cracking under its weight, her father’s lessons carved into muscle memory. Her father’s voice still ringing in her skull: Be still. Be silent. Be unseen. Her jaw clenches so hard her molars groan, her fingers twisting the sheets into knots, the fabric biting into her palms. She doesn’t turn her head, she yanks it away, as if distance alone could shield her from what’s coming. Hudson's jaw tightens at her words. "Sir." The title carries a weight of authority that he finds gratifying, though it also stirs something darker and more primal beneath his disciplined exterior. He has spent his life commanding armies, and there is a familiar, intoxicating satisfaction in commanding a woman, especially one as exquisite as this. The fact that she turns her head away does not anger him; rather, it confirms her submission. She knows her place, and she knows his. Her father was a shrewd man to teach her such manners; it would save them both a great deal of tedious argument. "That is correct," he murmurs, his voice dropping to a gravelly timbre. "Remember that obedience." His hands, calloused from years of swordplay and reins, work with efficient brutality to remove the last of her barriers. He has no interest in the slow fumbling of courtship. He wants her exposed, vulnerable, and ready to receive what is owed to his lineage. When she is finally bare beneath him, her pale skin stark against the dark sheets, he allows himself a moment longer to stare simply. She is indeed a fine specimen, with ample breasts, a narrow waist, exactly what is required to carry an Argent heir. He positions himself, his c**k pressing against her entrance. The heat between them is immediate. Hudson's movements remain controlled, almost mechanical, as he maintains his rigid posture. He intends to do this properly, missionary style, face to face, as befits a man of his station and dignity. He will claim her with the same precision he once used to claim territory on a map. Leaning forward, he braces his weight on his forearms, hovering over her. His grey eyes lock onto her closed eyelids, watching for the inevitable reaction when he claims her. "Hold still," he growls, the first crack in his composed demeanor appearing as he pushes forward, beginning the slow, inexorable process of taking her.