secretary was a dashing young man with wavy chestnut hair and bright blue eyes. Had not the judge so relied on his shrewd assistant, he would have been jealous of how the ladies’ gazes trailed after him. But he could hardly sack the man for being dashing; besides, Stiles knew far too much for the Judge Bonham to ever let him go. And he trusted him, even with the prize of his virgin bride, and comforted himself that when all was said and done, it would not matter whether she was attracted to him. She would still do her duty.
A day later, Lucy had arrived with all the promise he’d anticipated. The pictures had not done her justice, and her fearful expression upon meeting him he interpreted as awe and respect for his wealth and station.
The ceremony had been conducted the day she arrived; he wanted to make haste and claim the reward God had finally given him. He’d had Lucy wear one of the dresses he’d commissioned for her. The low, almost lewd cut of the gown only served to emphasize her innocence by contrast. It had made him all the more excited, because it reminded him of Rose, the whore. Like Rose, Lucy was put here for man’s use. But his alone, and use her he would. It was his right.
After the vows and a short reception, he’d sent the magistrate away and had Lucy taken to the bedchamber to be dressed for bed. He could feel his cock starting to twitch and even stiffen. He’d rubbed his hands together in glee and mounted the steps eagerly to his bedchamber as soon as the maid came to tell him the bride was ready and waiting.
But it was not to be. Even now, Archibald Bonham could not put out of his mind the memory of his inability to take her, and how she had made it worse by daring to reject him, turning his frustration into rage. The way she’d looked down, her eyes drawn to his flaccid cock. The little whore! She’d only pretended to be pure! She had only been feigning innocence! For why else would God strike his cock soft if not to protect him from yet another unholy union?
He’d struck Lucy then, and as she cowered in the corner he’d demanded to know how many men she’d been with. When she tearfully claimed she’d been with no one, he’d started to grasp and choke her, but had caught himself and let her go. He was a judge. He could not afford the scandal of giving his faithless bride the punishment she deserved. So he’d summoned Mr. Stiles, and by the time his secretary arrived, Judge Bonham had convinced himself that Lucy was possessed of a lascivious, depraved nature so severe that she needed to be locked away.
Oh, how she pleaded and begged, but he’d been resolute in the face of her treachery.
“That will teach you. Bitch.” And he’d spat on her as the men from St. Bart’s Asylum came to take her away.
Women. They were all the same. And every time he was the least bit tempted to revive his search for a woman to ease the ache he could not soothe, he took measures to reinforce his hardened belief in the true nature of females.
Another lesson was scheduled for this afternoon, and as if on cue he heard a rap at his chamber door.
“Come in,” he called, settling himself behind the desk of his study.
Stiles entered, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, his chestnut hair perfectly coiffed. He guided the woman in ahead of him. She had raven black hair, and was of slight build. She looked frightened, as well she should be, for she was likely wondering why the judge scheduled to hear her case for prostitution would have her brought from her cell to his chambers.
She clutched her shawl nervously as she faced him; he could see the pulse in her pale throat and her fear pleased him.
“Bonnie Adams?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Do you know who I am?”
She inclined her head toward Stiles, and her voice quavered as she answered. “This one here says you’re Judge Bonham. It’s you who’s to decide my fate.”
“He is correct, young lady. But I’ve decided not to wait. I shall be
A day later, Lucy had arrived with all the promise he’d anticipated. The pictures had not done her justice, and her fearful expression upon meeting him he interpreted as awe and respect for his wealth and station.
The ceremony had been conducted the day she arrived; he wanted to make haste and claim the reward God had finally given him. He’d had Lucy wear one of the dresses he’d commissioned for her. The low, almost lewd cut of the gown only served to emphasize her innocence by contrast. It had made him all the more excited, because it reminded him of Rose, the whore. Like Rose, Lucy was put here for man’s use. But his alone, and use her he would. It was his right.
After the vows and a short reception, he’d sent the magistrate away and had Lucy taken to the bedchamber to be dressed for bed. He could feel his cock starting to twitch and even stiffen. He’d rubbed his hands together in glee and mounted the steps eagerly to his bedchamber as soon as the maid came to tell him the bride was ready and waiting.
But it was not to be. Even now, Archibald Bonham could not put out of his mind the memory of his inability to take her, and how she had made it worse by daring to reject him, turning his frustration into rage. The way she’d looked down, her eyes drawn to his flaccid cock. The little whore! She’d only pretended to be pure! She had only been feigning innocence! For why else would God strike his cock soft if not to protect him from yet another unholy union?
He’d struck Lucy then, and as she cowered in the corner he’d demanded to know how many men she’d been with. When she tearfully claimed she’d been with no one, he’d started to grasp and choke her, but had caught himself and let her go. He was a judge. He could not afford the scandal of giving his faithless bride the punishment she deserved. So he’d summoned Mr. Stiles, and by the time his secretary arrived, Judge Bonham had convinced himself that Lucy was possessed of a lascivious, depraved nature so severe that she needed to be locked away.
Oh, how she pleaded and begged, but he’d been resolute in the face of her treachery.
“That will teach you. Bitch.” And he’d spat on her as the men from St. Bart’s Asylum came to take her away.
Women. They were all the same. And every time he was the least bit tempted to revive his search for a woman to ease the ache he could not soothe, he took measures to reinforce his hardened belief in the true nature of females.
Another lesson was scheduled for this afternoon, and as if on cue he heard a rap at his chamber door.
“Come in,” he called, settling himself behind the desk of his study.
Stiles entered, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, his chestnut hair perfectly coiffed. He guided the woman in ahead of him. She had raven black hair, and was of slight build. She looked frightened, as well she should be, for she was likely wondering why the judge scheduled to hear her case for prostitution would have her brought from her cell to his chambers.
She clutched her shawl nervously as she faced him; he could see the pulse in her pale throat and her fear pleased him.
“Bonnie Adams?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Do you know who I am?”
She inclined her head toward Stiles, and her voice quavered as she answered. “This one here says you’re Judge Bonham. It’s you who’s to decide my fate.”
“He is correct, young lady. But I’ve decided not to wait. I shall be
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