II.

Mary actually fancied herself quite a good driver. Although she had first learned to drive in America, and she was still getting used to driving on the opposite side of the road. But despite the fact that they had been in London most of the time since their return and she had few opportunities to practice, she was so certain she had gotten the hang of it that she dispensed with the chauffer for the afternoon to drive out to see some friends in the outskirts of the city on her own. Everything had been going perfectly well, until she found herself leaving the driveway.

"I thought the gear was in reverse," she clarified, "but it wasn't."

"I don't mind if you wreck your own car," Richard began, and she recognized his precise tone from when one of his reporters let a competitor beat him to a scoop, "but must you destroy mine?"

His stare went right through her and she lifted her chin in defiance – he may be her husband, but she did not have to explain herself to him. "The mechanic is coming Monday; he's giving me an estimate on fixing it," she said, mindful to keep her tone light. It was only a car, after all.

Richard did not drop his gaze. "There are three, and only three, loves of my life," he told her carefully. "In order: You. My first newspaper. And the Isotta." His raised eyebrows emphasized this point. "When two of those items are involved in a crash, and I don't hear about it for three days, I get upset."

"I don't know whether to be offended that you refer to me as an 'item,'" Mary replied breezily, "or flattered that I top the list."

He did not respond to her, nor did his expression change from the one his business associates likely found quite terrifying. How absurd, Mary thought to herself, she certainly was not going to be intimidated.

"Come here," he said.

She found herself frozen to the floor as if the lush carpet were flytrap paper.

His eyes brightened slightly at her hesitation, in a way she found most disconcerting. "You don't want me to ask twice."

He always did have a peculiar definition of 'asking.' Reluctantly, she put one foot in front of the other, approaching him as cautiously as she wished she had been driving that day.

Richard leaned back in his chair, watching her as she rounded the desk; how was it that he managed to make her feel like prey even when she was the one coming to him? He reached out as she got closer, his large hands encircling her waist and drawing her to him. "I'm glad you're alright," he said as he boldly kissed the top of her breasts peeking over the neckline of her blouse. She raked her hands through his hair and held him close, irrationally relieved that this was his intention. What else could it have been, Mary wondered dismissively.

"So much for the martini," she sighed as he kissed up to her collarbone and she moved her hands down to massage his shoulders, pleased he had divested himself of his jacket earlier on this warm spring day. Richard held her tight as one hand found the buttons running down the back of her skirt, and he started to undo them one by one with great care as she ran her fingers lightly over his arm. When he finished, he pushed the skirt down off her hips and she let it fall to the floor in a smooth sweep of silk, sinking into his grip and wishing she could feel his lips on hers that very second.

Abruptly, the hand that had come to rest on her hip gave her a push, spinning her around, and she found herself bent over the desk, Richard's palm on the small of her back keeping her in place as he now stood over her. "What are you doing?" she exclaimed, her eyes widening at this unexpected move.

He did not answer her, merely leaned over, brushing her hair aside, and kissed the back of her neck. As he danced his fingers slowly down her spine, Mary relaxed, crossing her arms in front of her to pillow her head contentedly as she savored his ministrations. If this was what he had in mind for the evening, she did not mind – she quite liked when they made love in this position; it was so animalistic, something she never would have considered a positive adjective before she met Richard.

Moving lower, he traced a single finger very deliberately from below her knee, up the back of her thigh, to the edge of her lace underwear, tugging them down. Mary bit her lip in anticipation, fully expecting that finger to explore other places, in a way Richard was so skilled at. Instead, she was awakened from the reverie she was pleasantly slipping into as he touched her by a sudden, stinging slap to her backside delivered with such force that it echoed throughout the room.

She gasped, trying to push herself up, but to no avail as his other hand continued to press her down against the desk.

"Excuse me," she protested indignantly, "I believe you are greatly mistaken as to what I will and will not abide." She was employing her highest and mightiest aristocratic tone, the only pitch she possessed that was a match for his formidable business voice. If he thought he could get away with such behavior, Mary thought disdainfully, he was quite wrong.

"I don't believe you have a choice in the matter," Richard replied as he stuck her again.

Somehow, in her surprise, she managed to think twice about her next reaction, and she held back the huff that sprung so readily to her lips – clearly aristocratic indignity was not going to help her in this situation, and she was not about to give him the satisfaction of trying the same futile plea twice.

In truth, she was not all that stunned that things has progressed – or was that degenerated? – to this point. Both rather competitive people by nature, she and Richard seemed to be locked in some contest to out-shock the other, one that was intensifying to rather comic extremes.

Mary was fairly sure she had started it, recalling the night she sent the servants away and greeted him at the door utterly naked, save for his customary after-work martini in her hand and the diamond barrette he gave her for Christmas in her hair. But Richard would probably claim it originated with him the next night, when he repurposed his favorite tie into a blindfold to give her a new perspective, or lack thereof, on just how neglected her other senses had been.

He undoubtedly escalated things, calling her in the middle of the afternoon to read excerpts of erotic poems from his secret bookshelf, his deep voice echoing through the telephone and her mind for the rest of the day, making it impossible to get anything done. And she retaliated by whispering the detailed fantasies his phone call had sparked into his ear at a party the evening after, delighting in his struggle to resume normal cocktail conversation after she drifted away in a cloud of perfume.

Not that they needed such games to keep each other entertained – no, Mary believed their physical fascination would not fade. But the intellectual challenge such adventures posed was irresistible: each wanted to get the better of the other, and the best part was that victory for either was satisfying for both.

Though she questioned that rule of their sport now, crying out as he smacked her once more. Richard was definitely not holding back in deference to her delicate skin, and the blow stung with the immediacy of a flash of lightening, before fading into a tingle Mary was loathe to admit was not altogether unpleasant. However, she could easily envision that tingle being subjugated to mere discomfort if this went on much longer, and she decided she would rather not let things get to that point.

His next slap confirmed this theory, and Mary knitted her eyebrows together as she considered her options in response. So, righteous pique was not effective. Perhaps reason, then? "The car can be fixed," she said over her shoulder, "you'll never even know there was a problem."

"If that's your attempt at an apology…" he trailed off, this time bringing his hand down twice in quick succession in the same spot; she had to stifle a yelp as this quite smarted.

She contemplated what would happen if she somehow forced a few tears and implored him to stop, but she discarded the idea immediately: Lady Mary Carlisle did not cry, and she certainly never begged. Knowing her as well as he did, Richard probably would not believe her act anyway.

But that did not mean she couldn't play on his sympathy. At his next blow she gave an exaggerated wail of agony; he only chuckled at her dramatics.

Oh right, she remembered with a roll of her eyes, he had no sympathy.

She was starting to take comfort in the idea that his hand was likely burning as much as her bottom, though what was truly vexing was not the sting, but her inability to gain advantage. Mary actually had no quarrel that Richard often took control in their lovemaking; in fact, it rather thrilled her, if only because it was so much fun to resist him. But in those rare instances that her resistance was this ineffective, their relationship was like an unfinished crossword puzzle – unbalanced, just waiting for the perfect solution to restore symmetry.

Time to try guilt, she decided. "You do realize this is the antithesis of bold and modern women's liberation, yes?"

Richard seemed to pause to consider her question, and she thought that perhaps she had gotten the upper hand. If there was one side she could always appeal to, it was his progressive politics.

"I can live with that," he said as she felt another smack. Like sympathy, he did clearly not possess guilt in any great abundance.

This was not working, all her failed efforts belying the fact that they were actually quite evenly matched. And like Richard, Mary did not like to lose. Changing tactics once again, she chose to go the decidedly un-feminist route and play the seductress. "I can think of far better ways to make it up to you than this," she said breathily, licking her lips in a most obvious way in hopes of diverting his attention.

"No," Richard said, amused, "you really can't," this time giving her a light slap followed by a knowing caress.

Dammit, the bastard was enjoying it. Far too much, Mary contemplated in frustration.

Then, like a light bulb suddenly switched on, she had it. She knew exactly the one thing she could say that would make him abandon this current project and spend the rest of the evening making vigorous love to her instead. The strategy did run the risk of one final smack, of course, but, weighing the odds, she concluded it was a small price to pay if Richard was certain to fall victim to her other charms. It was the only solution, she told herself, the perfect combination of the seductress and the daring aristocrat that he could never resist. She felt the corner of her mouth turning up in a smirk; he was so easy she almost felt sorry for him.

The comment jumped on her tongue, the one response she knew would utterly overwhelm him, and Mary made sure her voice was steady and clear.

"Hit me again."

She was right.