I married a colonel to keep the last of my father's land. I have a sharp tongue and no talent for holding it. I never expected to want the man who corrects it.

He runs the estate reviews the way he ran a regiment. He gives an order once. Then he waits. At the last review I said something clever and found myself over the desk with my skirts up. He made me count. His hand is scarred from the war. It held me perfectly steady while I did.

That is the shame of it. Not the counting. That I heard my own voice go clear on nine and wanted to reach twenty. He says the word review and my hands start shaking.

There is another review Thursday and I have earned more than last time. Skirts up. Counted strokes. That scarred hand holding me still. Then whatever a colonel takes once the account is settled. The estate survives on his name alone, one rumor costs him his commission and me my father's land, and I will answer him back anyway. What kind of woman counts out loud and wants a higher number? What is left of the land if I stop?

A full-length historical military discipline counted punishment erotic novel featuring a sharp-tongued bride and the colonel who drills obedience into her.