The Duchess, Her Maid, the Groom & Their Lover. Victoria Janssen
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Her slippers had disappeared somewhere along the way, but a heavy chain of brilliants collared her neck. He hadn’t even noticed them against the splendor of her gown. Her hair, though mussed, retained its ornate style and jeweled hair ornaments. He could almost imagine her a ten-copper lay, playing at being duchess in one of the bawdy houses down in the town.
She drew the ripped chemise from her body, each arm flowing gracefully. He’d never seen skin so white and smooth. A rich attar of flowers rose from her bared, heated flesh, making him want to wipe his feet on the carpet and cower even as he possessed her. He shoved his pants down his legs; luckily, his cock remained undaunted.
Her hands loosened the string holding her drawers, and slowly, so slowly, dragged them down over lush hips and plump white buttocks. The body of a woman made to bear children, Henri thought, burning even more hotly.
Unable to wait an instant longer, he mounted her from behind in one deep push. She groaned deeply as if he’d struck her. Henri savored her cunt’s scalding grasp as long as he could before beginning to thrust, short sharp strokes, each punctuated by his grunt and her gasp.
He heard boots again in the corridor, drawing nearer. The duchess gasped, either with fear or because his calloused hands squeezed her breasts hard each time he withdrew. Henri didn’t care about guards right now. He couldn’t stop. He wouldn’t stop. Blind to all but the bucking flesh beneath him, he crushed her into the bench, impaling her again and again. Her cunt squeezed his cock and he sucked in air. Seizing her hips, he ground into her as fiercely as he could, pressing her bud against the padded surface beneath them. Too hard; he should be more gentle, but she twisted and moaned, the sudden sound like fire down his spine. He jolted into her pulsing cunt, until she had drained him dry.
Afterward, silence. The sweat of his effort dried quickly, and he landed in cold and sticky reality. The sound of boots slowed and drew nearer.
Henri shuddered, then realized it was the duchess whose body shook. “Be still,” he breathed into her ear. The boots clicked away, down the hall. Henri let out a slow breath and withdrew himself from her body.
He didn’t want to just leave her with his seed drying on her thighs; he wouldn’t do that even to a whore. The duchess straightened slowly but did not turn to face him. Henri said, “Turn around,” but he couldn’t muster the commanding tone he’d managed earlier.
She turned anyway, a woman with thick long hair obscuring her luscious breasts, clad only in a jeweled collar and silken stockings that tied at her knees, like an erotic painting. She did not move to cover herself, but stood tall and poised; even in bare feet she was slightly taller than Henri, he noted for the first time. “You have done well,” she said. She did not smile.
Had anyone ever seen her smile? His anger was gone, spent. He felt only sadness as he looked at her.
Henri remembered the sounds she had made only moments earlier. He thought he had given her some pleasure, at least. “Will you tell me if you are breeding?” he asked, then glanced away, feeling heat creep down his neck. The whole duchy would know if she were breeding.
“Look at me.”
Henri lifted his head. Her cheeks and chest were still flushed, and the air reeked of sex and sweat. Yet she still appeared untouchable.
“Yes, boy, I will tell you if I am breeding,” the duchess said. “Now you must go. You’ve been brave, but it won’t do for you to be caught here. The duke is jealous of his possessions.”
He couldn’t bear to leave her like this. “No.” Henri took a step back and felt his pants under his heel. Slowly, he bent, picked them up, and stepped into them, all without turning his back on her. She was not looking at him. Her gaze rested on a portrait over the mantel, of three bay horses grazing among grassy hills.
The cloth of his pants felt coarse after the luxurious fabrics he’d ripped from the duchess’s body. Staring down at his hands as he knotted the drawstring, he said, “Your Grace, if you are not breeding, will you tell me?”
“If I am not breeding, it will be no surprise.”
Henri felt for his shirt on the carpet and finally located it. From inside its folds he said, “Will you come to the stables?”
“My husband does not permit—” She hesitated. “Yes, I will come to the stables.”
Her voice was as calm as it had been before, but he fancied he could catch a trace of hopelessness. He reached for her hand without thinking, then let it fall before it reached her, afraid of giving offense. Perhaps he could persuade her. “Come at night. I would save you if I could, Your Grace. If you would travel away with me. You can ride. You do not have to die.”
She crossed her arms over her breasts. Even nearly naked, she looked every inch a duchess. She said, “I do not think there is any escape from this life.”
He’d never before thought of the palace as a trap. He wondered if she ever struggled against it. “I did not think I could…try to give you a child, either.”
Her mouth twitched into an unconvincing smile. “We shall see, Henri. We shall see. Now, go. Sylvie will see you safely back to the stables.”
Henri knew what we shall see meant. She’d set herself on a course and meant to stick to it. He’d heard that tone before, from his most stubborn uncle, who’d ended up dying at sea, food for sharks, all because he refused to make peace with his father over a woman whom he hadn’t even married. Henri was in even less of a position to argue with the duchess. He might be good enough to service her, but she seemed unlikely to take advice from a grubby stableboy.
He lowered his eyes and quickly bowed before hurrying to the door. He would do better to forget about this, as soon as he possibly could manage it.
The Duchess Camille sat on the edge of her bed, the blue silk velvet coverlet caressing the bare backs of her thighs and the drawn-back curtains of the canopy brushing her bare shoulders. Under threat from Sylvie’s eagle eyes and sharp tongue, a flurry of bathmaids gathered up discarded towels, bottles of bath oil and skin cream, razors and strops, polishing grit and all manner of perfumed oils and balms, which Laure had applied to her skin while Tatienne and Solange shaved her legs and pubic area. It was all very tedious. She had never been sure why it mattered, since no one ever saw her bare skin except the maids and her husband. She sometimes wondered if the rituals of adornment were meant solely to devour time for women more idle than she.
Camille was now grateful she’d let the boy take her in a sitting room and not her bedroom. Sylvie had set a rose-scented candle burning in the sitting room, which overwhelmed everything. If the bathmaids had noticed anything amiss, they had not spoken of it.
She closed her eyes for a few moments, welcoming the spring chill as the perfumed bathwater dried on her body; she needed to return to reality before darkness fell and her husband called for her. If he called for her.
Now she was tired, and her body ached. Sylvie chased away the last of the bathmaids, summoned two footmen to haul away the tub, then returned to hover over Camille. “Madame,” she said, in a much gentler tone than she’d used with her fellow servants. “You must eat. I brought you food while you were in the bath. See? All things you like. I prepared it myself.”
There was a silver tray on her side table, filled with cubes of fresh bread, thin slices of sharp cheese, a ramekin of soft goat’s cheese, a cluster of meringues and a juicy pear, laid out in a fan of slices. “Thank you, Sylvie. You may go.”
“Madame, are you well?”
Sylvie had served Camille for too many years. Camille knew she was truly asking about the boy, and what she had done with him. Camille resisted asking Sylvie’s opinion of him. She said, “I am perfectly well. I do not require your help to eat.”
“Yes, madame.” Sylvie bowed and departed. Listlessly, Camille picked up a slice of pear and