The Sky Regency: A SciFi Historical Alien Romance

by J. L. Carter

  At the core of it all, the main stone is roughly the size of a bottle cork. It’s wrapped in fine silver, serving as a pouch of sorts. “The Duke gave this to me,” says Margaret. “It’s an engagement gift.”

  The change in the air is instant. Margaret’s cousins rush over to her, gasping and taking turns running their fingers over the pendant. “Oh,” says Emma. “It’s beautiful! Look at those colors!”

  “You know,” says Lucy. “This is what Bigsby should be getting me.”

  Jane laughs. “Bigsby can’t afford anything even half this nice! I doubt his entire house would be enough to pay for this beauty.”

  Even Margaret has to agree with that. The necklace is a simply astounding gift. She had been awe struck when the Duke handed it to her, telling her that she meant as much as this, a once precious family heirloom.

  It was a promise—but it was also a curse.

  Just one more line on the contract. Margaret tried to focus on the beauty of the stone instead of the meaning behind it. “I think that it’s going to be my new lucky charm.”

  Emma gasps. “Speaking of lucky charms, look!”

  Eyes snap towards where Emma is pointing. It’s a shooting star!

  “Make a wish,” urges Jane. “Hurry, girls!”

  Margaret closes her eyes. I wish for a change. I wish for something that will set me free from this tilting world of mine.

  3

  Change does come for Margaret, but not in the way that she had been hoping for. It comes in the form of packed luggage and a room in Duke Julian’s estate. It’s hard not to consider him as The Duke and as an actual person.

  Living with him seems strange. The room that Margaret has been put into is large, with a plush bed to call her own and a polished vanity. She’s allowed several hours to try and settle in.

  The manor house is large. It seems empty, even though Margaret knows that there are workers here, moving through the hallways like ghosts. “It’s like something out of a fairytale,” she mutters, pulling a dressing gown out of her closet. “Only I’m not about to become a princess.”

  “Perhaps not,” says a lilting voice. “But the Duke will certainly treat you like one.”

  Margaret yelps and spins around, clutching the dressing gown to her breasts. “What—”

  “Apologies,” says the woman. It’s Madeline, the head maid for the manor. She’s a rather plump woman, with gray hair that’s been pulled back into a tight bun. “I’ve been sent to fetch you, though. The Duke wishes to converse with you in his chambers.”

  A heavy blush spreads over Margaret’s cheeks. Converse? As if she’s a ninny! Fingers curl tight in the fabric of her dressing gown. She demands, “and he couldn’t come get me himself?”

  “No,” says Madeline, simply. “Come with me. I’ll show you the way.”

  Despite a few more mutterings on her part, Margaret soon found herself being led through the winding halls of the manor house. Despite the fact that the other woman was older, she had quite a hard time keeping up!

  “Just this way,” says Madeline. “You know, dear, I must say. It’s a pleasure having you here. The Duke spends hours talking about you. He’s truly smitten!”

  “Is he?”

  “Oh, yes. I know that you two haven’t been courting long, and he has a terrible penchant of bringing work him with him, so you must feel a little bit loss. Perhaps even like you don’t know him? But I can tell you this, my dear, my darling, I can tell you that the Duke is a very good man. He would do anything and everything in his power to keep you safe.”

  “But will he love me?”

  “He already does,” says Madeline. She stops in front of a large, heavy oak door. “Now, you go in there, and you give him your best.”

  Margaret takes a deep breath. “I don’t know what my best is going to be like. I don’t love him, not just yet.”

  “But you’re willing to give him a chance?”

  Margaret nods.

  Madeline smiles at her, all yellowed teeth and pale gums. “Then that’s all that matters. He already loves you, my darling. Whatever happens, it will be enough for him.”

  Margaret asks, “and if nothing happens?”

  “He’ll be happy with that too,” answers Madeline. Then she pats Margaret on the hip and toddles off back down the hall. Left alone, the young woman finds herself plagued with doubt.

  It’s obvious what’s about to take place. While Margaret may not truly love Julian, she doesn’t have anything against him on a physical level. She does, however, find herself shaken by nerves at the thought of it.

  In the end, of course, there’s no choice but to knock on the door. A low, rumbling voice calls out, “come in, come in!”

  Margaret pushes the door open. the Duke’s chambers are large and lavish, with a four-poster bed and a mirror hanging on the far wall. There’s a set of glass doors that lead out onto a small porch, and another set that most likely leads into the bathroom.

  Julian is sitting on the edge of the bed, wrapped up in a dark robe. He’s a slightly portly man, who has very close ties to the royal family. His cousin has worked beneath the King for several years, which gives Julian a reason to be at the castle frequently. Over their months of courting, Margaret has learnt that he tends to be a little pompous, but that he truly does seem to care about her. It’s also been made very clear that he wants to have children one day—hopefully two boys and a daughter.

  Julian is very fond of fine dining and wine, often spending many evenings a bit on the tipsy side. Tonight, though, there is no wine on his tongue. His hair has been brushed back. There’s a spark in his bright blue eyes that Margaret doesn’t usually see. “Ah, there you are. I was hoping that you would accept my invitation.”

  Startled, Margaret asks, “it was an invitation?”

  “Of course! I was hoping that you would come, but I would never make you.” He stands up, and the front of his robe falls open. Julian isn’t wearing anything beneath the dark fabric. “My, you look gorgeous tonight.”

  Margaret blushes. She feels as though she looks very plain, and says as much.

  “Nonsense!” Julian steps up to her, placing one hand on Margaret’s hip. The other goes to play in her long, dark curls. “You look stunning. Oh—and you’re wearing the necklace that I gave you, too.”

  "It’s a lovely thing. But—should I take it off?”

  “Allow me.” Deft fingers undo the latch. Julian pulls the necklace off Margaret, hooks it back together, and carefully lays it down on top of his desk. “You know, Margaret, I was hoping that you would come here. Not just here, tonight, but to my home in specific. This wedding, I know that it was your parents’ idea.”

  “It was,” admits Margaret. She rocks back onto her heels, eyes narrowing as she tries to get a grip on the situation.

  Julian nods. “I know that you must be having conflicting thoughts about it, too. A strong woman such as yourself, being married off like a sow sent to auction. I understand, truly. We haven’t even been courting for very long!”

  Margaret runs her hands over the front of her dress, just to have something to do with them. “We haven’t. I feel like there’s a lot that I don’t know about you. All this talk of leaving England—”

  “Is understandably confusing,” interrupts Julian. “And most certainly not a topic for tonight. Not now, at least. I would much rather talk about us.”

  "Us?"

  “Hmm, yes. Us. I would like to talk about you, giving me a chance.”

  “A chance at what?”

  “Convincing you,” says Julian. He sweeps back over to Margaret, easily catching her up in his arms and pulling her against his chest. “Convincing you to give me a chance.”

  Margaret’s skin is burning. Her heart pounds in her chest, this off beat thumping. “A chance,” she echoes.

  Chapped lips press against her own smooth ones. Julian kisses her, but it’s soft and sweet. There’s hardly any pressure behind the action. It grows quickly, though,
into something that’s more tooth and tongue than anything else. Margaret is lost, grasping to get a foot hold on reality.

  It’s hard, though, because this is something that’s completely and utterly new to her. It’s obvious that the Duke has at least some experience in the matter but, like all young women with proper parental guardians, Margaret has virtually no experience in the matter.

  She kissed the gardener once, back behind the shed. It had just been brief and slow. This? It’s different on every level. The Duke steals away Margaret’s breath and replaces it with his own.

  When they part, a strand of spittle keeps their lips connected. Julian wastes little time sweeping Margaret closer to his bed, walking her backwards until knees hit the edge of the mattress.

  She stumbles backwards, hitting it with a breathless thump. Julian smiles at her, shrugging out of his robe. “Let me see you,” he bids. “Let me finally glance at you in all of your natural glory.”

  Margaret’s skin feels hot. Her hands fumble with the fabric of her dress. She has it off and discarded on the floor before she’s really thought about the matter, fingers shaking as she tries to get all of the ruffles, layers, buttons, and ties to co-operate.

  This is it.

  This is the moment that every young woman thinks about in secret, the thought that’s plagued her mind every evening since her parents first mentioned that she would be moving in with the Duke. A first night together—a first night with anyone.

  Margaret’s cousins would be so jealous, not to mention her own sisters!

  And Margaret herself? Well, she’s trying very hard to think solely about the moment, and not about all the things that are wrapped in with a decision like this. There would be no second guessing herself. Not here, not now. There would just be acceptance and, hopefully, enjoyment.

  “Magnificent,” croons Julian, when he’s finally able to take Margaret in fully. “Simply magnificent. I always knew that the clothing was an amazing specimen of a woman.”

  He reaches out, cupping Margaret’s chin and tilting her head back, so they were eye to eye, so they were face to face. It only worsened her blush, which spread quickly from the bridge of her nose, across her cheeks, and even flecked out onto her shoulders.

  “Your compliments are unnecessary,” she says, softly. Margaret isn’t sure whether she’s trying to delay or speed up this entire ordeal.

  Julian smiles at her, and it is a blazing, stunning thing. “Ah, they aren’t required but they are certainly true.”

  And then they are kissing again, deeply. His tongue roams over her flesh, devours her mouth. Teeth nip at Margaret’s lower lip, at the tender skin just beneath her ear and above her jaw.

  Julian pushes her back, gently, until she’s drape over the bed. Her knees are still hooked on the mattress, suddenly pushed apart by the Duke’s hands. He wedges himself between them, keeping Margaret’s legs spread, revealing her untrimmed bush.

  “Magnificent,” he croons again, straightening up just enough to get another look at the young woman. His hands land on her breasts, kneading and pulling at the ample flesh. Fingers catch on one of Margaret’s nipples, giving it a sharp pinch.

  She yelps, tries to push herself up onto her elbows. Margaret stops when the other nipple is given the same treatment. It’s a surprisingly intoxicating touch, and there’s something thrilling about watching someone else’s hands roam over her body.

  And, oh, Margaret knows that it’s not proper. Sleeping with the Duke before they’re married? Why, her mother would have a fit! Her father would be in knots!

  But the young woman can’t help but think, this is the ultimate test. For if this marriage isn’t to be founded on love, it should certainly be founded on something.

  In that moment, lust seems like a good enough solution.

  Just as that thought crosses her mind, Julian steps away. “Stay here,” he says. “Just wait for me one moment.”

  He slips away to his nearby desk. There are several crystalline decanters sitting on the back of it. One, Margaret notes, is filled with a viscous blue liquid. Another appears to have small flecks of silver floating inside.

  Julian picks up neither of these, instead taking up a simple looking flute from the end of the table. He pops out the faceted cork, brings the flute itself back over to the bed.

  “Get comfortable,” he instructs. “Lay your head upon the pillows, my dear. Let me take care of you tonight, as I will take care of you forever onwards.”

  A liberal amount of oil is poured onto his hands. Julian puts so much thought and care into this, running his hands down her side, rubbing his palms against her hips.

  “Hold on,” says Julian and before Margaret can ask a question, she finds herself being hefted higher onto the bed. Margaret shimmies up, too, until her head is rested on the mound of deep purple pillows. It’s certainly far more comfortable, and she can’t help but laugh at the way Julian uses his grip on her hips to help speed her motions along. “Just relax,” he says, as if this is simple, as if it’s not enough to make her heart seize up and her stomach knot in all the best way.

  He wedges her between his body and the mattress, straddling her hips. One hand rests on her side, but the other drifts down. A finger strokes over Margaret’s pussy, drawing forth a quiet sort of moan. The oil eases the process, makes everything feel slick and damp.

  It’s not hurried—Julian’s motions are slow and languid, slipping one finger in after the other. It’s the strangest sort of feeling, the way they stretch out her previously unused muscles, the way that the oil clings to her glistening lips. He stops at three, glances down at Margaret from half-hooded eyes. “Can I?”

  The question seems strange, foreign. He’s asking her, still? It makes Margaret’s skin flush that much more, breath twisted up in her throat. She nods eyes slipping shut. “Yes, yes, you can. You can do—whatever you’re asking about. I’m sure it’s all right, I’m sure it will be all right.”

  “Of course, it will be,” agrees Julian. "I would never cross boundaries, and I would never ask you to do something uncomfortable. Not now, at least.”

  “Not now?”

  “Not now,” agrees Julian. A fourth finger presses against the outside of her cunt. Her eyes flutter, because this is most certainly new. Julian moves the three fingers in Margaret, shifts them about, presses them even tighter together.

  His pinkie finger presses with a little more force. Margaret’s muscles protest; her stomach flutters. She drops her head backwards, pressing it against the pillows when the tip of his finger breaches her. A pleased sob rips from her throat. The sensation is over whelming, pain and pleasure all at once, twisting together into a force that is nearly unidentifiable.

  “Is this good?” He sounds torn between being worried and excited. “My dear, is this good?”

  She doesn’t know. This is actually sort of a lot. This is actually more than anything that Margaret had ever thought of, over discussed with her cousins outside, stars shining above them and hour late. To think, that she could ever be so full! To think, that the hand of a man could make her feel this amazing! This brilliant!

  It’s pressure and heat and a constant resistance—and then it’s not—it’s just full.

  That’s the only thing that passes through Margaret’s mind.

  She is full, and hot, and lovely, and horrible.

  A deep moan rolls out of her throat. The sound is startling. Margaret almost can’t believe that it came from her! Julian takes that moan, rightfully so, as a cue to start moving. He’s good with his hands, and the strangeness of the ordeal does nothing to change that. It’s only a matter of moments—or hours, maybe, for time doesn’t seem to flow correctly anymore—before Margaret is teetering on the edge.

  Her entire body is buzzing. It feels as though every nerve has been electrified, turned into something more. She is a ball of sensations, of pleasure; her mind hazed over and thoughts sluggish.

  All Margaret can think is, yes, yes, Julian, yes. She
doesn’t realize that’s the only thing she’s saying, either, but Julian does, and he loves it.

  He loves it enough to pull his hand away, and to not mock the young woman for the desperate keening whine that follows. Julian can’t stop the chuckle, though, skin flushed and breath heavy when he starts using the oil to slick up his own cock.

  “Magnificent,” he says, again. It seems as though that’s the only word coming to mind when Margaret is concerned. “Now, this is going to hurt, just a touch. Don’t let it dissuade you, my dear. I promise, it’s going to feel like bliss in just a matter of strokes.”

  Hurt? Strokes? Margaret wants to ask, but she takes too long to gather the pieces of herself back together. Suddenly, it’s not Julian’s fingers pushing into her cunt, but his dick.

  And it’s heaven, simply put. It’s like nothing else that Margaret has ever felt. Better than anything summoned up during those late hours, where she’s had a touch too much to drink and has found spare moments alone in the house; better than any third hand story from the girls in town, who do live to gossip but can never keep their facts straight.

  And, oh, it does hurt. The pain is dull, though, almost like a drum beating in the background. Margaret is drowning in the sensations. Oil lays heavy on their loins, their thighs. It leaves dark stains on the bed. Julian is still, draped over her, nearly crushing—comforting at the same time as it suffocates Margaret, who’s entire body is stiff, muscles wrapped up tight with twine.

  But then he moves, once, twice, and the slow shallow bucks turn into something greater. The angle lets Julian pound into her deep and hard, even if there’s not much speed. Each buck of his hips has Margaret gasping. The oil has no scent, but she can smell it anyway, taste it, choke on it.

  A cacophony of sounds floods into her mind: skin on skin, bed springs creaking, Julian panting against the side of her neck. Tongue and tooth presses against her skin, leaving wet, dark marks behind. Margaret curls herself upwards; arms and legs wrapping around her lover.

  And then—it’s gone. Everything stops, even though it keeps moving. Pleasure laces over Margaret’s skin, just like her nails rake over Julian’s back, dig into the back of his neck. A convulsion rips through her body and, for a fleeting moment, strange as it might seem, all she can think is, I hope he’s not done yet.