Courtly Scandals

by Erin Kane Spock

  She blinked, redirecting her thoughts to his question. It was cowardly, but she grabbed on to the chance to not share her shame. Not yet. She swallowed and answered, “She was a pleasant mistress and became a good friend. Holme LeSieur was, I realize now that I’m at court, a true home to me. I do look forward to returning, but I hate knowing that I am branded both as Oxford’s lover and his attacker. I wish I could end my time here as insignificantly as I began it, just another gentlewoman out of her depth.” Mary paused for a breath and sat back down across from Charles. “This is what I had hoped to talk with you about. I will have to leave court after Twelfth Night. That means I have nine days to determine who stabbed Oxford in order to clear my name.”

  Charles shook his head. “I understand everything now. Your anxiety. Your energy. When I came in here, I expected to find you sleeping; instead you are a woman on a mission.” He stood and crossed to her and took her hands, pulling her to her feet. Lacing her fingers with his, he lowered them both to the rug at the hearth, the blaze bathing them both in warmth and light. I will handle Oxford, but I still do not understand why you say you cannot marry.”

  “I . . . ” She stumbled. “Because of the pregnancy? My family?” What answer did he want? And what answer was she willing to give? Now was the time.

  “Yes. Some men want a virgin—but then, some don’t care. And the pregnancy, the baby did not survive, so no one need know. And even if he did,” he shrugged, “how does that have anything to do with him?” Charles paused for a moment, looking confused. “So, is this your reason?”

  No. No it isn’t. She wanted to cry and say it out loud, but she couldn’t. And Charles, this man she could have been happy with, how would he react if he knew she was a failure as a woman? That she could never give her husband the heir he required? She’d lost the baby, but fate had decided she never deserved to be a mother. The midwife had made it very clear that her womb was not sufficient to hold a baby. It was a wife’s duty to provide an heir and so she could never marry. To do that to a man, a man she loved, would break her heart. Mary swallowed the words, the tears, and lied. “Yes.”

  “Forgive me if I am impertinent, but that does not seem like much of a reason to me.”

  It was a slap, as if he’d rejected all the feeling and fear that she had not shared. But of course, she hadn’t said any of it. He rejected her half-truths. She couldn’t fault him for that. Mary shook her head and blinked away the vestiges of despair. She had to concentrate on the task at hand.

  “Will you help me?” Mary’s question hung in the air, demanding an answer.

  Charles closed his eyes and shook his head softly before answering. “Of course I will help you.”

  Mary was silent for a moment. Contemplative. Still, for the first time all evening. “You do not have to, you know. If you would rather not involve yourself . . . ”

  Charles released her hands and cradled her jaw, his thumbs lightly tracing the plane of her cheeks. He leaned forward and kissed her forehead. “I will do everything in my power to help you.”

  Mary sighed, and her tension left on that breath. He would help her. He was there for her, and she trusted him—she could not say why; she just did. Just, it seemed, not enough.

  “Mary.” Charles made no move to stand. “Have you spoken your piece?”

  “Aye.”

  “Good.” Charles leaned down, meeting her lips with his.

  Mary opened to the kiss. It was supposed to be romantic. A secret shared and a magic moment . . . but still felt stiff, like she was forcing herself. What sort of woman has to pretend when a man like Charles is kissing her?

  He pulled away, his hands on her shoulders. Still sitting side by side, Charles leaned away and smiled in that way that made his eyes crinkle. For the first time, she could not bring herself to smile with him. “I’m sorry, Charles. I don’t know what is wrong with me. All I can think about is tomorrow—how they will all treat me with such scorn. Wishing I could do something to change things but knowing I have to wait makes me on edge.”

  Mary wanted to be strong, but felt sapped and helpless. She hated being fragile.

  Charles stood, raising Mary with him. He placed a quick kiss on both hands. “Mary-my- love, I know the perfect way to help you forget your troubles for a time, to relax. Please raise your arms so I can help you remove your bodice.”

  Mary blinked once. Twice. Raised her arms to the side as directed, exposing the lacings to his skilled handiwork. It took a moment for her to find her voice. When she did, she could hear the smile in it. Thank God. She didn’t want to bring him down with her. “Getting undressed with you will help me relax? How chivalrous of you.”

  “Now, now. This is not about me, it is about you. You will have to trust me on that.”

  Mary had pulled her bodice over her head and slid her arms out of the heavy sleeves before she processed Charles’s comment. “What do you . . . ?” Mary’s incomplete question hung in the air as Charles ducked under her arm and kissed her on the mouth.

  “I am not saying that I do not wish to make love to you.”

  Hearing him say the words made Mary shiver. She wanted him, in spite of her desperate feeling of panic over the whole Oxford debacle.

  He moved his hands around to her back in order to unlace her overskirt. “Tonight, however, you look exhausted. Let me take care of you.”

  “Take care of me? But what of you? Surely your day, in service, in the blizzard—it all must have been as taxing if not more than what I had to face.”

  “You said you would trust me.” He paused to give Mary a smiling look. “So, trust me. Now, take off your clothes while I pour the wine.”

  If Charles’s tone had not been so playful, Mary might have taken affront. An unexpected smile broke across her face. She had been going over every aspect of this meeting in her mind since midafternoon. She couldn’t think why she had imagined that Charles would not have agreed to her plan. She had only met him two nights ago, but she knew him. He knew her. There had never been any need for courtly manners, something rare at court. Why had she been so worried?

  He made short work of her overskirt, hoops, and bumroll, leaving her only in her corset, chemise, and stockings. Her ginger steps out of the now discarded pile of clothing around her ankles only elicited a, “To the bed with you. Lie on your belly, and I’ll take care of your corset. I promise to get it right this time.”

  Mary did as she was bid, but with some mild reservations. She had some sexual experience but felt completely out of her depth. Her interlude with Thomas, the man she’d been prepared to spend her life with, had involved bunched up skirts on a stack of hay. Her face sideways against her pillow, she mumbled, “What do you have planned?”

  Charles brought two filled goblets and placed them on the table on the bedside. “Early in the day, I had a vivid imagination of acts I will, perhaps, share with you on a later date.” He picked up one goblet and took a quick sip. “But the shadows under your eyes and the tight angle of your neck suggest something less . . . energetic. You need time to breathe and feel cared for. I will tend to you, if you let me.”

  Mary pressed herself up on her elbows, her corset digging into her lower back at the awkward motion. “But what of you? I hate to think of you as disappointed . . . ”

  “Mary, when you and I are intimate, I pray it will be to satisfy both of our desires. Besides, what makes you think that I do not get pleasure from being with you, simply touching you? Now, if you please, down.”

  Charles settled himself on the edge of Mary’s narrow bed. She felt rather exposed, lying face down on her mattress. The room was warmed by the fire, but she could hear the winter night howling against her windows. Every instinct demanded she cocoon herself in her quilt and close her bed curtains against the night. Yet, here she was, her arse all but naked. She did not feel in the least bit desirable. Then again, Charles’s perfunctory treatment did not indicate this had anything to do with lovemaking or even cuddling. There was no evidenc
e of desire. Courtship and flirtation were so confusing.

  • • •

  Charles tried to ignore Mary’s pert bottom as he sat beside her on the bed, slowly unlacing her corset. She was such a beautiful woman. Long. Lean. With legs that would wrap around his hips as he . . . No. Must. Undo. Corset. One eyelet at a time. It was torturous work, but he’d learned his lesson when he’d gone too fast.

  Mary sighed as he loosened the last lace. Pulling the cord completely out, he splayed the corset wide, exposing her back. Her chemise was creased where the strict bindings had held it fast. Moving one hand to her back, he gently ran his fingertips up the length of her spine.

  She shivered.

  Charles smiled. She was so sensitive to touch. His touch. Again he trailed his fingers up and down her back against the thin linen. He fought the urge to kiss her neck as he noted her skin pebbling with goose pimples.

  Mary sighed, relaxing. He smiled to himself, relieved and touched that she felt so at ease with him. All awkwardness was gone.

  He placed both hands on her shoulders. He worked his fingers in small circles at the base of the neck, down her shoulder blades. She let out a breath and sagged into her mattress. He continued a steady pressure against her muscles. Completely in tune with Mary’s body, Charles could feel the small balls of tight muscle spasm and release bit by bit in her back. Gentle pressure over each point made Mary gasp. They may not be the intense joining that he had imagined, but this was lovemaking nonetheless. Each sigh, each subtle shift as she arched into his touch, the way her pale skin turned rosy under his hands told her that he was giving her pleasure. He could feel the heat from his touch spread through the thin linen of Mary’s chemise to her sensitive skin as his hands worked up and down her back. He was doing this for her pleasure, for her well-being, but each chaste touch aroused him. He could not press her tonight, however much he wished to, and he knew that he’d leave later for his own quarters, aching. But Mary needed this from him, even if she did not know it. His thumbs, finally, at the dimples above her behind, Charles leaned forward and kissed the back of Mary’s neck. Soft, not asking anything from her. Just a kiss.

  She let out moan of disappointment as he pulled away, so he kissed her once more, this time moving his mouth up the back of her neck to nip at her ear. She squirmed with a surprised squeak.

  “My apologies. I should not have crossed that line into seduction. This is about your comfort, not my desire.” He whispered beside her ear, almost cheek to cheek. “Your skin is just so soft, I had to taste it.”

  “What of my desire?” She turned to him, her face framed by her loose hair and the pillow. “You don’t have to stop, you know. Kissing me, that is. Or more. I hope we can have something more, Charles.”

  “More?” He quirked a brow and smiled, moved at her ownership of her desires. In his experience, ladies preferred the men to press forward the seduction, to persuade them to abandon virtuous morals. It was like a game at court, and Charles hated how one-sided it was. Desire should be honest and shared. There was no artifice with Mary, and that gave him a sense of freedom that was humbling. “As my lady commands.”

  He thought he heard Mary mutter something obscene about commands as she turned her face into the pillow. Laughing softly to himself, he resumed making small, firm circles with his thumbs at the dimples at the base of her spine.

  Charles’s hands traced downward, his fingers splayed to the sides, gripping her hips as he worked her muscles. She gasped and her body tensed beneath his touch and then released, her skin pliant under his firm touch. Leaning forward, he left a trail of light kisses down her back, skimming his lips over the soft linen barely covering her behind. As his mouth hovered over one cheek of her bottom, she flexed again in panic.

  “What are you doing?” Her voice was edged in panic, her back arched as she pushed herself up from the pillow.

  Charles planted a kiss to one of her now taught buttocks. “Kissing you. You told me to.”

  “On my arse?”

  “Why not?” Charles kissed the other cheek.

  Mary let out a squeal and tried to wiggle out of his grip. “Because it’s my arse!”

  “So you do not want me to kiss your bottom?”

  “I cannot believe that you want to.”

  “Oh, Mary, there are many things that I want to do.” Charles nipped at her flexed buttock and smiled when she let out a quiet yelp.

  Mary relaxed a little and laughed with him, lowering herself to the pillow once more.

  Charles moved his hands to her thighs and resumed the soft massage. Her chemise only barely covered her bottom, and the skin of her upper thigh was bare above her stockings. His thumbs pressed between her legs as his fingers tapped firmly along the outer muscle as if she were a spinet. “Is that more to your liking?”

  Mary gasped as his thumbs brushed against the curls between her thighs. “I don’t know if like is the right word,” Mary murmured, just loud enough for him to hear.

  Charles moved his hands from her thighs and rolled her to face him. Meeting her eye, he placed both hands on her shoulders, repeating the slow circles he had done down her back. Her linen chemise opened down the front, only held together by a ribbon. The white fabric that had concealed her back now served as an ethereal frame for the perfection of her breasts, her belly, the curve of her hips, and, God help him, the triangle of dark curls below.

  He did not deserve her.

  • • •

  Mary sucked in a breath as his palms slid lower, just brushing the tops of her breasts. She felt exposed, but so . . . revered. As if his touch worshipped her body. Each caress was soft, soothing. Arousing.

  Then his hands were on her breasts, and all thought of relaxation was gone. Her nipple pebbled under his palm, aching for more.

  Mary gasped as his hands slid lower, his fingers lightly toying, softly squeezing. He leaned forward and pressed a hot kiss to her throat. Trailing his lips down, his heated breath warmed her through the fabric. Her skin felt hot, restricted by her loose garment. His lips teased the rounded top of her breast, his hands gently cupping.

  Her back arched, pressing her against him, insistent. She wanted more. More of his touch, his heat. She wanted his mouth . . .

  Yes, right there. She cried out as his lips closed over the hard peak of her breast and his hand squeezed the other gently. Too gently.

  She reached up and placed her hand over his and urged him to press firmer. “I need your touch. I will not break.” She inched up, over the back of his hand and pinched her own nipple, biting her lip at the sharp sensation.

  He groaned and ground himself against her thigh. “What you do to me.” His voice was harsh, a low vibration against her breast as he pressed a kiss and then nipped where she had just pinched. She was so sensitive, so ready. She squeezed her thighs together to ease her need just as he lifted his head and blew lightly on the damp fabric. She shivered as tingles ran from her scalp to her toes and pulled him up to kiss her.

  This was no soft kiss. Her tongue danced with his, tasting him, knowing him even as his hands roamed her body. He broke the kiss, returned to suckle her other breast, tugging the firm nipple into his mouth, sending shocks of sensation through her.

  She writhed beneath him, her hips lifting in a voiceless plea as his teeth lightly scored her nipple, her breast, down her ribs, all through the fine linen of her chemise. He pulled away and she met his gaze, his eyes no longer smiling, but their blue so intense she felt he could see her soul. The tension in his jaw, the firm line of his mouth told her he was holding back . . . She bit her lip and moaned as his hand skirted lower to brush the dark curls through the thin fabric of her chemise.

  Moving down to rest himself between her thighs, he smoothed the fabric taught, planting a kiss on her most sensitive spot.

  Her eyes opened on a gasp as his tongue darted out to wreak havoc on her senses. Suddenly shy, she tried to move away.

  “Hush, my love. I want to taste you.”

>   “Taste me?” Mary could hardly speak through the onslaught of sensation. She’d heard about this act, even read about it in an illicit book, and she’d been more than curious—she’d wanted it, had dreams about it. She’d imagined it as she touched herself. But now . . . “That is . . . ” She stumbled over her words, embarrassed and needy at once.

  “Yes, I want to. It’s beautiful and pink. Right here,” He lifted the fabric to reveal her fully and ran his tongue along the swollen lips. “I can taste your desire. It is so sweet . . . ”

  She squirmed beneath his mouth as he kissed her again, suckling that tender bud. She could not focus. What he was doing . . . it was too much. It was more than she had ever imagined. His mouth was so hot against her, his tongue tickling, teasing. His fingers parted her, delving inside. Her inner muscles grasped instinctively as he stroked her core.

  “When we make love, I want you to be hot like this, hot and slick for me.” He lowered his mouth once more, lightly nibbling. “Your body will take me, gripping me tight inside you . . . ” As if in response to his words, she tightened around him, gripping his finger in her slick heat. Charles gasped, “You’re so strong, so tight. It humbles me that I can give you pleasure like this. The look on your face . . . ” He groaned, his words and breath adding one more sensual assault on her aching peak.

  Mary nodded, unable to speak as his finger and mouth drove her further. Her hips bucked beneath him, and he gripped her thigh to hold her open for him. She was wild, unable to control herself as he sucked and licked, stretching her swollen nub as spasms rocked her body. She cried out and he stroked harder, making love to her with his mouth, his touch. Wave after wave of pleasure shuddered through her until, at last, she lay still, breathing deeply.

  He planted a soft kiss on her belly and moved to lie beside her. He was as breathless as she.

  “Charles?” she murmured, turning into his warmth, feeling boneless and perfect, not sure what she wanted to say. Not sure she could say anything.