Fingers locked together, he stretched her arms high above her head then released her. She held her arms aloft, shivering as he skimmed his hands down, his touch leaving goose pimples in the wake. She melted back against him as his searching hands moved forward and cupped the weight of her aching breasts in the heat of his palms.
She was too in awe of her body’s response to argue as he turned her and pressed her back into the silk cushions. She wanted so much and that scared her. After everything, his cold neglect in the past, could she trust him with her body like this?
Meeting his eyes behind the false anonymity of his mask she asked herself if she would trust a stranger, make herself open to his eyes and touch, like this and knew the answer was no. The way his hands and gaze worshipped her, the way he’d so carefully planned their time together, this was not the act of a stranger nor a neglectful husband. Tonight, he was her lover, one who asked what she wanted, who wanted, not to take, but to give.
Fear melted away into tremors of pleasure as his lips followed the path of his hands, the rough stubble of his chin rasping against the hard peaks of her nipples through the sheer chemise. She wanted this, wanted to know.
She felt unbearably tight, his body locked flush with hers as he inched down. His weight should be crushing her, but she welcomed it. His hands soothed any hint of panic as his knee settled between hers, opening her body for him. Her breath caught in her chest as his fingers continued their slow trail down, then up, her thighs, inching under the hem of her chemise. Upward they glided, leaving goose pimples in their wake as he moved toward her hips, then traced the indented lines at her abdomen down to her mons.
The image from Jane’s naughty book flashed, and she almost stopped him, embarrassed at the intimacy. It was all too much, too fast. Before she could think, a feather-light touch brushed her curls, and her body acted on it its own, arching her back and pushing her pelvis closer to his teasing hands. He smiled, his eyes behind the mask the only thing betraying his raging desire as his hands lingered a hairsbreadth away from where she ached for him. She whimpered unintelligible words urging him on. He traced a single finger though her curls, found her cleft, and her world exploded. Heat jolted through her as he found her most sensitive nub, followed by his hot kiss claiming her, the slick heat of his tongue drawing out pleasure so intense she thought she might burst out of her skin.
He had consumed her whole and the only thing she could sense was him—his heat, his scent, his touch. Oh God, his touch was like a fire under her skin, inside her, one that burned with more intensity at each stroke. It was almost too much. She pushed her hips up to meet his hungry kisses, still in shock at the overwhelming sensation while her body began to match his rhythm. She could feel the heat pooling inside as her fears melted away. She was paralyzed by his caress, concentrating only on the slick heat of her core as his finger slipped inside her, stretching her, as he worked magic. And it was magic—he was a sorcerer vanquishing her demons of doubt and distrust by his simple attention to her pleasure. She turned her head to muffle her gasps, each released breath promising something tight, coiling within her, a tension she couldn’t explain or release. One more kiss and he sucked her deep into his mouth until it was too much. With an anguished cry into the silk pillow, she arched her back to accept the thrust of his fingers, still feeling that burning building deep within her.
The cool air from the river touched her heated skin as Frances felt herself become one with the motion of the current. The constant lapping sounds at the sides of the barge aided her natural rhythm as she opened herself even more to his touch, his brand. Her body rocked with the sway of the barge, her burning flesh embraced the night sky and the soft breeze—she was connected to everything. Connected to this man. She was not in control, and she had never had more control. She was falling and it was amazing.
He lifted above her, catching her cry with his kiss, as her sensations fractured into millions of points of light; involuntary tremors rocked her body until she was replete. Tranquil. Relaxed, perhaps for the first time in her life.
Chapter Fifteen
Rule Twenty: Apprehension is the constant companion of true love.
Henry sat in his small room at the lodgings at St. Stephen’s chapel wrapped in his thoughts and a steaming towel. He barely registered the sounds of the razor on leather or the whipping of the lather as his man, Browne, readied the boar’s hair brush to prepare Henry’s face for shaving.
“Not two evenings ago, you were invited to Queen Elizabeth’s private party upon the Thames . . . ” Browne blathered a bit about the London merchant’s perspective about what fantastical things had transpired on the Queen’s floating pirate island. Henry started paying attention again as Browne removed the towels and slathered thick soap over his stubbled jaw line. “ . . . Called to court for the third time I know of since She returned from summer progress. Ye’ve done naught to earn ill will of late—or have ye? Well, it’ll be none o’my business either way just as long as ye’r clean and yer hosen do nay fall out of the garter or any other such nonsense . . . ”
Henry felt the steady drag and flick of the razor against his skin and marveled at Browne’s ability to perform such detailed, and potentially lethal, work, all while he babbled on about paned slops, French wine, and Spanish doublet styles. Henry had grown used to the man’s ramblings and found some comfort in their familiarity all the while his stomach reeled at the possibilities of why he’d been summoned for a formal interview with Queen Elizabeth. It couldn’t have anything to do with Frances. No, surely not—he had given her no cause for complaint.
None at all. He smiled.
He’d come to her bed ten years ago knowing only the act of intercourse as it pertained to making an heir. Of course, his release was always a pleasure to him dimmed only by the awkwardness of using her body. He’d never dreamed relations between them could be so pleasurable for her as well. He’d heard talk between men, seductive play between courtiers that implied there was more than spending himself. But it wasn’t until the book . . .
Thank God for the book. He’d only known what was expected up until now. The book showed him what was possible.
All he had to do was follow her responses. It was like a dance, being aware of one’s partner. Funny that he’d had those instructions since he was old enough to walk, but it was now, at the mature age of five and twenty, that he applied them to something actually worthwhile. Bringing her to pure abandon with his mouth, the salty sweet taste of her on his tongue, was the most erotic experience he’d ever had. And to think, he had not even spent himself.
“Here now, stay still lest I cut ye.”
Browne finished off Henry’s shave with a quick swipe of the now cooled damp towel, and Henry stood up to finish dressing. Clad in his white linen collared shirt and stockings, he stepped into his slops. Browne, efficient as always, had already fastened the doublet to the waistband of the slops and attached the ornate oversleeves to the armscye so that the whole mess was able to be donned as one, with only the center closure to be dealt with. Henry, while conscious of the importance of style while in the capital, had no patience for the hundred-step dressing process. At least he didn’t have to wear a corset.
Corset. Damn. He just couldn’t get away from the memories of that night. Frances, his wife—his wife, damn it! Frances lying replete amid a luxury of silken cushions clad only in her stockings and transparent chemise. The outline of her nipples and the tantalizing shadow of curls at the apex of her thighs that showed through the fine cotton. The image alone was enough to stir his blood. His pulse pounded in his ears, reminding him of the rhythm of her heart slowing as she relaxed into a light sleep from her overpowering climax. Pride of success clashed with guilt and the sheer stupidity over all their past encounters. To think of the years they missed together when he never grew from the young idiot coached by his steward on how to bed a bride. He’d never touched her like that before, never really kissed her, not even really looked at her. They’d
been nothing but polite to each other, as they’d both been instructed when they entered the marriage. It made sense, the awkwardness at first; they were children. But they’d never grown past that point in their dealings. And why would they? From the first time on their wedding night when he’d climbed on top of her, positioned himself, and drove home, nothing had changed. She’d never complained, always awaited him with her nightshirt pulled up to her waist, ready. What a fool he’d been, they’d both been.
Well, he tugged the front of his buttoned doublet straight with a self-satisfied smirk, he was figuring things out now, wasn’t he? Frustration stopped him from any further congratulations with the reminder that, no matter how well he pleasured her, the separation still loomed.
She wanted to leave him, wanted him never to take his marital rights from her again. It was against her vows, against the law to refuse her husband, the husband that she had never refused before. But, as he remembered the way her body became slick with passion, weeping under his touch, he knew he didn’t want mindless submission from her anymore. The barge, the ambiance, the romance, the wooing, his attention to her needs, actually communicating about it . . . It wasn’t for naught. No, that look of bliss on her face made him feel like a god. Once again Henry found himself smiling like an idiot. Despite the dull ache in his balls.
Browne buckled Henry’s dress rapier to his belt and handed him his hat. His ensemble thus completed, Henry exited his meager accommodations, flew down the stairs, and headed to retrieve his horse from the stables. It was time to see the Queen. God knew why.
• • •
Jane and Mary sat cross-legged at the foot of her bed, still in their dressing gowns. In truth, Frances did not want to talk about it at all—it was too private, too close to the heart.
“Come now, Frances, we are your friends,” Mary prompted. “And it’s times like these when you need a true friend.”
“Aye,” Jane added, “there’s nothing like sharing sordid details with good friends.”
“Nay, Jane. Frances can keep those bits to herself.” Jane pouted. “But if you want to talk about it, sort out your feelings . . . I know there must be a riot in your heart right now over what comes next, and talking it out might help.”
A riot in her heart—how apt. She went between reveling in the memory of each touch to shame over such wanton behavior. He saw her splayed out, even kissed her, tasted her. She knew because she tasted herself on his lips. How . . . what? Disgusting? Exciting? Arousing? The thought had her all warm again, a wet heat pooling at her center. And what was that about? She’d never been so slick down there. Was it healthy? Was something wrong with her? What if Henry thought it was disgusting? She pressed her hands against her eyes, fighting panic.
“God’s teeth, Frances. Did he tup you or not?” Jane blurted, poking Frances in the shoulder.
“Jane!” Mary reprimanded and then looked to Frances to wait for the answer.
Certain that she was blushing from head to toe, she did her best to calm her features. Her polite mask seemed more and more unattainable of late, and it took all of Frances’s focus to relax her jaw. So much for stoicism.
“Well?” Jane asked.
“No, I did not tup him. He didn’t even try.”
“Really? So he kidnapped you onto an opulent barge and then . . . nothing?”
“Well, not nothing . . . ”
“Frances?”
She mocked her tone in return. “Jane?”
“So what was the ‘not nothing?’ You kissed, aye?”
“Aye.” She nodded. “We kissed and talked and he was . . . considerate of me.” My only pleasure is to know that you feel it too, that you long for something only I can give you. It is as necessary to me as breath. “He wanted to know what I wanted. He did not demand his rights as a husband.” You make me a beggar with lust, yet I only want to love you, to bring you pleasure. “He wanted me to want him as much as he wanted me.” Frances swallowed against the ache in her chest and the growing warmth between her thighs.
She looked up to find both Mary and Jane dreamy eyed and lax. Jane flopped backward on the bed and wrapped her arms around her torso.
“What a man.”
Mary raised a brow at her friend, then schooled her face back into ladylike poise. Apparently her polite mask was still available to her. “So what did you tell him?”
Jane rolled over and propped herself up on her elbows. “Yes, what did you want? And did he?”
The room seemed too warm despite the lack of fire in the grate, and Frances fanned her face, trying to find the right words.
“Well, he found your book after the first masque . . . ”
Jane interrupted her with a squeak and sat up on her knees. “He doesn’t know it’s mine does he? If he thinks I’m a wanton, I’ll be dismissed.”
“Shut up, Jane.” Mary swatted her friend. “What did he think about the book?”
“He noticed the page I marked.” She plucked her nightdress away from her neck, far too warm.
“He did not! But he’s not even French,” Jane exclaimed, bouncing on her knees and shaking the whole bed. “Did he do it, Frances? Kiss you there?”
“Out on the river, under the stars,” Mary mused. “How romantic. I had no idea Master LeSieur had it in him.”
“I am not talking about this anymore.” Frances stood up and poured herself some watered wine. It was too personal, too private, too much for her to try to understand. Her husband was becoming her lover. Did she want that? She was so out of her depth here at court, pretending to be a sophisticated courtier that it went to her head, made her want things that were not for her. She should get out before things got worse. She could not afford to let herself care. There was safety in the façade of ladylike manners. “Besides,” she started, after downing a cup, “I think that I should go back to the Holme.”
“What?” Mary asked, aghast, right as Jane said, “Now?”
Frances struggled for her answer, sure it had to be more reasonable than the simple urge to flee. To not deal with the next step of whatever was happening with Henry. “I miss my children. I think I accomplished what I came here for, and I do not think I can, in good faith, still request a separation. If we went back to how things were, I would hardly have to see him at all anyway.”
“So all wounds are healed, and you are ready to go back to being a docile country wife? You are lying to yourself, Frances.”
“Henry is a good man, and I cannot shame him with the separation. I will endure.”
“Oh, so you are a martyr then? Dutiful and pleasant? Frances, you have changed too much to go back now.”
“But my children . . . ”
Jane interrupted, “Require a happy, living mother.”
“If you go back, if you resign yourself to duty, you may well sink back to whatever mire gripped you at Maria’s death.”
Frances thought back on those days with a sense of longing that she knew was wrong. The prospect of sleeping without waking no longer called to her. She must be past the worst of her melancholy—at least now she woke up with a sense of hope. But when she thought of her chamber back at the Holme, Mary was right; all that lay there were reminders of the darkness.
“This doesn’t make sense. You’ve been so happy, eager, these past weeks. Even through Jane’s injury, you stayed a constant strength. And this morning you woke up looking young, trouble free. So why now? Why choose to give it all up? Staying this course may give you the possibility of happiness.”
“I am out of my depth here. I did not know it until this morning, but now it’s clear. I do not know what comes next, and I cannot plan.”
“You and planning!” Mary snapped. “Mayhap you should just take life one day at a time and see what comes of it. You never know. You may find romance, love, within your marriage.”
Frances shook her head, absolutely, completely, and totally confused about what she wanted. One thing she did know for certain. “I learned long ago that romance was not
something meant for me.”
“Not meant for you?!” It was a miracle Jane had sat silent for as long as she had during all the meaningful feminine introspection, and her patience was used up. “Pray tell, Frances, why not for you? Are you not a woman? Do you not deserve to be loved, to have a lover?”
“A lover?” The door banged shut behind Countess of Spencer, causing a gush of cool air from the outer gallery to usher her dramatically further into Frances chamber. “Do my ears betray me? Were you discussing a dalliance? Francie, you surprise me! I have just had it from Queen Elizabeth Herself that you and your husband have reconciled—though it shames me that you let it be known you were actually quarrelling in the first place. I must say, I am confused and displeased. And, I do not like being either. Pray tell, what is going on?”
Frances closed her eyes and took another sip of watered wine. Her mother was at court.
Fie me.
Chapter Sixteen
Rule Thirteen: Public revelation of love is deadly to love in most instances.
“We are most pleased to know Our little scheme did meet with success. Our dear Henry has proven himself quite the rake. We are blessed indeed that he has not made a play for Our heart!” General laughter ensued at Queen Elizabeth’s comment. “Your reconciliation warms my heart and We are feeling gracious toward the ideal of young love. Your rooms have been reassigned. Henry LeSieur is to be moved from his apartment at Parliament to new quarters here at the palace posthaste until such time as you feel need to return to the country.” The queen raised one well-shaped eyebrow and flagrantly eyed Frances’s form before winking to reinforce the not-so-private private joke.
Sweet God in heaven, what just happened?
“Yes, We are pleased. Come now, Frances, I see you are in shock. No need to thank Us—the true marital happiness of Our beloved subject is thanks enough. We have never had much faith in the ideal of marital bliss and, perhaps, you and your loving husband will prove Us wrong.” Frances responded with a mute reverance and a dumb smile. “We do congratulate Ourselves on a job well done. Well done indeed.” With an audible sigh of excited happiness, Queen Elizabeth absentmindedly offered her hand to the side for one or another of the observant handsome courtiers. Kit Hatton, almost giddy, skipped up to assist Queen Elizabeth from Her throne and on to the floor as she called for a dance.
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