“Imagine it, Monica.” He said her name like word of luck. “Imagine it. Imagine me leaning in and kissing you upon the lips. Imagine my lips on yours and my hands upon you. Imagine our lips battling with each other. And then imagine the pleasure we would both feel. I do believe if we were not being observed, I would kiss you right here.”
“I wish you could,” Monica said, staring boldly into his eyes. “I truly wish you could, Your Grace.”
“You are a dangerous woman,” His Grace said. “How is it you have been dubbed mouse?”
“Perhaps it is because of what I learnt when Father died and stripped me of my prospects.”
“What is that, my lady?”
“I learnt that the world only cares what it can get from you. The world does not care for originality or passion unless originality or passion is profitable. The world does not care for ladies who express their innermost thoughts unless those thoughts are tied to a tidy dowry. Why should I play the part of a smiling lady when lords only dance with me so they can tell their friends that they danced with ‘that Burrows girl’?”
“So why show your true self to me, my lady?”
“Because you are rich and of good position,” Monica said.
“Is that all?” His Grace said. He was looking at her curiously, as though he had never seen a lady before, or he was reevaluating every encounter he had ever had with a lady through Monica’s eyes.
She felt she had power over him at this moment, and she decided not to abuse it. She would tell him the truth. “No, that is not all,” she said. “I believe there is an It.”
“An It?” His Grace laughed. “I concede you have stumped me.”
“Yes,” Monica persisted. “I believe there is a feeling between a man and a woman that cannot be described, not even by the term love. I believe this It, whatever it may be, is the defining feature of all truly happy people. One has to look at a potential husband and feel It, and if one does not, then one must accept a decline into spinsterhood. With you, Your Grace, I definitely feel It.”
His Grace suddenly stopped. He nodded behind them. Mother and Auntie were far back. Auntie had contrived to stop at some overgrown roses to distract Mother. Auntie was facilitating scandalous behavior of some sort, most likely because she wanted His Grace to give himself wholly to Monica, and thus elevate them all. Monica distrusted the motive, but with Mother’s eyes and body turned away from them, she felt she was alone with His Grace. But she did not know how long this moment of aloneness would last.
“Kiss me!” she cried.
“My lady!” His Grace exclaimed, but he was moving into her even as he exclaimed his shock. He reached up and grabbed her face with both hands. His hands were rough with war, and when he looked into her eyes she traced her own eyes along the scar. Then she closed her eyes as he leaned in and placed his lips upon hers. They were warm and moist, and Monica parted her lips and allowed her tongue to touch his. Pricks and tingles moved down through her body. His Grace let out a low groan, and Monica sighed with pleasure. Something stirred in her womanhood: an affront to the world her mother’s mother had inhabited; an affront even to the world she inhabited now.
The kiss stopped – neither knew who stopped it – and the couple turned to Auntie and Mother. Mother was just turning, and when she looked once more upon her daughter and His Grace, they were standing properly apart, and now a negative thing could be said about their conduct.
His Grace’s face was flushed, and Monica knew from the heat in her cheeks that her face was bright red.
“Monica,” His Grace whispered. “That was—something.”
“It was,” Monica agreed. “Yes, Your Grace, it was.”
“I should like to do it again when opportunity permits.”
“And you shall,” Monica said. “You can do it as much as you like.”
They looked at each other for a moment, and Monica knew from the look in his eye that it took a momentous effort in self-control not to ravage her right there. Monica, for her part, wished Mother and Auntie would drift away into the clouds for a time, and leave the two of them alone, stranded, together.
Mother walked as quickly as her stick-like legs could carry her, and Auntie rumbled behind like a carriage. Soon His Grace and Monica were joined by the older women, and Mother made a show of assuming the role of the matron.
“Shall we return to the house, Your Grace?” she said. “I fear walks like these are too bold for a woman of my age.” And I shall not leave you and Monica unattended was the unspoken message.
“Of course,” His Grace said smoothly. “I am so very hungry.”
His eyes met Monica’s. Was she hungry too?
Oh, yes, Your Grace, she thought, the kiss still warm on her lips. I am famished.
*****
Three nights later, Monica sat by her window and gazed out at the stars. The house was silent except for the occasional summer breeze that caused its floorboards to creak, as though ghosts walked amongst them. Monica watched the stars with apathy and a sense of desperation. His Grace had visited with them these last three days, but they not been alone; they had had no chance to carry out their scandalous, unjust desires. They had had no chance to shun the mores by which they were shackled and succumb to their baser desires. Monica watched the stars and wished for a moment that she could become one. Now you are being morbid, she thought. But she could not help it. She did envy the stars – even whilst knowing it was foolish – for they were static and eternal and shined so bright.
She was thinking these thoughts when a stone clattered against the window. She started and leapt backward away from the window. Once calmed, she approached the window tentatively, as though specters lurked beyond it. Another stone clattered against it, and another. They were thrown softly. Curious, she opened the window and looked down. “Is somebody playing a game?” she whispered into the night.
“My lady.” The voice was clear. It was His Grace, Roland Dare. “Monica, it is I,” he said. “I ... Tell me to leave, if this offends you. I just – I could not stay away. I have watched you these past three days, and tonight I found myself overcome with the urge to see you. I realize what this means – what this looks like – and if you command it, I will leave. But I cannot bear this temptation anymore. Have I offended you, my lady?”
Inwardly, Monica saw a version of herself where her soul was more suited to high society, where she would decry this sort of behavior from an alleged suitor. In this imagining, she fled from the room and woke Mother. But this was not the real Monica. The real Monica – the one gazing into the darkness below – was overcome with excitement. Her heart pounded in her chest and for the first time in her life, she felt truly alive, truly un-stifled.
“Wait for me,” she said. “Wait at the end of the path.”
“Yes.”
With that one word, he fled into the deeper dark of the greater night. Monica rose from her chair and walked to the wardrobe. She took out a dress and donned it hastily. Every part of her knew that what she was doing was wrong – that this was absolutely not the sort of thing that Mother or Grandmother or the women in the world should be doing – and yet simultaneously every part of her felt that it was right. The thought of Roland – yes, Roland! – waiting for her out there filled her with heat. Her hands shook as she dressed, but she did not delay.
She walked quietly down the stairs and opened the door so slowly it seemed to take an age. But then she was in the night, and the path was the only sure thing, solid beneath her feet.
*****
She walked to the end of the path and waited. The moon was dim and clouds had moved across the sky with the express intention of obscuring her illicit tete-a-tete. For a moment, she entertained the possibility that this was all a cruel joke, that His Grace was teasing her, that throngs of lords and ladies would emerge from the bushes cackling with glee. But then His Grace emerged from behind a nearby bush. He could not have looked more of the madman had he tried. His hair had grown longer in
the intervening months, and he had neglected to brush it. His fringe fell wildly to just above his eyes. His clothes were of fine cut but looked as though they had been thrown on. This sense of madness was heightened by the darkness, which, though not wholly obscuring his features, almost metamorphosed him into a silhouette of shadow.
“My lady,” he said.
The night was warm, and Monica felt sweat bead upon her body. “Your Grace,” she said.
He walked forward until he was standing opposite her. She looked up at him, and he looked down at her. She felt safe, which was crazy in itself. Here she was in the darkness with an evidently improper man and she felt safe!
“May I kiss you?”
“Don’t ask,” Monica said. “Just kiss me.”
He grabbed her dress, pulled her to him, and then leaned down and kissed her hard upon the lips. She kissed him in return. Animalistic impulses took over, and she did nothing to fight them. Her body was full of fire. Roland moved his hands over her, from the front of her dress around to the back. He pressed through her dress and grabbed her buttocks. She had never been grabbed there, and she felt a twinge of hot pleasure in her womanhood. He grabbed them harder, so hard it almost hurt, and groaned loudly.
“You feel amazing,” he said in surprise.
“Keep going,” Monica urged. “Just – just keep going.”
He rubbed her buttocks as they kissed. Their tongues danced together, and kinetic energy buzzed between then. Her body was pressed right up against his. She had the feeling of being pushed up against a stone wall, and yet it felt incredible. She was trapped, and she loved it. Her hands seemed to take on a life of their own. They moved down the front of his body to his britches. She grabbed down there and felt for his manhood. She was utterly inexperienced in this, but after some grabbing, she found it. It was hard, and long, and thick, and pressed urgently through his britches.
“Monica,” he moaned into her ear, his breath warm. “Oh, keep doing that.”
“Touch me,” Monica replied.
“Where?”
“Where I am touching you.”
He moved one hand from her buttocks around to her front. He fumbled for a moment and then pressed his hand against her womanhood through the fabric of her dress. She gasped. She had never been touched there. She had only even touched herself there, and that had always been filled with guilt. Ladies didn’t do that. But now she didn’t feel guilty. The pleasure was too intense for that. He pressed his middle finger against her womanhood and rubbed hard, from side to side. She rubbed his manhood just as vigorously. They stayed like that for a time, rubbing one another.
And then Monica began to fumble at his britches. They seemed like silly things when they were captivated by such pleasure. Why should he wear them? She pulled at the lace and then yanked them down so they were around his boots. He bent over and fiddled with them and then they were gone, upon the floor somewhere in the darkness. His manhood, vaguely visible, was a huge hard outline. She reached down and touched it, nothing between it now, just flesh on flesh. He moaned louder as she rubbed it up and down. She was astonished by the size of it. Are all men this huge? a background part of her thought.
“My dress,” Monica said.
“My lady?”
“It is in the way.”
“You wish to—here?”
“Yes,” Monica moaned. She was no longer thinking like that anymore; no longer was she a lady’s lady. No longer was she a mouse. All her thoughts now were aimed toward completing what they had started: in finding It; in removing obstacles that stood between the two sexual creatures in the garden and the almighty Pleasure. “Remove it, Roland.”
He turned her bodily and began unlacing her with a speed the best tailor would have found hard to match. He untied the last of the puzzle and then pulled the dress down. She stepped out of it, and then without hesitation removed her nightclothes. She was naked apart from her stockings. Roland looked up and down and his manhood seemed to pulse in Monica’s hand.
“You are a goddess,” he murmured.
“No,” Monica said, and rubbed his manhood softly. “I am just a woman.”
He reached down and touched her womanhood. It was wet, wetter than it had been her entire life. And it was warm, and ready, and hungry. “I want it,” she said. “But I don’t know how.”
His Grace did not say a thing. He placed his hands under her armpits and lifted her off her feet. He carried her to the grass that bordered the path and laid her upon it. The night was warm, and the grass was like a blanket on her skin. He leaned over her. “Are you sure?”
“Do it.”
He reached down and touched his manhood, and then pushed it inside of her. There was stark, bright pain as he filled her. She did not think he could fit; he was so big. But after a minute or so of slow thrusting, the pain began to subside and in its place was an otherworldly pleasure. Warmth filled her down there and she heard moans escape her lips.
After a few minutes, Roland thrust into her harder, and harder. Monica lifted her legs and moved with his thrusts, wanting all of him, wanting to be filled entirely. There was a spot deep within her that sent pulsating beams of pleasure throughout her each time his manhood touched it. She craved that spot; she needed it seen to.
He buried his head in her neck and thrust into her harder and harder. Monica bounced up and down on his manhood, feeling only the pleasure from the spot within her, feeling only the heat. And then It came, the Pleasure, the thing she had been searching for. A wave built within her, a wave comprised of heat, and it smashed against a dam that twenty-four years of boredom and oppression had constructed. The Pleasure smashed the dam over and over until it collapsed, and the Pleasure washed through her in an unstoppable tsunami.
Her womanhood went tight around him, and the Pleasure consumed her. She closed her eyes and saw only heat, felt only pleasure, felt only the moment in which she hung. After around twenty seconds, it passed. She touched Roland’s hand and guided it to her breasts.
“Will you, Your Grace? Will you, Roland?”
He did.
His seed spilled within her and fell from her womanhood into the grass. His manhood wilted, and he rolled to the side.
They lay breathing, staring up at the stars, for a long time. Monica had never felt so content, and yet she knew that what they had just done was generally agreed to be abhorrent. Not only had they done that, but they had done it whilst unmarried. Worse still, they had enjoyed it.
After around an hour of simply lying side by side, they rose and began to dress. Roland moved close to her when the symbols of their propriety were donned once more. He put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her neck. “Marry me,” he whispered into her ear. “Marry me, sweet mouse.”
“I should have to ask Mother,” Monica said.
“She will not refuse me,” Roland said. It was true. A poor widow does not refuse a duke. “But I will not ask her without your consent. I want you as my wife. I want to laugh and love with you for the rest of my days. I want to bury myself in you. I want to—damn it, I am not a poet! Marry me, sweet lady. Marry me, dangerous lady. Marry me, mad lady.”
“I do,” Monica said. “And, Your Grace?”
“Hmm?”
“Make love to me once more before the morn.”
“My lady!”
She reached forward, grabbing for him.
Pleasure rose around them.
A mouse indeed!
My Lady’s Honor
It was their first season, and the vibrancy of life was potent in all of them. Lyla Wemmick, Marie Patton, and Monica Burrows: three women for whom life was just commencing. They were walking in the footsteps of their mothers, but they were doing so in considerably more style. The brother of the Duke of Wellcopse, Haywood Sinnet, had unexpectedly come to the ball, and the three of them stood in a tight circle talking about how handsome he was, or perhaps he only seemed handsome because his clothes cost more than some homesteads.
“You�
��re awful!” Marie hissed, trying to keep her voice low.
“You are,” Lyla agreed. Monica always said outrageous things, things Lyla and Marie would never say. She had once compared the king to a duck (in private hearing, with nobody around). Lyla and Marie had not known whether to laugh or cry in outrage.
“What?” Monica said, feigning innocence. “I am simply saying a man like that must be a complete bore to talk to. There is nothing horrible about that.”
“But what if somebody should hear you?” Lyla said, glancing around the ballroom. All over the place, lords and ladies stood conversing. Father and Mother, Lord and Lady Wemmick, stood in a huddle of old men and women, most likely talking about keeping house or some other topic not at all interesting to Lyla.
“Then I should be burnt at the stake,” Monica said, in her lazy drawl. “There is nothing at all wrong with that, is there!”
“Monica!” Marie gasped.
“Shall we walk amongst the gardens?” Monica said, at length. “It is so stuffy in here.”
Marie and Lyla agreed, and together they left the ballroom and went outside. More lords and ladies talked out here, and footmen could be seen everywhere, carrying drinks and food hither and thither. Monica led them to the back of the garden, out of the way, where there was nothing but flowers and a solitary bird that flew into the air when it spotted them.
“Is there some secret back here, Monica?” Marie said.
“Just the quiet,” Monica said. “I do so hate large gatherings.”
“We should be finding a husband,” Marie said.
“Yes, I suppose we should.”
But finding a husband could wait. They were all one-and-nine, all in the fresh newness of life that promised that the world would kneel before them, that life would warp itself around their preconceptions of what it should be. Monica was the worst for this. Lyla was sure in her dreams she saw herself being taken in by a rich lord who would tolerate her desire to be seen in public playing the violin. Marie was quite bad, too. She wished to become a famous painter and dreamt that she would find a husband who would not only tolerate but facilitate this aim. Lyla’s aims were more realistic: that she be allowed to study Greek and Roman in the privacy of a well-lit library. But Lyla knew that the three of them were outside of the main. Just look at them: huddling in the gardens, out of sight, when they should be striving to tempt a suitable match.
The Duke of Ice Page 10
