Chapter 5
Marianne woke the next morning and discovered that she was not in her bedroom.
Well, she was in her bedroom, but the room had changed. She’d become a duchess yesterday, and accordingly, she now slept in the Duchess of FitzOsbern’s chambers. Her chambers.
She ran her fingers over the brocades and velvets used to furnish the room. Her guardians hadn’t been poor, but they were certainly never this rich. It was the sort of casual, lived-in wealth that made her feel every bit an interloper in this marriage.
But why should she? It was hardly a union she’d sought, she thought as she soaked in her bath. Between her thighs, the last of her husband’s spend — Frederick’s seed — mixed with water and left her. Would there be enough to make a child? An heir?
Part of Marianne grew hot at the thought of presenting a honeymoon baby to her husband, who must be desirous of a son to carry on the title. Oh, to be the proud mama at his christening!
The only problem was…well, in her limited experience, mostly gleaned from things she’d heard and peeked while playing the harp at that strange townhouse, the act between men and women tended to be more vigorous.
Frederick had been the most respectful and gentle of grooms, causing her no pain and not troubling her sleep with his large and imposing form beside her in bed. He’d even made her feel heavenly shakes when he touched her.
Yet, Marianne’s memory drifted to the nude men in their stag masks. It was animalistic and scary. Well, scary at first. Then it had become arousing.
“You may go,” said Marianne to the two maids who had been helping her bathe. “And lock the door behind you.”
The girls quickly bustled out of the bathing chamber, and she heard the tumbler click behind them.
The image of the masked man returned to her mind, unbidden and unwanted.
She was a bride! She shouldn’t be thinking about that masked man she’d seen!
Other men she’d viewed in glimpses. But this one had stood before her, his manhood hard and thick, body nude, and gaze directed at her from within the mask.
His antlers should have signaled horror. Instead, they’d aroused her strangest, most primal fantasies.
Marianne let a hand slip beneath the water to where her thighs had parted as if to receive that strange man. She slid a finger over her seam, then pushed a little deeper to feel the button that now throbbed for attention. Frederick had touched her there. This couldn’t be wrong.
But then her mind was back to the man who had haunted her.
In her dreams, it was always the same: she was in a forest, much resembling the decor in that strange townhouse.
She ran, chased by something. Behind her, there were noises as he snapped branches and leaves crushed underfoot.
Her heart thumping, she raced ahead — until she tripped on a root.
Then woke, hot and wet, before she could see what happened next.
He found her prone on the ground of the forest, her thighs spread and cheek resting against moss as she tried to scramble away. She smelled decaying plant matter, with leaves from autumn crumbling in her hands as she braced for his touch.
Now, at last, as a married woman, she had a greater sense of what would happen next: the stag-man would insert that horn and release his essence.
She paused. If she were being truthful, she’d seen a much…rougher sort of coupling from gaps in the screen. Her breath quickened as she thought of the man holding her in place and driving himself into her roughly.
With one hand, Marianne touched a hardened nipple. With the other, she fondled the button Frederick had stroked to perfection just last night.
The water in her tub grew cool and sloshed as she moved in pursuit of pleasure, but Marianne couldn’t think of anything but chasing the feeling of satisfaction.
It was as she circled her button the third time that she had a thought: wouldn’t it be lovely if Frederick could use her so? If he covered her body and drove himself home?
And what if he could locate a stag mask, just like the ones used by those men at the townhouse? Like the man she’d locked eyes with that night when the tapestry came down.
At the memory of that man’s jerking cock, Marianne convulsed in the bath, her hand slipping as she gripped the side while rubbing herself to completion with the other.
Shame washed over Marianne as she regained her composure.
She was only just married to the most wonderful and gentle of men, and she thought to violate her body?
Her husband was a duke who had not allowed her far lower status to keep him from proposing marriage, and she still let her thoughts wander to another man.
Here she lay in his marvelous bath, thinking of a libertine with whom she’d not even exchanged a word.
Marianne rubbed her skin red as she sought to scrub off the shame of what she’d done. What was wrong with her? That townhouse must have twisted something in her mind and broken her moral compass; the needle now pointed to the forbidden part of a forbidden man she should not seek.