Chapter 1 #3
“Yes. Please. Er, blasted hems,” Frances mumbled, linking her arm with the other woman’s before turning to her husband and bobbing a curtsy. “Excuse me, Dashford.”
With only a small detour to collect Rachel’s sister-in-law Lady Celia Jarrow, who was with her husband Harry at the refreshment table, the three women were soon barricaded in the elegant gold-and-cream withdrawing room.
While it had no fireplace, there was a large metal tray of gently steaming hot bricks in the corner for warmth, several padded stools, a large gilt-framed looking glass, and a bowl with a pincushion of needles and various colored threads for actual hem emergencies.
Rachel perched awkwardly on one stool, her ruby-red ballgown fluttering around her ankles. “I know you have an important tale to tell. Please proceed.”
Tall, sleek, auburn-haired Celia whipped out her fan and leaned against the wall, a portrait of finery in her violet gown. “Yes, tell me or I’ll explode. This is so exciting! Harry will just have to pine for me for a while.”
Frances hesitated. Rachel and Celia were both so wonderfully broadminded and plainspoken, but they were actually married to men who loved them dearly.
Bedding had never been a grave disappointment, just endlessly pleasurable.
Because of her smiles and evasions, both women assumed she enjoyed the same.
Everyone assumed that. She was Fortunate Frances after all.
“I…I’m not quite sure how to begin…” she admitted.
“Have mercy dearest, my backside is still tender from a cropping I received earlier. I cannot perch for long,” said Rachel with a dreamy, thoroughly contented sigh.
Celia hooted. “You confessed to our pleasure toy shopping trip, didn’t you?”
“I did! My husband had no choice but to administer correction for such mischief. Now, don’t you dare say what you purchased for Harry, my delicate ears cannot hear of my brother’s bedchamber activities.”
After moving to place her hands over Rachel’s ears, Celia glanced over her shoulder at Frances, grinned, and mouthed cock ring.
A near-hysterical giggle escaped Frances. No two people in the world could advise her better. And they had complete privacy in here.
“I must start by apologizing, for I have been lying to you both,” she began.
Both women stared at her, obviously confused.
“Lying? About what?” said Rachel.
Taking a deep breath for courage, Frances met their gazes.
“My marriage isn’t a love match. And…and…
my wifely duties have been a terrible disappointment.
Everyone calls me Fortunate Frances but Dashford visits once a week and it’s rather perfunctory and I’ve never…
I’ve never had an orgasm…” she finished on a whisper.
Celia gaped. “Are you saying London’s Legendary Lover is…bad in bed?”
“No. Bad in bed with me,” muttered Frances, humiliation heating her cheeks. “I thought he loved me but he never wanted this. I’m a duty, nothing more, only chosen because I had the correct lineage and manners and the promise of fertility. Except I’m even failing that; I’m still not with child.”
“Oh, Frances,” said Rachel softly, reaching out to take her hand. “What a heavy burden to bear.”
“Dashford isn’t being cruel, is he?” asked Celia, her gaze narrowing.
“Because six months is no time at all. Why, Harry and I were wed a year before I fell pregnant with Matilda, and we are frequently intimate. In fact, we are trying for another babe, but have no expectations for how long it might take because no one knows!”
“No,” said Frances swiftly. “Never cruel. Just…distant. Even without love, I thought at least the bedding part would be enjoyable. All those scandal sheet stories couldn’t be wrong!”
Rachel tilted her head. “But something happened. You were flustered when you walked in the door, and you are never flustered.”
“In the carriage, Dashford asked about a dance this evening. When I said yes, he…uh…”
“He what?” shrieked Rachel and Celia, almost in unison.
Frances whipped out her own fan in a futile effort to cool her face.
“He took my chin in his fingers and rubbed his thumb across my lower lip and said, ‘So obedient. For a moment there I thought you might be a provocative little minx and require discipline.’ Dashford has never said or done anything like that before. Ever.”
Celia clapped her hands together. “That is wonderful news!”
“It is?” said Frances uncertainly. “But then we pulled up outside and it was like it never happened—”
An impatient knock sounded at the door.
“Oh bloody hell,” growled Rachel, before calling out sweetly, “just a moment!”
Then the marchioness stood and smoothed her gown. “We must return to the party, but let’s continue this very important conversation tomorrow. Eleven o’clock in my parlor. A successful plan will require all our best thoughts as well as tea and apple tarts.”
“What do you mean by plan?” asked Frances, hope dawning just a little.
Her friend beamed. “Last December at a country inn I made an outrageously bold decision that led to true bliss, in the bedchamber and out. Now, it’s your turn. This Christmastide, Frances Dashford, you are going to seduce the seducer!”