Chapter 2 #3
Dalton’s hands nearly gouged holes in his thighs, and he took several quick breaths in a futile attempt to calm the rampant internal chaos threatening to split him in two.
Alas, there was no one to blame but himself.
He had started the snowball rolling during the carriage ride here, clearly unsettling Frances with his ill-thought words and actions.
That was why she’d tarried overlong in the retiring room with Lady Kyle and Lady Jarrow, drank far more wine than usual, and danced with reckless abandon. Why she’d defied him.
Once they were home in St. James’s Square, everything would return to normal.
“Beg pardon, Your Grace, but your carriage is ready.”
He smiled in true gratitude at the efficient Kyle footman, then held out his hand to Frances. “Come along, my dear.”
For the briefest moment, something that looked surprisingly like annoyance flashed across his wife’s face. Eventually, she placed her hand in his and they walked in silence to the waiting carriage.
Dalton assisted her in, pausing while Frances arranged herself on the luxurious fawn leather squabs and covered her legs with a lap rug, then he followed to sit opposite her in the roomy, lantern-lit space.
Even now, she wasn’t modestly gazing out the window or studying her beaded reticule, but watching him with wide eyes. And a tiny smile curving her rosy lips!
If Frances were his mistress, he would punish her for such willfully brazen conduct.
Perhaps with a gag or clamps. But she would certainly be blindfolded and naked, her thighs spread wide and her wrists bound to her knees, leaving her pussy and backside fully exposed and vulnerable to whatever correction he deemed necessary.
Oh, how she would rock and writhe as she begged her master for mercy, to just be allowed one little orgasm…
“You just groaned again, Dashford. I’m not sure why you persist with the fiction of my being ill when it is clearly you who is out of sorts.”
“I am quite well,” Dalton ground out as he shifted rather desperately on the carriage squab.
The metal tray of hot bricks at their feet made his heavy winter greatcoat quite superfluous, but under no circumstances would he remove it and reveal an erection so huge and straining it would shortly burst forth from its fabric prison.
If Frances knew how close to danger she was, she would yank open the carriage door and fling herself out onto the cobblestoned street.
“What is taking so bloody long? I’m quite certain I said the townhouse, not the country seat in Surrey. ”
Frances’ eyes widened further, but she said nothing. She didn’t have to; noting he was behaving like a lunatic would be as useful as remarking that winter was cold.
He had to pull himself together. Perhaps plunge into the semi-frozen pond in the enclosed garden at the rear of the townhouse. He might be swarmed by fish and frogs and bugs, but at least he would have a clear head and flaccid cock.
Dalton grimaced. If anyone heard his current musings, Bedlam would indeed have a new resident.
“We’re home,” said Frances into the silence, her tone cautious. “It is no trouble to send for a tonic if you aren’t feeling well.”
“No need,” he replied, attempting a reassuring smile. “It’s nothing that a few brandies and a good night’s sleep won’t fix.”
His wife looked unconvinced, but thankfully a footman opened the carriage door and unfolded the step.
Dalton bounded from the carriage like a scalded cat, but at least remembered to help Frances out and escort her to the front door.
Just a few more minutes and he could barricade himself in a room and relieve the ache of his painfully hard cock.
As they walked across the entrance hall, their shoe heels temporarily muffled by the thick Aubusson carpet on the polished wooden floor, Frances hesitated at the foot of the sweeping staircase.
“Are you sure you don’t need a tonic?” she asked, her brow furrowing.
Dalton almost groaned. His wife was standing entirely too close, smelled entirely too good, and his control hung by a thread.
His fingers positively itched to tangle in her blond curls, tear the bodice of her gown, and see her beautiful body adorned in nothing but silk stockings.
After hours and hours of play, she would be flushed and trembling with exhaustion, sore and swollen and slick with his seed, but her eyes would shine like sapphires as she cuddled against him, full of trust and adoration…
Christ Almighty.
He may as well publicly declare his own madness immediately and concede the dukedom to whichever second cousin arrived first. Frances didn’t love him, they would never indulge in such acts, and to even countenance such thoughts was entirely ridiculous.
The Duke and Duchess of Dashford were a properly arranged society match, continuing a tradition as old as time. Nothing more.
“As I said earlier, I am quite well,” Dalton replied brusquely. “However, I just remembered some important documents I must read in my library, so I’ll bid you good evening. Do join me for breakfast in the morning.”
And with that, he marched away.
Frances was safe from him and his hedonistic urges.
For tonight, at least.