Chapter 4 #2
Frances settled onto a chaise, her fingers twisting together. “Do you, ah, know what Dashford particularly likes?”
The countess draped herself across an overstuffed leather armchair and kicked off her shoes.
“Oui. But not as a lover, only a hostess because we prefer very different things. My husband and I play with paramours in public; Dash masters a woman privately with toys and accessories. We have a generous selection; my cousin in Paris owns a factory that crafts them for pleasure clubs. He sends me a trunk every year. It amuses him to think of French goods restraining and invading and punishing the English.”
Swallowing hard, Frances forced herself to meet the other woman’s gaze. “I think Dashford might like to punish. Is that…is that correct?”
“Dash is aroused by control, madame la duchesse. I know he enjoys tying a woman up and teasing her cunt until she begs for release. Sometimes he is…hmmm, how do you say…benevolent. Obedience leads swiftly to orgasms. But he can also be harsh and work her without mercy. Perhaps she must suck his cock or receive a toy in her derriere before he fucks her. It is a very tight fit; where pleasure and pain are as one…well, well. I do not think you are opposed to such acts.”
“N-no,” Frances said huskily as she pressed her thighs together. “I would very much like to try that. I…I find a little pain rather enjoyable. When Dashford wound my hair around his fist and tugged, it felt good in, er, many places.”
Lady Warenne nodded. “Then you may join the house party as my tenth and final novice. They wear demi masks for mystery and green gowns or jackets so everyone knows they are new. Dash is always fair and generous with novices…but he’ll expect his woman to be eagerly obedient.
To also want what he wants. Have you ever taken a cock in your mouth? Been penetrated anally?”
Her cheeks hot, Frances shook her head. “No. Never. Except for that one delicious taste, my husband has always been very…um…courteous. Bedding only for the purpose of an heir. I am not, in fact, Fortunate Frances.”
“Mon dieu,” said the countess with a loud sigh.
“Because of Warenne, I am Joyful Juliette. Our three boisterous boys are at Harrow now but it was a pleasure to conceive each of them, even without an audience or extra lovers. It should never be just duty. However, I digress. Before the house party, you must practice. Train for your debut, like a boxer or opera singer, except to be a courtesan.”
“Train?” Frances asked uncertainly, “what do you mean?”
“Wait here, please.”
As Lady Warenne stood and hurried from the room, Frances took several deep breaths and rubbed her still-warm cheeks. Objectively, this was pure insanity. Don a disguise, attend an orgy house party and behave like a harlot to seduce her rakish husband?
Oh, stop it. You cannot wait to be wicked.
Frances chewed her lip. If this wild plan succeeded, their marriage could change forever. Be a union like Rachel and Lord Kyle enjoyed, or Celia and Lord Jarrow. Happy. Passionate. Babies to dote on. Perhaps someday he might even love her in return?
“Here,” announced Lady Warenne, as she practically danced back into the room with a green velvet drawstring bag. “Open it.”
Frances took the bag and poured the contents into her lap, her eyes widening at the sight of a small glass bottle of golden oil and two solid jade phalluses.
One was slender, about the width and length of a finger, the other much longer and thicker.
Both had a sturdy gold ring at the opposite end of the tapered tip. “Ummmm, which of these goes where…?”
“The big phallus trains your mouth, the small one your derriere,” said the countess, her eyes twinkling.
“Practice until they feel natural inside you. The oil is for your anus, to ease the way. Remember to always start slow and gentle. At first, hold the phallus still inside, then try thrusting. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” said Frances softly. “I’m ready to learn.”
“Bon. I will tell Warenne everything…no, do not fret. My husband will keep your secret, for he believes the duke cares for you. We shall see you very soon.”
Dashford cares for me?
With great effort, Frances managed to keep her jaw from dropping to the floor. That sounded far too good to be true. But the earl was Dashford’s closest friend, and if he thought so…
Frances smiled, giddy at the possibility. “Thank you, my lady. Most sincerely. This is a favor I can never repay.”
The countess waved a hand. “You are friends with Lady Jarrow, I know you are worth a chance. Also, I adore love plots. Au revoir, madame la duchesse.”
Frances nearly twirled from the room. Bold women took risks; here was her opportunity.
I WILL seduce my husband.
* * *
Just a dinner, then Christmas Day, and you can ease this affliction at the Warennes.
Easy.
His bedchamber illuminated by the light of several candelabra, Dalton glared at his looking glass as he smoothed his cravat for the tenth time.
Alas, he remained as skittish as a colt and his damned foolish cock refused to soften.
Fortunately, Gower wasn’t here to see him further unravelling; his trusty valet had trotted off to polish boots and mend a small shirtsleeve tear.
After the conversation with Noah on Rotten Row, he’d thought himself soothed. But no. It seemed even the prospect of a simple dinner with his wife was enough for his body to turn traitor. He couldn’t bloody well escort Frances into the dining room, or instruct footmen, sporting a raging cockstand!
Christ Almighty.
Today was December 23. Just two days away from a sexual banquet to gorge the senses. Two days! He could manage two days!
Dalton winced as his cock surged even harder against his trouser fall. Goddamn it, he had to attend to himself again. At this point, his hand would be demanding a townhouse and its own carriage for the amount of bawdy activity demanded of it.
Sighing heavily, Dalton delved into his side table drawer for the bottle of oil he’d been using far too frequently lately, and a fresh handkerchief.
Then he carefully unfastened his trouser fall, groaning softly as his shaft sprang free.
After pouring some oil into his palm, Dalton curled his fingers around his length and slowly began moving his hand up and down.
“Just close your eyes and imagine it is a lover, not your overworked hand,” he muttered.
No, imagine it is Frances on her knees, lips swollen from sucking, those bright blue eyes watering as she valiantly tries to swallow more of a cock too big for her delicate little mouth…
Dalton growled at the unwanted thought, but it seemed there were no rational parts of his brain remaining, only erotic imaginings. Instead, his palm moved faster, his grip tightening until seed gathered and dampened the nearly purple tip.
So close. So damned close…