Chapter 4 #3
“Redheads. Brunettes,” he said desperately, squeezing and releasing his shaft. “Green eyes. Wide hips and breasts so large you can’t even cup them in your hands…”
No. A slender, blue-eyed blonde restrained and helpless, writhing and moaning at the carnal burn of a ginger stick in her backside and the needy ache of her soaked cunt. She’ll surrender so swiftly and beg her master to fuck her senseless, again and again, until her belly swells with child…
A feral snarl tore from Dalton’s throat as his cock erupted, the seed spurts so violent he barely managed to contain them within the soft linen handkerchief now pressed firmly around the head.
Bloody hell.
He sagged against the side of his bed, gulping in air as blood thundered in his veins. Had he thought he was losing his mind? Ha. It was long gone.
Exactly how many minutes he stayed there staring blankly at the floor, Dalton had no idea. Except the ancient wood-and-gilt clock that sat imperiously over the fireplace abruptly chimed a warning: a quarter to eight.
Frances would be waiting for him.
Cursing under his breath, Dalton stumbled over to the ceramic bowl of fresh herbed water, swiftly cleaned his cock and hands, then refastened his trouser fall.
When he’d donned his black jacket, he paused in front of the looking glass again to ensure he appeared at least relatively presentable, before leaving his chamber.
Startlingly, but also to his great relief, Frances wasn’t waiting at the top of the grand staircase.
Dalton frowned. His wife was perhaps the most punctual person he knew.
A few minutes passed, and he stared down the hallway. Was she injured? Unwell?
Just when he was about to turn back and rap on her door, it opened and Frances near-bounded out, one hand patting her hair and the other hitching up her gown almost to her calves as she hurried.
His elegant, dignified duchess looked…frazzled.
“Forgive me, Dashford!” she said breathlessly. “I…I lost track of time.”
Dalton stared at Frances, entirely perplexed. Then his gaze froze on her lips. Her pink, slightly puffy lips, like she’d been kissed for hours.
Or sucking a cock.
Inwardly groaning at the stirring in his trousers, Dalton scowled. “Are you well, Frances?”
Her brow furrowed. “Yes. Quite. Why?”
“Your lips,” he ground out. “What have you been doing?”
Strangely, a deep blush swept across her cheekbones and her gaze darted away from his. “Uh…nothing. Well, nothing other than, er, tarrying too long outside in the cold today. Rachel and Celia and I decided to go for a walk for some air. Silly, really. Cold and wind are not good for the complexion.”
Reluctantly, he nodded. That sounded far more plausible than the wild conclusion his depraved mind had leapt to. “Indeed. Let us go down to supper.”
Soon, they were seated in the small dining room; just a half-mile of polished wood between them rather than a full mile.
Footmen bustled around them, tucking in chairs, arranging napkins, straightening cutlery, and pouring wine.
In truth, he’d pondered on several occasions having Frances sit directly to his left rather than the other end of the table, but that would indicate an intimacy, a closeness that they certainly didn’t share.
God knew what would happen if she was near enough to touch.
After they’d both been served bowls of rich pea soup, Dalton cleared his throat.
“I should like to discuss Christmas Day. Usually, we all attend chapel here in the morning, have an extensive meal, then I oversee the distribution of baskets to staff here and at my various other estates. Due to the large quantities needed I have an annual standing order of provisions…but I thought perhaps as duchess you might like to supervise the basket packing?”
Frances actually beamed. “I’d love to. What do you include?”
“Cloth for new gowns or livery, hothouse oranges, salted ham, jars of preserves, a box of marzipan, plum pudding, woolen stockings, and a half-crown,” he replied.
“My goodness,” she said, looking sincerely impressed. “What a lovely selection. Treats and practical items.”
Dalton couldn’t help basking in the praise, but it made strategic sense to be generous with Christmastide baskets.
For a solid month his staff politely ignored the fact that their employer was a scandalous devil who had delayed marrying and still hadn’t secured the line.
However, there was another awkward matter to discuss.
“The thing is, I’ll be departing for the Warenne house party that afternoon.
You would…not enjoy it there, so I won’t ask you to accompany me.
All the staff have December 26 to themselves, but I’ll make whatever arrangements necessary to suit your plans. ”
His wife didn’t even twitch at the announcement. “Of course. I shall, ah, visit my mother and father. They are at the Hertford estate.”
At the stark, cock-withering reminder that while he was a mess of inner turmoil, Frances truly didn’t care what he did, Dalton nodded briskly. “Excellent. Ah, here’s the beef course. Let’s eat before it cools.”
Two more days.
He could do this.