Chapter 6
Who had Juliette matched him with?
Dalton studied the ever-growing crowd of men and women in the brightly lit and lavishly decorated ballroom, his foot tapping impatiently.
It was difficult to truly appreciate his surroundings, even though Juliette’s décor choices were, as always, impeccable.
He stood within a winter wonderland of white silks and red ribbons, fragrant greenery and clever ice sculptures, which only made the absolute rainbow of guest gowns and jackets and jewels more vibrant.
A string quartet played in one corner, but they could scarcely be heard over the excited chatter and laughter of those lucky enough to be admitted through the gates.
The Warenne house party was a shining star on the society calendar—especially when those ten brave and hopeful novices were brought out and matched with their master or mistress. After that, the fun truly began.
God damn it, who was to be his lover?
In truth, he was growing ever more alarmed; while there were many, many beautiful women here of all heights, sizes, hair color, and play preferences, not one had really captured his interest—and that had never happened before.
A part of him actually wanted to leave and go to Frances…
but he needed to fuck. To gorge himself on the particular hedonistic pleasures he enjoyed so in future he could be the gentleman his wife deserved.
To dedicate himself in a proper, respectful way to the task of siring an heir.
Such a fine duchess warranted nothing less.
“Dash, mon cher, if your shoe heel gouges a hole in my ballroom floor, I will toss you from an upstairs window.”
Guilt heated his cheekbones at the amused, French-accented warning. “My lady would never. Besides, it’s your own fault, making me wait. English dukes do not wait, it is written somewhere in the Magna Carta.”
Juliette, now resplendent in a gold silk gown and the Warenne rubies, snorted. “You of all men know the power of anticipation, but I shall show mercy and offer a boon: the heartbreaking tale of an obedient little morsel who yearns to submit to a stern yet generous master.”
Dalton leaned closer, his interest piqued. “Heartbreaking? Why?”
“Madame Jones aches to be restrained, specifically to have her wrists bound. To suck a rampant cock, take a toy in her derriere, and be fucked very, very hard. Pleasure spiced with a little pain, if you will. Alas, the husband whom she cares for, will not oblige her.”
He stared in shock. Mr. Jones had a wife who wanted such acts and he denied her? “What? Is the man deranged? Too old? Just a bumbling fool?”
Juliette’s lips twitched. “It is not for me to judge the marriage of others, cher. I simply matchmake so all my guests know the rapture of fulfilled desires. Madame Jones lacks confidence and is inexperienced, but responds very well to detailed instructions. She is a natural submissive. I feel…no, I firmly believe, that you would be the perfect master to teach her. What do you think?”
Dalton nodded slowly, his cock starting to throb. “I’m intrigued. Tell me, what does Mrs. Jones look like?”
“See for yourself,” his hostess replied, waving a careless hand toward the ballroom entrance. “Noah is leading them in now. She is the last one, novice number ten.”
His gaze swooped like an eagle onto the woman in question.
She had red hair, artfully arranged to frame her mask, and appeared delightfully petite and slender in her short-sleeved green velvet gown.
As a rite of passage, novice gowns were little more than a simple tunic cinched at the waist with silken cord, worn without stays or chemises.
More interesting than her clothing, though, was the way Mrs. Jones’ head moved left and right to observe rather than keeping it modestly bowed.
Was she merely curious, or perhaps his favorite kind of submissive: a provocative one?
The fact she was already wed to a man she cared for pleased him greatly.
Mrs. Jones would expect nothing more than four days of bedding—they could then leave each other with a cheerful farewell and carry on with their lives.
“Yes,” Dalton said abruptly. “She’ll suit. With a few provisos.”
Juliette raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Let us have the old minstrel’s gallery. Mrs. Jones must wait for me looking out to the party with her hands on the railing. If she lifts them, I will stop. If she turns around, I will stop. And…she must not speak. Only nod or shake her head.”
Even as the words hung in the air, Dalton winced at how utterly ridiculous they were. Who would agree to such rigid terms? Juliette would tell him to go to hell. Or Mrs. Jones would. And why would he even demand them?
Because seeing Mrs. Jones’ face or hearing her voice would break the spell…
Dalton scowled. Spell? What bloody spell?
Yet Juliette merely tapped her cheek as she studied him. Then her lips twitched again. “As you wish, mon cher. I shall inform Madame Jones of your requirements, and if she agrees, she will wait for you up there. Anything else?”
“A selection of toys,” he blurted. “And wine.”
Now, Juliette grinned. But she didn’t say a word, merely pivoted gracefully and walked away.
For what seemed like hours, Dalton watched his friend stroll through the crowd and greet her merry guests. Next, she went to Noah for a long kiss, before finally carrying on to Mrs. Jones, who wasn’t standing still, but rocking back and forth on her heels.
After a brief conversation, Juliette gestured up toward the wooden minstrel’s gallery, a now-enclosed space about eight feet wide and the same long, that couples often used when they wished to fuck in privacy but also watch activities happening below.
Dalton held his breath.
Say yes. Say yes.
The redhead dipped into a surprisingly smooth curtsy, then miracle of miracles, hurried toward the gallery.
Mrs. Jones wanted this.
A slow smile curved Dalton’s lips. His future lover would be well rewarded for such enthusiasm. From what Juliette had mentioned, Mrs. Jones deserved many, many orgasms for enduring such a foolish husband, but she would need to earn each and every one.
As languid as his hostess had been, he made his way to the gallery stairs, nodding at acquaintances, even stopping to gulp a tot of premium brandy from a passing footman. Then he started climbing the stairs, his footfall heavy on the sturdy wood. Mrs. Jones would certainly hear his approach.
At the gallery entrance he paused to savor the view in front of him. Mrs. Jones was trembling a little, but her hands were firmly splayed either side of her body on the solid wooden railing at her waist height.
The very portrait of a new and perfect submissive: unsure but determined to obey.
Dalton prowled closer, his cock hardening further with every step.
Something about this delectable woman was turning him into a primitive beast. “Good evening, Mrs. Jones. My name is Dash and I am delighted you accepted my offer. First, I must ensure you freely agree to my rules; that you won’t turn around or speak, and if you lift your hands from the railing, I will halt immediately. Do you consent?”
She nodded, firm and deliberate.
“Excellent,” he purred. “We may begin.”
* * *
Could a woman orgasm just from a man’s tone? Because much like in the carriage before the Kyles’ soiree, or perched atop his library desk, her husband’s voice was making her wet.
Frances shivered. He hadn’t yet touched her, but she could feel his large, unyielding presence behind her.
Finally, he was about to show her what it meant to be the Duke of Dashford’s lover.
Because in this red wig, scandalous tunic gown, and a demi mask covering half of her face, she wasn’t Frances, but the bold, wanton Mrs. Jones.
And thanks to her husband’s surprisingly strict rules, her deception was far, far easier than it could have been.
When his big hands came to rest on her shoulders and his thumbs began rhythmically pressing in, easing the travel soreness, Frances couldn’t halt a tiny whimper.
“Poor sweetheart,” Dashford crooned, as his magical fingers continued to expertly massage her neck, releasing tension until she slumped a little against his chest. “Let me make everything better.”
But when his mouth replaced his fingers, his warm lips trailing a path of fire from her neck to her shoulder before nipping the sensitive skin, her breathing stuttered.
How could a kiss be felt in so many other places?
Already her nipples jutted lewdly against her gown, and between her legs a pulsing ache demanded attention.
Soon, his left hand slid around to lightly grip her chin, his thumb lazily tracing her lower lip. “Open your mouth for me.”
The heady hint of ownership gave her courage. Before she could even consider the action, Frances darted out her tongue and delicately lapped at his thumb.
Dashford chuckled, a dark, erotic sound. “Little minx. You certainly require a stern master. But you may show me how well you suck.”
Thank heavens for the practice phalluses! She could do this!
Closing her lips around the tip of his thumb, Frances drew it further into her mouth. But when she flicked the underside with her tongue, his indrawn breath thrilled her to her toes. More than that, a very rigid shaft pressed against her backside.
She was arousing a legendary rake.
Next, Dashford thrust his thumb into her mouth, making her suck him harder. Although she couldn’t move her hands from the railing, her hips had no such restriction, circling to rub her bottom against that delicious hardness behind her, wanting to show him how much she craved this.
Abruptly, her tunic gown loosened and separated into two parts, and his right hand delved under the soft green velvet to cup her breast.
“Hmmm. A perfect palmful,” he murmured, his finger teasing her taut nipple with featherlight touches until she wanted to wail in frustration. Then he pinched it. Hard.