Chapter 7
The following morning, Frances sat on a cozy window seat looking out over the pristine, tree-lined and snow-covered valley below. Thankfully for everyone, the snow had fallen overnight, trapping them on the Warenne estate rather than trying to get to it.
If she’d missed out on that wondrously life-changing experience…
Frances shuddered and shifted restlessly on the window seat, solely for the reminder that her backside remained tender after being thoroughly owned by the jade phallus.
Not even practicing beforehand had prepared her for the exquisite burn of rough penetration, her pleasure entirely controlled by a master who gifted or denied as he pleased.
To think she had nearly ruined everything by speaking.
That terrible moment of desperate weakness could have been her downfall, but in her own defense, it was impossible to imagine anyone remaining silent when so mindless with need.
Perhaps she might be Fortunate Frances after all—her voice had been too hoarse and pleading for Dashford to recognize. Her secret was safe, for now at least.
What new delight would her husband introduce her to today?
Frances’ pussy clenched at the thought of his arrival.
Last night, when he’d departed the minstrel’s gallery, she had been utterly bereft.
And disgruntled. Like there should have been so much more than a glass of full-bodied red wine to sip.
However, her mood had improved walking back to her chamber, for dozens of women had stared not with judgement but naked envy.
They all wanted to be the one with a waddling gait, chafed nipples and seed-soaked skin because Dash had taken them so hard, and it had certainly added an extra sway to her hips, a touch of catlike satisfaction to her smile.
Mrs. Jones was indeed a naughty little minx.
“Morning, madam!” said Glory cheerfully, as she bustled into the room holding fresh towels. “I’ve laid out a new gown for you; yesterday’s one is certainly for the rag pile with all those stains on it…must have been a memorable evening!”
Heat scorched across Frances’ cheekbones. “Last night was…”
Glory giggled. “No need to explain, everyone near the gallery heard your joy. Oh, Mrs. Jones, I am so glad you were matched with Dash. Every woman should know what it feels like to come that hard. My husband is a senior footman here and has learned several tricks by watching the guests, to my everlasting happiness. Now, I know you had a sponge bath last night, but I have a copper tub for you and some lovely rose soap. Let’s get you clean so Dash can make you dirty again! ”
Frances couldn’t help grinning. The fine details of this wicked tale might even have Rachel and Celia swooning. “That sounds like an excellent plan. What do guests usually do for breakfast?”
The maid winked. “My instructions are, you must be bathed and dressed by nine o’clock. Dash will escort you to the dining room.”
Soon, Frances eased gratefully into the steaming hot water, groaning as it surrounded her tender spots.
Glory knelt beside the tub and expertly lathered her back and arms, then Frances took the soap and washed her front and legs.
Once she had been scrubbed until her skin glowed, Frances twisted up onto her knees so Glory could pour jugfuls of clean water to rinse her off.
When a perfunctory knock came at the door, they both yelped.
“Surely it cannot be nine already?” said Frances in alarm.
Glory turned and peered around the bathing screen. “It’s not, madam. Only half past eight. But it must be Dash, no one else would disturb you at this hour.”
Panic flared. Dashford couldn’t see her like this, she wasn’t yet ready to face him as herself!
“Quickly,” blurted Frances. “Fetch my wig and mask. Then answer the door.”
“Yes, madam.”
Somehow, she managed to settle the wig in place and secure it with its pins, and affix the demi mask to her face before her husband strolled in, bold as brass.
Frances swallowed hard. Dashford had never interrupted her bathing; there was something very intimate about him witnessing such a personal task. But for brazen behavior, she could only offer one response: equally brazen. And that was infinitely easier with a mask.
“Good morning, Dash,” she said huskily in her best Mrs. Jones voice, cupping her palms to collect water and trickling it over her breasts. “Oh, beg pardon, perhaps I’m not permitted to speak. But then…you have invaded my boudoir. Early.”
Dashford didn’t reply straight away, instead he stared hungrily at her naked form. And was that…yes, his shaft was hardening before her very eyes!
Giddy at the knowledge, Frances picked up the washcloth and glided it across her breasts, sighing as the slightly rough flannel grazed her taut nipples.
“Stop that,” he growled.
“Stop what?” Frances asked innocently, circling her breasts with the cloth before delving down between her legs to brush her clitoris. Oooooh. That felt lovely. “Is something wrong?”
Dashford’s big hands gripped his thighs, neatly framing the bulge tenting his trouser fall. “Careful, minx.”
“Or what?” she challenged defiantly. “You’ll make me suck your cock?”
In yet another truly glorious moment, the Duke of Dashford’s eyes flared in shock. Good heavens, it was fun being Mrs. Jones. Far more interesting than Fortunate Frances.
Then he raised an arrogant brow. “You know how, madam novice?”
Frances shrugged. “Of course. I am a married woman after all. In fact, I rather like having a phallus in my mouth. The world tends to…fade away. Would you like me to show you?”
Dashford sucked in a huge breath, his beautiful green eyes turning positively stormy. But why? Why would a notorious rake, now married, care what his married temporary mistress had done elsewhere?
Unless he knows exactly who his masked mistress is…
Utterly dismayed, Frances braced herself to be revealed, scolded and sent away. Yet her acclaimed, always in-control husband was just staring as a range of raw emotions continued to cross his face.
Oh my. Did he know…but liked Mrs. Jones?
How very interesting.
“Breakfast,” Dashford ground out eventually. “We have breakfast to attend. After that everyone is traveling to the nearby valley by sleigh to make snow sculptures.”
“I’d better hurry,” said Frances. “I’ll just call for Glory to—”
“No. I will dry you. And dress you.”
A sensual shiver ran through her at such possessiveness, and that he was choosing to continue the pretense. If Dashford was fighting an inner war…was that further confirmation he felt far more than lust?
Trying to remain calm at such a momentous thought, Frances carefully got to her feet and shook a little to allow the water to drip into the tub rather than on the floor.
Then Dashford offered his hand to assist her in stepping out of the thigh-high bath, before snatching up one of the fresh towels to begin drying her.
Frances almost moaned. She’d fully expected a brisk, rather impersonal action, like any lady’s maid. But her husband was gently patting and smoothing like she was made of glass, and it felt…nice. Not lustful, but tender. Like her being perfectly dry was the most important task in the world.
Oh God. Could it actually be true?
Had this rake reformed?
* * *
How could he have thought, even for a moment, that Frances was proper?
Dalton crouched down, concentrating fiercely on drying her legs to distract himself from some very pertinent facts: first, never in the history of the world had there been a more appropriate nickname than naughty little minx.
His wedded wife, just brazenly talking about sucking cocks!
Second, if any man ventured within five feet of Frances, they would lose not only their favorite dangling appendage but both thumbs and possibly a limb.
And third, he might be far deeper in the feelings mire than he’d ever considered possible.
Distancing himself from Frances after the most intense, most erotic interlude of his life had not improved matters one whit.
He’d simply lain awake all bloody night, irritable as hell that she wasn’t curled up against him, provoking him further with her saucy mouth, perfect breasts, and needy whimpers.
On several occasions he’d pondered storming in here and demanding that Mrs. Jones discard her damned wig and mask and come immediately to bed as the Duchess of Dashford.
But the way they were bantering as Dash and Mrs. Jones was actually… rather enjoyable?
Frances was also clearly relishing the freedom of being Mrs. Jones.
Perhaps this was her true self, a wicked wanton previously repressed because society simply didn’t permit wellborn ladies such desires.
Wouldn’t that be a delicious irony; a bride his mother had suggested to tame him into respectability, unleashing even more of his wilder side.
Crisp hair brushing his cheek jolted him back to the present, and he glanced up to see his wife’s impish grin—in true minx fashion, she had teased him with her bush.
A part of him wanted to part those tight curls and suck her clitoris until she drenched his mouth in honey, but a mischievous submissive like Frances needed a master with a firm hand.
Rising to his feet, Dalton set the towel aside. “Despite great temptation, the task is completed…are you pouting, Mrs. Jones?”
Frances had the audacity to poke out her tongue.
Inflamed beyond reason, Dalton pivoted so he was behind his wife then swiftly clasped her wrists in one hand, tugging them until Frances arched her back and thrust her breasts forward.
“Do you know,” he mused, as his free hand caressed the soft skin of her neck, “the way I would punish a continuously misbehaving mistress?”
Frances began to pant, her hips already circling. “Tell m-me.”