Chapter 8
He was a damned bloody fool.
Twice now, Frances had bravely shared her desires with him. Exactly as he hoped a lover would. And twice now, he had faltered in his reply.
Inwardly seething, Dalton leaned against a fallen tree trunk and watched the other warmly dressed party guests climb out of the large sleighs that had transported them from the manor to this snow-covered clearing about a half mile away.
Being bacon-brained and tongue-tied was new and extraordinarily humbling for a duke who had never struggled with words.
Not in the House, not at a dinner or ball or party, and certainly not with a mistress.
Yet with his duchess, it seemed words couldn’t possibly encompass the emotions that kept threatening to burst free from his chest like fireworks.
Why was it so different with Frances? Why was declaring himself in precisely the right manner so important?
“Are you…brooding, cher?”
He glared at Juliette, once again looking maddeningly gleeful; a vexatious Christmastide sprite in her ruby-red hooded cloak. “You’re not exhausted after all that meddling in my marriage?”
The countess wiggled her eyebrows. “Everyone knows I possess astonishing stamina. But as your wife is occupied building snow sculptures with the other novices, I shall meddle some more. Have you told her you’re madly in love with her yet?”
Dalton choked on a lungful of frigid air. “I beg your pardon?” he spluttered.
“Oh dear,” said Noah cheerfully as he joined them and slung an affectionate arm around his wife. “Dash wheezed. What did you say, my darling?”
Juliette sighed and nestled against him. “I merely enquired if he’d told a certain novice that he loved her yet.”
“For God’s sake, man,” said Noah, rolling his eyes.
“When Frances is nearby, you forget the rest of the world exists. When she’s elsewhere, you watch her like a hawk, ready to swoop and claw.
You damned near lose your mind at the thought of her with another chap.
Plus, we all know your minstrel’s gallery interlude was spectacularly successful.
In summary: you have a bold, beautiful wife who wants to be yours in all the ways you enjoy, who cared enough to beg Jules for an invitation here—”
“And suck practice cocks,” added Juliette pointedly.
“Exactly,” agreed Noah. “So what, pray tell, is the problem?”
Juliette sniffed. “Apart from Dash being an English nobleman. Noah is the rarest of the breed: without a treacle brain and stiff upper lip.”
“Just a stiff something else,” said Noah as he cupped her backside, making her giggle.
Christ Almighty.
“If you are both quite finished,” said Dalton irritably.
“I’m not a voyeur. Or sitting accused in the docks.
The problem is, I’m no goddamned poet. And now the thought of having children with Frances feels exhilarating rather than a duty…
but what if…what if I turn out like my father?
I would hate for my sons or daughters to ever feel so…
so lonely. So unwanted. That they only mattered for the title or an advantageous marriage. ”
“Never,” said Noah, unexpectedly fiercely.
“You are nothing like that frigid bastard, God rot his soul. The truth is, none of us know what to do when we first hold those little scraps with the big wail. But I simply thought…what would I have liked as a lad? That was easy. Someone who cared. Someone who cheered and consoled me. Someone who answered questions, took me on adventures and kept me safe. You can do all of that, Dash.”
Juliette nodded. “Oui. And there is no need for poetry, cher. Your wife enjoys blunt words, not flowery ones. Once you reveal your heart, she will reveal her face, then you can both be who you really are. Listen to us. This is the best meddling you’ll ever hear!”
“Amen,” said Noah, leaning down to kiss the top of her head.
Dalton swallowed hard. Put like that, it all sounded eminently possible. Perhaps he could, in fact, do this.
“You are excellent friends, but I have to go and find my minx,” Dalton said abruptly, turning and marching along the beaten snow path toward the group of ten novices.
“Bonne chance!” called Juliette behind him.
As he approached the novices, Dalton’s lips twitched at the three snow sculptures. One was an enormous cock that jutted out of a small rise, another spread thighs complete with leafy bush, and Frances was studiously smoothing what looked remarkably like bound wrists.
How could his wife be so perfect?
“Impressive,” he murmured. “Nothing like some sturdy restraints.”
Frances glanced up and shrugged. “It’s said that Christmastide wishes come true. We shall see.”
“Might I…” said Dalton, pulling his greatcoat tighter as his heart thundered. “Might I have a private word?”
She tilted her head. “Ah…of course. Where?”
“Just over there. By the row of trees.”
They walked in silence, but he could feel her curious gaze on him.
Dalton cleared his throat. Frances remained quiet, clasping her hands behind her back and looking at him expectantly, the very portrait of a submissive mistress.
Just say the words! They aren’t difficult! She’s not waiting for sonnets in Persian!
“I should start by saying…” Dalton began as he paced back and forth. “I mean, I’ve been thinking a lot about this…”
In the blink of an eye his world upended.
Frances stepped away to give him room, but the snow had disguised a ridge, for her arms flailed as she tipped backwards with a shriek. He lunged forward to grab her, but his outstretched hands merely grazed the fabric of her cloak as she fell.
Terror chilled him to the bone.
“Frances!” he roared. “Frances!”
Skidding and sliding, Dalton stumbled his way around the clump of trees and through the knee-deep snow, scarcely noticing as sharp twigs caught his hair and uneven ground tweaked his ankles.
All that mattered was getting to his wife, who lay sprawled on her back, the red wig beside her and her demi mask dangling from one ear.
“Frances,” he said hoarsely, dropping to his knees and picking up her hands to chafe them.
“Christ. Shit. Bloody hell. Open your eyes! Don’t you dare leave me, minx.
Don’t you bloody dare. Not when I love you so goddamned much.
You’re the only woman I want. My perfect match. Sweetheart, can you hear me?”
Her lashed fluttered. Then the world’s bluest eyes stared up at him. “I believe the entire county can hear you, Dashford.”
Relief swamped him, so profound he slumped dizzily onto his heels. “Are you hurt?’ he asked unsteadily. “One of the guests is a physician—”
“I fell about three feet onto fresh snow,” Frances replied, wrinkling her adorable nose. “My pride is hurt and my mask won’t recover. But you were saying very interesting things, so pray continue before the cavalry arrives.”
“Was I indeed?” said Dalton, now grinning like an intoxicated jester as he cradled Frances tightly against his chest and rose slowly to his feet.
She smacked his shoulder. “This minx demands you tell her you love her again. As much as I love you...Dalton.”
Never had his name sounded so good. Never had winter seemed so warm and bright and bursting with promise.
Christ. He was definitely in love.
Dalton kissed her with all the emotions that had turned him inside out and upside down, a blend of tender and carnal that seemed exactly right. “I love you, Frances. You’re my world. My Christmastide wish come true. And yes, forever my one and only minx.”
“Well then,” said Frances breathlessly, her eyes shining as she cuddled against him. “You’d better take me to bed and show me, Your Grace.”
“As you wish, Your Grace.”
* * *
Frances stood in front of the bedchamber fireplace, nearly quivering with excitement. She was ready as Dalton had instructed before he’d gone to gather items for their play: her hair plaited, and wearing nothing but silk stockings and a dressing gown.
Finally, she would receive the wickedly passionate bedding she’d always craved in their marriage. No masks or wigs, no false identities or misunderstandings, just Dalton and Frances and pleasure.
“I think that’s everything, Your Grace,” said Glory, as she surveyed the room with an expert eye. “Quilt pulled back, fire stoked, drapes closed, and fresh water heating in the bucket there. Wine and brandy are on the tray, along with fruitcake and sweets.”
“Thank you, Glory,” said Frances, as she hurried to the dressing table and retrieved a guinea from her reticule, then pressed it into the maid’s hand. “His Grace and I are very appreciative of all your efforts. Especially considering the change in circumstances.”
Glory’s eyes bulged and she curtsied deeply. “My pleasure, ma’am. I hope to see you both again, I love a good happy ending. Now remember, if you leave the red ribbon on the door, we’ll keep delivering food, hot water and fresh towels and remove any discards. Enjoy the rest of your time here.”
“I shall,” said Frances, smiling conspiratorially.
After Glory departed, Frances returned to the deliciously warm fireplace and began idly touching herself: caressing her already-taut nipples, and parting the crisp hair between her legs to feel the slickness of her pussy.
It wasn’t like she was disobeying her husband…
he hadn’t precisely forbidden such acts, only told her not to misbehave!
“Exactly what are you doing, madam?”
Dalton’s tone was mild from the doorway, but the underlying steel made her clitoris throb. Surrendering instantly was tempting; however, the more provocative she was, the higher the chance of punishment.
Frances met his gaze and deliberately stroked herself. “Mmmm…you didn’t specifically detail what misbehaving was. How could a proper duchess possibly know? Oooohh…can you hear that? My pussy is very, very wet.”
He sucked in a breath, first setting a silver tray of objects down on the bed, before prowling toward her like a hungry wolf, his green gaze glittering.
Oh my.