Submitting to the Marquess

by Brown, Em Browint writing as Georgette

  Her mouth dropped. “I would never have given her any evidence to support such a thing!” She had not known it herself.

  “Perhaps not knowingly—”

  “I have ever only been truthful and honest with her.”

  “Indeed?”

  She furrowed her brow. Why was he questioning her relationship with Diana?

  “As truthful and honest as you have been with your husband?”

  Her bottom lip quivered, and he shifted—in discomfort, it seemed. She said in a small voice, “Till now, yes. I had been a good wife—or so I thought. Perhaps not an adequate wife. But I was honest, and kind, and virtuous. Now none of that matters. I am the opposite of all that.”

  He gazed downward till a knock at the door roused him. It was a maid. Trudie pulled the bedlinen over her.

  “Bring up some tea,” he told the maid. After glancing at Trudie, he added, “and some biscuits. With strawberry jam.”

  Trudie perked up. She often enjoyed a dollop of strawberry jam on her biscuits.

  After the maid departed, he closed the door and turned to Trudie. She quickly uncovered herself, then blushed as if she had not been naked before him already. She felt his gaze caress every curve of her body.

  “You say you have been a virtuous wife,” he remarked.

  “Had been,” she murmured with eyes downcast.

  “Perhaps that is why you are drawn to Follet. It is an opportunity to be naughty. Under the weight of virtue, of being the good, diligent, upstanding wife, the pendulum has swung the other way.”

  “That is no vindication, sir, for what I have done.”

  “I did not intend it for a defense, merely an explanation that is less damning and more forgiving of human nature.”

  “I could never forgive myself.”

  Her voice wavered, and she feared she might cry.

  “What if your husband forgave you, could you forgive yourself then?”

  She stared at him as if he were mad. “What husband would forgive his wife the crime of adultery?”

  “You said he was guilty first. You, at the least, are paying a form of penance, albeit a pleasurable one.”

  Again, she turned crimson. “It is not always pleasurable.”

  “No?”

  Her heartbeat skittered when he approached the bed. He removed the sash of his banyan.

  “Please,” she pleaded, though she knew not what he intended. “Have we not done enough?”

  “We had an agreement. Present your wrists.”

  She stared at the sash pulled taut between his hands. She considered running away, but he would catch her, as he had in the music room, and be vexed.

  Reluctantly, she presented her wrists. He bound them together with one end of the sash, then tied the other end to a cornice atop the headboard. Sitting beside her upon the bed, he reached for her thighs.

  “What do you intend?” she asked, though she knew his hand’s destination.

  “To prove that while you may not have relished every minute of what has transpired, pleasure endures.”

  She watched his hand slide between her legs and groaned when his digits brushed the slick flesh there.

  “As it would for any good wench,” he whispered in her ear, his words taunting and tantalizing.

  She shook her head in feeble protest.

  “You have acknowledged yourself a harlot,” he said, lightly stroking her. “Exalt in your admission. Is it not better than being a virtuous wife?”

  “Nooo…”

  She shut her eyes at his invasive fondling and how they lighted the most thrilling sensations.

  “Many a woman would be done for the evening,” he continued, “but harlots are rarely satiated, their bodies forever greedy to spend.”

  She could only whimper, trying not to mind how his fingers slid against her, grazing that nub of desire. A moan escaped her lips.

  “It is a shame your husband knew naught of your wanton nature. I vow he would have enjoyed it.”

  Was that possible? She half-wondered. The other half of her mind could not escape his ministrations. There was still dampness there, allowing his fingers to glide easily along her.

  “You know not my husband,” she said, hoping discourse would stall her arousal. “It pleases you to project your own inclinations onto him.”

  “At their core, men are not such diverse creatures. I know your husband—or his sort—better than you think. Can you not imagine him caressing you as I do now?”

  “I think not.”

  “Why not?”

  “My husband has not come into my bed for some time.”

  “And you wish he would?”

  Yes. And no. She had no wish to repeat the awkwardness and the discomfort of their marriage night. If she could be assured of his desire and her ability to enjoy his touch, she would desire greatly to share her bed with him.

  When she made no reply, he pressed, “Or do you doubt he could please you?”

  “You are impertinent to ask such questions, sir.”

  Shifting her hips, she tried unsuccessfully to escape his probing hand. He pinched her clitoris, making her yelp.

  “Perhaps you doubt his skills as a lover.”

  “It is not something I considered! I have no particular expectations…”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he is my husband. I would accept him if he lacked any skills. For certain, I would not have been the wiser as I have no basis to draw a comparison.”

  His fingers plied the spots that made her shiver. “Till now.”

  Till now, she agreed.

  “Would it please you if he could do what I do to you?”

  That familiar ache had begun unfurling in her loins, making her breath uneven, making her body tremble and tense.

  “No,” she exhaled.

  He withdrew his hand. Her body strained toward him, no longer fearful of the sensations his stroking elicited. He cupped a breast. She groaned, glad for the touch but aggravated that he did not apply it to a path that could lead to her desired destination.

  “You deceive yourself, madam.”

  He brushed his thumb over a nipple before tugging on the stiff bud. The ache between her legs throbbed.

  A knock at the door indicated the maid had returned. He rose from the bed.

  “Wait!” Trudie cried, tugging at her bonds.

  “Stay as you are,” he replied before walking to the door.

  “But—”

  He received the tea try from the maid and went to set it upon the table. He then returned to untie her wrists. She sat up.

  Returning to the table where the tea had been set, he pulled out a chair. She thought of asking to dress first, but when he handed her his banyan, she knew he did not expect her to attire herself. With a difficult swallow and as the agitation his hand had provoked still swirled below her belly, she grudgingly rose from the bed, slipped into the robe, and went to sit at the table.

  He added a little milk to the tea he poured, as she liked it, before handing her the cup. She found the heat of the tea comforting. He placed the plate of biscuits and the jam before her.

  “Thank you,” she said, taking a biscuit and trying to find normalcy in taking tea with a masked stranger whilst she sat in naught but a robe. She pressed her thighs together in an attempt to ease the pressure. Had he forgotten the state he had left her in? Or was it his intention to leave her body bereft?

  Of course it was deliberate.

  He seemed always to act with intention. A part of her hated him for this, for tormenting her with equal parts pain and pleasure. Yet, she could not bring herself to think him pure evil, as much as she wanted to. Perhaps it was because she had heard, at times, pity in his voice. At other times, she heard anger—more anger at her than was warranted, for she was a stranger to him.

  Something he had said earlier returned to her, and she wanted to break the silence between them. The longer they sat, the more conscious she became of her nakedness.

 
He had pulled his chair away from the table to give him room to cross his legs. He had finished his first cup and did not partake of the biscuits or jam.

  “You had asked,” she ventured as she nibbled upon a biscuit, “if I could forgive myself if my husband did. Do you think a man—any man—capable of forgiving the crime of adultery?”

  “Your husband is Christian, is he not?”

  “I did not speak of my husband.”

  “Your hypothetical is of no use if it does not address your husband.”

  He sounded rather grim when he spoke the word ‘husband.’

  “Of course he is Christian, though perhaps he does not attend church as regularly as he ought.”

  “I presume he attended often enough to know that forgiveness is a Christian value.”

  “But adultery is among the worst of sins.”

  “Does John not say that if we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and cleanse us of all unrighteousness?”

  “That does not give us license to do whatever we will. And whilst the Lord might forgive, my husband may not.”

  He looked down in thought for a moment before saying, “Do you forgive your husband?”

  At first, she could not answer for she had not asked herself this. “I do not fault him,” she thought aloud. “My husband could have had a much prettier, much wittier woman than I had he not felt obligated to offer his hand to me. I think I was a wretched disappointment on our wedding night.”

  “Wedding nights are far easier for the groom.”

  “Yes, but I think I frightened him with my sobbing. I had not—I had not expected it would hurt as much as it did. He tried—I believe he tried to make it pleasurable for me.”

  “Tried and failed.”

  “I am certain the experience contributed to his desire to seek a mistress. Had I not been in such hysterics, had I been—I did not think I could derive pleasure from the venereal. I was convinced my body was not inclined to it.”

  “But it is. I would say exceedingly so.”

  Blushing, she stared into her tea. “Had I known…well, perhaps it would not have made a difference to Leopold.”

  “Are you so certain?”

  She blinked several times in thought. “Yes. No. How can one be certain? Regardless, he has a mistress now.”

  Silence fell between them again till he spoke.

  “Earlier this evening you had remarked that it was not uncommon for husbands to take mistresses, but that does not mean you condone it.”

  She took another biscuit and put a dollop of jam upon it. The tea and sustenance seemed to help settle her nerves.

  “I do not,” she acknowledged.

  “And while you say that you do not fault your husband for his infidelity, that is not the same as forgiveness.”

  “Luke says, ‘If your brother sins, rebuke him, and if he repents, forgive him, and if he sins against you seven times in the day, and turns to you seven times, saying, “I repent”, you must forgive him.’”

  “It is easy to quote scripture, but much harder to follow it.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. How was it she had fallen into such easy conversation about so delicate a matter with this stranger?

  After another minute of silence, he said, “I would hazard you have not forgiven him or you would not have come to Château Follet.”

  “Perhaps. I suppose I must forgive him now if I hope to have his forgiveness.”

  “Do you?”

  “Do I what?”

  “He knows not that you are here. He might never discover that you came here.”

  “Are you suggesting I deceive him?”

  “Do you intend to inform him?”

  “I could not live with such a deception! To look him in the eye, day after day, knowing what I have done—I could not!”

  “Then you are a better person than most,” he said wryly.

  The acts of depravity had stayed her mind from having to think on the consequences of her actions, but now that the subject had come up, she felt ill at ease

  * * * * *

  “I would finish what I had started,” he said after they had finished the tea. He pointed to the ground before him. She knelt in front of him.

  “Good little wanton,” he whispered into her ear.

  He cradled a breast and appeared to admire how it spilled over his fingers. He stroked the side of the orb with his thumb before reaching over to tug at her nipple. He rolled the nub and pinched it. She grunted and felt her body begin to melt into the heat of desire.

  “Touch yourself,” he instructed.

  Without protest, she complied, thrusting her hand between her thighs. He continued to play with her nipple as she stroked. What a wanton indeed she had become!

  “You are a lovely sight when you pleasure yourself.”

  He alternated between breasts while she slid her fingers against herself. She wanted to press both breasts into his hands. He knelt before her, close enough for her nipples to touch his chest. He pushed and groped both orbs, pulled and pinched her nipples till she whimpered. Then he cupped her face with both hands and brought his lips down upon hers. How she wished Leopold would kiss her so!

  “Remember not to spend till I have permitted it,” he murmured against her mouth.

  Her reply was muffled by the kiss. She marveled at how much she enjoyed the locking of their lips, as much as she delighted in his other caresses. It felt as if, through her mouth, he intended to possess all of her. When he parted from her and his hands slid from her face, she groaned a little.

  He stood and watched her fondle herself. She circled the nub between her folds, wondering what her reward would be. As the tension between her legs grew, she closed her eyes.

  "Enough," he commanded.

  She was reluctant and relieved to cease her ministrations. "Come."

  He lifted her, turned her around and positioned her above his lap. Her debaucher sank Trudie onto his shaft, filling her aching cunnie. She shut her eyes because the sensation was too marvelous. Her body had longed for this.

  Trudie trembled and yelped as her arousal drilled deep into her belly with every stroke, every throb inside of her. The wave was cresting. She cried out.

  The spasms nearly knocked her from his lap, but he embraced her with his other arm, holding onto her tight. She shook against him and sobbed for air as she drowned in bliss.

  He bucked his hips at her, and soon she felt the heat of his seed inside her as he roared and his body shook. If she were not wallowing in rapture still, she might have begun to panic. She collapsed against his chest, calmed by his deep breathing. He kissed her temple with a rare tenderness.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  WHEN TRUDIE EMERGED FROM her daze, she tried to slip from him, but Leopold enjoyed having her upon his lap.

  “Stay,” he directed, holding onto her.

  She resisted.

  “Stay yourself, madam.”

  His stern tone jolted her to obey.. He reached around her and cupped a breast. She stiffened and shivered. He squeezed and kneaded the ample flesh in his hand. Lust stirred in his groin. Good God, could he possibly spend again? Till now, the most he had spent in the span of four and twenty hours was thrice. He had lost count of how many times he had made Trudie spend.

  “Did you know your body was so favorably given to spending?” he asked her, dropping his hand from her breast to her crotch. His fingers toyed with the patch of hair there.

  Her voice quivered. “No.”

  “It is a shame your husband was unaware of this most lovely attribute.”

  “I—I do not think that would matter.”

  “You underestimate your appeal. What husband would not desire a wife who spends as lovely as you do?” He reached for the flesh beneath her curls.

  “You need not be so complimentary.”

  With her countenance turned away, he could not see her expression, but he thought he heard a hitch when she spoke.

  “I assure you y
our husband would be much impressed.”

  “You can assure this? Do you know him?”

  She seemed to accuse him.

  “I know he must be an incompetent lover for you to have risked coming here.”

  “Alas, I was not the most encouraging when it came to…the marital bed.”

  “He should not have given up so easily.”

  “I knew not my body was capable of…”

  “Perhaps you would have made this discovery sooner if your husband possessed my skills.”

  She stiffened.

  “Do you wish your husband had my skills? Would it please you to have him bind you to the bed and wrest the rapture from your body as I have?”

  She was quiet before answering, “Better my husband than any other man.”

  “You must not rue your time with me. I send you back to your husband a better woman.”

  She made a strange sound. He dipped his fingers between her folds. Upon connecting with the wetness there, he felt the blood course more strongly through him. She clamped her thighs together and squirmed from his touch.

  “Do you not wish for your reward?” he asked.

  “I think not.”

  “Resistance is futile now that you have come this far.” He forced his hand to her quim. “Note how copiously wet you are.”

  “That is—that is not all my—but your—you spent inside me.”

  And it was glorious, but he understood her concerns. “Do you fear you will conceive?”

  She tried to wriggle from his probing fingers. “Have you no care for what you might have done? Of how you might have ruined me?”

  The anguish in her voice gave him pause. In his time at Château Follet, he had always had French letters at the ready for when he wished to spill his seed inside a woman, but as Trudie was his wife, it was not necessary. But she knew not this.

  “What would you do if you were with child—my child?”

  She moaned. “Do not ask such a thing!”

  “Would you pass the child off as his?”

  At that, she tried to slide off his lap, but he fisted his other hand in her hair and held her in place. She cried out but remained where she was. He resumed fondling her between the legs, encouraging the rosebud there to protrude.