by J. L. Carter
Then the thought is devoured by white lights and bleeding colors, by a pleasure so great that it steals the very breath from Margaret’s lungs. She mewls, moans, these stuttering, stunning sound. Julian buries his cock deep within her wet folds, but much to her delight and equaling torment, the Duke really isn’t done yet.
It’s not long, though. Between the feeling of her convulsing pussy and the fact that he’s over whelmed at finally being able to take his beloved to bed, the Duke doesn’t take much time to finish off himself. A few more slow, hard bucks and then he’s spilling into Margaret, hot and dripping.
Even when he stills, they don’t part from each other right away. Margaret clings to the Duke like he’s her only tether to reality, breathing hard against his skin. Their mixed seed seeps out onto the bed sheets.
Margaret opens her mouth to talk, but she can’t find the words. Thankfully, Julian takes over once more. “You are a treasure,” he says. “You are a true treasure, Margaret. Would you stay with me tonight?”
“You would think I’d leave?” To Margaret, the thought is ridiculous. After such a moment – such a trip into Elysium – someone would leave?
Julian gives her a tired, hopeful smile. He pulls out of Margaret with a wet sounding pop, a low mewl from the young woman to accompany the action. the Duke rolls onto his side, draping an arm over Margaret’s waist and pulling her close. “I would hope not. I would pray not.”
“Fear not. Your prayers will be answered.” Margaret yawns. She rolls over, hiding her face against Julian’s chest. “I shall not leave. Not tonight, at least.”
“But you aren’t certain about later?”
“I’m not certain of anything. Neither should you be. After all,” she yawns again, words sluggish and more open then Margaret means for them to become. “You’re the one that’s constantly saying - we need to be prepared for anything.”
“So I am,” rumbles Julian. “So I am.”
4
Sunlight drifts in through the open window. The curtains were never drawn the night before, and the door has no coverings on it at all. Margaret blinks awake, and for a moment she’s not sure where she’s at.
This isn’t her room! This isn’t even the sitting room, where she sometimes falls asleep while gazing out at the stars!
Fear grips her heart. Half asleep, she jerks up—and realizes that Julian is in the bed beside her.
“Oh,” she says, softly. “That’s right. I’d nearly forgotten.”
Julian yawns. He slaps one arm around Margaret’s waist, as if trying to keep her from getting up. “Nearly forgotten what?”
“It will take a lot of getting used to,” clarified Margaret, feeling a little sheepish over having woken the man up. “This waking up next to you.”
“Is it so bad to get used to something new?”
“No. It’s just—different. There aren’t too many things that ever change, not back at my home.”
“This is your home now,” clarifies Julian. He sits up, giving Margaret a bleary-eyed smile. “At least it will be once we get married. If you’re happy with it.”
“I think that I could grow to be happy with it,” admits Margaret. “And I think that I could grow to be happy with you.”
Julian gives her a blinding grin in answer. He presses a chaste kiss to Margaret’s cheek, reaches up to trace a small, red mark on the side of her neck. “Do you know what this morning needs?”
Margaret laughs. “I don’t think that I know what anything needs. What do you have in mind?”
“A bath,” announced Julian. “I think that you’re going to be pleasantly surprised by my bathing chambers. They’re a touch more intricate than the ones you have.”
“Please,” says Margaret. “Tell me that it’s not a cold bath or a plunge pool!”
It’s a recent trend in England, especially among the upper class. One of the defining features is that, for the most part, they are placed out in the gardens. The baths themselves are often large containers, which are filled with cold water and kept either within the confines of the main house or, ever a more popular choice, within a structure outside.
Many of the manor houses, such as this one, have had grottos built. The plunge houses are then included as another garden feature, to be looked at by those who have come visiting. While aesthetically pleasing, their main purpose is to help create a healthier way of life. The placement of the plunge house and the cold bath is meant to encourage good spirits, as well as good health.
The fourth Baronet and the second Sir Watkin Williams-Wynn, of Wynnstay in Denbighshire, has taken to promoting the health aspects of it. He claims that it will help with his painful and disfiguring skin condition, for which nothing else has ever helped.
They had become a touch outdated but, with rumors of the ailing king, many folks have turned back to them in an attempt to prevent a like illness from falling upon them and theirs.
Julian laughs, and it’s a deep, bellowing sound. “I don’t think so. I would much rather take a relaxing bath in my home, where the water is heated to perfection and I have all the amenities that I might desire. Would you care to join me?”
“Join you?” Margaret blinks, taken back by the question. “Even before we wed?”
Lips twist up into a smile. Julian says, “if last night didn’t sway you, then this morning certainly won’t. It will just take me a moment.”
And then, much to the young woman’s surprise, Julian got out of bed and, without even getting dressed, opened up the door. “Madeline! Madeline, are you near?”
A pattering of feet. Madeline lingers in the hallway. After all these years, she knows better than to approach the door just right now. “Aye, sir. What can I get for you?”
“A bath, if you would.”
“Of course, sir. I’ll fetch some help and some water. We’ll return shortly.”
“See that you hurry,” says Julian, before once more joining Margaret in bed.
It only takes a few moments before Madeline arrives, several other black and white clad women in tow. She is carrying a copper pot of water, vanishing into the adjacent bathroom.
Margaret cowers farther under the blankets, thoroughly upset that other people have just walked in on her whilst she’s in bed with the Duke. It’s so improper! Yet they don’t look at her, instead only paying attention to the task at hand.
One by one, they step in and out of the bathroom, continuing the procession until the tub is, no doubt, filled. Once they are alone in the room again, Julian offers Margaret his hand. “This way, my lady.”
Shyly, Margaret accepts the hand. She lets the Duke lead her into the bathroom and is hardly able to stifle her gasp. While the necklace she’s been given is stunning, it pales in comparison to the blue crystals that have been embedded into the walls of the bathroom.
A large, brass claw foot tub has been placed at the center of the room. It’s near three times the size of a usual bath, and has been polished to a shine. The shine is reflected by the white tiles on the floor, by the silver etchings that cover the marble counter.
This room is the work of an artist, and not one that belongs in their current century. “Julian,” she gasps, staring wide eyed at the splendor before her. “This room—”
“Is one of the finer places in the house,” says Julian, agreeably. “My ancestors designed it long ago, before the proper materials were really ready to be used. It’s an intellectual marvel, my dear.”
He opens up one of the cabinets, pulling out several colored vials. Margaret asks, “and those?”
“Oils,” says Julian, cheerfully. “For the bath. And, perhaps, other things?”
“Other things?” Margaret flushes. “In here?”
Julian sets the bottles on a counter. He picks up a beautiful green one, popping off the stopper. It smells like sage and peppermint. He shakes several drops out into the steaming bath water. “Yes, darling. In here. If you’re up to it, of course.”
“I—” Margaret cuts her
self off, honestly uncertain of how she should answer that. Is she up for it?
Maybe.
The young woman gives an uncertain smile and a small shrug. “What do they smell like?”
“Pick out your favorite,” suggests Julian. He uses his fingers to stir the oil into the water. One by one, Margaret picks up each bottle and sniffs it. Lavender, marigold, basil—they all smell simply divine.
In the end, she picks up something that smells quite close to a honeyed apple. “I suppose this is my favorite,” says Margaret. She turns to offer it to the Duke, only to find that he’s already gotten into the bath. “Oh. Should I?”
“Join me,” says Julian, cheerfully. He holds out one hand, helping Margaret into the bath so that she doesn’t trip. Their legs overlap; ankles knock against hips, hot water lapping at the swell of Margaret’s breasts.
She’s silent. this is still new to her. While their romping the night before certainly opened up a different part of Margaret, she’s not quite sure that she could start anything on her own.
Thankfully, she doesn’t need too.
Julian plucks a bar of herbal soap from the side rim of the bath tub, dips it into the water, and starts to bathe. After an awkward moment of hesitation, Margaret follows suit. By the time that the Duke has finished, she’s just started running fingers through her long, dark curls.
So focused on the task is Margaret, she doesn’t notice when Julian pops the top off the honeyed apple scented oil. At least, not until his slicked hands are pressing against Margaret’s shoulders. The way he has to move to stretch like this causes the water to splash against the sides of the tub.
“Oh,” says Margaret, hands dropping down to her sides. They vanish under the water. Her eyes slip shut, breath hitching. Julian’s hands travel down, making to rub at the swell of her breasts. Fingers tweak her nipples—it’s an expert sort of move, and for a moment the young woman is drowning in her inexperience, just as she had the night before.
But it truly only does last a moment. Then Julian’s hands continue their trek, vanishing under the steaming bath water. Fingers run along Margaret’s side, grave over the flat of her stomach; they land on her hip, giving her an encouraging tug, pulling her forward.
Margaret listens, pliable in this intimate moment like she never would be outside these walls. Without her clothing on, without experience to fall back on - she feels a little bit lost, and she feels a lot more willing to take directions from someone else.
In that moment, the someone else just so happens to be Julian.
“Come here, precious. Let me take care of you,” says the Duke. He tugs Margaret into his lap. She spreads her legs, straddling the Duke, wrapping her arms around his shoulders for support. The air bites at the newly revealed skin, leaving goose pimples in its wake. “I promise, no matter what happens, you will always be my queen.”
“Do you think something’s going to happen?”
“The world is a strange and violent place. Anything could happen.”
“How very reassuring,” chuckles Margaret. Her head drops forward, resting against Julian’s shoulder, when a steady hand slips around to rest against her ass. Fingers knead the firm flesh, slipping between the crack just for a moment.
“I live to be reassuring,” answers Julian, cheekily. He presses a kiss to the side of Margaret’s temple, before continuing to reach around, pressing his finger against her wet cunt.
The oil is of good quality. It doesn’t wash away in the heated water. Instead, it serves as lubrication, letting the tip of Julian’s finger slip easily into Margaret. She sighs, shifts; doesn’t know what to do with herself, nor what she should do for him.
And that’s it, if we’re being honest. Margaret feels like she should be doing something back to the Duke, but she isn’t certain what it should be. Really, being new to this entire line of bedroom games has left her at a severe disadvantage. Were she the Duke, Margaret thinks that she would be sorely disappointed to receive such a lack luster partner.
“Relax,” says Julian, as if reading her mind. “Just relax and let me show you something. Not all pleasure comes from lying in bed. There are plenty of other ways to—ah, get to know each other, if you would.”
Julian’s thumb presses against her clit, seeking out that sensitive bud of hooded flesh. His finger slips farther into her, and then the tip of a second finger joins it. Surely, it’s nowhere near the girth of his cock, but it’s enough to draw a small mewl from the inexperienced young woman.
Margaret’s painted red nails bite at Julian’s shoulders. With the oil as an aid, it doesn’t take long at all before he has both fingers firmly inside of her.
Unlike the night before, it only lasts for a moment. Then his fingers are gone, hands back on Margaret’s hips. The Duke draws her close, hands sliding over her firm buttocks, dancing along the crevice.
For a split moment, Margaret is afraid that he’s going to make that step already, make it so soon. The taboo that Charlotte spoke of once, heard from the baker’s son while she was in town, relishing in his tales of debauchery and raunchy fantasy.
But, no, Julian’s hands are back on Margaret’s hips. He says, “take control.”
Startled, Margaret asks, “what?”
“Show me that you want this,” says Julian. He tilts his head to the side, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Show me that you want this even a little bit as much as I do.”
“How? I thought—you said you would show me...”
“And I will. But first, I want to see something. Anything, Margaret. Try anything.”
Margaret hasn’t the slightest notion of what she should be trying. The young woman steals herself, takes a deep breath, and kisses Julian. She’s tentative at first, having never started something like this before. but she takes what she’s heard in town, and she takes what happened the night before, and she tries to do to the Duke what she would like down to herself.
The young woman steadies herself by resting one hand on Julian’s shoulder. Her other trails over his chest, vanishing under the water to run against the crease between hip and thigh. Margaret kisses the Duke until she can’t breathe, until her lips feel sore and swollen. When she goes to pull away, a hand on the back of her head stops her, and the Duke deepens the kiss.
He breathes into her lungs, filling her with a stagnant sort of air. It makes Margaret’s chest flutter, makes her head feel light and floaty.
Twice, he does it. By then, there are dark spots in the corner of Margaret’s vision. His hand drops away; their lips break contact. She gasps for air, relaxing against the Duke’s chest, boneless, torn between distress and comfort.
Julian’s breath is loud in her ear. Fingers knead at Margaret’s shoulders, trace the curve of her spine. “Pleasure comes in many forms,” he says, lightly. “Especially in ways that one might not expect.”
Margaret can’t think of anything to say, and so she remains silent and lets the Duke continue to rub her back, her hips, and even, for a moment, her neck.
Just when she thinks that she’s about to doze off, Julian urges her to sit up and kisses her again. Fingers tangle in her hair. Julian breathes into her lungs again, but this time the motion is accompanied by a shifting of his hips. Water sloshes over the edge of the tub, most likely making a mess; his cock sliding along the crevice of her ass.
And then the kiss is tender, against her cheek, her neck. The fingers are threading lightly through Margaret’s hair, as if to calm her, to relax her. It works. At the same time, it doesn’t. Exhaustion is at war with excitement, and she finds herself moaning softly when Julian begins to rub her back in earnest. their position gives him plenty of leverage to knead the tense, knotted muscles.
It’s only when she has gone well and truly boneless that Julian stops. “There we are, princess. Up with you now. The next best thing is breakfast, and perhaps a spot of tea.”
Margaret finds that she doesn’t want to untangle herself from the Duke. It takes a bit more insistence befo
re she clambers out of the bath. He follows her, getting a towel and draping it about her shoulders.
Then Julian goes to return the oil to its place on the counter. While there, Julian picks up the pendant, holding it aloft by the thin silver chain. It catches on the light coming in through the parted blinds, but doesn’t glow near as bright as it does in the evening hours. Still, it’s one of the most beautiful things that Margaret has ever laid eyes on.
“If I asked you too, right this moment,” says Julian, turning to face Margaret. “Would you be ready to leave?”
Margaret tucks a strand of wet hair behind her ear. Despite the fact that they had just been bathing together, she still feels sorely under dressed. Cold, too. There’s a draft coming in from somewhere. “You’ve told me countless times that you want us to leave England. I just don’t understand why! Where would you want to go? Why would you want to leave? It looks like you have everything here.”
“What you see here belongs to both of us.”
“Then we both have everything here. Why would you want to leave?”
Julian wraps the chain around his palm, fingers curling around the crystal pendant. “Didn’t you want to start a new life? Away from this old world. That’s what you said.”
Margaret blinks. “Did I say that?”
There’s a flash of something in the Duke’s eyes. Surprise, maybe, or even concern. But then he’s nodding, fiercely. “Yes, you did. You told me that early yesterday morning. You said that you had made a wish on a shooting star, and that you wanted a new life. A change, so to speak.”
That’s funny. Margaret doesn’t remember telling the Duke that—but then, she must have, for else he would never be able to tell that had been said. Margaret picks up her dress from where it still lays on the floor.
Is it wrong to put on the same dress as from the day before? Should she ask for someone to just bring her a new gown?