“Wait for me,” she said. “Wait at the end of the path.”
“Yes.”
With that one word, he fled into the deeper dark of the greater night. Monica rose from her chair and walked to the wardrobe. She took out a dress and donned it hastily. Every part of her knew that what she was doing was wrong – that this was absolutely not the sort of thing that Mother or Grandmother or the women in the world should be doing – and yet simultaneously every part of her felt that it was right. The thought of Roland – yes, Roland! – waiting for her out there filled her with heat. Her hands shook as she dressed, but she did not delay.
She walked quietly down the stairs and opened the door so slowly it seemed to take an age. But then she was in the night, and the path was the only sure thing, solid beneath her feet.
*****
She walked to the end of the path and waited. The moon was dim and clouds had moved across the sky with the express intention of obscuring her illicit tete-a-tete. For a moment, she entertained the possibility that this was all a cruel joke, that His Grace was teasing her, that throngs of lords and ladies would emerge from the bushes cackling with glee. But then His Grace emerged from behind a nearby bush. He could not have looked more of the madman had he tried. His hair had grown longer in the intervening months, and he had neglected to brush it. His fringe fell wildly to just above his eyes. His clothes were of fine cut but looked as though they had been thrown on. This sense of madness was heightened by the darkness, which, though not wholly obscuring his features, almost metamorphosed him into a silhouette of shadow.
“My lady,” he said.
The night was warm, and Monica felt sweat bead upon her body. “Your Grace,” she said.
He walked forward until he was standing opposite her. She looked up at him, and he looked down at her. She felt safe, which was crazy in itself. Here she was in the darkness with an evidently improper man and she felt safe!
“May I kiss you?”
“Don’t ask,” Monica said. “Just kiss me.”
He grabbed her dress, pulled her to him, and then leaned down and kissed her hard upon the lips. She kissed him in return. Animalistic impulses took over, and she did nothing to fight them. Her body was full of fire. Roland moved his hands over her, from the front of her dress around to the back. He pressed through her dress and grabbed her buttocks. She had never been grabbed there, and she felt a twinge of hot pleasure in her womanhood. He grabbed them harder, so hard it almost hurt, and groaned loudly.
“You feel amazing,” he said in surprise.
“Keep going,” Monica urged. “Just – just keep going.”
He rubbed her buttocks as they kissed. Their tongues danced together, and kinetic energy buzzed between then. Her body was pressed right up against his. She had the feeling of being pushed up against a stone wall, and yet it felt incredible. She was trapped, and she loved it. Her hands seemed to take on a life of their own. They moved down the front of his body to his britches. She grabbed down there and felt for his manhood. She was utterly inexperienced in this, but after some grabbing, she found it. It was hard, and long, and thick, and pressed urgently through his britches.
“Monica,” he moaned into her ear, his breath warm. “Oh, keep doing that.”
“Touch me,” Monica replied.
“Where?”
“Where I am touching you.”
He moved one hand from her buttocks around to her front. He fumbled for a moment and then pressed his hand against her womanhood through the fabric of her dress. She gasped. She had never been touched there. She had only even touched herself there, and that had always been filled with guilt. Ladies didn’t do that. But now she didn’t feel guilty. The pleasure was too intense for that. He pressed his middle finger against her womanhood and rubbed hard, from side to side. She rubbed his manhood just as vigorously. They stayed like that for a time, rubbing one another.
And then Monica began to fumble at his britches. They seemed like silly things when they were captivated by such pleasure. Why should he wear them? She pulled at the lace and then yanked them down so they were around his boots. He bent over and fiddled with them and then they were gone, upon the floor somewhere in the darkness. His manhood, vaguely visible, was a huge hard outline. She reached down and touched it, nothing between it now, just flesh on flesh. He moaned louder as she rubbed it up and down. She was astonished by the size of it. Are all men this huge? a background part of her thought.
“My dress,” Monica said.
“My lady?”
“It is in the way.”
“You wish to—here?”
“Yes,” Monica moaned. She was no longer thinking like that anymore; no longer was she a lady’s lady. No longer was she a mouse. All her thoughts now were aimed toward completing what they had started: in finding It; in removing obstacles that stood between the two sexual creatures in the garden and the almighty Pleasure. “Remove it, Roland.”
He turned her bodily and began unlacing her with a speed the best tailor would have found hard to match. He untied the last of the puzzle and then pulled the dress down. She stepped out of it, and then without hesitation removed her nightclothes. She was naked apart from her stockings. Roland looked up and down and his manhood seemed to pulse in Monica’s hand.
“You are a goddess,” he murmured.
“No,” Monica said, and rubbed his manhood softly. “I am just a woman.”
He reached down and touched her womanhood. It was wet, wetter than it had been her entire life. And it was warm, and ready, and hungry. “I want it,” she said. “But I don’t know how.”
His Grace did not say a thing. He placed his hands under her armpits and lifted her off her feet. He carried her to the grass that bordered the path and laid her upon it. The night was warm, and the grass was like a blanket on her skin. He leaned over her. “Are you sure?”
“Do it.”
He reached down and touched his manhood, and then pushed it inside of her. There was stark, bright pain as he filled her. She did not think he could fit; he was so big. But after a minute or so of slow thrusting, the pain began to subside and in its place was an otherworldly pleasure. Warmth filled her down there and she heard moans escape her lips.
After a few minutes, Roland thrust into her harder, and harder. Monica lifted her legs and moved with his thrusts, wanting all of him, wanting to be filled entirely. There was a spot deep within her that sent pulsating beams of pleasure throughout her each time his manhood touched it. She craved that spot; she needed it seen to.
He buried his head in her neck and thrust into her harder and harder. Monica bounced up and down on his manhood, feeling only the pleasure from the spot within her, feeling only the heat. And then It came, the Pleasure, the thing she had been searching for. A wave built within her, a wave comprised of heat, and it smashed against a dam that twenty-four years of boredom and oppression had constructed. The Pleasure smashed the dam over and over until it collapsed, and the Pleasure washed through her in an unstoppable tsunami.
Her womanhood went tight around him, and the Pleasure consumed her. She closed her eyes and saw only heat, felt only pleasure, felt only the moment in which she hung. After around twenty seconds, it passed. She touched Roland’s hand and guided it to her breasts.
“Will you, Your Grace? Will you, Roland?”
He did.
His seed spilled within her and fell from her womanhood into the grass. His manhood wilted, and he rolled to the side.
They lay breathing, staring up at the stars, for a long time. Monica had never felt so content, and yet she knew that what they had just done was generally agreed to be abhorrent. Not only had they done that, but they had done it whilst unmarried. Worse still, they had enjoyed it.
After around an hour of simply lying side by side, they rose and began to dress. Roland moved clo
se to her when the symbols of their propriety were donned once more. He put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her neck. “Marry me,” he whispered into her ear. “Marry me, sweet mouse.”
“I should have to ask Mother,” Monica said.
“She will not refuse me,” Roland said. It was true. A poor widow does not refuse a duke. “But I will not ask her without your consent. I want you as my wife. I want to laugh and love with you for the rest of my days. I want to bury myself in you. I want to—damn it, I am not a poet! Marry me, sweet lady. Marry me, dangerous lady. Marry me, mad lady.”
“I do,” Monica said. “And, Your Grace?”
“Hmm?”
“Make love to me once more before the morn.”
“My lady!”
She reached forward, grabbing for him.
Pleasure rose around them.
A mouse indeed!
My Lady’s Honor
It was their first season, and the vibrancy of life was potent in all of them. Lyla Wemmick, Marie Patton, and Monica Burrows: three women for whom life was just commencing. They were walking in the footsteps of their mothers, but they were doing so in considerably more style. The brother of the Duke of Wellcopse, Haywood Sinnet, had unexpectedly come to the ball, and the three of them stood in a tight circle talking about how handsome he was, or perhaps he only seemed handsome because his clothes cost more than some homesteads.
“You’re awful!” Marie hissed, trying to keep her voice low.
“You are,” Lyla agreed. Monica always said outrageous things, things Lyla and Marie would never say. She had once compared the king to a duck (in private hearing, with nobody around). Lyla and Marie had not known whether to laugh or cry in outrage.
“What?” Monica said, feigning innocence. “I am simply saying a man like that must be a complete bore to talk to. There is nothing horrible about that.”
“But what if somebody should hear you?” Lyla said, glancing around the ballroom. All over the place, lords and ladies stood conversing. Father and Mother, Lord and Lady Wemmick, stood in a huddle of old men and women, most likely talking about keeping house or some other topic not at all interesting to Lyla.
“Then I should be burnt at the stake,” Monica said, in her lazy drawl. “There is nothing at all wrong with that, is there!”
“Monica!” Marie gasped.
“Shall we walk amongst the gardens?” Monica said, at length. “It is so stuffy in here.”
Marie and Lyla agreed, and together they left the ballroom and went outside. More lords and ladies talked out here, and footmen could be seen everywhere, carrying drinks and food hither and thither. Monica led them to the back of the garden, out of the way, where there was nothing but flowers and a solitary bird that flew into the air when it spotted them.
“Is there some secret back here, Monica?” Marie said.
“Just the quiet,” Monica said. “I do so hate large gatherings.”
“We should be finding a husband,” Marie said.
“Yes, I suppose we should.”
But finding a husband could wait. They were all one-and-nine, all in the fresh newness of life that promised that the world would kneel before them, that life would warp itself around their preconceptions of what it should be. Monica was the worst for this. Lyla was sure in her dreams she saw herself being taken in by a rich lord who would tolerate her desire to be seen in public playing the violin. Marie was quite bad, too. She wished to become a famous painter and dreamt that she would find a husband who would not only tolerate but facilitate this aim. Lyla’s aims were more realistic: that she be allowed to study Greek and Roman in the privacy of a well-lit library. But Lyla knew that the three of them were outside of the main. Just look at them: huddling in the gardens, out of sight, when they should be striving to tempt a suitable match.
Monica’s mouth was half-open when Lord Haywood Sinnet, brother to the duke, emerged from behind the shrubbery. “Hiding, are we?” he said in a tone of supercilious glee, like a teacher catching their charge doing something illicit. “There are search parties out, you know.”
“There are?” Marie gasped.
“Yes, Miss Patton. Your mother searches. You, too, Miss Burrows. Your father looks absolutely livid. You are safe for now, I believe, Lady Wemmick.”
“We better go!” Marie cried.
Monica yawned and rose lazily from the flowerbed against which she’d been leaning. “Fine, yes, let’s go,” she said.
“Wait a moment,” Lyla said, as the two made to race back toward the estate. “I will come, too.”
“Oh, but wait a moment,” Lord Sinnet said. “I wish to talk with you, Lady Wemmick.”
“I really must go—”
“It will take but a moment.”
Monica and Marie had disappeared. It was like they had vanished into the warm June air. For some reason, Lyla felt uncomfortable around this man. She had met him once before, at another party, and when they had danced, his breath had reeked of something ungodly. His clothes, though fine, were slightly disordered, as though he’d slept in them. And his eyes were shot with lightning bolts of blood. He walked slowly into the garden, blocking her.
“My lady,” he said. “I have not forgotten our dance.”
“Yes, my lord.”
She could think of nothing else to say.
“You are so timid, like a tiny little stick. Yes, an utter stick. I wonder if you would snap. Would you?”
“That is a strange thing to say, my—”
And then the fresh, new hope that had lived in her for the longest time was quashed. After it was all done, she would envision those three laughing girls and call them idiots. What did they know about the world?
*****
Lord Wemmick,
I see no other course of action other than that of marriage. Both our families have been shamed by this. I will not talk of love. I fear there is little of that. I only talk of reality. And the reality is that the only way we can save any kind of face is if your daughter and I marry. Please reply forthwith.
Thornton Sinnet, Duke of Wellcopse.
Monica sighed and placed the letter in the drawer of her bedroom, where she kept it most of the time, except when she wanted to bring it out and make real what seemed like a disastrous dream.
It had been six months since the ball where it had all gone wrong. Since months since His Grace’s brother had died in the most scandalous way possible. And the whole country thought she was a murderess, that she had gotten away with a crime against God. Marie and Monica no longer wrote even though she was now technically a duchess. Even a title that grand could not completely cleanse her.
Her husband—ha! Never had a title been so ill-fitting!
He had not spoken to her since the marriage when it had been necessary to be seen speaking to one another, and then he had spoken with a distance that made it seem like she was not even there, that she was simply watching the events transpire. That was how she felt since that afternoon in the garden with that man; as though she was watching everything.
Christmas had passed two days ago without ceremony, and now there was little for Lyla to do but skulk through Wellcopse Castle to the library, where she spent most of her time. Homer did not judge her. She slumped down in her usual chair and bent over the old tome. His Grace had a momentous library, full of dust and books and low candlelight, and he had permitted her to use it. His actual words had been: “Go where you will.” And then he had turned away from her, as though even the sight of her was an offence to him.
She read for a time and then looked up at the sound of footsteps. Perhaps it was Tammy, the one maidservant who was either oblivious of her past or did not care about it. But it was not Tammy. It was His Grace, her husband. He was a handsome man, with strong features and wide shoulders. His eyes were thankfully
not the same colour as his younger brother’s. His were blue, like a summer sky. LordSinnet’s had been brown, like winter mud.
His Grace walked into the library slowly, as though afraid he might disturb its equilibrium. Lyla had never seen him in here. He normally stayed as far away from her as possible. They ate in different rooms, they slept in different rooms, they did everything in different rooms. The Duke and Duchess Sinnet were simply people who shared a house. No marital bond apart from the official title existed between them. They had not consummated their marriage. Lyla was glad of that. She couldn’t take that, not after — but those thoughts were best left undisturbed.
“My lady,” His Grace said, and walked to the desk, looking down at her. “The hour grows late.”
“Does it?” Lyla said. “I hadn’t noticed. What is the time, Your Grace?”
“It is six o’clock.”
“Hmm.”
The silence hung in the air like an un-crossable breach. Lyla regarded the man who was her husband in name, and her husband regarded her. She tried not to think of his dead brother – the brother she had apparently murdered – but it was difficult. It was not that they looked alike. It was that she knew she was here because of that day. He found a chair, pulled it over to the desk, and sat.
“My lady,” he said, looking anywhere but into her eyes. “I believe we have existed apart for long enough. I do not know if I was mourning, if I was simply confused, but I realized today that I have made a mistake. I have not even asked for your side of the story. In truth, this whole ordeal has made me miserable. So, I am here to ask you to tell me, please, what happened that afternoon. Why did my brother die?”
Shutters closed in Lyla’s mind. Undisturbed memories formed membranes. Her mind crumpled in upon itself and blocked any of it from emerging. “I do not know,” she said stiffly.
“How can you not know?”
“I do not know!” she cried, rising. “Oh, Your Grace, I cannot speak of it! I do not know! I do not know!”
She walked to the other end of the room and pretended to look up and down a bookcase. His Grace watched her with steady eyes and then sighed. “Do you not think it would be better,” he said, “if you told me? I am the one who saved you from the gallows. Accidental, I said, both publically and privately. Accidental, but how can you explain the state of his dress—and yours? Was there anything—dishonorable happening? You will note I have not touched you.”
Romance: Detective Romance: A Vicious Affair (Victorian Regency Intrigue 19th England Romance) (Historical Mystery Detective Romance) Page 13