The Princess of Cleves #12

His mirth quickly dissolved to turmoil. He didn't know who she loved. The Chevalier who she desired to leave with them, the Marechal who had earned an apology, or him, to whom she was so cold. For a minute, he lost track of the conversation. His attention snapped back to the Cleves when he heard a peal of cold laughter. Rosalind was frightened, and his hand clutched his sword hilt. Every muscle in his body was tense, but he knew were he to burst forth from the garden, it would be his lover's ruin.

The Prince would send his wife away to a convent, and challenge him to a duel. It wasn't possible that the Prince would believe that the Duke just happened to be there spying, not with his wife begging to stay in the country. It pained him, but the best thing he could do for her was to hope the Prince calmed himself soon, which he did.

As the Prince tried to conjure Rosalind's secret from her lips, the Duke chewed on his nails, cheering the Prince on in his mind. He became flustered when the Prince mentioned the portrait, and felt warmth grow in his breast again at her diplomatic reply. She did love him. Now when the Prince pressed her, he was relieved that she played the stoic. Finally, the Prince relented.

With the pair in such distress, he expected them to stalk back to their servants, glaring at one another. Instead, they made love on the bench. He watched their faces, the emotions that colored their expressions of pleasure. Rosalind opened her little mouth to pant, and closed it with a worried frown. The Prince was tasting her fingers, and through that joy, an expression of sorrow would break through. They made love to as though they were saving one another from drowning. It was not pretty. Whatever tenderness there was between them was quashed by one raw emotion after one another. The Prince was jerking Rosalind against him, faster and faster until he gasped and came.

Rosalind rested in his arms, murmuring to him, stroking his blond hair. After a minute, he began to move again. This time, she leaned back in his arms, her hand disappearing between her skirts.

He knew her fingers were busy working the flushed bud between her legs. The ache between his legs was too great, and he began to work the head of his sex. He could see her face turning pink, and grimacing as she came close to climax. Throwing her head back, she bared her teeth, her legs kicking. She pressed her wrist between her lips to stifle her cry. The Duke tasted blood in his mouth when he bit back his own moan. For a moment black spots danced in front of his eyes, and then he remembered to breath. He spilt his seed into the dirt, thrusting at the air.

Opening his eyes, he found the Prince and Princess smiling, nuzzling one another. Behind them, the servants were pointing, but they didn't care. It seemed they had restored the bonds of their marriage with some exhibitionism and orgasms. Even though he may possess Rosalind's heart, he was still jealous of the privileges her husband enjoyed. If the Duke understood them correctly, the Prince and the Chevalier shared Rosalind between them, and he wasn't sure he did understand them. He felt himself growing hard again, and he tried to think of something else, but instead found the vision of her body painted into his mind. He could almost feel her legs gripping his waist.

Then he thought of Lignerol, his touch, his sweet gray eyes. He released his sex and fastened his breeches. After the Cleves righted themselves, a servant approached them with orders from the King to leave immediately for Compiegne. Before he left, he informed his wife that he expected her to return to court. He was gentle with his order, and despite her heartbreaking confession, his farewell was warm.

The Duke was soon back on the road, inquiring for the manor of his sister, the Duchess de Mercoeur. He was looking forward to a bath, a meal, and an evening in bed with his favorite. There was a smile on his face so broad it made his mouth sore. His heart was swollen with pride to think he affected Rosalind so deeply that she had to hide herself away. To have obtained her love, when no one else could, it was something he found difficult to keep to himself. He took out her handkerchief and pressed it to his lips.

The household was relieved to see him when he returned to the manor. He ate while Lignerol prepared his bath. In a playful mood, he pulled Lignerol into the tub with him. He was cross at getting wet, splashing water everywhere as he tried to escape, but the Duke pinned his favorite beneath him.

Lignerol struggled until his anger turned to lust. They made love in the bath, Lignerol driving himself into the Duke as they lay on their sides, their hips bruising on the hard bottom of the tub. The Duke was rubbing his sex, and they climaxed together. That night, Lignerol held the Duke close as they slept.