The Princess of Cleves #13

"No, I am not ill. Thank you, I just had a chill."

Footsteps approached. It was perfect, her faithless lover could not see who it was, and Mary greeted the Duke with exaggerated glee. Rosalind responded by again shivering. "Why, here's the man himself. Let us ask him about this little tale."

Without daring to look up from the ground, Rosalind leaned over to whisper in her ear. "You will start a quarrel between the Duke and the Viscount de Chartes, if you reveal to the Duke that the Viscount betrayed his confidence."

"How wise you are, not that I give a fig for your thoughts on the matter." She enjoyed seeing Rosalind's eyes widen in shock.

The Duke face softened as he approached; he had seen his beloved Rosalind. Mary couldn't remember the last time she'd had so much fun. The Duke had a shy lopsided smile and a touch of a blush on his cheek. It was very becoming to him. "I believe you have a question for me Madame, to which Rosalind objects," he said, his eyes fixed on Rosalind.

"You are correct. I have heard a curious thing, about you, and a woman. It would seem that you both fell in love with one another, but the lady gave you no sign of it. Somehow, you heard of as extraordinary confession she made to her husband, where she professed her love of you and begged her husband to carry her away." Mary gave the Duke a winning smile as he stared at her, like a rabbit flushed out by a hound. "Although you denied to the Viscount that the tale concerned you, he did not believe it. He said you were glowing as you related the tale."

Beside her Rosalind took a noisy breath, and the Duke's face was becoming mottled. Embarrassed, distraught to see the confusion in Rosalind, unsure of Mary's motives, he could not even collect himself enough to make a cogent denial. Instead he stood there, staring.

"Just look at him, his answer is written on his face," Mary said laughing.

The Duke took a deep breath and cleared his mind. He would have to dissemble by instinct. "My answer is that I am shocked at the Viscount's callous betrayal. To think he would value idle gossip over my friendship pains me." It was a good start. "It is strange to me as well, given I am privy to his secrets, and will be revenged of him. But Madame," and as he said this he drew close to the Princess Mary, an intimate light in her eyes, "How can you, of all people, think I am so happy to be beloved?"

Mary had to stifle a laugh. Trying to distract her with hints to an affection that died in his breast as soon as he saw Rosalind, the Duke was desperate. "Save you sweet words for your favorite. You are embarrassed, my Duke, not shocked or angry." Glancing out of the corner of her eyes, Mary could see her looking crestfallen, always so quick to believe the Duke loved another.

"I fear the just reproaches of my friend; in fact I have so many emotions, I simply don't know what to feel. I am glad that my friend didn't entrust me with the woman's name, otherwise I would probably blurt it out in my distress." The Duke gave a dramatic sigh, peeking at Mary to see if she believed anything he was saying. "All I know is that my friend is deeply in love, and with more cause to complain than any other man in the world."

"How is this?" asked Mary. "After all, the lady does love him."

"Do you think someone with a true passion would confess it so to her husband? I think the lady is naive, and has confused the feeble fluttering of her heart with love. Still, my friend is overwrought with joy, to think that she fears his affection so, and believes he is the happiest lover in the world." He could not keep a note of bitterness creeping into his throat.

"Your friend is easily satisfied," Mary replied. She herself felt like the cat that ate the canary, the two lovers were both so upset it was with great difficulty they prevented themselves from fleeing the room. "I think I am of the same opinion as Rosalind, that this is all a fabrication. After all, how would it be known? Are we to really believe this man was spying upon this couple at the exact right moment? Or that the wife decided to share that which must shame her? I suppose the husband could be unworthy, and have shared this confidence, but it seems more likely that they were spied upon."

Mary saw a wicked sparkle in the Duke's eyes. Fate had presented him with an opportunity to injure his most formidable rival. "Jealousy can drive a man to do many imprudent things," the Duke said, his eyes meeting those of Rosalind for a moment.

She fled with the Duke behind her. He took her arm to halt her, and whispered in her ear. "I would give my life Rosalind, for you to know only one thing. If I implied an affection for Princess Mary, I did it only to divert her attention from the true object of my love."

She pulled away from him, and did not even look over her shoulder as she walked away. Throwing her skirts in her way, she contrived to fall, and limped back to her chambers with a proper excuse.

* * * *

The Prince went to the Louvre looking for his wife, and was told she'd sprained her ankle. After their fight, there had been a tearful reconciliation, and now things were peaceful between them. At home, he found her in bed, trying to look as though the pain she suffered was physical, and not emotional.

When he entered, she would not meet his eyes. It had been a long morning. The Prince had been looking forward to greeting his wife, despite their often difficult relationship. Now she was sullen. The Prince kicked off his boots, and crouched on the bed. Pouncing on Rosalind, he began to nuzzle her neck, growling playfully.

"Get off, you'll hurt my ankle," she said, pushing him away.

"You didn't injure yourself. I'll pretend to believe your lies in public, but there is only you and I here. Kiss me my wife, I missed you." The Prince reached to take his wife's hands and was stopped by the coldness in her eyes. "Have I done something wrong?" he asked.

He thought of how he had pressed her, and finally deceived her, in order to learn the Duke's name. He though she had forgiven him, but maybe not. Closing his eyes, he leaned his head against the nape of her neck. "I'm sorry, jealousy breeds a peculiar type of stupidity, one that leads its sufferers to betray those who least deserve it."

He was surprised when he felt her lips on his cheek, her gentle fingers caressing his hair. She was smiling at him, and he smiled back. Their teeth clicked together when they kissed. Laughing, they wrapped their arms around one another and fell back onto the bed. The Princess hiked up her skirt, then mounted her husband. He moaned, freeing her breasts as she slipped him inside her. One hand on her nipple, he used the other to guide her body up down.

"Turn around so I can see your asshole."

As Rosalind delicately torqued her body, he grabbed both her thighs, yanking her sex to his mouth. He locked his arms around her legs, pinning her to his face as he licked and sucked her. He thrust his tongue deep inside her sex and then nipped at her hidden bud.

There was something hot and wet laving his sex, and he felt Rosalind's teeth scraping down his phallus. Arching his hips, he rose to meet her mouth. They were both groaning, writhing, thrusting. He began to probe her anus with his tongue, and he felt it flutter against his mouth, and he came as she came. She rested for a moment, her ass thrust high in the air, her cheek on his thigh. Freeing herself from the tangle of her chemise, she settled beside him, her chest heaving.

"The next time I make a confession to you, be kind enough to keep it to yourself, or you will find me less forgiving," she said, kissing her husband's cheek.

"I beg your pardon? What are you talking about?"

"Today, Princess Mary repeated a tale concerning the Duke. He is in love with a married woman, and she loves him. In fact, she loves him so much, she begged her husband to carry her away."

The Prince's mouth popped open in shock. "How could this be?" To himself, he mumbled, "Now he will never believe that you do not love him." "How could this be?" she repeated, sitting up and glaring at him. "It would seem that the person you entrusted your secret to went and prattled to the Duke, who prattled to the Viscount, who's prattling to the entire court. Thankfully, I have remained unnamed in the affair."

"Oh yes, heaven forbid rumor stain your good name," the Prince replied scowling. "Do you think I am eager to be attached to this affair? Do you think I have shared with some person something that I would like to hide from myself?"

"What of the Chevalier?"

As Rosalind spoke, he became angry that his wife suspected such an honorable man. "It was you who were betrayed, no doubt by your precious Marechal."

"I have barely spoken to the man since I returned," Rosalind snapped. It was a half truth, for they had seen one another, but had spent little time on conversation. There was also the fact that the Marechal was well acquainted with her affection for the Duke. Why would he start gossiping now?

They stared at each other: both positive that they hadn't revealed this secret to someone who wasn't already a trusted confidante. No longer able to discuss the matter of who revealed the secret without becoming angry, they instead spoke of how to deal with the rumor. It was decided that Rosalind would maintain her cold treatment towards the Duke in hopes he would forget any wild ideas about her being in love with him.

The Prince left, and once in his quarters, he carefully erased the smell of her from his face. There was a hard pit in his heart; he was beginning to hate his wife. Her foolishness he could forgive, but her mistrust angered him. It didn't matter that the most likely scenario was the Chevalier gossiping with someone, the Prince couldn't believe his lover would betray him. If it it wasn't the Chevalier, it left Rosalind doggedly accusing him of her own faults. He changed into his nightshirt and waited for the Chevalier to knock.

His lover had a cheerful smile which faded as soon as he laid eyes on the Prince. "What is it that's bothering you?" the Chevalier asked, laying beside him in the bed.

"There is a rumor in the court, about a woman who told her husband she was in love with another man." As he spoke, he watched the Chevalier's face. He was relieved to find shock and hurt flicker over it.

"And you suspect me of this?" the Chevalier asked, scrambling out of the bed to put on his boots.

"No, but Rosalind insists it wasn't the Marechal. I am at a loss as to how this happened."

"Why would I do this? I want to leave with you and your wife." The Chevalier's cheeks were flushed, and tears glittered at the corners of his eyes.

"Love, come, I don't suspect you." The Chevalier sat back down, his expression inscrutable. When he held the Chevalier, he continued, "I never suspected you. But if it wasn't you, or the Marechal, or I, or Rosalind, it leaves only the trees to have whispered our secret about."

The Chevalier's arms tightened around him. "We will leave soon."

Sighing, the Prince said, "First, I must go to Spain, and we will be separated."

"Don't be so morose, you will have your wife."

The Prince did not reply. Thoughts of the courtiers gossiping about the Duke, and a woman he knew to be his wife, and their love, consumed him. What would he do, traveling for weeks with her in close quarters? She loved the Duke so much it was beyond her control, and he knew. What bold acts would that knowledge drive him to?

The Chevalier shook his shoulders. "Prince, do you want me to leave you to your brooding?"

"Huh?" The Prince blushed as he realized he had been staring in space as his lover talked to him. "No, stay, for a little while. I am dreading the trip to Spain, if I must be honest."

"Would you like me to join you?"

The Prince laughed. "No, the whole court would discover our affair." The silence stretched, and the Prince touched his brow. "I don't know how to feel about my wife anymore."

"You love her, what else is there?" the Chevalier asked chuckling.

The Prince rolled his eyes. Tugging at the Chevalier's breeches, he said, "I can think of a few other things."

"Well then, we love her, after we are done loving one another."

The Chevalier kissed the Prince, and he pushed his wife to the back of his mind. This was all he needed, his lover's hands and lips on his skin. He wept, his face pressed to the Chevalier's neck, as he took him. The Chevalier stroked his hair and murmured sweetly in his ear, soothing the Prince. Their mouths met, and they breathed together as they came.

When he woke from his first sleep, his bed was empty. He rolled onto the spot where his lover had slept, still warm and scented with sage.

The next morning, the Prince rose feeling a chill that no fire would warm. The estrangement of his wife's heart would destroy him if he continued to mourn it, so instead he hardened himself to her. In the company of others, he was assiduous in his attentions to Rosalind as always. When they were alone, he would not even look at her. Their trip to Spain would be a disaster. Thankfully, Madame Elisa's wedding had the entire court in disarray, and their trip remained distant.