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The Princess of Cleves #01

By: AntoinetteM



In preparing her daughter for Paris, Madame de Chartes warned her, "If you judge from appearances in Court you will be deceived; truth and appearance seldom go together." 

That faded rose would twitch her skirts, and continue her discourse. "Ambition and gallantry are the soul of the court. There are so many cabals, men and women alike playing, that love is always mixed with business, and business with love." While she spoke, her daughter, Rosalind, embroidered cushions and handkerchiefs, and changed from a girl to a woman under her gaze.

When she was 16, her daughter was allowed to start making her trousseau. If her daughter's hands idled, if her eyes grew soft, Mme. de Chartes scolded her. Even worse were the moments when her hand lingered on the folds of some intimate garment, then Mme. de Chartes sent her to room with a carafe of water for company. 

At 17, silk was purchased to make a gown, a demure pink that Rosalind fell in love with. Mme. de Chartes choose a sensible gray broadcloth and honey velvet as well. It took only a month to sew the gowns, and the other eleven months Mme. de Chartes was driven mad finding tasks for her daughter. For two weeks they had been packing.

Mme. de Chartes looked over at her daughter in the carriage. It was the start of their long journey from the quiet of the country to the glittering city of Paris. 

Rosalind was 18, and it was time for her to make her debut in court. Her delicate cheeks were flushed like a newly opened rose. Her hair a rich brown tinted with red, thick and lustrous, curled down her shoulders. She had a prim mouth, with a bottom lip that was a bit too large, and sharp little teeth. Her hands were small and neat, her feet trim in their little boots. Too naive for the court was all her mother thought looking at her. 

Mme. de Chartes did her best to warn her daughter against the follies of romance. She even told the tale of a young maid, virtuous, who refused the advances of wicked gallant, though her body melted at every touch. What she never told her daughter was the maid was she, and the gallant Diana, the Duchess de Valentinois. After that, Diana had become the sworn enemy of the de Chartes. It did not matter if it had been over 20 years ago, the widow still blushed at the memory.

They were young, the Mme. de Chartes just married. Diana requested her company one dreary afternoon to keep her entertained with cards. She wanted to bet playing Lansquenet, and suggested they use their clothing as money. Chartes stuttered at the request. Diana came and knelt by her chair. She placed her face in Charte's hands, and began to kiss her palms and fingers. As she did, she promised favors to the young beauty, but Chartes did not hear her words. Her eyes were fixed on Diana's bosom, heaving, as she confessed her passion for Mme. de Chartes. The heavy musk perfume she wore made Mme. de Chartes head spin.

She agreed to the terms, to stop the display of affection happening in her lap, and played her best at cards. She did not know that Diana cheated, and soon she sat naked in her chair. Diana took her hand then, and led her over to the bed. 

The Duchess de Valentinois surveyed her prize. Mme. de Chartes looked beautiful, virginal, clad in her blushes and ebony hair. Diana trailed her fingers all over her body, her mouth caressed Chartes' most tender places. She looked distraught when Diana made her come with her hands. Chartes tried to hide her face when Diana kissed and licked and sucked her, until she yielded to Diana's lips and fluttered on her mouth. When Diana touched her tongue to her little pink anus, she tried to writhe away, but instead only undulated on Diana's fingers. But when the Duchess had lifted her skirts to crouch over her face, presenting her moist and twitching bloom, Chartes had shrieked and fainted. Incensed, the Duchesse left.

Later, the Duchess repented her haste. She sent Mme. de Chartes love notes and flowers, ribbons and jewels, yet Chartes remained cold. She could not shake the feeling of betrayal that struck her heart when she awoke alone and naked on the bed. She had been frightened; virtue, modesty, and God required she suppress such desires. Still, as she slowly removed her clothes under Diana's glittering eyes, she had begun to quiver. While Diana touched her, she dreamed of burying her face into those soft silk skirts. She had wanted to touch her, but felt the fear of God's wrath upon seeing that which she desired. She wept then as she clumsily dressed. Her husband asked no questions later, though he gave her a hard look.

While Mme. de Chartes dreamed of her past, Rosalind thought of her future. 

Most of all, her mind focused on how she bounced in the carriage with her thighs pressed together. This is how a husband will make me feel, she thought, warm and soft. She had never committed the sin of Onan, but she had placed a pillow between her legs, and rubbed her most delicate parts against it, until her groin began to twitch and she gave a little sigh. Oh, how she wanted to place her fingers there, to touch those hot moist petals. She always resisted the temptation, rubbing against something instead, finding her meanest chemise to wear so her swollen nipples rubbed against the rough cloth. She had never ridden a carriage like this before. Had her mother not been lost in the past, she would have seen the flush on her daughter's cheeks and noticed her quick little breaths. Instead, the two women rode with one another, each dreaming of a different lover.

Soon though, their idle fantasies were punctured by a rotten smell. Rosalind wrinkled her nose and raised a handkercheif to her face that had be sprinkled with attar of roses.

"What is that smell mother?" she asked.

Her mother sighed. Underneath the sharp tang of urine and the fetid stench of dung, there was the sweet scent of decay. What better perfume for a court of philanders and gallants? Of men who swore love to ten women, and women who smiled at the promises of ten men. "It is the smell of romance my daughter."

Rosalind shot her a sour look.

"Do not make that face at me. You are not too old to have your ears boxed."

Rosalind sat back in her seat, and tried to remember the other things her mother had told her about Paris. The plays, the opera, the silks, the balls. Of course, with every pleasure came a warning, cutpurses, gallants, vindictive courtiers, poor grace and humiliation. 

Rosalind began to fidget, and Mme. de Chartes handed her a small flask of brandy. The burning liquid always soothed her, as a warm fire in winter. Rosalind would have rode through Paris with her face pressed against the window, had her mother not pulled her away, scolding her for acting like a milk maid from provinces.

They soon arrived at their new apartments within the Hotel de Chartes. Rosalind tried not to gawk, but there was so much bustle, her mother had to pull her in by the arm. There were chocolates and wine waiting for them in a cozy little room. They rested in damask armchairs while their baggage was brought into the hall. They would tell the servants where to put it later. Right now, they waited for the Viscount to return from court. Mme. de Chartes needed to speak with him to determine which courtiers would be an appropriate match for her daughter.

* * * *

The King, Henry II, reached out to cup the pendulous breast of Diana, the Duchess de Valentinois. The room was heavy with her musk perfume, and the King lifted his fingers to his noes. The King's ardor for the woman belied the fact that she was a grandmother in her forties. Their affair began when Francis I complained to her that his son lacked vigor. Ever obliging, Diana seduced him twenty years ago, and ruled him ever since.

The King worked the folds between her legs, rubbing his thumb on the tight bud within them. Diana lay on her side, one leg caught between the King's, the other splayed out over his waist. Her breasts beat in the same rapid tattoo as the King's buttocks. Diana undulated her hips, mechanical. 

The King knew what he needed to say to spurn her on, to bring forth a spark of fire. Her whole body was raw with the annoyance. "I heard the Mme. de Chartes arrived today with her daughter."

She twisted her body, clamping down on him. "How dare you speak to me of her!"

Laughing, the King grasped her, pumping. "She's here to make a fine match for her daughter." He tightened his grip as Diana in her fury began to buck against him.

"That withered hag, she dare come to my court to make her fortune." He felt her begin to dance on him. "I would plot my revenge, but I know she threw a shriveled gnome of a girl."

"They say her daughter Rosalind is lovely. A hot liquid washed over the King's hand and testicles as Diana climaxed. He could make her come until the mattress beneath them was soaked, if only he had the time.

He pulled his phallus from her, and pressed it's tip against her anus as he rubbed himself. To please him, Diana tightened and relaxed her groin, making her wrinkled asshole pulse against him. As he came he grunted. When he attempted to rise, she clutched him to her. There was a haughty look on her face: she wasn't done with him, and she didn't care when the hunt was slated to begin. 

"I love you," the King whispered as she thrust his still hard sex inside her, grinding herself against him. Her next orgasm made her legs contract and release as she let out a jagged moan. The King felt her womb try to swallow him, and he spilt his seed inside her quivering body.

He looked at Diana, her hair in disarray, her powder a mess, her whole body flushed red. In such a state of exhaustion, he knew it would be an hour before she rose to begin the process of dressing. Kissing her back, he savored the salt on her skin. She rolled over to embrace him, and their lips met. They idly kissed for a moment, then the King rose and and wiped himself with a cloth. Helping himself to some of Diana's spicy cologne, he hastily dressed, and left for his afternoon hunt.

* * * *

Meanwhile, there was a stir at court as the Duke arrived. Thick black hair curled on his head, his warm brown eyes flashed with gaiety, and his mouth was always crinkled up in a lopsided smile. The women blushed when he strode by, and the men stood taller. To obtain a mistress, all he need do was extend his hand. His wit was quick, his mien agreeable. 

His stride, his glance, all appeared so natural, the courtiers would not believe the hours he spent in front of a mirror practicing. Well could they guess the vast sums of money he spent on his luxurious curled wigs, his coats heavy with gold braid and buttons, the gleaming white silk of his stockings. And on his cheeks, there was a red velvet mouche, shaped like a heart. He held a title as important as that of the King's Mistress Official Mistress Diana: he was the flower of gallantry. He searched the court for his lovely Marie, to arrange an afternoon tryst. It seemed he was always searching in these great empty halls.

He found her waiting for him in a corner. She sighed, whispered a day and time, and gave him a scented envelop. The Duke tucked the letter in his bosom and looked for an empty room.

Marie was prone to immortalizing their encounters in florid prose. Upon reading her missives the Duke was left flushed and pulsing. After, he would go find a girl, any girl, a scullery maid, a country lass, to satiate himself. There was little art to taking a woman quickly and quietly. Find an empty room, turn her around, flip her skirts over her head, then press her against the wall. For the most part, her petticoats would muffle her cries.

He took out the letter:

My Dearest Lover,

I can still feel your hands on my skin. When my corset it is unlaced, it drives me to a frenzy, as I pretend it is you undressing me. I must feign illness to explain the color in my cheeks.

I want you to take me riding again. Following you with the leaping beast beneath me only whets my appetite. By the time you lift me down from my palfrey, all I can do is melt in your arms. I love the feel of the sunlight on my naked body, I love the cool trace your mouth leaves on my skin. There were birds flying overhead as you made love to me under the blue sky.

The Duke grimaced at this line.

I blush when I think of how you kissed me between my legs. No one ever touched me like that before. I felt like a flower being coaxed open by an April rain. Your tongue inside my body made me shake as though it was the earth itself moving beneath me. I want you to take me again. I have thought of your request, and the next time we meet, I will take you into my mouth. I dreamt of you, your smooth hot skin. I want to use my lips and tongue to please you as you pleased me. I want you to pinch my nipples as I rub my breasts against you, with the tip of your phallus in my mouth.

I cannot wait for our next meeting.



M--

The Duke fanned himself with the letter. His breeches were tight, and he would have to hide in the shadows until his condition ceased to plague him. While he skulked, he saw the Princess Mary wander by with her lover, Monsieur d'Anville. He followed them to a small room at the back of the chateau. The door closed behind them and locked. Mary set the key on a table, and the Duke peeked through they keyhole.

He could see the lovers embracing, their lips pressed together in a passionate kiss. The Duke took his handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it around himself. As d'Anville climbed on top of Mary, he turned his ear to the door to hear her cries. The bed was creaking, and d'Anville was grunting. The Princess and the Duke climaxed at the same time. He scurried away, unsure of what to do with his soiled handkerchief. He thought about giving it to Marie as a love token, but worried he would start some fashionable trend of exchanging spoiled tokens. Instead, he stuffed it in a vase.

The Duke joined the rest of the court. His friend, the Chevalier de Guise, asked him to join in tennis. The women of the court gathered around to watch the two men play. Their fans flickered while the men leapt and strained. Between the ladies' thighs grew moist as the men began to pull open their collars, revealing the pale flesh of their throats.

The Duke and the Chevalier won. The women surrounded the victors, cooing congratulations and ordering servants to bring wine. The merry party wandered to Mary's court, where all the gay young ladies attended the Scottish Princess and the handsome gallants came to flirt with them. The Duke excused himself shortly to go and bathe.

* * * *

Violetta would scold him if he arrived smelling like a peasant. The Duke ordered a bath drawn for him and added some violet perfume to the water. He kept a plethora of fragrances, lily of the valley, gardenia, orange blossom, one for each mistress. It drove them mad when he would sail by, dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief marked with their scent. Or he would wear something the color of their eyes. Even though he may have two blue eyed mistresses, the shade he wore matched their irises so perfectly it left no doubt in their mind for whom he wore it. Sometimes he felt like a pianist, performing his trysts for the entire court. 

For Violetta, he had a vest made of a blue gray velvet trimmed in a dark brown lace. It lay waiting on his bed for him. Before he left the house, he made certain to take with him the small bouquet of violets that rested on the table. He was just about to dash out the door when he caught a glimpse of himself in the glass. There was a curl out of place of his wig, and his heart was crooked. His eyes darted from the clock on the table to his reflection. So many mistresses' had scolded him for being late, all because he got stuck in the mirror.

His chaise waited for him outside, a quick bay filly snorting in the reigns. He sped over the streets of Paris to the forgotten chapel. Violetta darted out from the shadows, her veil fluttering over her face. As he greeted her with a crooked grin, he thought he saw the shadows behind the lace form a smile. Now they rode away, to an apartment he kept on the outskirts of the city. Violetta held the flowers to her face, and the Duke could not blame her. Paris stank. Overcome as they road past a butcher shop, he pressed his handkerchief over his nose and mouth. It was the lovely fragrance of violets, although not as sweet bouquet his mistress inhaled.

He unlocked the door, and Violetta fell upon him. She was demure in public, rarely meeting anyone's eye, but in private, he had to undress before she tore his clothes from him. 

She crashed into an armoire, knocking over a vase. The Duke picked her up, as she expected. The sound of the glass crunching under his boots as he strode to the bedchamber excited her. She began to bite his lips, his neck.

"Not so hard Violetta, you will mark."

She did not say anything, but began to suckle the joint of his jaw. In a moment she would bite, and he would shudder in delicious pain. A wild thing, she loved to hurt him, and often pulled his hair or scratched. Her teeth worked themselves to around his bone and pinched, a light testing nip.

He threw her onto the bed, and she rolled to her stomach, lifting her skirts up around her thighs. She writhed, luring him to kneel between her outstretched legs. Her eyes were searching the room, getting the backdrop correct for later, when she told her friends about their encounter.

Holding her buttocks, he prevented her from rubbing her pubis on the bed and arousing herself further. Instead he parted her lips and let his breath warm and cool her sex. Her flushed lips were becoming moist and he could smell the sea. Of all the woman he sampled, he loved the taste of Violetta the most, salty with a subtle tang. When she began to shake in his hands, he leaned forward to run his tongue up and down the petals of her sex. She suffocated him with her groin, and he hummed into her womb.

Violetta stopped breathing for a moment, and the Duke began to caress her anus. A few choked cries, then her whole body clenched and released in waves that rocked her pelvis against the Duke.

For a moment she lay on the bed, satiated. The Duke started unhooking the back of her gown. Pulling slowly at the laces, he untied her corset. When she reached down to touch herself, he swatted her hand away. Putting his thigh between her legs, he allowed her to rub herself against him. The last eyelet undone, she crawled out of her clothes and lay naked on the bed. The Duke kicked her gown to the floor, covering her body in his. He nipped at her shoulders as she struggled beneath him, trying to bring his sex against hers.

The Duke moved with her, keeping his shaft pressed tightly between her plump buttocks. It was easier to take her from behind; he did not have to avoid the nails she kept slightly sharpened. When she did manage to scratch him, he had to cancel his other assignations while the wound healed. The risk of seeing her thrilled the Duke.

His heated blood filled his sex, and the Duke pierced Violetta. He pressed her into the bed, and she grunted. Shifting his hips, he buried himself in her to his hilt. Beneath him, Violetta flinched in pain as he tapped against the back of her womb. There was a time when the Duke would have stopped to sooth her as he did his other lovers, but now knew she wanted to be held down and taken with the ferocity of a beast. He lay on top of her, one hand holding her throat, the other teasing her wrinkled anus.

Violetta was sobbing into the bed as her whole body shook. A moment of silence, and her womb attempted to swallow the Duke's sex. He came with a harsh cry in her ear. They lay like that, the Duke's seed seeping from her as her womb continued to twitch.

She turned her head. "You have not softened my love."


The Princess of Cleves #01



The Duke kissed her throat. "I have not," he said, moving inside her.

"I want you to hold me, to kiss me this time," she said. She rolled over without letting him slip from her. He knew what she really wanted, to rake her nails down his back and claim him as her own. It was a game, to slip her wrists out of his fingers while he made love to her. He left a delicate pattern of bruises, like bracelets on her wrists, which she tried to hide from him. In court he would see her pressing them under her gloves, looking at him like a hungry cat.

She pressed her shin to his chest, and he moaned. "Pull my hair," she whispered.

While he tugged at her ebony tresses, she slipped her hand free. Her fingers ran up and down his back. He released her other hand to clutch her to him. It was dangerous to let her touch him, in the heat of passion; for a whim, she may draw lines of blood from his back. The Duke slipped into a frenzy, the world reduced to two sweating bodies twined round one another, and the smell of musty linen and violet. She traced his spine with one nail, and when she reached the knob at the base, he came again. Feeling his hot seed she orgasmed, her hands clenching his skin. 

The Duke was lucky, she only left light scratches that would heal in a day or two.

* * * * 

Queen Mary I of England died.

The Princess Elizabeth was to be crowned as her successor.

The Prince de Conde had just returned from that court and informed the King that this Elizabeth spoke of the Duke with great affection. Any time in the French court rendered both men and women enamored of him, and they told tales, creating a legend of wicked grins and broken hearts. It was the whiff of danger that turned Elizabeth's head. What could be done with this twist, and the most eligible woman in world, was another matter. They called for the Duke, who appeared before them disheveled after his tryst.

"The Duke, just the man we wanted," the King exclaimed, clasping the Duke in his arms.

"What is all of this?" the Duke asked, noticing the queer brightness in their eyes.

The Prince de Conde smiled. "Princess Elizabeth asked me many questions about you while I was at her court. I told her how handsome you are playing tennis, and how your clever stories charm all the ladies."

The Duke rolled his eyes. "Why do I feel like I have been summoned to some absurd conspiracy?"

The King shook his head. "If you overheard what Conde said, you would not find it such a fantastic undertaking. Is it so hard to believe a powerful woman would want the greatest gallant of Europe at her side?"

"If that is what you wish, your Majesty," the Duke said with a low bow. "It is such a bold maneuver, I must request it remain secret for the time being. I do not wish to be the laughing stock of the world if our ambitions should fail." It took all his studied effort for the Duke to mask the cold horror he felt at this idea.

The King nodded. "That is a wise plan. When do you wish to leave for England?"

The Duke thought for a minute. To rush to Elizabeth would not do, it did not show enough reverence. Better instead to send someone ahead of him, someone dear to his heart to flatter her and beam at her with love. There would be jewels and doggerel to send as well. "No, I think I will send M. Lignerol to England to look after my interests. It will need to be a subtle seduction, and to arrive there with a crowd of suitors would not do."

"You are right Duke, and M. Lignerol is an excellent choice," the King said. "Take a walk with Conde, he will acquaint you with all the particulars. I will leave the plans in your most capable hands."

Conde and the Duke bowed and left. As they spoke of Conde's time in England, the Duke wondered how his favorite, the sprightly Lignerol, would take to being sent away. With a wealth of blond curls, pink moist lips, and rosy cheeks, he was like a cherub from an Italian painting. The Duke remembered his sleepy face cradled in the crook of his arms, his warm breath on his chest, from this very morning. If he was honest with himself, he did not want to send Lignerol across that stormy channel. Though if he were King, for he could be King of England, he would shower his servant with gifts, and keep him close to his side as his valet. What better way to reward gentle sweetness of M. Lignerol?

As he expected, his lover did not take his assignment well. In order to convince him to leave, the Duke had to promise to quit the court: for if Lignerol could not be with his Duke, then his Duke could not be with his mistresses. 

Lignerol fretted at the marks Violetta had left on his shoulders. "She is cruel woman, I do not know why you are with her," he said.

"It excites me, pulling her hair, her scratches," the Duke replied.

"No, the rumors it creates excites you." Lignerol rubbed his phallus against the Duke's buttocks. "I can be cruel, I will pull your hair."

Citrus stung the Duke's eyes, Lignerol was always bleaching his hair with lemon juice. He turned Lignerol around, to kiss him and take him in his arms. "It is not the same, you do not enjoy it."

Lignerol fixed him with doe like eyes. "You are right, I could never find pleasure in hurting you."

The Duke was straining at his breeches. Lignerol led him to the bed. He made the Duke lay on his side, and he gently worked his oiled phallus into the Duke's anus, while he held the Duke in his hand. This great lover of women sighed like one in the arms of his valet.

At first, Lignerol was slow, making the Duke lift his legs to cup his balls. When the Duke started breathing in quick little pants and pushing back against him, Lignerol draped one leg over the Duke's waist. He twisted himself to penetrate the Duke deeper and deeper, continually oiling himself. From this angle, he harried his lover with fast strokes that made them both moan. 

The Duke grunted, and Lignerol's palm was covered in sticky seed. After cleansing themselves, they fell asleep in one anothers' arms.

When they woke from their first sleep, they made love again. In the darkness, the Duke took Lignerol into his mouth, and thrust his tongue into Lignerol's anus. The Duke always made love to Lignerol with his mouth first. It was a great joy of the Duke's, to listen to Lignerol talk and feel his legs twitch.

Lignerol whispered to the Duke, he felt like a delicate maid of the court whose virtue was under assault. The feeling Lignerol loved the most though was the Duke's pounding heart against his skin. All the women of the court thought they owned the Duke's heart, but truly, it belonged to Lignerol. He was the one who made certain everything was perfect, that he had perfume and flowers enough for his mistresses, that his clothes and wigs were immaculate. It was he who shared the Duke's bed every night, even if he was exhausted from the days affairs, the Duke always wanted Lignerol by his side as he slept. When he commanded the Duke to leave Paris, the Duke promised to visit the Duke of Savoy in Brussels.

After Lignerol was finished with his confession, the Duke made love to him to Lignerol like he was a woman. He loved to watch Lignerol's mouth stretch and compress under his tender ministrations. Lignerol came, spilling himself on their bellies, and the Duke pulled out to orgasm with his sex touching that of his lover.



The Princess of Cleves #02



Rosalind was nervous; it was the first time she had ventured out into Paris alone. She took a hackney to the jewelers, and paid the coachman to wait for her. The merchant's shop gleamed with gold, silver, and gems of every color, all flashing in the sunlight. Mme. de Chartes sent her there to pick up some jewelry, a gift for her debut at court. Rosalind's little heart beat faster at the thought of a present.

The Prince de Cleves aimlessly strolled the streets of Paris that day, watching all the people scurry around him. When he heard a sweet delicate voice, he turned to see the lithe and elegant form of a young woman. Although he had not seen her face, he knew it lovely. Upon hearing footsteps behind her, the young woman turned, and the Prince nearly swooned. She blushed under the heat of his gaze, emanating from a blazing blue eyes. The Prince browsed the merchandise, sneaking glances at her.

Rosalind could not understand why the young man kept looking at her in such a way. It made her feel as though she were standing naked before him. His eyes were moving up and down the cases of jewels, without ever seeing them, until he finally came to stand close to her. Then, he became very interested in a large gold ring set with tiger's eye.

The jeweler returned with a case. Inside was a delicate necklace made of rose quartz and pearls set in silver. Rosalind's face lit up when she saw it.

"There is a matching bracelet and earrings as well, Mademoiselle," the jeweler said.

"They will look lovely on you," the Prince commented, smiling at Rosalind. He prayed the merchant would say her name. It was obvious she came from delicate breeding. Under his eyes her face turned as pink as the stones of her necklace. He had to restrain himself from reaching out to touch her slender fingers.

"I will wrap these up for you," the jeweler said. After handing Rosalind her packet, she rushed from the store.

The merchant cleared his throat, and now the Prince blushed. He bought the ring, to remind himself of the day he had met her. As he walked home, she walked beside him. He could see her dark eyelashes, her prim mouth, her bud like breasts. A new opened rose in Paris, and he did not know her name. 

When he arrived in the court of the Princess Mary, he told them of this fey woman who had bewitched him so. He praised her demure mien, her modest blushes. As he began to describe her thick mahogany locks, one of the ladies whispered into Mary's ear, surely it was Rosalind.

"Prince, this woman for whom you feel such passion, whose name you do not know, what would you do if you met her here tomorrow?" Mary asked.

The Prince rushed to her and fell before her feet. "My Princess, I would forever be in your debt," he said, reaching up take her hands. She stroked his hair, and he began kissing her fingers. She left him curled up in his lap, daydreaming about the next morning.

That night Rosalind teased him in his dreams. They were in the store, he was helping her to put on her necklace, his fingers brushing against her satin skin. He was so close he could smell the fragrance she wore, a delicate rose. She turned in his hands, her face upturned. When he leaned down to kiss her, she slipped from his grasp, and the game began again. He bedecked her with ear pendants, bracelets, rings, all night.

The next day he took great care with his toilette. He picked a rose from the garden and affixed it to his jacket with a great diamond broach. He did not forget to wear his tiger's eye ring. As he walked to his carriage, there was a spring in his step. He wanted to run to Mary's chamber, but he forced himself to walk to her court. For a moment, his heart stopped. There she stood, and she blushed again at seeing him.

Mme. de Chartes could not help but notice the young man's reaction to her daughter.

"See Prince, have I not kept my word?" the Princess Mary said. "Come here, Rosalind, and meet the Prince de Cleves. You saw one another yesterday, and he was quite smitten with you."

Rosalind stepped forward, and curtseyed. The Prince took her hand in his, and gave it a lingering kiss. "Rosalind, it is a pleasure to meet you."

"And you as well Prince."

Rosalind stared at the ground as the Prince stared at her. Mary startled them all with her silvery laugh. Just then the Chevalier de Guise walked into the room. He gasped when he saw the sylvan creature, frozen in fear before the Princess and court. She clasped her hands together and her face flushed even brighter. 

Mme. de Chartes smiled when she saw another gallant stride into the room, heart leaping at the sight of her daughter. Among all these noble men, she would find the perfect match for her.

The young woman was relieved when they left. All the new emotions of that morning left her bewildered. The way the men looked at her, it made her body feel warm and languid. They were always smiling, their eyes shining. The assiduous Chevalier de Guise did not leave her side, and she recognized the ring the Prince wore as the one from the store. She had worn her new jewelry too. Her mother said the gems symbolized tender love and purity. She did not feel pale pink and pearl after her first day at court; she felt red and violet. 

After they arrived to the Hotel de Chartes, she claimed to have a headache. Once the maid left the room, she placed a pillow between her legs. As she rubbed herself, she thought of the Prince de Cleves' mouth, the Chevalier de Guise's gentle hands. She did not know why she was excited, why their gazes' made her blush, she did know that there was only one way to deliver herself from this turmoil. She gave a soft cry which her young lovers would have given their souls' to hear. Then she fell into a sweet slumber, a bead of sweat trailing down the nape of her neck.

* * * *

All the men in court fell in love with Rosalind: it was the thing to do. They played a game where they tried to make her blush. It was easy too. They stood close to her, or trailed a finger up her arm. The Prince de Cleves and the Chevalier de Guise were once great friends, but their relationship cooled as their rivalry for Rosalind heated. The Marechal de St. Andre preferred to lurk in the hallways.

"Rosalind, how are you today?" the he asked as she walked past him.

The young woman jumped, and the Marechal gave her a low bow. He was a tall man with stooped shoulders, rounding his back into a hunch.

"Please pardon me for frightening you. Where are you going? I shall escort you."

Rosalind began to stutter. "Oh, I was..." She sighed. "I was going out for some fresh air, the court can be stifling. I wanted to be alone for a minute."

"Well my dear, place you arm in mine, and I shall not say a word." The Marechal gave her his most winning smile as he held out his arm.

She frowned, but threaded her arm through his.

The Marechal's heart soared, and he placed his hand over her's. As promised, he did not say a word, but rather took her on the less traveled paths of the Louvre. He had to stop himself from trembling. It would not do to frighten the girl. The press of her forearm against his burned.

As she turned to look at a painting, the Marechal leaned close to inhale the scent of roses. Her silken strands of hair brushed against his lips. He thought of tangling his fingers in that hair, moving his mouth over her slender throat. His breath quickened, and he hid his excitement from the young woman. If he spent any more time alone with her, he would betray himself. He led her back to Mary's court, kissing her hand as he bowed. As he walked away, he wondered if she knew his name.

Madame de Chartes could not have been more delighted with her position in the court. She should have known better, for Diana was working to thwart her. 

The Duke de Nevers forbade his son, the Prince de Cleves, to continue with his affair. The Count de Guise expressed such strong disapproval of his son's pursuits that the Chevalier de Guise hid his love for Rosalind deep in his heart. 

Where once there were young gallants everywhere she turned, Rosalind found herself abandoned at court. Angry, Mme. de Chartes set her sights even higher and aspired to a Prince of the Blood.

Princess Mary, who had become quite fond Rosalind, did everything in her power to aid her. She was in the arms of her lover one afternoon, M. d'Anville, and she turned to him.

"Tell me, how do you find Rosalind?" she asked.

"Why must you always talk of court," d'Anville murmured as he kissed her chest. She lay in bed naked, always a chore with the grand corps, a corset of particularly devious construction. He buried his face between her breasts and rubbed his sex against her thigh. A pearl of moisture leaked from him onto her skin.

"But what do you think of Rosalind?" she asked again, rubbing her sex against his hips.

He knew she would not stop until he answered her. "She is beautiful, and fucked; Diana, the Duchess de Valentinois, is the sworn enemy of the Chartes." He darted between Mary's legs and thrust his sex deep into her. "Just like you my love." As she cried out he put his hand in her mouth to stifle her.

Mary sucked on his fingers as he stabbed her. He twisted her hard nipples between his fingers, and they vibrated as she moaned. She turned her head, and he gripped her shoulders, pinning her beneath him as he licked her ear. Her hands grasped his buttocks, one finger stroking his anus.

"Yes," d'Anville whispered.

She stuck her finger in her mouth, then gently worked it into his anus. His legs quivered against her. She used her finger to move him as though he were a puppet. Positioning herself under him so the tip of his phallus brushed the back of her womb, she beckoned him with her finger, urging them both to a climax. They lay there panting.

"I want you to speak with the King about a marriage between the Prince-Dauphin and Rosalind," the Mary told him, stroking his hair.

"You know I cannot concentrate during these moment with you," d'Anville replied, rubbing his face against her bosom. "Send a servant to me this evening with a missive. I will do whatever you wish my love." As he spoke, he kissed her soft skin.

Princess Mary smiled as M. d'Anville drowsed. The clock struck two, and they rose. Before they dressed, they sprinkled one another with lavender cologne. Mary loved how, at the end of the day, she could smell the remnants of their tryst on her skin. M. d'Anville on his part would keep his shirt under his pillow in order to inhale the fragrance of his mistress. He sent a servant to her bed chamber that night with a sprig of lavender.

* * * *

Diana squealed after she read Mary's letter. The manservant stood beaming, ready for his reward.

"How beautifully you have opened this," she said to him. "It will be so easy to reattach the seal, none will be the wiser." She left the letter on the desk, and embraced the young man. "I have a special treat for you today." 

He knew what that meant. Diana fell to her knees and pulled off his breeches. He moaned as she rubbed her full lips against his sex, laughter tipping forth as he jumped in her hands. 

"Sit down," she commanded, pointing at a chair. The young man shuffled over to the seat. His cheeks were ruddy, his breathing quick. Diana fondled his testicles, her other hand moving up and down his shaft. As she twisted her hand she tilted her head to the other side, and the servant felt his entire groin caressed. He started to throb in her mouth. She moved the heel of her hand to the base of his testicles, touching the very root of his manhood. It pulsed in her hand, and strained as she rubbed her palm against him.

He stuttered as he filled her mouth with his seed. With each eager surge, she suckled at him. Sitting back, she rubbed her thumb along the ridge of the underside of his phallus. The last pearl she licked off, smiling at him. Rising, she kissed him. He tried to withdraw, but she had him trapped, and she made him taste himself.

"I am very pleased with you," she whispered. "Now, leave me, and take your note." After he left she dabbed at her face with a handkerchief. "So...that frigid old woman would have her daughter marry the Prince-Dauphin. She aspires to make that little mouse a Princess of the Blood." She laughed.

* * * *

Despite her frustrations, Mme. de Chartes refused to be chased from the court. She saw the men who tried not to look at her daughter, and if she watched closely enough, she saw the fire in their eyes when they slipped. 

Rosalind on her part became despondent. The Princess Mary and her ladies remained loyal to her, but the only nobleman who would speak to her was the Marechal de St. Andre. They had taken to meeting by an arbor of wisteria and strolling the gardens. The air was choked with the fragrance of tuberoses. When they spoke, it was about the weather, or a play, or a book. Oftentimes they said nothing at all, just felt the sunshine and the breeze. If there was a rose of particular beauty, the Marechal would cut it with his penknife, and tuck it in her hair. Once, he touched her cheek, saying there was a speck of dirt on it. What she saw in his eyes spoke of a different motive, and she blushed. The Marechal's face took a red hue as well.

Mme. de Chartes did not approve of her daughter's friendship with this hunchback. There was nothing to be done though: the Marechal was beloved by the King, and to speak to Rosalind of him, she must tell her of the Marechal's intentions. Better to leave the girl innocent. Besides, enough people at court belonged to Diana's cabal, she did not need to make an enemy of Marechal as well. And she would, if she forbade her daughter to see him. After all, he only took the girl for walks in the garden under the court's watchful eye. There were no moments for impropriety.

All this time the Prince de Cleves played court to Mary, twisting his tiger's eye ring about his finger. His deep blue eyes shone when Rosalind entered in the room. When his father, the Duke de Nevers died, he mourned as long as necessary. Then he asked Mme. de Chartes for her daughter's hand. Despairing that no other man would propose, Mme. de Chartes promised she would speak with her daughter.

"Tell me dear, what is your impression of the Prince de Cleves?" Mme. de Chartes asked her one day.

"He is a fine young man. We have had several pleasant conversations, and I like to watch him play tennis," Rosalind replied.

"How would you feel about marrying him?"

Rosalind looked up from her needlework at her mother, trying to discern what her reply should be. Her mother's face betrayed no emotion. "Do you like him? Do you think I should say 'yes'?"

Mme. de Chartes beamed with pride, and took her daughter's hand. "Never could a mother wish for a more perfect and obedient daughter. I believe the Prince de Cleves would make an excellent husband."

"Then I will say 'yes'."

Mme. de Chartes began weeping and threw her arms around her daughter. Rosalind returned her embrace, but did not feel her excitement. 

The Prince fell on his knees before Rosalind when he found his proposal accepted. He held her hands to his face and bathed them in tears and kisses. From his jacket he produced a ring he purchased should she accept. It was a great cheerful aquamarine surrounded by sparkling diamonds, and it fit her finger perfectly.

Had the Chevalier de Guise been at court he would have despaired upon seeing the affianced Rosalind on the arm of his former friend. The Marechal de St. Andre congratulated her warmly, using the occasion as and excuse to embrace her. He bent his head down to brush his lips against a throat that smelt of roses.

* * * *

The Prince de Cleves found Rosalind friendly, but nothing more. He attributed her coolness to her naivety. He began to woo his fiance in earnest, with flowers and trinkets. She responded warmly, but without passion. He started to fret that someone else held her heart, but when he watched her, he did not see her eyes linger on any man. She even ceased her walks with the Marechal de St. Andre. This gentleman always hailed the couple when he saw them in the halls. He often spoke to them, giving them advice on setting up a new household.

One rainy afternoon, the Prince de Cleves was sitting with Rosalind in the library, enveloped in the soft scent of roses. She had been reading him poetry in her sweet clear voice, but he did not hear the words. Instead he watched her animated face as she spoke. He tried to discern any emotion as she recited these words of love, to see if she would look up at him when she mouthed some tender line. Finally, he took the book from her hands and kissed her.

Rosalind froze. The Princess' lips were soft and wet. She opened her mouth under the stroking of his tongue. Looking into her eyes, he saw a virgin's tender fear mixed a young woman's curiosity, but not love. He kissed her fiercely, caressing her neck and shoulders, and she began to respond to him. His hands wandered, and he pulled her into his lap. He lifted her skirt and she protested.

"Monsieur de Cleves, I do not know if this is proper," she said.

"I will be your husband soon," he said, trailing his fingers along the porcelain skin of her inner thigh. "I will only touch you, and I will stop if you wish."

Mlle. de Chartes stared into his blue eyes. The Prince could see virtue's feeble protest flit across her face. She nodded her head, and rested it against his shoulder as he slid his hand up her leg to caress her sex. He pushed one finger inside of her, and she hissed. Much to his surprise, she began to rock her hips in his lap, her arms around his neck. He would have thought her debauched were it not for her girlish gasps. She must have a game she plays alone at night.

"Do you love me?" the Prince asked, kissing her brow.

She nodded, but did not speak. Her hands clenched his jacket, and his palm became moist as she shuddered. "Oh Prince," she moaned with a final twitch.

He held her for a minute, and she lay in his arms, without touching him, without speaking to him. Taking her hand, he tilted her chin up to look at him. "I love you. Do you love me Mlle. de Chartes?"

"Yes, of course Prince," she said, smiling sweetly at him.

"Truly, you do, you love me with all your heart, as you would love a husband and not a dear friend?" he asked, fixing her with his sharp eyes. 

She tugged face free as her cheeks flushed red. "Yes Prince, I do."

The Prince de Cleves pushed her from his lap and stood up. "Your blushes, Madam, cannot deceive me; they are signs of excitement, but do not prove the heart affected, and I shall conclude nothing more from them than that," he said curtly.

As he walked away, angry tears seeped from his eyes. Once in his carriage, he allowed himself to cry. He wiped at his tears, only to find her fragrance lingered on his fingers. Choking back a bitter sob, he set about convincing himself that there was nothing alarming in Rosalind's behavior.

His young fiance ran weeping to her mother. She told Mme. de Chartes what the Prince had said, and how he had been angry. Mme. de Chartes soothed her distraught daughter. She wondered if she had not done her a disservice, raising her far from the court, spending 18 years hardening her heart to gallantry, warning her of the dangers of love. Could it be true that she would not take to such a splendid young man? Could her own bitter disappointment in love have tainted her view, leading her to raise a daughter with an insensible heart? She banished the thoughts from her mind as she held Rosalind.



The Princess of Cleves #03



The Chevalier de Guise mourned while others celebrated. He regretted not devising a ruse to absence himself from the Prince de Cleves' wedding. What pained him most was Mlle. de Chartes who smiled at all those around her, but did not shine as a bride should. While she felt great esteem and affection for the Prince de Cleves, in was clear she did not love him. 

The Prince was the happiest man in Paris.

Unlike the Chevalier who sulked in the corners, the Marechal de St. Andre embraced the new bride and kissed her cheek. The groom frowned at him, but he paid no mind. The Marechal was not a man to be crossed, secure as the King's favorite. Nor were his affections for Rosalind, now the Princess de Cleves, untoward in a court full of gallants. Any mark of distinction he bestowed upon the young woman, he gave to her husband as well, seeing they received invitations to the most exclusive parties.

That night, the court followed the young couple to the nuptial chamber while the Princess de Cleves turned pink from ear to ear. They saw newlyweds undressed, put in bed, and when the curtains were drawn they cheered. The riotous crowd left to continue their libations. 

The Prince held his trembling bride until they were gone. He soothed her with gentle caresses, all the while his loins burned. Thinking of the men who watched her, who tried to hide their grief at her wedding, only heated his blood further. As he passed his fingers through her hair, stirring the scent of roses, he thought of the Marechal touching her; as he looked at her with swooning blue eyes, he pictured the Chevalier holding her. It excited him to think of her being enjoyed by other men. The only thing he was jealous of was her heart, and that belonged to no one.

Rosalind lay in her husband's arms and her heart pounded. Her mother told her she must be agreeable to him, but said nothing of the delicate pleasures of Venus. 

When the footsteps of the courtiers had faded away, the Prince bent down to seal his lips over her's. He had not touched her since that day in the library, and she thought of it often. Not his anger, but the feel of his hands and tongue. She eagerly embraced him, and the Prince hoped that there was more to this gesture than simple desire. He pulled her chemise down her shoulders to fondle her breasts. They were small and fit perfectly in his hands. Her nipples hardened with his teasing and her tongue flicked out from between her lips. He moaned to feel her exploring the inside of his mouth, the tip of her tongue running over his teeth, his bottom lip between her white incisors. He wanted to throw her down upon the bed and take her with the fury of a satyr, but that was for another night.

He broke away from her lips to gasp. Her delicate fingers were on his face, and he took off his nightshirt. Taking her hands and placing them on his chest, he let her feel his skin for moment before he moved them down to his waist, and finally closed her fingers over his sex. Even in the dark he could see her wide eyes, her mouth open in wonder. 

The Princess had only ever seen village boys relieving themselves by the road. What she held now was solid, hot, with skin that felt like silk. She was unsure of what to do, so the Prince wrapped his hands around her's, and guided them up and down his shaft. He started to moan.

"Stop, you must stop," he said, taking her wrists. He had been on the brink of spilling his seed all over his belly, and that was not how his wedding night should end. He remembered how he had touched her in the library, and how natural her response had been. "Show me Rosalind," he whispered to her, "show me how you touched yourself when you were a maiden and not a wife."

"I do not know what you mean," she said, reluctant to admit her flirtations with sin.

"Yes you do," the Prince said, cupping her pubic mound in his hand. "Was it like this?" he asked rubbing her.

She nodded. "Only, I would not use my hands."

"No? Then how, show me."

Rosalind recalled she should be obedient to her husband, so she took a pillow and placed it between her legs. She turned to look at the Prince and he was smiling. Embarrassed, she began to move against the pillow. 

The Prince pulled her chemise down further exposing her back, and covered her pale skin in kisses. She quickly came to a gentle climax, and the Prince felt he could no longer restrain himself. He slipped his fingers inside of her, working each one in slowly. There was always pain on a wedding night, but he wanted her to remember the pleasure. 

As he touched her, she begged, "Please, please, my dear Prince, my dear husband."

"What is it you want?" he asked. He saw she did not know anything of love. He rubbed his sex against her belly. "Is it this Princess?" He moved on top of her, and parted her legs with his knees. He placed the tip of his phallus against her moist sex, and began to rub it up and down her . She arched her back, and his phallus caught just inside her womb. 

He did not move until the Princess arched her hips to take more of him inside her. Gently, he pressed himself into her, pausing when he felt her tense in pain. He murmured his love into her hair, stroking her face, kissing her throat. Soon, his whole shaft rested in her quivering sex, and he began to move in and out of her. When she moaned, he made love to her with greater vigor.

Rosalind's womb tensed, and when it released in ripples of pleasure, her Prince spilt his seed. She felt it, slick and hot, leaking from their joined bodies. The Prince lay on top of her for a moment, catching his breath. His sex remained hard though. 

He took the Princess again, and again they climaxed together. The next day they slept late, nestled in each other's arms. The Princess de Cleves thought that this voluptuous satiety must be love. The Prince de Cleves tried to find signs of love in her, but there was only the ruddy flush that his kisses left on her cheek. He found that changing her name had yet to change her heart. Still, she was not unhappy, nor did he see her eyes flash at any gallant while they were in court.

Mme. de Chartes could not help but puzzle at her daughter's lack of love for the Prince de Cleves. 

The Chevalier de Guise kept a small flame of hope in his heart, though the Princess de Cleves marriage gave him much anxiety. There was something in the way she moved that spoke of a loss of innocence. 

The only person who did not fret about this marriage was the Marechal de St. Andre. He resumed his walks with Rosalind: on Tuesdays and Thursdays they strolled the grounds. The remaining gallants gave the stooped Marechal a wide berth, as his eyes were always on Rosalind and those who spoke with her.

* * * *

The Duke de Nemours felt sharply his separation from both the court and his favorite Lignerol. Visiting in Brussels, he may as well been in exile, though he had found plenty with which to amuse himself. The ladies were lively, and the valets sweet lipped. 

He spent his days in sport and hunting, and his nights were for gambling and debauchery. In his boredom he began to dream of being King of England. Lignerol's missives were positive, and what he once thought to be a chimerical undertaking became feasible to him, even wise. He started to spend some nights alone at home, either reading of that island kingdom, or simply staring into the fire.

When Lignerol's next letter arrived, he shut himself into his study.

My Dearest Duke,

I find my bed grows colder and damper as your prospects grow brighter. Many times have I enumerated your great qualities to the Queen, and regaled her with tales to both amuse and sway her tender heart. There is nothing more I can do for you here. Sometimes I think that it is I she loves, her eyes (a lemon yellow splatter)mer when she greets me, but then I see she wears the diamond ear pendants you sent her.

Your portrait pleased greatly. I hear she keeps it in her closet, where she may look upon it unobserved. Of course, this is only a rumor. The Queen has not taken me into her confidences, nor do I desire it. There is only one master I wish to serve, and it gives me great joy to say that all is prepared for your arrival, so come my love, come and praise me for how well I have served you.

Your faithful servant,

Lignerol

The Duke sighed, and pressed the letter to his heart. Lignerol would be necessary in preparing both the Duke and his retinue for traveling to England. Again he would feel his slender limbs around his body. He dreamed of giving himself to Lignerol's caresses, to his manhood. While the Duke may take other men to bed, he only yielded to Lignerol. 

He strained his breeches as he thought of his lover. Retired to his bed chamber, he locked the door. Stripping, he lay his side, and wrenched himself so he could caress his phallus while he thrust one finger into his anus. He thought of Lignerol, how tender he was when he took the Duke, his slender fingers moving all over his body. Sometimes, he would kneel in front of the Duke and take him in his mouth so deeply the saliva dripped all down his chin and he sputtered as though he could not breath. The Duke would try to push him away for fear of hurting him, but Lignerol would only grasp the Duke's thighs and move with such frenzy that the Duke lost all thought. With a soft cry, the Duke spilt his seed into his bed. Before he fell asleep, he penned a missive telling Lignerol to meet him in Paris.

* * * *

With the crown on his mind, the Duke de Nemours traveled to Paris to prepare a grand equipage for England. A grand wedding was underway at the capitol. He arrived the night before the espousals, and greeted the King and Queen. It was then he first heard rumors of Rosalind, the Princess de Cleves, her dark silken tresses, rosy cheeks and fleeting scent. He took care in choosing his garments for the next day, thinking he may wish to know this woman.

Rosalind did not go to the church to see the vows, instead dressing herself with great care for the ball. She wore a gown of the same vivid blue as her aquamarine ring. That morning the Prince presented her with a matching bracelet, necklace, and ear pendants. She turned in front of the glass, inspecting every detail of her toilet. Her hair had been curled and gathered with a simple white ribbon. The plainness of her gauzy dress only made her, and her glittering jewelry, shine more. 

The Prince de Cleves looked at his wife with both pride and despair: she still did love him.

No longer could he blame her lack of affection on her naivety or an unfamiliarity with him. She received his attentions with great enthusiasm, but had to be prompted to return them. He tried to hold his tongue, but the joy on her face as she stared in the glass piqued his anger. "Is it possible," the Prince said, "That I should not be happy in marrying you?"

Rosalind turned to look at him, her lips pressed tightly together.

"I find, I am certain that I am unhappy. You are civil to me, yet you express none of those pretty inquietudes, the concern, and impatience, which are the signs of love. I find you are no more affected with my person than you would a scullery maid or chair," the Prince continued.

Rosalind's eyes flashed as she clenched her jaw. "I do not know what more you could desire of me," she said before turning back to the glass. She began to dab at the corners of her eyes, trying to keep her tears from ruining her makeup.

The Prince regretted his words, even if they were true. A moment ago she had been beaming, happy, and out of jealousy he had spoiled it. Not knowing what else to do, he found Mme. de Chartes and asked her to comfort her daughter. He told her they quarreled about a trivial thing. It was the Prince's fault, and he felt terrible for ruining her evening. Now he begged her to go to her daughter, which she did. 

She did not believe a word of what he told her about their fight. There is only one thing these newlyweds would disagree about, her daughter's stony heart. Before she entered the room, she took a moment to compose herself. It would never do to trouble her daughter with her guilt.

Rosalind was in good cheer by the time they arrived to the ball. Everyone wished to dance with her, everywhere she turned, a proffered glass of champagne waited. The Prince de Conde was dancing a passepied with her when she heard a commotion; someone of note had arrived. 

After a lull, the conversation rippled outward, charged with excitement. The King came to her, desiring her to meet this newcomer. The man walked toward her, a crooked smile on his lips. Her breath stuck in her throat as she looked upon this stranger who she knew must be the Duke de Nemours. Nature turned him in such a delicate manner, that there was no finer man in all of France. In this evening's toilet he had been assiduous, which made him all the more striking. 

Rosalind never appeared more beautiful than she did that night. The fight with her husband, and her thrill of emotions, made her glow. The Duke de Nemours understood why the entire court spoke of the Princess de Cleves. He gave her a low bow, then offered her his hand. They began to dance without ever having spoken to one another.

The King and Queen commented on how beautifully they moved together, and how remarkable it was that they did so without knowing one another. 

Rosalind tried not to blush or tremble as she danced with the Duke. Could this bewilderment, this thumping feeling in her chest, be love? She thought that was what the warmth she felt in her husband's arms at night. 

The Duke de Nemours knew exactly what he felt: there was no one in the world besides this woman who rested in his arms. 

The King, Queen, and Princess Mary walked out to greet them as soon as the dance was over.

"Tell me, you have never met, yet do you know each other?" Mary asked. 

"As for me, Your Highness," said the Duke, "I know this to be the Princess de Cleves. I do not know if she has heard of me. If it pleases your Highness, will you tell her my name?"

Mary gave them a coquettish smile. "I believe that she knows your name as well as you know her's."

Rosalind became embarrassed. "I assure you, Your Highness, that I am quite poor at guessing."

"Yes, you guess very well," Mary exclaimed, laughing. "That you will not admit to knowing the Duke de Nemours is very obliging to him."

The Queen interrupted their conversation and ushered them off the dance floor so the ball could continue. The Duke danced with Mary while Rosalind rested in a chair. The Chevalier de Guise, who sat at her feet, was in a panic. Perhaps it was jealousy that colored his thoughts, but he believed he had just seen Rosalind fall in love with the Duke, and the Duke return the sentiment. The Princess even touched his hair, a rare gesture of affection. The scent of roses mingled with the sage he always wore.

The Prince de Cleves felt his heart pounding. He watched his wife, and there was a softness to her. He watched her eyes stroke the Duke as her fingers stroked the Chevalier's hair.

The Prince's imagination ran wild. The Duke and Chevalier had kidnapped his wife, and he came to rescue her. He broke down a door, and stepped into a library. There on the floor where the two men and his Princess, their hands moving all over one another. They were sharing her, the Duke making love to Rosalind's delicate anus, while the Chevalier labored within her womb. Rosalind gave out harsh little sobs as they strained against her. All three were lying on their sides, their limbs knotted together. 

The Duke saw him, and he said something to the Chevalier. Like a strange insect they moved so the Chevalier was on his back and they had his wife pinned between him. The Duke motioned the Prince over, trailing his fingers over Rosalind's mouth. The Prince understood, and he used his wife's mouth as he would her sex.

The Duke was lost in his own reverie. In it he knelt before Rosalind's pale pert buttocks. He made her come in his mouth, then he worked his way up to her anus. He began to probe the wrinkled orifice with his tongue, and in his imagination Rosalind began to grunt. Laying on his back, he pulled her on top of him, and pressed his sex into her anus. With his hand he rubbed her womb and made her climax again and again, her anus twitching on his phallus.

Both the Princess de Cleves and Lignerol found themselves roughly used that night.

* * * *

At court, the Duke and Rosalind watched one another. She lingered at the tennis courts, and he looked to where she stood in the crowd. Gathering with the other ladies she watched him run the ring, and he performed tricks for her. She paused to listen to his discourse, and he told his most amusing stories. 

The Chevalier de Guise continued to lurk and sulk in odd corners. 

Lignerol's heart was breaking. For the first time, he felt he did not command his master's heart. He found himself being accosted by the Duke's former mistresses, begging for some news, a word. Most he sent away, but those he knew well, they threw their arms around each other and wept. If the Duke noticed Lignerol's red eyes, or that he had to purchase more wine than usual, he said nothing. When Lignerol made love to the Duke, he could see the Duke's mind was elsewhere.

All the while, the Marechal de St. Andre continued to befriend Rosalind. He pitied the Prince and the Chevalier, for they could not make the Princess love them. The Duke de Nemours; however, roused some envy in him. The Marechal's new house was finished, and he invited the King and Queen to dine. The Princess de Cleves would attend, and he would play the solicitous host. It was on such grand occasions that the Marechal made clear his true feelings for Rosalind. 

Over the course of time, Rosalind had come to understand the Marechal's interests in her were not entirely innocent. He affected such a bland demeanor when they were alone, it was soothing, and for that she would not give him up. Other men always had their eyes on her, but the Marechal rarely met her gaze, his eyes downcast, his body hunched. The most he dared was to steal a handkerchief.

The Princess Mary was picking out her jewels for the Marechal's ball. She had promised to present Rosalind with some jewels. The little Princess would be attending her, and Mary wanted her to shine; she set aside a great necklace of pearls. Before she gave them to the young girl, she first made Rosalind aid her in choosing her own accoutrements. 

While the ladies were thus employed, the Prince de Conde was listening to the most fantastic argument among the King's court. The Duke de Nemours, who had been growing thin with some great amour, was refusing to concede any point of his argument. Conde rushed to tell Mary of it.

He entered, bowed to the Princess Mary, then whispered something to her. The young woman took his hands in delight.

"Please Conde, repeat to all what you have just whispered to me."

"Ladies," he said, bowing to greet the assembled women. "The Duke de Nemours has stated that it is a vexatious thing to have one's beloved attend a ball. He defends himself with such stubbornness, that there is nothing to conclude but he has some new mistress who makes him anxious."

"I would have thought the Duke would wish his lovers go the ball, while their husbands wish they would stay home. It is a strange opinion," Mary said. As she languidly fanned herself, the scent of lavender perfumed the room.

"He says if you are loved by your mistress, you find yourself neglected as she contemplates her adornments," Conde said, gesturing to Mary's jewelry. "Then while she is at the ball, she does her best to please every man in the room. And when her beauty triumphs, she experiences a joy that does not come her lover."

"And if he is not loved?" Mary asked.




The Princess of Cleves #03



"That is a most unhappy man. He must fret the entire night, fearful another gallant may kindle a fire where the ashes of his love smolder," Conde replied. "Though, the Duke maintains the greatest torment is to be absent from ball which your mistress is attending."

Rosalind tried not to blush as they spoke. The King was sending the Duke de Nemours away and he would not be attending the Marechal's party. It could not be her who vexed him so. Surely there was some other woman in court who held his heart.

"Are there any circumstances under which he would like his mistress to attend a ball?" Mary inquired.

"Yes, if he himself throws the ball, he consents to his mistress' attendance," Conde replied.

Mary laughed. "The Duke de Nemours is right to approve of his mistresses' coming to his ball. If they did not come, the assembly there would be very thin."

While everyone chatted about this singular opinion, Rosalind thought of the upcoming ball. The Marechal would use this occasion to take liberties with her. As the host he would embrace her, kiss her cheeks, and hover beside her. 

She told her mother this, that she did want to be subjected to the Marechal's attentions, so she would not be attending the ball.

Her mother thought this a very queer idea, and informed her daughter she would attend the ball. Mme. de Chartes discovered her daughter to be obstinate on this point, and in the end advised her to claim she an indisposition.

The Duke de Nemours was not fortunate enough to hear of this until the day after the ball. Even then, he did not know it was his displeasure that kept Rosalind attending. He experienced a night of poor sleep, followed by a moment of queer relief the next day. 

Both the Marechal and Chevalier were disappointed to find their love absent. Each suspected the cause lay in the Duke de Nemours, as did Mme. de Chartes.



The Princess of Cleves #04



It was two days after the ball. The Duke de Nemours was playing court to Princess when Mme. de Chartes arrived with her daughter. Rosalind had dressed a little negligently, as one who has been ill does. Her face carried that glow of youth and vigor which betrayed her lie.

Mary kissed her cheeks. "You look so pretty Rosalind, that I can't believe you were indisposed. I think the Prince de Conde, when relating to you the Duke de Nemours' opinion on balls, convinced you that to attend the Marechal de St. Andre's fete would be a favor to him."

Rosalind blushed in reply.

Mme. de Chartes cursed her daughter's guileless skin. Fearing the Duke would realize how much he affected the Princess' heart she quickly embellished her daughter's excuse. "Your Highness has done my daughter much honor, more than she deserves, but truly she was ill," the Mme. de Chartes said. "It was I who forbade her to leave the house, for she would have attended you, even if she showed herself at a disadvantage."

As Mme. de Chartes spoke, she watched the Duke. One side of his lopsided smile slipped, leaving him with a straight bemused grin. His eyes flicked between her and her daughter Rosalind, from uncertainty to love.

After that day, the Mme. de Chartes fretted over her daughter's feelings for the Duke. She refused to speak of them directly though, lest she alert Rosalind of an emotion which she remained unaware.

One day, she began to speak with Rosalind about this man. She praised the prudence he had in never falling in love, his wisdom in treating romance and women as an amusement. "He is an ambitious man as well. It is said he has an uncommon passion for the Princess Mary. I must warn you against becoming a confidante of the pair." 

She looked at Rosalind, and saw that her daughter looked dejected. "Do not speak to the Duke in private, lest he wish you to act as a messenger."

Rosalind nodded. "Thank you mother. You are always preventing me from making any missteps. I do not know what I would do without you." Rosalind went to her mother, and kissed both her cheeks. 

Rosalind could not help but to feel foolish to find in the Duke de Nemours' actions so many proofs of a love that, if rumors were correct, really belonged to the Princess Mary. That she felt a great attraction for the Duke, but not her husband, filled her with shame. 

The next morning she went to her mother's chamber to confess her emotions for the Duke. All night she had been making a list of strict resolutions which would make her mother proud. 

Mme. de Chartes had a touch of fever though, and her daughter thought it best to speak to her at another time. Instead, Rosalind went to the Louvre to attend upon the Princess Mary.

"We were just speaking," Mary said to her, "of the Duke de Nemours, and were admiring how much he has changed since his return from Brussels. Before he had an infinite number of mistresses, showing equal regard to those with and without merit. Since his return, he has no mistresses at all, and he has become thin and melancholy."

Rosalind thought it very bold of Mary to say these things, given that it was she who had wrought these changes in the Duke. When the other ladies retired, jealousy and bitterness would not allow Rosalind to remain silent. She turned to Mary and said, "Why do you speak to me of the conduct of the Duke de Nemours? Both you and I know that it is a new mistress that has altered his behavior, and that mistress is you."

Mary was taken aback, and took Rosalind's hands. "You do me injustice, you know I conceal nothing from you. It is true that the Duke de Nemours, prior to his trip to Brussels, conveyed to me through his actions that he did not hate me," Mary said. "Now, he does not even see me."

It was a moment before Rosalind could stutter out an apology. Sweat formed on her skin and the air took the scent of roses. She hastily withdrew from Mary's chambers. In spite of herself, she found her heart again surging, finding once again in the Duke's glances proof his love for her. 

Her high spirits dampened when she arrived home to find her mother's fever increased. She was given an emetic, bled from the foot, and put on a milk diet. As time progressed, she became worse, and the doctors began to fear for her life.

During those long days, Rosalind was inconsolable, and the Prince de Cleves did not leave his wife's side. The Chevalier de Guise found his way into the antechamber of Mme. de Chartes bedroom, although he did not attend with any frequency. There he would try to distinguish the note of rose from the smells of a sickroom.

The Duke de Nemours used his close friendship with the Prince as reason to attend daily. He found Rosalind's beauty only magnified by her sorrow. The dark circles under her eyes, her pale skin, her unkempt hair, made her appear fragile. The Duke wanted to hold her as she wept, to kiss away her tears. He would then--he had to stop his thoughts, or he would be sitting in the antechamber of a dying woman's bedroom turgid like a rutting dear. It would make a poor impression on her daughter. He looked over to Rosalind, and found the Marechal stooping over her, here to talk her on their walk.

That man, with his dowager's hump, had done something the neither the Duke nor the Chevalier could do, convince the Prince that the Marechal was completely benign. Nor had either of them secured twice weekly appointments with Rosalind. The Duke felt a flash of jealousy, but then he remembered, the Marechal posed no threat because Rosalind did not love him. Who cares if he walked with her? The Marechal gave him a hard look, as if he could sense the Duke de Nemours' thoughts, but his handsome face soon became placid again.

Rosalind was relieved to step outside, away from the gloom of her mother's bedside and the worried eyes of her husband. She felt unsettled with the Chevalier waiting in the antechamber; she kept sniffing sage in the air. Seeing the Duke, the twitch of a smile that moved the corner of his mouth, brought her both pain and pleasure. Out in the fresh air, she reflected on his charm, and how it had introduced her to the world of love and gallantry. It should have been her husband's blue eyes, not the Duke's smile, that made her heart pound. That thought gave her so much grief she imagined she hated the Duke. As always, the Marechal was a soothing presence.

* * * *

Rosalind paid little attention to where the Marechal walked, she was so lost in her own worries. Abducting her would have been as simple as leading her to a carriage. When he opened a door, she entered; when he took her down a hall, she did not look up to see it was unfamiliar. It was only when the key clicked in the lock did she lift her eyes from the ground to find herself in a private sitting room. She withdrew from the Marechal, fearful that he intended some mischief.

The man smiled sweetly and bowed. "Please forgive my impudence Rosalind. I will be leaving soon, and I wished to speak with you in private."

"You are going?" she said. The thought filled her with panic. Her mother was no longer able to give her guidance, and without the Marechal's steadying presence, her life would nothing but turmoil.

"I will return, God willing, but yes, the King needs me to command his troops." He looked at her, and he could see his absence distressed her.

It was the first time he met Rosalind's eyes. "I will pray for you everyday."

"Thank you," he said, sinking down on his knees before her. He took her hands and pressed them to his face.

"Marechal!" she exclaimed.

"How can you be surprised?" he said. "You know I love you, and I know you are married and you do not love me."

As he spoke, she blushed. 

"All I want is to walk with you, and to feel your gentle hands before I leave for battle." He began to lavish kisses upon her palms. His affections rendered her stupefied, not the affect he wanted. 

She pushed the Marechal away and retreated until her back was against the wall. The Marechal advanced upon all fours and groveled in front of her. He was bold enough to try and kiss her slippers. Without even thinking, Rosalind kicked him and he crawled away. The scent of roses pursued him.

"Fate has not been kind to you. I do not wish to speak ill of Mme. de Chartes, but in raising you, she was overzealous in steeling your heart against romance. It seems that even your husband has not been able to gain your love." 

He paused, and when she did not protest, he continued. "When you arrived, the only man capable of warming your heart, the glorious Duke de Nemours, was gone. By the time he returned, it was too late, you were already wed." 

He heard her sigh; sneaking a glance up at her, he saw that she trembled. "You suffer Princess, yet you have done nothing wrong. You sought to be a good obedient daughter and wife, and you have been rewarded with both a forbidden love and the conscience necessary to deny it. It is not fair." Creeping closer, he again took her hand. "Men, they may find distraction in sport, in their cups, in mistresses, but women only have their needlework to soothe them. They are not given any way to vent their spleen." 

The Marechal took a moment to gather his courage. If he did not sense in Rosalind's hands a tension that spoke of desperation, he would have never have dreamed of asking her what he did next. "I know you have no desire to caress me, and even if you did you would restrain yourself." 

Rosalind pulled at her hands and the Marechal hastened, gripping her fingers. "If you will not touch me, then strike me. Let you frustrations rain down upon me, hit me, kick me, I beg of you Rosalind's." His voice quavered and tears wetted her hands.

For the first time in her life, Rosalind was enraged. Not only were the Marechal's words true, but here he was, the closest thing she had a friend in this place, begging her to satisfy his strange perversions. To both her and the Marechal's surprise, she slapped him. 

He tried to embrace her legs but she kicked him off, this time aiming for his thighs with her pointed little shoes. As he shirked from her, she boxed his ears and beat his shoulders with her fists. 

When she broke into great wracking sobs the Marechal sprang up to hold her. She went limp, and her chest heaved in his arms. In that moment, he felt his entire being fill with the pure beatings of his heart.

After a minute, Rosalind calmed, and she became aware that she was clinging to man who was not her husband. She could not release him: the last time she had felt so serene, it had been before they left for Paris. 

"I am sorry." The Marechal took out his handkerchief and handed it to Rosalind. He smoothed her hair as she dried her eyes.

"Thank you," she said. The Marechal placed his hand on her cheek and she looked up into his eyes.

Before the Marechal could check himself he bent down to kiss her. He had taken this liberty before, briefly pressing his lips to hers, but always under the watchful eyes of the court. This kiss belonged to him alone, and her mouth did not quiver beneath his as it had in public. For a breath, they were joined.

His mouth was branded, and he had to reach out to steady himself. Black spots edged in at the corner of his eyes, and he stumbled back from her, overcome with emotion. Bruises were forming under his skin, and his ears rang. As he started to faint, Rosalind ran to catch him. She guided him to a couch, and wet her handkerchief to place on his brow.

After a minute, he came to his senses. He sat up. "Please, forgive my behavior. I have always sought to offer you some peace in this tumult as payment for your company, and it seems I have failed."

It was the first time a courtier had spoken plainly to her, about their thoughts, their motives. Once they stepped into that room, the Marechal dropped all pretenses and became completely honest. He had evoked from her a storm of emotions which decorum dictated she must repress. She felt able to face her husband's reproaches, the Duke's advances, and perhaps even her mother's death. 

Now, the foolish Marechal despaired, because he thought he had failed. She kissed his brow. "I should not tell you this, but I feel better for having...vented my spleen, and wept a little."

"Then I have succeeded?" the Marechal asked, sitting up straighter.

"Yes."

"That thought shall sustain me while I am away from you. But you look a mess, come here." The Marechal motioned her to a desk and opened a drawer with cosmetics and a hand mirror. 

As Rosalind fixed her face, the Marechal chewed his lip. "There is one last thing I must tell you, before I leave," he said.

"What is it?"

"My absence will serve to embolden the Duke de Nemours. He knows I watch you, and those who speak with you," he said, standing behind her.

"Oh," Rosalind said. She became more anxious about his departure.

"Write to me, if you have the need. I have made arrangements so that no one will know of the correspondence," the Marechal said, giving her a slip of paper. "It was only absurd optimism that made me think you should send me a note, but it seems you may have use for it. I will not fret if I do not hear from you." His eyes were once again fixed on the floor.

Taking the hand mirror from her, he rearranged his disheveled wig. When he returned with the Princess, they had been gone only a little longer than usual. He urged her to appear as melancholy as she had before, lest someone suspect they were having an affair. 

The only person who suspected something had passed between Rosalind and the Marechal was the Chevalier. After a minute he assured himself it was absurd. She only tolerated the Marechal's attentions because of his position in court.

* * * *

Mme. de Chartes's health continued to deteriorate. The doctors shifted their focus from curing her to keeping her comfortable. A priest joined the crowd in the antechamber. Rosalind found herself missing the Marechal. She never realized how much those walks had eased her mind, nor how much the Marechal's watchful gaze kept the other gallants at bay. Even as her mother was dying, they tried to charm her. 

The Duke de Nemours was different, his quiet presence gave her strength, even as it tore her heart in two. On one side there was her husband, her mother, duty, and on the other there was the Duke, and that release she found in those private moments with the Marechal, free from the court.

She wondered what would happen if it was the Duke with whom she strolled instead of the Marechal. If he fell on his knees before her, would she kneel too? If he so plainly revealed his passion to her, would she confess her own feelings? If he kissed her, would she yield to him everything? 

He was talking to the Prince de Cleves, sneaking sidelong glances at her, giving her hits of his crooked grin. She thought of his delicate hands working their way up her thigh. He would sit her on his lap, and first make her climax with his hands. With his thumb he would rub the bud within her folds, and with his fingers he would stroke her womb. After that, he would free himself from his breeches, and rub his sex against her's. He would not penetrate her, but instead move his silken phallus against her until they both came together. 

Everyone thought her cheeks were flushed from crying, and she sat hunched over with her legs tightly pressed together because she was in great distress, and her constant motion a consequence of having been confined for so long in the antechamber and sickroom. Only the Duke and the Chevalier suspected the true cause of Rosalind's agitation. They both excused themselves, finding themselves infected with the Princess of Cleves' humor. The Duke went home to find his ever patient Lignerol, who was forced to always play the woman since the Duke fell in love.

The Chevalier was not so lucky. Not only did he lack a valet to whom he could turn for comfort, he had an unhealthy predilection for committing perverse acts in public places. 

He would find a room, any room, and then stood in front of the fire place. He could ejaculate in seconds, and when he ever was caught, it was always a moment too late. Today, he held back; he stroked himself slowly, savoring the glint in the Rosalind's eyes. Doubtless, she was imagining someone touching her. Could it be the Marechal? She had been melancholy since he left. Or could it be he, the Chevalier, who she allowed to sit at her feet like a favorite dog, and always patted like one. Could it be the Prince? Never, it must be...

The opening door interrupted the Chevalier. He attempted to stuff himself back in his breeches, but it was too late, his seed was falling into the ash. He would only spoil his clothes. When the door shut he jumped. His entire body flushed red. Turning around, he tucked his cock away. 

The Prince de Cleves did not look angry, which surprised him. Rather, the Prince was dumbfounded.

"Chevalier, you could not wait until you got home to touch yourself while thinking of my wife," the Prince said mildly. 

The Chevalier was about to say something, but the Prince cut him off. "I am not nearly as stupid as you gallants think. I know she does not love me. I also know," and now the Prince reached down to caress his own tumescent sex, "when my wife's mind has turned venial things."

"Please pardon me Prince," he finally stammered.

"I will, on one condition. Tell me Chevalier, what would you do in such a situation?" the Prince asked.

The Chevalier had pondered this scenario before, but not since it became clear to him that the Princess was in love with the Duke. He stared into the Prince's limpid blue eyes. "It is too horrible for me to even contemplate. I will tell you instead, something about me which will set you at ease." 

"Well?" the Prince prompted when the Chevalier only stood there.

"You must understand Prince, this quite embarrassing, what I am about to tell you, and must swear to keep it a secret," the Chevalier whispered, stepping closer to the Prince.

The Prince could not suppress his smile. "I swear to God I shall not tell anyone."

"I am a virgin. I like to peep in keyholes, not just at people making love, or women dressing. I like watching people doing anything in private, writing letters, playing cards. I especially enjoy women who dine alone. I love to see them dispense with court etiquette to pick up their meat and chew on it."

If the Prince required proof, as the Chevalier spoke he began to show signs of being aroused. "Calm yourself. Is that all?"

The Chevalier shook his head "I like to sin in places where I may be caught, like here. Normally, I am done very quickly, and this is the first time I've been caught red handed, so to speak. Today though..."

"That is enough Chevalier. Leave. And if you must do this, please, do it in here so I do not walk in on you again," the Prince said.

The Chevalier stood there, unable to believe his good fortune, before he scurried away.

It was at this time that the Prince formed the perverse desire to have the Chevalier to spy on him making love to his wife. He would have to arrange things in such a manner that the Chevalier did not realize the Prince was encouraging his peculiar habits. 

Somehow, he would have to show the Chevalier a wardrobe in which he might hide, and indicate to him times when he would be able to install his person there. It would be necessary to contrive some reason for wardrobe's disuse, perhaps he would stuff some old cloaks into it to make it more comfortable.

* * * *

The Madame de Chartes knew her end was near, and she bore herself with the courage worthy of her noble life. One night she asked for her daughter, sending all the others always. Rosalind approached the bed with hollow eyes. Mme. de Chartes stretched her hand out to her, and began to speak.




The Princess of Cleves #04



"We must part, my dear daughter. I regret that I am leaving you in such great danger." Rosalind opened her mouth to speak, but her mother continued. "No, do not confess your passion for the Duke de Nemours to me. At first, I believed you did not understand your feelings for him, and I was afraid to give your emotions a name. You know too well now that your are balanced on a precipice, with a great distance to fall."

Rosalind began to weep, her mother's cold hand cradled between hers.

"You must do great violence to your heart. Reflect on what you owe to your husband, and to me. Remember the reputation you have gained with your modesty and virtue. Do all that is necessary to preserve yourself from the misfortunes that are the bitter lees of gallantry. Beg your husband to carry away from the court, forbid his friendship with the Duke, and do not be afraid of harsh resolutions." 

The Mme. de Chartes felt her hand bathed in her daughter's hot tears. It made her next words even harder to speak. "Listen carefully now, if there is anything capable of disturbing my peace in the next world, it would be to witness you losing your virtue. Should that be your fate, I am glad I will die before my name is associated with such infamy."

Rosalind was shaking her head, and she threw herself across the bed and began weeping on her mother's bosom. Moved, the Mme. de Chartes began to cry as well, embracing her daughter.

After a minute, she pushed the girl away. "Adieu, my dear daughter, let us end a conversation which breaks us both. Remember my words, and you will never go astray."

Finished, the Mme. de Chartes turned away from her daughter, telling her to send in her women. After that, she refused admittance to Rosalind, and saw only her attendants, her confessor, and her doctor. 

Two days later, she died in the afternoon, and far from being composed, she was in the utmost state of despair. None understood what had happened the previous night that so disturbed her once serene mind, none but Diana, the Duchess de Valentinois.

Diana sent away the King and her lovers, claiming to be indisposed, and bathed her pillow in tears. When she heard of Mme. de Chartes illness, she only smiled, thinking of Rosalind making a misstep while her mother was unable to offer her guidance. She practically squealed with delight upon hearing the Marechal was being sent to war, as Rosalind would now be without her silent guardian. As the news reached her that the Mme. de Chartes was at death's door, she decided to render the woman's afterlife miserable with a promise to lead Mme. de Chartes' daughter to the Duke de Nemours bed.

Traveling incognito in a large cloak, she only showed her face to open doors, and crept into the Mme. de Chartes bedroom a little before midnight. Feeling a shadow hovering over her, the Mme. de Chartes started from her slumber.

"So, you leave your daughter in a loveless marriage, while the greatest man in Europe burns with passion for her, a passion that she returns," Diana said.

What little strength the Mme. de Chartes had left flared up in anger. No longer fearing the consequences of her words, she spoke plainly to Diana. "When I was a young girl, you seduced me, then left me alone to weep. I loved you, though I knew it to be wrong, to be a sin against both God and my husband, but I loved you, and I gave myself to you, and when you took what you wanted, you left. It wasn't enough for you though, you tried to seduce me again, so you could again pierce my heart to the quick."

Diana was not expecting this. She expected Chartes to tell her she would burn in hell, or to tell her she had prepared her daughter's heart against temptation. Instead, the dying woman had ripped open an old wound, and accused her of callousness. "How dare you say you love me. You fainted," she replied, angrily.

"I was raised in the church, and I feared Hell. If you had not left, I would have explained myself to you. I had to dress myself, and then sneak from the Louvre. I wanted to love you, even after you tore out my heart, I still wanted to go to you. I still..." Overcome, Mme. de Chartes turned her face into her pillow and began to weep.

Diana sat on the bed, and began to stroke the woman's hair. She could still see the young maid in Mme. de Chartes features, and still felt the warmth of the love she'd had for her. "I was wrong, I see that now," she said.

Mme. de Chartes looked up into Diana's eyes and saw they glittered with tears. "Why did you leave?"

"I was angry, and stupid and vain. All the men, even the King, they meant little to me. You were different," Diana said, and she took her handkerchief to dab away Mme. de Chartes tears. "You, I truly loved, and when you fainted I took it as an insult, that you would lay back to let me please you, but did not wish to please me."

Mme. de Chartes took the Duchess' hand and held it against her cheek. "I did wish to please you, even as you touched me, thought how beautiful your skin must be beneath your skirts."

"Is it too late to ask for your forgiveness, to say I still love you?" Diana said.

"I love you as well, despite all the reasons not to. If you promise to help my daughter, should she become involved with the Duke de Nemours, then I will forgive you."

Diana leaned down to kiss Mme. de Chartes feverish brow. "Should she become involved in gallantries, I will teach that young woman everything I know. The Marechal de St. Andre also has your daughter's best interest at heart. It is possible that their friendship could keep her from the Duke. Do not despair, Madame, you have raised a virtuous woman."

"I have raised a cold woman, numb to all but the greatest gallant, and then I married her to a kind sensible man, who is as exciting as a house cat."

Diana could not help herself, despite the gloom she tittered at Mme. de Chartes description of the Prince de Cleves. "I think it is that snide wit that first captured my heart," Diana said.

Mme. de Chartes smiled. "I wish I had not been so stubborn. Sometimes I wonder what my life would have been like had I replied to one of your notes."

The Duchess shook her head. "No, you were right to ignore me. I would have used you cruelly, I was angry. I should have gone to you, and simply talked with you," Diana said, raising Mme. de Chartes hand to her lips. "And now, it is too late. You...you are the only one I have ever loved, and I was impetuous, and foolish." The Duchess threw herself into the arms of Mme. de Chartes, and they held one another and wept.

Though her breath was sour with illness and death, Diana kissed Mme. de Chartes, a tender kiss. She traced her fingers over Mme. de Chartes frail body. "All of my bitterness, all of my hate, I let the guide me when I raised my daughter. I have cursed her to life of misery," Mme. de Chartes murmured

"No, no my love, do not say that. Who knows, once her passion for the Duke has faded, she may come to love her husband." Even as she spoke the words, Diana did not believe them. She regretted meddling in the young woman's marriage, making the girl suffer for the misunderstanding she had with her mother.

Diana spent an hour laying in Mme. de Chartes bed, caressing her, and giving her little kisses. As the fire burned low, she placed more logs in it. When Mme. de Chartes fever vexed her, she put a cold cloth on her brow. She promised to send a doctor by with a draught of opium to soften her last moments on earth, but Mme. de Chartes refused. When she left, they were both weeping, and continued to weep the next day.

It was a day before Diana was ready to admit anyone to her apartments, and three days before she left them.



The Princess of Cleves #05



Like Achilles, Rosalind felt as though her hamstring had been cut, and she now limped around, lost without her mother. The Prince de Cleves carried her into the country, and the Duke de Nemours followed. He did his best to see the grieving Rosalind, but she eluded him. 

The Prince contacted the Chevalier de Guise, and he arrived with a little dog. He requested the Chevalier take her on walks since it seemed to do her so much good. The Princess treated the Chevalier himself as a little dog, patting him on the head, reading him stories. 

The Duke had never suffered so much in his life. He grew even thinner, hollows began to grow under his eyes. 

The Prince found his patience at its end with this man. He left the Chevalier in charge of his wife when the Duke was sniffing about.

Rosalind was amazed at the ease with which she evaded the attentions of the Duke. Having the Chevalier attend her was a strange, but welcome distraction. Her husband developed a prescience in regards to the Duke's visits. When Rosalind finally became aware of all the Prince did to insulate her from the Duke, she was very grateful. 

They were preparing for bed one night, and she paused to watch him. He was handsome, if a little plain. His body had a fine form, he was assiduous in his grooming, and he always took delight in pleasing her. He saw her watching him, and he blushed.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" he asked curtly. He was in a sour mood, having found the Duke particularly insufferable today, and the Chevalier irritating. To think, this was the price he paid for marrying the most admired woman in the court; he was unsure it was worth it.

"Thank you," Rosalind said. Her hand moved as if to touch him.

"For what?" The Prince regarded his wife, and found her cheeks flushed. "What is on your mind?" Her eyes met his, and he was surprised by the warmth he saw in them.

"You." 

Had she not been looking him in the eye, he would have believed she was lying. "What has gotten you in such a queer mood?" he asked, walking over to touch her cheek.

She blushed. "You have been so...protective of me after my mother's death. It makes me very happy."

The Prince smiled, thinking perhaps that she was worth the trouble she caused after all. She just thanked him for guarding from the most charming man in France. "You are welcome," he said, kissing her brow.

He was enveloped in the scent of roses. She took the Prince's hands, and made him sit in an armchair. He looked down at her puzzled as she knelt in front of him, then his blue eyes lit up as she pushed his nightshirt up to his waist.

"Wait," the Prince said, and he removed their clothes. Rosalind now only wore her blushes, and the Prince was twining his fingers in her hair.

She looked up at him, and smiled, taking his erect sex into her hands. There was already a drop of dew at its tip which she used to lubricate her hands. When she pressed her soft lips to his phallus, he groaned. She began to lick him, and he reached down to cup her breasts. Her small mouth opened, and he could feel her breath as she gasped.

"You are distracting me," she said.

As much as he wanted her to take him in her mouth, he could not stop himself from lifting her off the floor and placing her on his turgid sex. She was already hot and wet, and he slid in easily. He groaned as she began to bounce herself up and down on his lap, and he clutched her to him. In a moment, he had spent himself. By now, the Princess knew that he was not done. She settled herself in front of him again, and took the tip of his phallus in her mouth.

The Prince twitched in his chair. She used both her hands to caress his shaft while she sucked on the head. There was a salty flavor, strange, the Prince's seed mixed with the juices of Rosalind's womb. The Prince held the nape of her neck, and thrust himself a little way into her mouth. 

Her hands moved rapidly over his sex; unsure of what to touch, she touched everything. The ridge that ran under his phallus, his testicles, the expanse of skin behind them. When her little finger reached his anus, his toes curled, and he came. It caught Rosalind by surprise, and the first surge spilled from her mouth. The others covered her face.

She looked distraught, but before she could even wipe her face, the Prince fell upon her. He kissed her, tasting himself on her lips, and he was strong again. He pushed her on the floor and took her again. 

Rosalind could feel her back bruising on the hard floor, and she came, all the while the Prince moved over her, she came. She came so that moisture overflowed their joined sexes, she came so that she clenched the Prince so hard he was in pain, she came until she arched her back as he sank into her, bringing the tip of his phallus to the very back of her womb. 

At last, her groin clenched like a fist, and the release made her cry out, her legs twitch. The Prince felt her womb go limp around him and flutter, her face formed what appeared to be a grim rictus of pain. It was a spectacular orgasm, and he spilled his seed for the third time that night. He held her as she panted, and kissed her sticky face.

He tucked her into bed, and with a basin of warm water, wiped his mess from her body. She was half asleep, and his eyes lingered on her naked form. Between her legs, her lips were red and swollen. She squirmed as he cleaned her thighs and buttocks. He dashed water on his face and groin before slipping into bed to hold his wife. 

As he lay there, he thought the only thing that could have rendered this night more perfect was to have the Chevalier spying on them. He would relate to him this adventure. At this point, as far as he could ascertain, the Chevalier had yet to make use of the alcove he had set up for him. A simple tapestry hung over an inset for a large statue: it was the perfect place to spy. He had nonchalantly show it to the Chevalier one day, making up something about the sculpture that had once been there.

* * * *

The Chevalier de Guise arrived early the next morning and found the Prince de Cleves waiting for him, looking rather rumpled but cheerful. "Good morning Chevalier," he said.

"Good morning Prince, you are in a good mood," the Chevalier replied.

"I am, and I wanted to share something with you. Rosalind has noted how we have been keeping the Duke de Nemours from her, and she was very appreciative." His tone dropped an octave and became more intimate. "Very very appreciative." He made a crude pantomime with his hands and mouth.

The Chevalier colored at this confidence. Sometimes he entertained a suspicion that the Prince was trying to encourage him to spy on his wife. The alcove the Prince had showed him behind the tapestry was perfect should he wish to watch the Princess at her toilet, or with her husband. When he was not attending Rosalind, he was free to wander the grounds. If the Prince encountered him, he only nodded. They had also designated a room for him to indulge his passions, which he often made use of. Thus far, he had spied on the Princess reading and followed her as she walked her little dog. 

The Prince he had observed eating and writing letters. In those moments by himself, the Prince's sharp blue gaze softened. The Chevalier doubted the Prince realized that the Chevalier did not discriminate by sex.

Now he was in the garden, waiting for Rosalind to join him on their morning stroll. A carriage arrived, undoubtedly it was the Duke, come to harass the Prince. He did not know what the Prince would do when he traveled to Paris, as he would at some point. Perhaps the Prince would install him here to keep an eye on his wife. He became excited as he fantasized about watching Rosalind eat in private. He did not notice her light footsteps, and started when she touched his shoulder.

He took her arm. He discovered that she preferred for him to remain silent while they walked, or if he did talk, to talk about nothing. It was how the Marechal seduced her, by being as innocuous as a pebble. So the Chevalier imitated him, and Rosalind rewarded him with idle smiles. They sat on a bench, and he read her dull essays on the Catholic faith.

She stared at a flower, not really seeing it. The Chevalier knew he had a pleasant voice, but he found the text inane, and she did bother to listen. The rhythm change caught her attention when he switched to poetry. She looked at him, and he gave her a nervous smile.

"I am sorry, but I could not take any more genuflection. I did not think you were paying attention, so you would not care if I read something that interested me," the Chevalier said.

"You are correct, poetry just sounds very different," the Princess replied.

He began reading again, but this time Rosalind listened. Certainly, this was a book her mother would've forbidden her to read. The poem he chose concerned Tristan and Isolde. Her mother must be rolling in her grave, she was being read a poem about an adulterous queen by a gallant who had often shown her his affection. 

She wished she could see the Duke, but she did not trust herself. They would stand there with flushed cheeks and have an awkward conversation, exchanging glances. 

It was frustrating, suffocating, in this manor. She found herself missing the Marechal. She would like to hit him until she cried again. Even after the death of her mother, she had not cried that hard, nor felt so refreshed from her tears. 

She thought of the address he had given her, but what would she write to him? If she said she missed him, it would be a love letter, and she certainly would not immortalize their encounter in prose. She could write to him of the weather. As she conceived of the idea, she decided that she would. She would read his note, and follow his instructions. It would be something to do.

The Chevalier kept looking at her as he recited the poem. Every now and then he would glance down at the words, but she would not notice if he garbled a line. She had a mischievous look on her face; he would have to follow her closely. What could this little dove be plotting, kept as she was in this pretty little cage? Was she keeping up a secret correspondence with the Duke? That would make no sense. She was content to stay in this manor in the company of her two guards. If she had wanted to see the Duke, she would have chased him away, and left her husband to manage as best he could. Sometimes, after the Prince sent the Duke away, the Chevalier felt eyes on him. He searched the garden, and there were many places to hide. He smiled, thinking that the Duke must be jealous even of him, Rosalind's little lap dog.

The Duke ground his teeth as the saw the joyous look on the Chevalier's face. He did not know how the man had managed to befriend the Prince, let alone become the Princess' chaperone. There were times when he saw a certain sparkle in the Princess' eyes, and he imagined they shone for him. 

As he crouched in a bush he felt himself begin to strain against his breeches. Lignerol no longer offered him any satisfaction, and he found no comfort alone. He beautiful hair lost its luster, his eyes were dim, and his smile more a grimace. His passion for the Princess de Cleves was making him ill. He idly rubbed his sex until the pair left. Now he would have to sneak out of the garden. He was afraid of the Chevalier, who seemed to have free reign to prowl the halls. He returned to Paris, and to Lignerol's admonishments to give up this woman who infected him with such a sick obsession.

The Chevalier handed Rosalind off to her husband. He started to walk the halls, looking for a place to hide. Like a siren's song, he could hear the little alcove calling to him. His little hiding place. Perhaps the Prince was kind enough to leave a bottle of wine there. 

The thought made him laugh, the Prince preparing him a nest from which to watch his wife. He wandered aimlessly until he found himself outside their bedchamber. Pressing his ear against the door, he could not hear anyone, and it was unlocked. He found the way the tapestries were hung over the alcove, there was a gap in the fabric right in the center. For some reason, and old cloak had been thrown back there. It seems the Prince had considered his comfort. Not that he would have been uncomfortable. With his hobbies, his limbs had become used to small cramped places without any cushioning.

* * * *

Rosalind sat at her little desk. At her husband's suggestion, she had it placed in their bedchamber, so she could write in private. She had kept up a lively correspondence with the Princess Mary, and found Mary's replies very witty. She found the note the Marechal de St. Andre had given her where she had hidden it in a packet of other letters. All it said was: Leave your letters behind the putti with the harp in the garden. If someone sees you, tell them you wished for a breath of fresh air.

She put the note in her pocket, then began to write. She did not know if she should use his name in case the letter was found, so she addressed it to M.

Dear M--

Thank you for suggesting I write to you, I find myself at a loss. My mother has died. I fear that my feelings for D-- remain. My husband, and strangely enough, C--, help me to keep watch over my heart. I have not seen D-- since I left with my husband for the country, though he comes here often. I am grateful to them both, but I stagnate here at the same time.

I meant to write to you about the weather. It has been pleasant, if a bit damp. There are flowers blooming in the garden, and even some tuberoses. P-- brought them from Paris so I should not miss the court. I have been taking walks outside with C-- and he reads me nonsense. He brought me a little dog, and I named her Lily. She sleeps in a basket next to the bed, and is a lovely distraction. If it has rained outside, she leaves muddy little footprints everywhere. The maid then looks very cross.

I find myself enjoying my husband's company more. He has been very kind since my mother passed.

I am sorry, I am writing a letter with nothing to say. I've been writing to Mary, and she tells me all the gossip of the court. She is the only person with whom I have kept a correspondence.

I wish I had attended your ball. Sometimes the attentions you pay to me in public embarrass me. There was also what D-- said, which I am sure you have heard. He effected me so at first, I found myself impelled to abide by his opinion. Now, were I his mistress, I would be the one who vexed him first with her neglect, and then with her vanity.

I hope you are well. Sometimes I hear news of the battlefront and it frightens me. I keep you in your prayers.

Your Friend,

R--

It took her an hour and a half to write these words. All the while the Chevalier's heart had been melting. 

Rosalind wept, she collected herself to write a little, then she sighed and stared. He saw her small secret smile, and her cheeks flush. She withdrew a handkerchief and pressed it to her face. Carelessly she set it by the edge of her desk, and the Chevalier was transfixed as she began to write again. She blew on her paper, fidgeted with her pen, smeared ink on her face. At last, a gesture sent the piece of linen to the floor where it was forgotten.

She sealed the letter. It took her another several minutes to determine how to address the envelope. In the end, she left it blank. As soon as she left the room, the Chevalier sprang from his hiding place to snatch the handkerchief. His sensitive ears picked up the vibrations of footsteps, and he dove back into his cover. It was Rosalind. She took a bottle of cologne and sprinkled it on the letter. The room was perfumed with rose, always rose.

The Chevalier was able to follow her by the scent. He found her by a statue in the garden, a look of surprise on her face as she pulled a letter from behind it. Instead of following Rosalind back inside, the Chevalier hid himself to see who came for her letter.

Rosalind's heart pounded. She retreated to the library and tore open the letter. It unnerved her that a it had been waiting for her, that someone had been creeping into her garden, searching for word from her. It was a short note.

My Dearest Princess,

I could not forbear writing to you when I heard of the death your mother. Please accept my deepest condolences. My endeavors here have been going well. I hope to see you soon, and you are often in my thoughts. I hope this letter finds you well, as well as you can be given the circumstances.

Your Marechal

She read it through, two or three times, then with a trembling hand held it to a candle flame. In moments, it was just ash in the fireplace. She wondered if it should trouble her, this clandestine correspondence with the Marechal, her warm feelings toward him, but no. If she wrote him openly, their letters would be read, and they would be vapid and useless. What she felt toward him was closer to what she felt for her husband, a gratitude for his kindness.

She thought of when he had asked her hit him. The way he responded to each blow, like she caressed him. She had not wanted to see it at the time, she was too overcome with emotion, but the look in his eyes, she knew it well. 

It was the same thing she saw in her husband's eyes when she came to him at night, the look of the Chevalier as he attended to her, it was in the hooded gaze of the Duke de Nemours. She shivered. Craning her neck, she looked at the door. There was the key, left carelessly in the lock, and she used it to secure the room. She placed an armchair so its back was to the door, then hitched up her skirts and draped one leg over an arm. Now her sex was exposed, and she thought of the Marechal groveling at her feet.

She touched herself with one finger, stroking her petals. She found the bud within them, and began to twist it with her fingers. She thought of the Marechal, trying to caress her ankles as she kicked him, turning his lips to kiss her fists. He had squirmed so that his buttocks found its way in front of her feet, and he curled into himself, holding his head so she struck his shoulders. Sometimes he raised his face and she struck his cheeks. As she relived the moments, she began to quicken, to move. 

Now the Marechal was touching her legs, clutching her knees, knocking her down. He crawled on top of her, and kissed her neck as she beat at him. She fantasized about struggling beneath him as he rubbed his sex on her leg. She climaxed, and her eyes were wet. She melted into the chair, surprised to feel the same release she had with the Marechal.

She looked in her pocket for her handkerchief, but it was missing. She frowned, then wiped her face and fingers on the hem of her chemise. That night she fell asleep quickly and had pleasant dreams. 

The Prince found himself wondering what she had done that night. At one point he had walked by the library, only to find the door locked, and what sounded like a soft panting inside. The Chevalier was no where to be found either, no doubt tucked away somewhere, watching.

* * * *

The Marechal de St. Andre was very anxious about the mail. The troops would have teased him about being in love with the Princess de Cleves were it not for the severe reproach they received upon doing so. That day he found himself with two letters, one of which was the one he so desired. He gave orders not to be disturbed. He skimmed over the first from Diana, the Duchess de Valentinois. It surprised him that she reconciled with the Madame de Chartes. She was now soliciting his aid in the safekeeping of Mme. de Chartes' daughter Rosalind.

As he opened the envelop that contained Rosalind's letter, he caught the gentle scent of roses. There was a bruise on his thigh that she had given him, which he had kept by a gentle palpation before he fell asleep. There was no name on the sealed letter, a clever thing should the missive be found. As he read her letter, he saw very clearly the one thing she had not said to him, that she missed him. He held the paper over his heart as he grasped his sex.




The Princess of Cleves #05



Again he saw flashes of her pale legs, her form towering over him. He felt her in his arms. First, a Fury, then a gentle dove seeking shelter. He trembled at the thought of his lips on her's, and he fantasized that she embraced him. 

Instead of almost fainting, he held her tight to him, and carried her to the couch. There, he began to remove her clothes, until she was naked, her pale skin shining in the candlelight. He bit her nosy nipples, ran his teeth along her ribs, and laved her hips with his tongue. When he moved between her legs, she slapped him, knocking him back. She took his hair into her fist, and forced him to kneel. He almost came as he thought of her hand searching his waist, but he calmed himself to finish his daydream.

Her hand closed on the hilt of his knife, and she used it to cut his clothes from his back. He grunted as he felt her foot on the back of his neck, and she forced him to the floor. 

"You are a worm Marechal, and I want to see you crawl on your belly."

And he began to move, his erection pressed painfully to the floor. When he imagined her laughing, he came, biting his own shoulder to stifle his cries. 

He sat in his chair, limp, wondering what he should write to her. Should he only write pleasantries? Should he tell her he loved her, that he desired her?

My Dearest Princess,

Thank you kindly for your letter, I am glad you consider me a confidante. Do you miss our dull conversations? The weather here is drear. It has been raining for two days now. Everything is wet, there is mud everywhere. I imagine that some will find its way onto this letter.

I have had a very interesting note from Diana. It seems she wishes me to keep an eye on you. She fears you will give into the temptation presented by D--. If that does happen, please know you have a friend in me. I would never judge someone for following their heart, nor would I ever reproach you for any failing.

I promise I will no longer take advantage of our public meetings. I knew my attentions embarrassed you, but it would seem any time a man stood near you, you blushed.

Forgive my boldness, but I miss you terribly. I will confess something here that I will never say to you, I love you. I like to write the words--I love you. 

I wish I were in Paris. I would aid your husband and the Chevalier in guarding you. I know the Chevalier well, and you may trust him with your person, but not your secrets.

Please, burn this letter, and the first if you have not already. I cannot bring myself to destroy any note you send to me, so you right to be cautious in what you write. I will keep them in a strong box and return them to you, and you may do with them as you wish. I would never wish to compromise you Princess.

Your Marechal

He sealed the note, and addressed it to the lackey he had left in Paris. For a handsome fee, he was to check behind the statue every night. 

The Marechal wondered what it was that brought her to write to him? The most probable cause was that she was bored, but the Marechal decided to flatter himself, and believed that, without even realizing it, the Princess was falling in love with him. He found an underling, and sent him to find a bit of rose water. He scented his pillow with it that night, and dreamt of the Rosalind's delicate hands.



The Princess of Cleves #06



The Prince de Cleves had put off his visit to Paris as long as he could, but it was necessary he return tomorrow. Rosalind would be alone, as it would not do for the Chevalier to attend his wife in his absence. Everyone knew of the Chevalier's love for her, and enough comments were made about the fact that he was welcome at all. He would have to hope for the best. Before, he had fantasized about being a cuckold and a spy to his hypothetical wife's illicit affair. Now his heart was tight with jealousy, even as the thought still excited him.

He was getting ready to retire. Rosalind was already in her dressing gown, reading. It may have been his imagination, but he thought he saw the tapestry twitch. He turned away to hide his excitement. There was no doubt, that if the Chevalier was indeed hidden there, he would have seen the direction of the Prince's gaze. It was one thing for the Prince to know the Chevalier was spying on them, but all the fun would be ruined if the Chevalier realized this was his intention. He stood behind his wife, and began combing his fingers through her hair. She turned to him, smiling. When she saw the look in his eyes, she blushed.

The Prince knelt in front of her, and brought her sex to his mouth. There was a residue left on her lips. The Prince looked up at her. "What have you been doing today?" he asked.

Her face turned red.

"Is that why the library door was locked, again?"

Her neck colored as well.

"Were you touching yourself?" he said, rubbing his cheek on her thigh. "It is a sin, Rosalind."

"I...I did not think it mattered, now that I married," she said.

The Prince smiled. "I had not thought of it in that way. Can you show me?" he asked, taking her hands. Her pale fingers began to stroke her moist sex, and the Prince became so engorged it was painful. As she touched her little bud, the Prince began to lick her, then thrust his tongue into her womb. He started as a hot liquid washed over his face. Rosalind was panting, and he pulled her forward to touch his tongue to her anus.

"What are you doing?" she asked, but as his tongue flicked over her, she fell back limp. Her fingers again began to work at her sex. With one hand she massaged her womb, with the other she gathered the folds of skin around her bud and rubbed furiously. This time, she jerked and grunted. The Prince could feel her entire groin contracting and releasing; her asshole fluttered on his tongue.

Painfully aroused, he lifted her from the chair and threw her on the bed. When he pierced her, she was tight, and it required patience to work himself into her. When he took her, it was with a fury that belied his gentle nature.

Behind the tapestry, the Chevalier de Guise was holding onto his phallus, working the tip of it. He was using his own seed to lubricate his hand. Surely the Prince knew he was here, and this was a show for him. Never had the Chevalier conceived of pleasures such as watching a man ask his wife to touch herself as he knelt in front of her as if at prayer. 

The Prince watched Rosalind, and the Chevalier watched him watching. He almost spilled his seed upon seeing the surprise on her face when her husband kissed her anus. It was her orgasm, which was to ugly too be feigned, that made him come. She grimaced and uttered cries like an animal. With her husband's ardor after that, his lithe body moving over Rosalind, he found himself again excited.

The Prince finally came, and the Chevalier came again. In the throes of his orgasm, the Prince had turned his head, his eyes on the crack in the curtain. The Chevalier thrust himself into his hand, knocking his head against the wall as he felt his entire being leave his body through one tiny hole. 

Now, he would curl up, and fall asleep leaning against the stone. When he awoke a few hours later, the Prince and Princess would be sleeping. He had a queer dream where the curtain twitched open and an eye peaked in. It felt to be about two in the morning when he awoke. He shuddered, an unlucky hour to be about. The manor around him creaked and he jumped, there was the rustle of mice and his heart stopped. His neck was sore, as it often was. He needed to find something else to occupy his time. As he thought of the past hour, he found himself overcome, and snuck into a room to stand in front of the fireplace and touch himself. After that, he scurried away.

While Rosalind slept deeply, the Prince tossed and turned. He had gotten up to look in at the Chevalier and found him gripping his knees to his chest, somehow asleep cuddled against the wall. The Chevalier's eyes flickered, sage touched his nostril, and the Prince crept back to bed. 

He laid beside his wife, and matched his breathing to her's. He felt guilty about what he had done. Had his wife discovered the Chevalier crouched behind the tapestry, she would have become apoplectic. A blankness settled over his mind when he contemplated the scene after this: the Chevalier implicating the Prince for providing him with his hiding spot. Of course, if it ever came up, he would deny it. It was not like she was entirely innocent, for lately he saw in her signs of a grief and unrest not caused by her mother's death.

His breath stopped for a moment. If his wife had an affair, she would be unable to reproach him for encouraging the Chevalier to spy on them. It would please her as well, to have the love of this nobleman, to be caressed by him. And he could watch. Sometimes he caught glimpses of the Chevalier creeping around, and he was beginning to understand how the man went about unnoticed. Had he not been looking for him, he would have never seen the figure hidden behind a curtain, crouching behind a chair.

He was getting himself ready the next morning, and was surprised to find the Chevalier waiting for him. They bowed to one another.

"Tell me Chevalier, how may I help you?" the Prince asked.

"I thought I would accompany you to Paris."

"Ah, well, as you wish then," the Prince said. Despite himself, he felt his cheeks flushing red. He tried to hide his agitation from the Chevalier, but the man was too shrewd.

"Did you sleep well last night?"

The Prince pressed his handkerchief to his face. When he looked at the Chevalier, he found a wicked grin on the man's face.

"You are not very subtle Prince. I wanted to thank you for your performance last evening, and to let you know how very handsome you were," the Chevalier said.

The Prince did not know what to say. He had not thought about the Chevalier watching him like he watched the Princess. They had a silent breakfast together, the Chevalier smiling at him. 

In the Chevalier he found an unexpected friend, and a source of sexual excitement. He wondered what his hands felt like? What would he feel to creep into a room with him to spill their seed into the ashes side by side?

As the Prince's cheeks grew ruddy, the Chevalier found himself growing hard. Never before had he acted in collusion with someone to spy. He felt a special bond with the Prince, the only person to whom he had confessed his secret, and probably the only man in court who would not challenge him to a duel after such a revelation. He slumped into his chair, placing his foot alongside the Prince's. They maintained that small area of contact throughout the meal. The Chevalier was enthralled by the way the color red crept all over the Prince's face.

* * * *

Abandoned by both her husband and her Chevalier, Rosalind paced the garden with her little dog at her heels. They would return by tonight; she would not be left overlong with her thoughts. Looking around the garden, she stuck her hand behind the statue and was disappointed to find nothing. Perhaps she could compose a letter to the Marechal. Hearing a rustle behind her, she turned, and nearly screamed to see the Duke on the path.

He immediately dropped to one knee. "Forgive me, but I fear if I do not spend a minute in your presence, I shall die."

She was about to proclaim this nonsense, but then she saw how haggard he had grown, how his beauty had faded: the only thing left was his crooked smile. "If you must, but not here." He looked up in wonder as she took his hand and led him to a bower. "We will not be seen here. This is very improper you know."

The Duke began kissing her fingers. Suddenly, he thrust her hand inside his jacket, holding it to his chest. Leaning forward, he rested his cheek against her's. His skin burned.

"Feel this, feel my heart beating beneath your palm." He pressed his hot lips against her cheek. "It is your's Rosalind." He took her in his arms, and she swooned against him. He covered the nape of her neck with kisses, pulling her close to him.

The Duke's mouth was like a hot coal moving up and down her throat. If she did not remember to breath, she would suffocate. 

Finding her so pliant, the Duke held her face and trailed his lips everywhere. When he reached her collarbone, that she had drenched in attar of roses, she spoke. 

"Please, please stop," she whispered.

He slid to kneel by her feet as she hid her face in her hands. Somehow, their lips found each other. Their tongues joined and writhed. Rosalind embraced him, and the Duke wrapped his arms around her waist. They were both shaking with desire. She would not deny him.

He pulled away from her to catch his breath. "Do you know when you return to Paris?"

She shook her head. "Soon, I think."

He looked up into her eyes, and they shone at him. "When you return, we will arrange a tryst there." 

She nodded. The Duke's eyes had that dull look like one does with a fever. 

He laid his head in her lap and nuzzled her legs. One hand crept up her thigh, and she opened her legs so he could touch her sex. He pressed his face to her skirts, inhaling her scent as he caressed her. She stroked his hair, and when she came, he felt her hands close in fists. He sat back, and gazing into her eyes, licked her moisture from his fingers.

Her cheeks flushed bright red. She dabbed her face with her handkerchief. 

The Duke reached up to take it. "May I have a love token?"

"Yes, but not a handkerchief. I have already lost one." She felt in her pockets, and pulled out a thimble. "Will this do?"

The Duke laughed. "Yes, my love, that is perfect." With the thimble clenched in his hand, he slunk away.

She sat on the bench for half hour, her heart pounding. When she thought her feelings for the Duke were abating, she found herself alone with him. How fragile he looked, how lovesick for her, pining away. Courtly love was just as her mother had told her, only Madame de Chartes had always spoken of the joys in a flat monotone, and of its sorrows with great vigor.

With a pang of guilt, she rushed to her bedchamber. Wetting her handkerchief with some toilet water she dabbed her temples and the back of her neck. She first sat at her desk, then laid her head on it. 

Dear M.--

I have not heard from you yet, though it has only been a few days since I wrote. I should be more patient. My husband has gone to Paris for the day, and I am without C--. I met D-- in the garden. We kissed, and he touched me. I feel guilty and ashamed now. There is to be a tryst when I return to court. How I wish I could tarry longer in the country. I wondered how I shall write to you there, and I think I will just stick my letter behind a statue and hope for the best. I'm sure your man is clever enough to find it.

The weather has been perfect. Lily likes to lay in the sun while I read in the library. I leave the windows open so I can enjoy a breeze.

I hear things go well on the battlefront, and that you will soon be home. I look forward to your return, and even your overly familiar greeting.

R--

She sealed her letter, scented it, and put it outside. Surely the Marechal had received her first letter by now. She pictured him sitting in his tent, breaking the seal, inhaling the fragrance. Around him there would be the blast of canons, the snort horses, the murmur of men. That was as far as her mind went. When she thought about men, standing there as muskets fired, falling, bleeding on the ground, she felt faint.

At a loss, she ran to her room and fell into her bed. It was the afternoon, she would not have to wait for her husband much longer. She thought of the Duke, of her letter to the Marechal, and she began to weep. How many ways could she find to betray her husband? As she cried, she remembered, there was something between the Prince and the Chevalier. 

She had heard rumors about men with other men. Her cheeks colored at the thought, but still, when they looked at one another, she knew that expression, desire that stretched between them. It was a strange desire, and not something that they felt for her. She sighed, and picked up Lily. The little dog licked her face, and she watch the sun move across the floor.

At five she sprang from bed and began to pester the servants about dinner. She had three places set, for her, for her husband, and for the Chevalier. The servants had told her how the Prince ate with the Chevalier and left quite early that morning. 

At seven, she was sitting at the table, ten covers waiting. At seven thirty, she had a glass of wine. When it was eight thirty, she started to nibble at the tepid roast. As the clock struck nine, all but one of the servants retired, and she ate. The food was cold and congealed, the texture repulsive. Half of her plate she left untouched. At least she could go to bed now. She opened her window, and a fragrant breeze from the garden blew in.

She was half asleep when a noise startled her, and she realized the Duke de Nemours was peeping in at her. She was furious. 

She leapt from the bed to the window. "Get out of here," she whispered.

"Rosalind, your husband is occupied in Paris and I..."

"I don't care. Leave, now."

He reached out to take her hand, smiling. "Do not be so angry," he said, and he jumped up to sit in the casement.

Incensed, the Princess pushed him off. He landed on his feet, a look of surprise on his face. "Go, or I'll scream," she said.

The Duke began to cry, little hiccups and sniffles.

She sighed. "You may come in, for a minute, but I am not in the mood--"

He rushed to her and cut her statement short. "No, that is not why I came. Go, lay in bed, and I will sit in a chair, and we will talk."

For an hour, the Duke whispered to her, Lily sitting on his lap. He charmed her; in the light of the fire, his cheeks looked ruddy, and his eyes sparkled. His wicked grin sat proudly on his face. It was as if their earlier meeting had restored him to health. When the Rosalind's eyes closed, he kissed her cheek, paused to inhale the fragrance of roses, and slipped away.

* * * *

As the Prince rode home he fretted about his wife. The Chevalier rode with him, and comforted him, much as he did with Rosalind. 

Mme. de Tournon had passed away, and the Prince's friend Sancerre had gone mad with grief. He had left Sancerre in the care of his brother, but he knew he could no longer put off returning to Paris. It would necessary to fetch his wife from their retreat. His mood was somber, as Sancerre had told him a troubling tale about the recently deceased woman.

"What is it Prince that makes you frown? Is it that you will no longer be able to keep the Duke de Nemours from your wife?" the Chevalier asked.

The Prince scowled. "I had not thought of that. Instead my mind was on a different affair."

"You will be with your wife soon; I am sure you will feel better then." The Chevalier chattered on as they made their way home.

Rosalind had woken early. She picked at some food and was wandering around the halls, half expecting the Duke to spring from some corner. She heard the clatter of hooves and ran to the door. 

The Prince was just dismounting when she flew into his arms. She did not reproach him, but her tears felt like an accusation. The Chevalier was left standing with the horses as the Prince led his wife inside.

The Prince waited for her to calm down before he began his explanation. "The Madame de Tournon unexpectedly passed away yesterday."

"Oh no! But she was so young, how awful."

The Prince's face took on a hard look. "Please, do not weep for that woman. As you know, she spent many years mourning her husband. By accident, I found out that she and my friend Sancerre were in love." 

Rosalind took her husband's hands, troubled by his dark expression. "What happened?"

"One day overheard the Mme. de Tournon repeating a bit of gossip I had told Sancerre under the strictest vows of secrecy just the night before. When I confronted him, he confessed everything to me." His bright blue eyes clouded over. "I found her insistence on keeping the affair secret worrying, but he was happy. He proposed they marry, and I found that foolish, but she agreed." As he spoke, he stroked his wife's fingers. "When she began putting off the wedding, I urged Sancerre to ask if there was not some reason for this hesitation."

"Pardon my saying so, but Sancerre was not an appropriate match for her."

"No, you are right and I told him this. He even said he found her attitude toward him had grown cold. I urged him to discover the truth." For a moment the Prince became silent, lost in thought. "I would want my mistress to be honest with me, even if it meant she confesses to loving another. He must respect her sincerity, for it is a great virtue; he did not want to hear this."

Beside him Rosalind felt her heart flutter. Did her husband realize her love for the Duke? Did he wish for her to confess it to him?

"She again reassured him of her love. When I first arrived in Paris, I found Sancerre prostrate with grief. I left, and when I returned I found him insane with rage." Frowns kept pulling his lips down as he spoke. "Etouteville had visited him, and unaware of his relationship with Mme. de Tournon, he revealed that they were to be married. She had even convinced her father to order the match, so she would appear blameless in the eyes of Sancerre." He sighed, shaking his head. "The duplicitous woman had even forbid Etouteville to speak with Sancerre about the matter. It seemed she fell in love with Etouteville at the same time Sancerre perceived her cooling toward him."

"That is awful," Rosalind said.

The Prince turned to look in her eyes. They shone with love, but it was not for him. Sancerre had been torn with grief and anger, and the Prince knew too well the rend of such ambivalence. On one hand he found himself very jealous of his wife, and on the other, he wished for other men to see her, to enjoy her. 

Could the lightness in her face be from a visit from the Duke? Or could it be her secret correspondence with the Marechal? He was very surprised when the Chevalier had revealed to him how she had hid a letter in the garden which was retrieved by the Marechal's lackey. There was the Chevalier, he had ample opportunity to woo Rosalind.

The Prince decided that it might be best not to think so much. He bend down to kiss Rosalind, and she responded eagerly. He took her to their bedroom. Glancing at the tapestry, he did not sense the Chevalier's presence, and he was disappointed. 

He made her stand as he ducked under her skirts. He nipped at her thighs, and she giggled and danced. Laying back on the floor, he pulled her hips down, smothering his face with her sex. As he tongued her bud, she began to undulate over him. His face would emerge from her lips and he would gasp for air. He grabbed her waist, and thrust his tongue inside her as she became more heated. When she came, his mouth was filled with a hot liquid. Now, he bent her over the bed, and took the hard tip of his phallus and rubbed it on her anus.

"Prince, what are you--"

He cut her question her short by taking her. Her womb was tight, but wet, and he forced himself inside her. He felt his sex touching the very back of her womb and she moved her hips to meet him. He could not last long, and soon spilt himself inside her. They lay together for a moment. "Love, I am afraid we must return to Paris soon."




The Princess of Cleves #06



He heard her muffled reply, "I know."

* * * *

The Chevalier kept looking up and down the hall as he crouched outside the bedroom door. He had seen the Prince take his wife in there, and now he listened. As soon as he heard the Prince speak of returning to Paris, he scurried off to a little parlor, the room the Prince had given him to use. He was able to take his time here, and he reached into his breeches to fondle his testicles. The door opened, and his heart stopped, but it was only the Prince. 

The Prince carefully locked the door behind him, and the Chevalier grew harder under his blue gaze. Turning back to the fireplace, he said, "It seems that you missed your wife."

The Prince came to stand beside the him. He was surprised to see the Prince was also aroused. The Chevalier began rubbing the head of his sex. "So you were watching," the Prince said.

"I was listening outside the door." 

He moaned as the Prince reached into his breeches to withdraw his own hard phallus. The Prince looked him in the eyes as he began to stroke himself. The Chevalier was overcome, leaning his forearm against the mantle. The Prince looked down to see the Chevalier's shaking hand moving over the head of his sex. "Do you like that I am watching you?"

The Chevalier nodded.

"Will you watch me when you're finished?"

"Nothing would please me more," the Chevalier whispered. He pushed his breeches down his hips, exposing more of himself to the Prince.

"Would you like me to touch you?" the Prince asked, moving his hand closer to the Chevalier.

He jumped away and stammered, "No...No, but thank you." He felt himself fail for a moment, but the Prince's blushes and bright eyes restored him. When he came, his toes cracked as they curled in his boots.

All the while, the Prince had been standing there, slowly caressing himself. The Chevalier looked at him and the Prince smiled. "Would you like to touch me?"

The Chevalier stepped closer, then reached out to touch the Prince's lips.

The Prince kissed the Chevalier's fingertips; a whiff of sage came from his skin. His whole body shook as he rubbed himself. The Chevalier ran his fingers through his silken locks. The Prince had his eyes closed and his brow furrowed as he spent himself in the fireplace.

The Chevalier kissed the Prince's cheek. After he tried to flee, but found the door locked. He stood there, sheepishly staring at his feet. When the Prince unlocked the door, he ran from the manor back to his home.

He lay on his bed, his chest heaving. It was the first time he had touched someone. He had always fled from the girls when he was younger. There was no way for him for him to explain to them that their caresses meant nothing. The only time he felt any excitement was when he nestled himself deep into a closet and watched them as they darned socks and chattered. His mother often caught him touching himself, and beat him every time which did no good. He only discovered that the risk heightened his excitement. 

Now, with the Prince, he did not know what to do. He had wanted to let the Prince touch him, but he was afraid. He reached down to rub his anus, fantasizing it was the Prince's fingers. He was surprised to find himself growing erect. For the first time in his life, he touched himself thinking about a person rather than watching them. He grunted, making a mess on his stomach. 

The Prince and Rosalind wedded, the Marechal and the Duke circling, and him to keep an eye on it all. It was going to be chaos, all these affairs. His joints would be aching from the hours he would spend hiding.

Perhaps the Prince would join him again. If he did, he promised himself that he would allow the Prince to touch him, even if it was only his cheek. Maybe one day, they could stand next to one another, and the Prince would make the Chevalier come in his hands, and then the Chevalier would return the favor.



The Princess of Cleves #07



The next day, the Prince returned to Paris to comfort his friend, and Rosalind traveled with him to resume her life in court. The Chevalier and Duke followed. It was a bright cheerful day, and Rosalind was looking forward to visiting Princess Mary.

After her long absence, Mary greeted Rosalind with a warm embrace. She was eager to share with Rosalind all the court gossip, especially that concerning the Duke. She had a theory about him which she wished to test.

"Monsieur d'Anville has related to me the most curious story about our favorite gallant," the Mary said, smiling at Rosalind, whose cheeks colored under her gaze.

"Who would that be?" Rosalind asked. Her face spoke the words that her lips would not: Rosalind was in love with the Duke.

"The Duke, he is a new man, a melancholy man. Monsieur d'Anville is certain he is in love with some woman, but none of his friends know who she is." As she spoke, she watched Rosalind and saw her relax at these words. She took Rosalind's hand to draw her closer in order to observe her with greater scrutiny. "Even more surprising, the Duke is never absent, so they are certain he has no contact with her! Instead, he pines away, unloved by this woman."

"How sad," Rosalind said.

"He is so in love with this woman, he is neglecting a chance to be King of England. D'Anville has just told me of a meeting between the Duke and King to which he was privy. The King was urging the Duke to travel to England to finish the work begun by the Prince de Conde, and then continued so well by Lignerol." Mary noticed the small smile Rosalind tried to keep from her lips. "The Duke refuses, despite the Queen Elizabeth's displeasure, and produced some fine reasons. The King of Spain seeks her hand, never mind Elizabeth has no interest in the Spanish crown. He then spoke of the Lord Courtenay, and the King told him the man was dead."

"What was decided?" Rosalind asked.

"That the Duke is stubborn. He refused to listen to reason, and the King concluded it would be necessary to send an ambassador to England to marry the Queen." Mary smiled, and as she spoke, she looked directly into Rosalind's eyes. "Whoever this woman is, I hope Duke will find happiness with her."

Rosalind started. She attempted to school her face into some manner of dullness, but her eyes and lips moved.

The girl was thinking too hard for Mary's taste; she needed to distract her. "Monsieur d'Anville thinks it is my beauty that has so bewitched the Duke." 

Rosalind became flustered. 

"I assured him, that the woman who has captured the Duke's love is aware of it, and that woman is not I." There were rumors about the Mme. de Chartes and Diana, Mary had always wondered if they were true; and if so, could the daughter take after her mother? She reached out to touch Rosalind's cheek.

She pulled her face away. "I am sure M. d'Anville is correct in his opinion. Truly, you are the most beautiful woman in this court. For whom else would the Duke grow so thin?"

"Hm..." Mary trailed her fingers down Rosalind's throat. "Come, sit on my lap." Rosalind looked at her, panicked. She took Rosalind's arm, and settled the girl on her lap. Obedience had been so ingrained into the young girl, she did not resist. Mary took her chin between her fingers. "Kiss me."

Rosalind froze.

"The doors are locked, I sent everyone away." As Mary spoke, she wrapped her arms around the young woman.

Rosalind blushed and trembled.

Mary pulled Rosalind's face close to her's. "Kiss me, pretend I'm the Duke if you will."

"I do not--"

She stopped Rosalind's words with her lips. With her tongue, she parted Rosalind's teeth to taste her sweet soft mouth. Her little hands were resting on Mary's chest. D'Anville would be delighted when she told her of the Duke's secret love. The kisses she stole would be her own secret. "Do not worry, I will keep your secret. All I ask," she said, touching Rosalind's mouth, "is for this."

Rosalind did not know what to do. "The Duke and I have never..."

"I know, you are faithful to your husband." The high red color that leapt to Rosalind's face spoke differently, but Mary chose not to notice. "D'Anville has known the Duke long enough to tell when he is keeping appointments with a mistress. One more kiss, and I shall release you, for now." Mary began stroking her hair, waiting.

Mary's arms felt light and warm around her shoulders. She bend down to kiss Mary, and as she did one hand slipped lower to cup her pert breast. Beneath her, Mary pressed her legs tight together and writhed. Sensing her arousal, Rosalind kissed her with more vigor. She flicked her tongue across Mary's teeth and tongue.

When Mary pulled away, she was panting. "That is enough. You will put me in such a state I will not be able to congratulate Madam on her wedding." With her handkerchief, Mary wiped her mouth, and then Rosalind's. "Keep this in your pocket, and come when I ask. Now, off with you."

Stunned, Rosalind left Mary, her lips hot and swollen. Much to her relief, she only met the Chevalier in the hall. He escorted her to King's court where the Prince loitered. She watched the two men talking to each other, and they watched her gossip with the women. 

Even as the Prince felt guilty for his actions with the Chevalier, he thought of arranging a meeting with him later.

* * * *

D'Anville was pacing the room, waiting for Mary. She said she had a treat for him, and no doubt it was some choice piece of gossip. Her cheeks were rosy when he saw her. He did not know what she had been doing, but he could only imagine. A private audience with Rosalind to discuss a private matter, or an appointment to indulge in her Sapphic tendencies with the girl. He had happened upon Mary before, a blushing girl on her knees.

Today he also had a surprise for his love, a very pretty shepherdess he had found and carried away with his lover in mind. Her name was Anne, and she knew she was to be a friend for the Princess Mary. The girl was not naive, she knew what was expected of her, and did not care as long as she was pampered, had money to send home, and bled on her wedding night. He was excited for today's tryst hoping his amour would be pleased.

The door opened, Mary embraced her lover, and then noticed the girl in the corner. "Who is this?"

Anne rose and curtseyed. "My name is Anne, if it please your Highness."

"It does please me. D'Anville, how very kind of you, and you have such lovely taste. Come here, and I will whisper my secret to you." D'Anville leaned close to her, and she murmured in his ear, "The Duke is in love with Rosalind, and she with him."

D'Anville began laughing. It was too perfect for the Duke to have warmed that girl's icy heart. "It seems everyone falls in love with her," he said, but Mary was not listening. She was laying over Anne, kissing her. D'Anville came to sit beside them.

"Help me with my gown," she said to him, and he began unfastening the back. "Tell me dear, has D'Anville been enjoying you?"

"A little," Anne replied.

"What do you know about your role here?" Mary asked. 

"He has told me who you are, and I know why I am here."

"Are you a virgin?"

The girl blushed and stammered yes.

Mary fell upon Anne, yanking her laces out of D'Anville's hand. He grew hard as he saw Mary's hand disappear under the young girl's skirt. He pulled up Mary's petticoats and began to rub his sex against the crack in her buttocks, the tip of his phallus pushing against her pink anus.

"There are too many skirts for any sport. Let us undress, and then continue," Mary commanded.

D'Anville finished with Mary's gown as she undressed Anne. The two women were coiled around each other in the bed while D'Anville undressed. He lay behind Mary, and rubbed his sex against their twining legs. He did not wish to come yet, so he withdrew. 

Instead, he forced his face and fingers between their bodies, suckling on their quivering lips, thrusting his fingers into their moist wombs. He heard them moaning into each other's mouths. He gathered the dew from his sex and used it to lubricate the finger he worked into Mary's anus. Her legs began to shake violently, and when she climaxed it was with a harsh cry.

D'Anville sat up and smiled at them. "On your back," Mary said. He lay down, Mary mounted his sex, and she set Anne on his face. He arched his back to drive his phallus into Mary while he held onto Anne's hips, grinding her sex over his face. When he came he almost blacked out. He pushed Anne off him as he grunted, gasping for air. He was hollow.

Mary pushed Anne down onto the bed, and made Anne clean his seed from her flesh. He reached over to touched Anne's sex. He could feel her pulse in her bud. His phallus grew hard again.

Mary was watching him. "Why have you not taken her maidenhead?"

Anne protested, her words muffled by Mary's sex.

"I promised I would not ruin her for her husband. Besides, a woman has more than one virginity." D'Anville began to rub Anne's anus, and she squirmed. As he slid the tip of his pinkie finger into it, she moaned into the Mary's womb, then laved it with her great pink tongue. He worked Anne with both of his hands, thrusting two fingers into her asshole, and when she came into his hands, Mary came into her mouth.

As these antics went on inside the room, two men took turns peaking through the keyhole. The Chevalier and Prince left Rosalind at a tennis match. The Chevalier had learned of a tryst, and he asked the Prince go join him. They knelt so close to one another, their shoulders touched.

When the Prince began to touch himself, the Chevalier had hissed at him, "No, not here. Have a little discretion."

When Mary came crouched over the woman's face, the Prince began to prod at the Chevalier.

"Follow me," he said, leading the Prince to a back room. The Chevalier took a key from his pocket and locked it. "It is not as fun, but I do not wish to risk the reputation of a married man." 

The Chevalier took the Prince's hand, and placed it on his cheek. He freed himself from his breeches, and as the Prince watched him grip his sex, he watched the Prince. In a moment he was done.

The Chevalier pressed himself against the Prince's side as the Prince began to touch himself. The soft scent of sage swirled around them. He rubbed his half limp sex against the Prince's gently shaking hip, his arm wrapped around the Prince's shoulder. When the Prince came, he fixed his vivid blue eyes on the Chevalier's. Instead of fleeing, the Chevalier made himself stay.

"Can I ask you something?" the Prince said.

"Yes, I think," the Chevalier replied, uncertain. The Prince had a queer look on his face.

"Have you heard anything about my wife and the Duke?"

The Chevalier shook his head.

"Do you...do you ever think about spying on them?"

The Chevalier's eyes widened in surprise. This Prince was full of surprises. "Sometimes, yes."

"I do too."

The two men then stared into the cold fireplace, musing upon the same subject. After a minute, they began to discuss what they could do to facilitate an affair between the two lovers.

* * * *

Diana opened the Marechal's letter to Rosalind. It was an odd, but tender letter. The Marechal was an interesting man. There had been rare occasions in private where she had seen his perfect facade crack, and he became as timorous as a maid. In the Marechal's response to her letter, he had promised to do all he could to aid Rosalind, and requested Diana's help in corresponding with her. Normally, Diana would not deign to act as a courier, but as she had a particular interest in the matter, she was willing play Mercury.

She carefully resealed the letter. The girl would never know her privacy had been violated. She now needed to determine the best way to get the young girl the message. To the letter, she added a note with instructions of where Rosalind may put and receive her missives. In the end, Diana decided to send her a little trifle, a sapphire necklace and broach, and hide the letter in the box. She would instruct her lackey to make sure Rosalind was alone when she was given the gift, and that she desired to know what girl thought of her presents. That way, she would not open it in front of her husband, with a letter from the Marechal sitting on top. She picked a clever discrete boy for the task.

The boy spent most of his day skulking around the Cleves chambers, waiting for the myriad of guests to leave. The court was eager to welcome Rosalind back from her mourning. The Duke was also lurking, but the messenger entered the Princess' bedchamber as soon as the last company began to leave. The Duke would have to wait until he was finished.

"Princess de Cleves," the boy said, bowing, "I have brought you a gift from Diana, the Duchess de Valentinois. She sends her condolences."

"Thank you," Rosalind said, taking the box and placing it on her desk. "You may go now."

"Please pardon me, but Diana wished to know if you liked her gift."

Rosalind opened the box--it exhaled the fragrance of musk--and gave the boy a puzzled look as she took out the letter from the Marechal. The boy was absorbed with a thread on his sleeve. She cried out in shock when she saw the gift beneath the letter.

The boy bowed again, a small smile on his face. "I will tell Diana the beauty of her gift rendered you speechless."

Rosalind hid the letter in her desk, then sat on the bed with the jewels in her lap. A moment later the Duke entered, his face having lost its sallow tone. He sat beside her and took her hand.

He frowned when he saw the open box on her lap. A fleeting look of panic flitting across his features before he remembered his role and summoned his crooked smile. "Did your husband buy you those gems?"

"No, they are a gift from Diana."

The Duke's returning frown grew deep. "What is that woman about?" the Duke said.

Rosalind gave him a relieved expression. "I do not know. When my mother was alive, she did everything she could to oppose her. It is strange she would send me such an extravagant gift after my mother's death." The next emotion that appeared on her face, the Duke could not read, but it was touched with wonder.

It seemed the Duke recalled the true reason for his visit. "But that is no matter, I am not here to talk about the King's mistress," the Duke said, smiling. "I am here to discuss my mistress."

He leaned close to kiss her, and to his surprise she withdrew, leaving him alone in the wreath of her rose scented perfume. "I cannot, I am sorry," she said, pushing him away.

Could it be his past that bothered her? The Duke felt his chest clench; he became nauseated. All his other affairs, women to whom he had not spoken since he saw Rosalind at the ball, they were over. Or perhaps she did not want to join him in a performance for the entire court? He might as well compose a ballet for him, the Prince, and Rosalind; they were lithe and young, they would beautiful dancers. It was clear though, in the ramrod straightness of her spine, her lips pressed together so hard they were white, that she had hardened her heart to him. That frigid spirit her mother had inculcated within her, she used it as a shield.

They spoke of the death of her mother, how a sharp grief changed her. The Duke saw an opportunity to steer the conversation in a different direction. "Great passions make their impression upon one's mind and heart. I find myself a different man since I returned from Brussels. The dalliance's that once absorbed me are empty now. Many people have noted this; yesterday Princess Mary herself asked me what has affected me so."

"I do recall her speaking of this," Rosalind replied, her voice a monotone except for a slight catch at the end, the only thing that betrayed her emotions.

So, there was a chink in the shield. "I wish someone else was able to discern this change," he said slowly. "There is no other woman in the world for me, not even the English crown holds any charm beside the luster of her eyes."

Rosalind did her best to resist the Duke's attempts to pry her open like an oyster. With the thin knife of a gallant speech he cracked her shell. He could see the debate in her eyes: part of her thought she should throw the Duke out, as she should have done when she found him the garden; another part wanted her to stay. Any emotion he could elicit from her, he would take as a profession of love.

"I want you to listen to me, Duke, and after this do not seek a private audience with me again. In my grief, I had a moment of weakness, I gave into those sentiments my mother warned me of." She took a deep breath, steeling herself to continue. "My sorrow was so great, I thought such empty pleasures could mitigate my pain. There is nothing between us, but a mistake which I would like to forget."

The door opened, and the Prince entered with the intention telling his wife about his friend Sancerre. He blushed upon finding her sitting with the Duke on their bed. He would have been jealous, but the Duke looked so afflicted, and his wife so cold, he knew the Duke had been rejected. It was hard for him not to give the Duke a gloating smile. He focused instead on dull conversation.

* * * *

The Marechal read the second letter from Rosalind and found himself quite affected. Soon, he would return to Paris, crouch at her feet, and entreat her to use him roughly. If her soul was in turmoil, she would find her release in him. The Duke may touch her heart, the Prince may share her bed, the Chevalier may sit at her feet with his head in her lap, but only he, the Marechal, could draw forth such unadulterated tears. She would weep in his arms and leave him, as light hearted as any pretty bloom. It would be his key to her heart.

He found himself reading two lines in her letter over and over again: I met D-- in the garden. We kissed, and he touched me.

"Where did he touch you, did his hand seek out your tender breast? But would that shame you?" He began to rub his crotch through his breeches. "Did he sit at your feet, did he part those pale thighs to touch you there?" He thought of his own fingers traveling up that satin flesh. "Did he make you come? Were you ashamed to come for a man who was not your husband?" He freed his sex and used a drop of dew to lubricate the head of his penis. "Was he so bold as to put his mouth there? Is that what you meant when you wrote that he kissed you?" Now his hips were moving in time with the motions of his hand. He thought of Rosalind, laying naked before him, spreading her wet sex to greet him. He would slowly slide himself into her, and they would gaze into each other's eyes as he moved within her. Her womb would clutch his sex, flutter, and they would both come. He spent himself at this thought.

Once his mind cleared, he recalled the problem of a reply. The flame of love the Duke held for her would not last, and it might be best to encourage the affair now so it could run its course, like a fever. She would be in despair, and he would comfort her. But these were heartless thoughts, and unworthy of a woman such as Rosalind. No, he would suggest she turn to her husband for support, and repent by treating the man with kindness. If he asks what is the matter, it should be easy to lie and blame it on the fickle nature of woman.

My Dearest Princess,

How very brave you are, to confess this thing to me. I am honored by your confidence. It would be one thing if you were unrepentant, insensible to your mistake, but you are not. As painful as your guilt may be, use it to guide yourself back to virtue. 

Make a confession to your priest, and seek comfort in the presence of your husband. Instead of reproaching your heart with your error, cultivate love and kindness within it. There are many kinds of love, and while you may never grow ill over the absence of your Prince, there is no reason why you cannot love him as a friend and companion.




The Princess of Cleves #07



I will be leaving for Paris next week. I promise to be such a bore that you will forget that you ever loved anything. And of my feelings, I will no longer trouble you with them. I would only add to the burden that has been laid upon you by the Duke.

I hear your husband and the Chevalier have become fast friends. I shall have to join them when I return. We will form a cabal against the Duke, and frustrate his every attempt to see you. It seems Diana has had a rare change of heart as well, and asks that I do all I can for you.

With the warmest affection,

Your Marechal

He frowned at the closing. It was a very clumsy attempt to express his emotions without writing again that he loved her. He would have to guard himself when he returned and resist the temptation to lead her into empty rooms. 

If she asked him, he would take her to where she could beat him. He would steal a kiss, and this time he would not be undone by his own boldness. Sealing his letter, he sent it on its way, and this time it made it unmolested to Rosalind.

When she received the Marechal's letter, Rosalind was in desperate need for a friendly word. 

The Prince had taken ill, and she had been using his sickness to avoid the court. She heard rumors the Duke developed a new passion for hunting, or he was suffering from some manner of illness that kept him from court. Rosalind understood that he suffered from no physical malady, but was pining away from love. Even worse than living without her was to be reminded of her absence by a court lacking its most beautiful jewel. This she all knew because of the letters he had slipped to her.

Rosalind excused herself from her husband's room, then checked in the hiding spot Diana had arranged for her. The chink she had described must have played some part in one of her intrigues, for how else would she know of it? Rosalind's hands shook as she withdrew the letter from the Marechal. She had begun to worry that her failings had caused him to abandon her. The sincerity of his letter had convinced her otherwise.

That night, she wrote him back.

Dear M--

I admit, I looked at the date of your letter, and thought to myself, it is only five days until my friend begins his journey home. My mother tried to prepare me for court, but now I see it was an impossible task.

That I would be unfaithful to my husband, that I would count among my friends two gallants who have made quite clear their feelings for me, these things are still strange. Even stranger, Diana, in order to give me your last letter, made me a gift of a sapphire broach and necklace. A small fortune spent, simply to provide a box in which to put a letter. I do not understand what has happened to change her mind.

Princess Mary has guessed at what is between D-- and I. She has agreed to remain silent for the price of some kisses. I blush now even as I write. She dawdled me on her knee like a common maid. Everyone watches D-- closely, trying to discover with whom he is in love. If Mary discovered my identity, I do not know what is preventing others from doing the same.

When D-- came to arrange a tryst, I sent him away. I did not become angry, I was cold. He is so desperate, I fear he would take any sign of emotion as a token of my love. Even as I repulsed him, I wanted to throw myself into his arms. Writing these words, I yearn for him, and I hate myself for it. Thank you for your advice. I will follow it to the letter. 

He seemed broken after, and he is seen very little in court. He either hunts, or claims an illness. My husband has been indisposed, and I stay in his chamber all day tending to him. It is not a serious illness, and for that I am glad, but I wish it would linger a bit. I hope that by the time he is well you have returned.

Please, guard this letter well. I remember you in my prayers. I hope the weather will be fair on your journey home.

Your Dear Friend,

R--

When the Marechal read this letter, he was beside himself with joy. His heart was warmed by her affection, and his groin inflamed with the idea of her sitting on pretty little Mary's lap, blushing as that bold woman covered Rosalind with her lips. It was only two days before his journey home. He wrote her a hasty reply and sent a boy away with it and two swift horses that evening.



The Princess of Cleves #08



My Dearest Princess,

Such a storm around you, fear not, I will soon be there to provide you with some calm. We will speak of your troubles when I return. With my influence, I shall find another payment for Princess Mary to extract.

I think I may be able to shed some light upon the change of heart Diana's had toward you, but you will blush to hear it.

I keep you in my thoughts and prayers,

Your Marechal.

Rosalind had only written the Marechal a few days ago, and already she received a reply. His return could not have been better timed. Her husband was feeling better, and the Duke had visited today. As the Duke himself was still weak from his illness, he had used it as an excuse to linger. He would be there tomorrow as well. 

Today, she found herself unable to leave. She tended to her husband while basking in the presence of the Duke, all the while trying to conceal her feelings. She would not be able to do it a second day. Tomorrow, her eyes would find his, and he would see what a ruse her coldness was.

That night she had unsettling dreams. She and the Marechal were in an endless hedge maze, being pursued by the Duke with rasping breath and eyes that streamed with darkness. The Prince and the Chevalier attempted to delay the Duke, but they were both slain. Finally, he caught her and the Marechal. 

The two had just drawn their blades when she awoke with a start. It was two in the morning and the house was restless around her. She pulled the covers over her head, and drifted in and out of sleep until it was morning.

The Prince was concerned for his wife, though he did his best to hide it. He knew she used his illness as a means to hide from the court. The way her manner changed when the Duke arrived, she may as well have kissed him on the lips. She became so cold, so proper, when before she had been soft and tender. It could be that she was annoyed at his intrusion, a likely explanation his jealous heart rejected.

Today, she looked haggard, as though she had not slept. He would be worried about a tryst, but there was neither guilt nor happiness in her face, just exhaustion. Later he'd ask the Chevalier if he had heard anything. There were very few rumors concerning the Duke and Rosalind. The court still had not discovered the object of the Duke passion: they resorted to gossiping about the lack of gossip.

There was a flurry of letters between her the Marechal, and it seemed another layer of intrigue had been added, as Diana had a hand in the delivery. The Prince shifted in the bed to hide his growing hardness as he wondered if his wife may have taken another female lover.

She was feeding him broth when the Duke entered. Her eyes did not leave the Prince's face, and after she finished with her task, she excused herself. The Duke was forced to sit there and converse with the Prince, or have his true objective discovered. 

The Prince smiled as they spoke. The Chevalier would find his wife, and he would take her out for some fresh air. The rumors were the Marechal would return soon, something which the Prince was not looking forward to. The only silver lining was perhaps she would revive, and he would know the Marechal kept her heart.

The Chevalier had hidden when he saw Rosalind leaving her husband's chamber. Now, he knocked on her door, a small bouquet in his hands. She gave him a wan greeting, put the flowers in a vase, and agreed to go on a walk with him. 

As they strolled, the Chevalier was plagued with thoughts of the Prince. Him, making love to Rosalind, his firm buttocks working between her pale thighs, the low moans that would escape his lip. The Prince, lost, staring in a corner--his blue eyes touched with a pensive gray dash--when he thought he was alone. The way his face scrunched up when he spilled his seed. It was lucky Rosalind was lost in her own thoughts, or she would have noted the Chevalier's agitation.

They returned to the Prince together. He was happy for an excuse to spend a few minutes in the company of the Prince. More and more, it seemed his affections were focused on the man whom he had once considered a rival. The mood of the room was very strange. Three men in love with the one woman who sat among them. 

Well, at least, he thought he was in love with Rosalind. It seemed like he would fall in love with anyone whom decency dictated he should not. 

The Prince ended up sending them all except his wife away. He could not take their agitation.

Rosalind looked relieved to have them gone. He opened up his arms, and she came and lay beside him on the covers.

"Does the Chevalier seem strange to you lately?" Rosalind asked, and the Prince's face blanched.

"No," he said. Ever since he had discovered his secret, the Prince felt him and the Chevalier growing closer with one another. It would be strange, if the Chevalier's passion for his wife led the Chevalier into having an affair with him. 

Still, he could not ignore the look in the Chevalier's eyes, nor could he pretend that their relationship was in anyway innocent. Prior to the Prince's illness, they met nearly every day to spy on someone, and then sneak into a room to relieve themselves of their ardor. What had once been a tentative touching of the cheek had led to caresses slipped under their shirts, and finally a few demure kisses. There was a heat in their gaze, and it had grown hotter since his illness had forced their separation. 

He noticed his wife looking at him curiously. "The Duke seems to be recovering, although, if you believe the rumors from court, it is unrequited love which has made him so thin and pale," he said.

Now it was his wife's turn to think. Only she was becoming shrewd, and guessed there was more to her husband's words than idle gossip. "Yes, even Princess Mary has spoken to me of this change in him. Monsieur d'Anville watches him closely, and he says the Duke keeps no private meetings," Rosalind said. After her statement, her face became placid.

"Do you think his lady love is aware of his feelings for her?"

Her nose wrinkled before she collected herself. The simplest explanation was before him, she simply did not like the Duke. She began to touch his face, and replied, "I would guess not, as it is rumored no one can resist the charms of the Duke."

The Prince almost laughed. Instead, he took his wife's hand and pressed it to his lips. "That is true, although she might be a woman of great virtue."

As the Prince smiled at her, her eyes brightened. He became aware of her subtle scent of rose. She returned his smile, and kissed him. "How is your strength today?"

"Oh, I am feeling much better. In fact, I think I would have enough vigor to divest a lady of her many garments," he said, his voice low. 

Rosalind laughed, and sat up so her husband could undress her. He lay beside her, holding her back to him. He rubbed his sex in the crack in her buttocks until she began to wiggle with impatience. When he placed his phallus between the lips of her sex, they were slick. She grasped the head of his phallus and ground her pubic mound against it, fixing her bud on its tip. The Prince twisted her nipples, expecting her to spasm any second, but she did not. 

He slid himself from her hand and into her womb. Her lips were flushed red, her body soft and wet. With one hand, he gripped her breast, the other he worked over her bud, until her womb began to contract and relax. Despite all of the Prince's effort, even a delicate teasing of her anus, he could not make his wife orgasm, and so he came alone.

She was apologetic afterwards, but he assured her that it was no matter. They would make love again, and she would come for him, and he would come for her. After that, they slept until it was time for supper. 

The Chevalier was very much troubled by the Princess' lack of orgasm. It was not a difficult task, and in fact at times it seemed she had one after another, until she made the Prince grunt in pain with one last great climax. The sound she made was bestial, and much like the Prince, he would find his arousal uncomfortable, his sex throbbing in his breeches. He would then take the opportunity to break the Prince's only rule, that he restrict his activities to one room. The Chevalier knew his friend would incapacitated for the next hour.

* * * *

The Prince spent his mornings in court, and Rosalind accompanied him. Princess Mary had summoned Rosalind to her inner chambers. Rosalind wore the jewels given to her by Diana. She hoped there was an implication that she was now under the protection of the King's Mistress, and not to be blackmailed. Even better would be to find others assembled there, but she doubted her luck was so good.

She found Mary alone and artfully undressed. She could have been posing for a portrait dishabille, but she was posing for Rosalind. Mary did not speak, but instead motioned for Rosalind to seat herself on her lap. Rosalind's voice was stuck in her throat, and she settled herself numbly in Mary's arms. She took Rosalind's hand and pressed it against her bosom.

"You are so pretty when you blush," she said, then kissed Rosalind. "Let me help you remove that gown." Mary twisted Rosalind's shoulders so she could unlace her dress. She pulled it back from the Rosalind's chest, and the young woman stood up, clutching her gown to her.

"These are not kisses, your Highness," she said.

"Those jewels Diana gave you are lovely. Why don't we make this our last meeting? Indulge me now, and I will never trouble you again."

Rosalind unfastened her panniers, and her gown fell to the ground. She sat on Mary's knee. Rose mingled with lavender.

Mary pulled her chemise down to lick where her breasts swelled over her corset. When she kissed Rosalind, it was all tongue and spit. "Kiss me, fondle my breasts," Mary commanded her.

Rosalind suckled on Mary's bottom lip and pinched her nipples through her chemise. Mary reached down to pull up Rosalind's petticoats, and rudely took her sex. She was using four fingers penetrate her womb, and her thumb to work her little bud. Rosalind threw her arms around Mary's neck, too overcome to remember her instructions. Mary stuck two of her fingers in her mouth, and then worked them into Rosalind's anus. With her two hands working together inside Rosalind, Mary made her come and come again, her hips undulating. 

When Rosalind started to push Mary away she was still. She very slowly removed her fingers as Rosalind twitched every few seconds.

Mary helped her to stand in a minute, and led her to a couch. She washed her hands, then brought Rosalind a little wine to revive her. As she rested, Mary stroked her hair. 

Rosalind drank, and as her mind became clear, she was troubled by the fact that the Princess Mary had accomplished something her husband had not. She did not know why, but making love with him was different now, she could not climax. There were so many secrets between them, she could not fully give herself to him, and only him it would seem.

Mary was very assiduous in aiding Rosalind to dress. Before she left, Mary gave her a gift, a glittering diamond bracelet. Rosalind blushed, and protested, but she prevailed upon Rosalind to at least try it on, if only to please her. She acquiesced, and when she wished for it to be taken off, Mary refused. Rosalind became angry, as she could not get the bracelet off herself. Mary kissed her, and told Rosalind she was always welcome to visit her private chambers.

Mary had caught rumors of Diana's gift, and she thought there must be an affair. She thought her trinket might woo the young girl's favor. Sticking her fingers in her mouth, she sucked off the traces of Rosalind left on her skin. She retired to her room to fantasize about Rosalind, and play her pretty little Anne. When d'Anville came to visit her later, he would find her well prepared for their tryst.

Rosalind could not even begin to fathom the meaning of the diamond bracelet. She found a bower in a dark corner of the garden where she thought about her position. The Duke would seek her out if she remained at court. The Princess Mary would also be here to tempt her with a lust so pure she felt like Mary was still touching her, and she became wet again. She was not surprised when the Chevalier de Guise joined her after an hour. He sat beside her with a troubled frown.

He fidgeted in his seat for a minute before he spoke. "I do not mean to accuse you, but, there is a certain odor which lingers on you, so strangely like the odor of love. Were your husband to meet you now, he would think Princess Mary had taken you for a lover."

Rosalind became angry. "What are you..."

The Chevalier took her hand to soothe her. "You mistake my intent Rosalind. I want nothing from you, and I say these things to you as your friend." He saw that she was no longer angry. "Come, there is a little brook close to here, and I have a little scent in my pocket." He led her to an abandoned corner of the garden which contained a thin ribbon of water flowing through it. 

He was handing Rosalind his handkerchief and sage cologne when they both realized that she would have to undress to wash herself. The two blushed, then laughed. 

"I hate to ask this of you, Chevalier, but I am afraid I need your help." Rosalind gathered the front of her skirt in her arms, and hid her face in petticoats.

The Chevalier knelt at her feet, stunned. The sight of her, red and swollen from love and smelling of lust inflamed him. For the first time in is life, he wanted a woman as a man should. "Oh Princess, I do not know if I can do this thing you ask of me. The sight of you makes me dizzy, I shall dishonor you."

Rosalind craned her neck to try and see the Chevalier. She stepped back as he stood. He was holding his sex in his hand, and reaching for hers. "Chevalier, I..."

He froze. "I heard you, I heard you come for Princess Mary, and I want to see if you will come for me. Don't you want to know, Rosalind, if it is only your husband who cannot bring you to a climax?"

Everyone was eager to know the answer to that question, including the Prince who was watching from the shadows. The Chevalier had arranged this for him after they spied on Mary with Rosalind. When the Prince realized what was happening, that Mary was blackmailing Rosalind for the keeping of some secret, the Prince pitied his wife. It was the first time he had thought about what it must be like for her, caught up in the intrigues of the court.

When the Chevalier had suggested this, that the Prince watch the seduction of his wife, he had agreed to it in part because it would ease his conscience. He had certainly sinned against his wife, in a myriad of ways, with his friendship with the Chevalier. Should she be unfaithful, in a situation with no coercion, she will have sinned against him too. He hoped the Chevalier succeeded, and tonight when he made love to her, he would think of Mary and Chevalier taking her.

Rosalind stood in the clearing, the very tip of the Chevalier's finger on her sex. There was something strange, something about the look in eye the Chevalier's eye that she recognized. It was the same gleam she saw when she caught him and her husband talking to one another in whispers with their cheeks all ruddy. They would stop as though she were interrupting some conspiracy, and she understood, that conspiracy was her. 

The Chevalier's eyes kept flicking to one dark corner, and no doubt the Prince hid there. She could feel his sharp blue eyes on her. It was as though she had her husband's blessing, and she leaned forward, the Chevalier's finger sliding between her lips.

"Is that a yes?" the Chevalier asked, and she nodded. His clumsy fingers began to pry at her tender sex. She was glad when he began to rub the head of his phallus against her. "Shall I make love to you?"

"Yes, I want you to make me come," she said, caressing his sex. She wondered what effect her words had on her husband. The Chevalier tried to enter her as she stood in front of him. "It might be easier from behind," she said. She positioned herself on her knees so her husband would have a good view of them.

The Chevalier was trembling as he knelt behind her. He pulled her buttocks back against him, and she had to position him so the tip of his phallus entered her. He took her hips and slowly sank his sex into her. He felt his entire phallus caressed, and he stayed like that for a moment, feeling the warm satin of her womb. When he started to move, it was in quick short strokes, which soon became him withdrawing from her sex then pounding his entire length into her. He would have come then and there had he not already touched himself twice today.

Rosalind kept glancing to where she thought her husband hid. The Chevalier's artless vigor soon put out all other thoughts from her mind, and she climaxed. As he felt her womb grip him, the Chevalier came too. He had never imagined how exquisite the sensation of his own seed spilling back over his phallus could be. Rosalind's womb was slick, and as he pulled out, he stared at his sex as though it had gained some magical property.

"I will really need your help in cleaning myself now," she said.

The Chevalier recalled himself, and he wiped her, and scented her pale thighs. The Prince wanted to run to them, push the Chevalier away, and then take her in the dirt. He wanted to feel the Chevalier's seed leaking from his wife's sex as he took her. They would have to retire soon: he would be sick with desire until they did.

* * * *

The Prince ate his supper quickly that night. He claimed to be weak from his day at court, and retired early, taking his wife with him. There, he tore at her laces until she stood before him only in her glittering jewels. He threw them on the table leaving her naked.

"Prince, I don't understand, are you well?" the Princess asked, feigning ignorance as to the source of his desire.

He pushed her onto the bed, kissed her throat, kneaded her breasts. He gasped as he cupped her sex, rubbing her pubic mound. There was an unnatural slickness to her, the trace of the Chevalier. As he knelt in front of her, she tried to push him away, perhaps unsure that her tryst with the Chevalier had been arranged by her husband. He gently pulled her hands away, and buried his face in her sex. His tongue darted everywhere. Rich flavors hid in every fold and he sought them all, moaning into her flesh. So absorbed with his own arousal, the Prince did not notice his wife's tepid response to his love. 

Impatient, he did not even undress, but yanked himself free of his breeches, and plunged into her. He thought of her on the Princess Mary's lap, with Mary's fingers deep inside both of her holes. He thought of the Chevalier, taking her as though they were dogs. She was so slick inside, he climaxed quickly, thinking of all the ways she had been touched that day.

After, the Prince drowsy and satiated, Rosalind became thoughtful. The Prince wondered if she were thinking about her new diamond bracelet. He'd stifled his titters at her protests as the Chevalier dragged him away. 

Both he and the Chevalier had been spying on her, Princess Mary was attempting to take her for a mistress, and somewhere the Duke was waiting for a moment to pounce on her. Did they hover around her because she had been made for such affairs, or were they compelled to despoil her for some other reason?

"Prince, there is something which I would like to talk about," Rosalind said.

He grew tense, thinking she had discovered his secret. She was quick to agree to a tryst with the Chevalier, and she kept looking to his hiding place, as if she could see him. "Of course my love, what is it?"

"I feel like with my mother to chaperone me, it was appropriate that I should attend court and all its diversions, but now, as I am alone, perhaps it would be better if I retired from Paris," she said.




The Princess of Cleves #08



This was not what the Prince had expected. It was not acceptable either. "You are a married woman. Were you a maid, what you said would be correct, but you are my wife."

"In age, I am a maid," she replied.

It was clear to the Prince that she was simply finding reasons to avoid the Duke. The aroma of rose, lavender, and sage came from her skin. Perhaps she had too many lovers. "It would be unseemly for you to retire. I am sorry, I must be firm, you will attend court." He reached out to hold her, and she was stiff. "Why have you changed so much toward me? You have never truly loved me, but you loved me enough."

"There are too many secrets between us," she told him.

The Prince held her tight to him. He only kept one secret, but she had many. "You are right. Do you want to talk about them?"

She shifted in his arms to face him. "Not tonight, but another night."

"Thank God, I would like to talk about it another night as well." The Prince let the silence stretch. "You know, people are beginning to spread rumors about you and Diana because of that necklace. Today, you are wearing a bracelet that belonged to Princess Mary. They are calling you Sappho."

Rosalind trembled in his arms, but then she remembered the Marechal would return tomorrow.

"Did you hear, the Marechal will be back soon?" the Prince said, guessing at her thoughts.

"You are being cruel," she said. She pushed the Prince away and turned her back to him.

"No Madame, it is you who are cruel. Did you think I did not notice that you withheld from me what you gave so freely to others?"

Rosalind rolled over to face him, her little pointed teeth showing. "How was your afternoon dear? As you know, I spent my morning with the Princess Mary, and the afternoon with the Chevalier."

She was so angry he could feel the heat from her skin, it thrilled the Prince's heart. "I am glad to see you are not entirely numb to me." It was a hideous compulsion, this desire to provoke her. "I heard the Duke has made a miraculous recovery and will be visiting a few people in court tomorrow." The Prince knew he had gone to far, that she would either hit him, or cry, or scream. Before she could decide which to pick he covered her mouth with his. He felt himself strong again.

"You are a pig," she spat.

The Prince didn't let her get another word out. He thrust his tongue into her mouth and rubbed himself against her sex, now overflowing with seed. "Pretend it is someone else making love you," the Prince whispered as he angled his hips to pierce her. He stuck his two fingers his mouth, and worked the first one into her anus. He could feel his phallus sliding in and out of her with his finger. This was how Mary had coaxed an orgasm from her. When he felt her shudder and come, he could have wept with joy.

He was not done with her yet. Making her get on her hands and knees, he took her as the Chevalier had, and again, she came. There was a thump followed by a scuffle outside the door, and the Prince came as well. He strode over the door and opened it to reveal the Chevalier sitting there, his cheeks red. 

Rosalind blushed. The Chevalier was upon her in a second. He took a long time to come, and his phallus was growing raw with the day's adventures. By the time he finished, the Prince was again aroused.

His wife's thighs, her buttocks, were all slick with seed. The Prince slid himself into her loose spent womb. The side of her face was pressed into the bed. With each stroke, the Prince became covered in seed. He lubricated his finger and began to play with her anus. The Chevalier lay down beside her, and kissed her as he fondled her breasts.

Rosalind came again, and she kept coming until her body was pulsing and sore. She felt like a scrap of meat being shared by two dogs. Freed of any responsibility, she reveled in their caresses: the conduit for the tension between them. This is what the Marechal must feel crawling at her feet. When her husband finally came, he collapsed on to her. 

The Chevalier began kissing the Prince, caressing him. When he looked into the Prince's blue eyes he saw a sparkle that was not there for Rosalind.

He wanted to thrust his sex between their joined bodies, to force himself into the Rosalind's womb and rub himself against her and the Prince. The Chevalier stood up, and for a moment he thought about attempting the feat, but instead he brought a basin of water and a towel to set on the table near the bed.

They were both exhausted and half asleep. The Chevalier wished he could curl up with them. He prodded them to clean themselves. Like sleepy children, they held their arms out for a kiss. 

He crept home in the 4 AM stillness. This was much messier than he liked. Rosalind become pregnant, the child could be the Chevalier's. At some point someone would notice who the progeny really resembled. Even as he thought of all the reasons to abandon this affair, he knew he would not.

* * * *

When Rosalind rose the next morning her body was tender. She requested a bath to soak her sore muscles and wash away her sins. The Prince spent that morning seeing to his wife's every need. Whenever she looked into his blue eyes, she could see he was ashamed, but she did not know of what. Was it that he had shared his wife with another man, or that she allowed herself to be shared? It was probably both she realized with a bitter laugh. Her own feelings on the night before were mixed. She only kept herself sane by thinking about seeing her friend, the Marechal, again today. The Chevalier joined them for breakfast.

The Prince was grateful for his presence, but Rosalind felt rather awkward. The Chevalier was cheerful, and he managed to make them both laugh. Later, he and the Prince would talk about what happened last night. They would touch themselves, and each other, as they relived sharing her. She would be busy with the Marechal; they would have plenty of time.

The Marechal arrived early that afternoon. He greeted Rosalind with gracious bow, and the court began gossiping about how time apart had dulled his affections for the young woman. He whispered he would meet her in an hour and a half, but he found himself waylaid by every courtier and he was a half hour late. His heart sank, he could see that she had been dabbing at her eyes.

"I am sorry to have kept you waiting Rosalind. Come here and kiss my cheek, and then we will talk." He took her arm and led her to sumptuous private room Diana had provided, complete with key. That morning, he had read through her letters one last time, and now they were a weight in his breast pocket, waiting to be destroyed. He wished he could keep them, but it would be foolish; it was bad enough that he was sneaking off with her again. As soon as the lock clicked close, Rosalind wrapped her arms around his neck and started to weep. They were deep heavy sobs, and he held her tightly to him, stroking her hair. Her hip rubbed against his sex, and he tried very hard to ignore the sensation. It was difficult with an imagination already primed by his earlier reading.

She pulled away from him and gave him an angry glare. "You're just like everyone else here. You are only kind to me so that you may use my body."

The Marechal fell before her. "No, please. I read your letters again this morning, full of intimate details, and, I am only a man. I have them here." He held them out to her, his eyes fixed on the floor.

Rosalind stared at him. Peering beneath his lashes he caught the wild look in her eyes. No wonder Diana had her recalled, the girl didn't have a friend in the court. She snatched the letters from him and threw them into the fireplace. The Marechal scuttled over to the hearth, threw a log on them, and took up the bellows so in a moment they were ash. 

Not knowing what else to do, the Marechal remained kneeling, submissive, until he heard her crying again. Rosalind sat on the couch and wept and the Marechal sat beside her, putting an arm around her shoulder.

This time he was able to maintain control of himself while he comforted her. When at last she calmed down, he asked her, "What has happened?"

She sat up, shaking her head.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" The naked desire he saw in her eyes startled him, and he blushed.

"Yes, what you did before," she whispered, her little hands curling into fists.

The Marechal sunk to the floor, and kissed her fingers, her skirts. He touched the little boots she wore. 

She ran her fingers through his hair, and he lay with his cheek against her knee. When he felt her gather his hair in her fist, he began to tremble. He moaned as she yanked him off her, then rose to stand behind him. She kicked his thighs and buttocks, and as he jerked away he pulled at his hair held in her hand. She began to strike his hunched shoulders, and tears squeezed from the Marechal's eyes. 

He reached back to make her release him, and when she did he turned to kiss her feet. Her toes kept striking between his ribs, just hard enough to make his eyes water more. He rose to his knees and held her legs so she struck his shoulders again.

The Marechal shook. He was so close to her, he could smell her sex, and he could smell the seed that leaked from it. What had happened in Paris while he was gone? She was breathing unnaturally fast, and she knelt to hold the Marechal. Her tears were hot on his neck. "What have they done to you?" he murmured, stroking her back.

"My husband, and the Chevalier..." He could feel her heart pounding against his chest. "They have been creeping around, spying on me. I think the Prince, he arranged for the Chevalier to..." She broke off in a hiccup of sobs.

He started kissing her face to try and soothe her. Without being told, he knew the game they played. He was shocked when she next told him the extend of the Prince's relationship with the Chevalier.

"The Prince and Chevalier, they planned for the Chevalier to seduce me while my husband watched."

"What?" 

She looked at him, and from the shame in her eyes he knew she acquiesced. Who knew what bold adventures the pair had planned after that? "I thought you would understand, what it's like," she mumbled.

"What it's like to want to be abused," he said, and she nodded. He sighed, "Yes, clearly I do. But Rosalind, if it is causing you so much pain, perhaps you should tell them to stop."

She shook her head. "I do not think I have the power to resist such temptation. I asked the Prince to let me retire from the court, but he would not allow it." She moved closer to the Marechal, "I can do whatever I wish, and my husband cannot reproach me."

She kissed him, and he pulled her into his lap. Their tongues entwined and they sucked one another's lips. The Marechal's legs became numb from sitting on the stone floor. "Please, let me carry you away from this. There would be no censure from the King if I did."

"No, my mother's ghost would come and haunt me, if she hasn't begun already. Did you know what she said to me, before she died?"

"No," the Marechal said, but he imagined it was something cruel.

"She said she was happy to die if it prevented her from seeing my fall." Her voice quavered as she spoke.

"I do not wish to speak ill of the dead, but I do not care for your mother." He looked at the clock and saw they had been closeted in that room together for two hours, and certainly someone had noted their absence. "We must part, but know this, nothing that you ever do, or wish to have done to you," he added, "Will change the fact that I love you." He kissed her brow and helped her to her feet. They fixed themselves and left, the Marechal deeply troubled and Rosalind feeling relieved. 



The Princess of Cleves #09



Rosalind had been cold to her husband and the Chevalier since that night. The two men consulted one another, and decided it was best to be patient with her. Until the time she became sociable again, they continued with their private experiments. The Duke was only able to gaze upon her and waste. Princess Mary's eyes always lingered on her wrist, looking for the bracelet she had given her. Even Monsieur d'Anville and Anne could not cheer that gloomy woman.

The only one who enjoyed his relationship with Rosalind was the Marechal. Using familiar techniques, he stoked the flame of friendship within her until it was large enough to warm his hands. They did not meet privately again, as their tryst upon his return had caused quite the scandal. Diana demanded an explanation from him. She laughed as the Marechal had stuttered and blushed, giving an account of their time together. She had approved of his handling of Rosalind and their correspondence. She offered him advice for guiding the girl, and recommended he keep the Duke from her, and the Chevalier as well.

Rosalind was uneasy. Her husband lost interest in her once it became clear that one night had been a fluke. Every attempt he made to coax her to orgasm failed. More often than not she simply turned him out of her room.

One night as she lay in her bed reading, someone knocked on her door. Without waiting for a reply the Prince and Chevalier entered, wearing masks and cloaks as if for Carnival.

"What do you want?" she asked. The way they stood looking at her made her nervous. "I know who you are. The Prince de Cleves is in a bear mask, and the Chevalier de Guise has chosen a dog."

They dropped to their knees, and growling, crawled to the bed on all fours. She did not know what to do when they jumped onto the bed, and began nuzzling her until she smiled.

"Stop it. I'm not playing games with you two."

They did not listen, but instead flipped their masks up and pretended to gnaw on her. They were both snorting and snuffling her sides and in spite of herself, she began to laugh. She could see their arousal, and she began to grow warm. They did not touch her breasts or sex. Their tongues traveled her throat, her ears, her shoulders, until she reached out to touch them. 

A soft rustle of cloth, and their breeches fell to the floor. They left on their masks, hiding their faces when they were not tasting her. When the Chevalier began to rub his sex on her thigh, she quickly moved beneath him. He rubbed himself against her flushed petals, then took her. The Prince was crouching behind the Chevalier, caressing his anus and testicles as he labored over his wife. Rosalind and the Chevalier came together, and when he finished the Prince took his place.

He was about to slide himself into his wife when he saw her eyes fixed on the wall in a blank stare. Taking off his mask, he covered her in kisses. He looked at the Chevalier, and he joined him, stroking and caressing his wife, her slender limbs, the fullness of her hips and breast. They started to nip at her, gently at first, then harder. At first she squirmed beneath them; with a moan her teeth found the Chevalier's neck and her husband's ear.

The Prince pounced on her, his sex darting inside her. She held him, moaning into his shoulder while the Chevalier watched. This night, when they traded her back and forth, she reached out to touch the man who rested. The Prince's blue eyes were fixated on her mouth as the Chevalier ran the head of his sex back and forth, in and out, her pink cheeks swelling with the length of him. When it was the Chevalier's turn, he placed her phallus against her lips, and swelled as the thought of her tasting the Chevalier's sperm.

They fell asleep together, the Princess nestled between the two men. The next morning the Chevalier was gone, having slipped away in the middle of the night, taking the masks and cloaks with him.

The Prince and Princess smiled at each other than morning as they ate their breakfast.

"I heard the Princess Mary wishes to have another private audience with you," the Prince teased, smiling as she blushed.

"I do not think I will be able to accommodate her," Rosalind said. She hoped she had not been foolish last night. It could have simply been a ruse to seduce her, although it had not felt like that to her. The way they touched her, it was like they were apologizing for their crude behavior during her first seduction.

The Prince reached across the table to take her hand. "What is troubling you?"

"Why, why did you come visit me last night?" she asked.

"I felt bad about the way things were between us. I thought maybe if I could make you laugh, you would be happier. I cannot take credit for the idea," the Prince said.

"That does not surprise me. What will you and the Chevalier be doing today?"

"We were going to, we have a meeting this morning. We are free in the afternoon. Would you like play tennis with us?"

Rosalind smiled. "Thank you, maybe after my walk with the Marechal."

At the mention of his name, the Prince frowned. They said very little after that, and parted at court, kissing one another's cheek. The Prince and the Chevalier talked. Rosalind was in love, and the only candidates were the Marechal and the Duke. The Duke repulsed her, no doubt because of the man's reputation of womanizing, while the Marechal she favored with her time every day at court. They would have followed the pair, but of all the courtiers, the Marechal was shrewd enough to detect them.

The Duke was eavesdropping on the pair, and found himself inclined to agree with their assessment. Rosalind would never give her heart to a man as faithless as him. If only the Duke could see the flash of jealousy in her eyes as the court discussed the English Queen Elizabeth. 

Princess Mary had a portrait fetched to show Rosalind, and the handsome Queen displeased her. "I have never seen a portrait of a Queen that was not beautiful. This artist flatters very well," Rosalind quipped.

Mary grinned. Rosalind had been vexing her, and she could not resist the temptation to repay the favor. "No, it is said this Queen is quite beautiful. Both her and her sister Mary were in love Lord Courtenay, but Mary knew she held no charms besides the vivacious Elizabeth. Her mother, Anne Boleyn, was raised in the French court, and was said to be a woman of great wit and charm." Mary was pleased to see the young woman frowning. Later, in Anne's bosom, she repented her cruelty.

* * * *

The next day Princess Mary's court was full of excitement. She thought to please Rosalind by having their portraits sent to England to display the beauties of the French court. She fussed over Rosalind's toilette and jewelry. 

Rosalind sat first, so the painter would not be fatigued. Mary's efforts made look like a dark haired Venus. Her demure expression, her delicate hands, everyone came to whisper the lady's praises as she sat. The Marechal lingered in a corner, watching those who watched Rosalind. 

The Prince brought a portrait he had of his wife to compare to the new one. Looking at the two, Rosalind made the painter fix her headdress in the older portrait. The Prince's picture was set on a table to dry. The room bustled as the noblewomen primped and waited for their turn.

Although many encouraged the Duke to go rest, he slumped over on a stool until someone installed him in an armchair. His face was not as thin as it had been, but his eyes still had the glossy look of a fever, it's color mottled. The King had sent his doctors to tend to him, but they could find nothing wrong with the Duke. 

Mary held Rosalind's hands, sitting on her bed. If she could not have a private meeting with Rosalind, she was determined to take what liberties she could in public. The young woman fidgeted as Mary touched her face and hair.

Everyone was distracted, and the Duke came to stand near the table with Rosalind's portrait. He glanced around, and as no one was looking at him, he slipped the portrait into his jacket. Rosalind saw him at the table, and when she perceived what was missing, she became distraught. Her heart stopped as she felt Mary's eyes on her.

"Tell me Rosalind, what has caught your attention?"

"Oh, nothing," she replied. Her stomach back flipped. To demand her portrait from the Duke publicly would reveal her as the cause of the his sickness. To do so in private would only be worse, as it would give the Duke an opportunity to speak of his love for her, and it would be difficult for Rosalind to conceal her emotions.

The Duke turned to see her looking at him, and realized he had been discovered. When she went to stand at the window, he came near to her and whispered, "Please be so kind as to feign ignorance, Madame, of what I have taken, that is all I ask." He went away then to closet himself with the image of his love. He found Lignerol and began to kiss him.

His favorite had been much neglected since the Duke had first fallen in love. Lignerol wondered why he bothered stinging his fingers with lemon, keeping his hair platinum and erasing his freckles. Though he saw the portrait of Rosalind on the Duke's desk, and understood that this ardor was not for him, he did not care. He kissed his Duke, who was so sick with love. The Duke's hands were trembling as he caressed Lignerol. He lay back on the bed, and Lignerol began to undress him. He kissed the Duke's throat, and mourned how dull his glorious skin had become.

"When did you last eat?" Lignerol asked as he rubbed his phallus against the Duke's.

"I know you are concerned for my health, and you are right that I have been neglecting my meals, but, it is becoming irritating," the Duke said, pulling off Lignerol's breeches.

"If you wish for me to stop, then eat so you are not weak." To illustrate his point, Lignerol took the Duke's wrists and pinned him to the bed. The Duke struggled against him, but as slight as Lignerol may be, he was stronger than Duke.

The Duke sighed. "I never thought there would be a day that you could overcome me. I am a fool to think Rosalind would want such a weak man."

Now Lignerol was cross. The Duke's pining he could endure, but this self-effacement was loathsome to him. "What is weak about passion? While I would not say you are wise, you have the strength to sustain your love for someone who has not given you sign of any similar feelings." Lignerol kissed him fiercely, then sat at the edge of the bed, pointing at the floor. "You have been insufferable lately, I demand retribution."

The Duke smiled. He loved it when Lignerol made demands. With all that he did for the Duke, the Duke was overjoyed to show his appreciation. He took Lignerol's sex into his mouth, and ran his tongue and teeth over the silken skin of its head. He pressed Lignerol as far into his mouth as he could, rubbing his tongue to the underside of Lignerol's phallus. Slowly, he began to move his head back and forth, pushing Lignerol's phallus deeper into his mouth each time.

Lignerol sat on the bed, his hands behind him, he head tilted back. He could feel the Duke's saliva dripping down his testicles. There were tears seeping from his eyes that he wiped away. The Duke pulled him closer to the edge of the bed and Lignerol fell back as the Duke began to rub his anus. He slid the tip of his finger, wet with his spit, into Lignerol's ass. The Duke was taking quick gulps of air before taking Lignerol deep into his throat. He worked with his finger and mouth in a quickening rhythm. As the Duke felt Lignerol's phallus surge, he began to caress its head with his tongue. Lignerol grunted a few times, then moaned as he came. He pulled the Duke on top of him and tasted his seed in the Duke's mouth. The Duke was rubbing his phallus against Lignerol's, lubricating himself with his own saliva. He touched Lignerol's face, kissing him, as he gently pressed his phallus into impatient Lignerol. If the Duke did not hold his hips down, he would arch his back, and take the Duke's full length into him.

By the time he worked himself into Lignerol, he was limp beneath him. The Duke whispered in Lignerol's ear, "I love to take you like this, to hear you whimper at my slow strokes." Pinned between them, Lignerol was growing hard again. He clutched the Duke's buttocks, and the Duke told him, "You know I love you."

Lignerol wept. "I know, but you are cruel."

"I am sorry. Please, don't cry," the Duke said, and began kiss away Lignerol's tears. They came together, the Duke murmuring promises he would never keep. Lignerol did not care that he lied, but he hoped that the Duke's passion for that woman would be spent. Rumors obsessed him. He wanted the courtiers slavering for the name of his great love, the woman to whom he dedicated all this misery. Lignerol was forced to embroider upon the already great variety of pieces of gossip available.

* * * *

The search for Rosalind's portrait proved fruitless. The Prince teased his wife, saying she had given it to a lover. She only blushed and became distressed. The Prince did not press her. He had arranged for the Chevalier to spy on them, and he wanted his wife to be in a good mood. He did his best to amuse her with idle gossip, then tried to sooth her for the loss of her portrait. That night in bed he found her stiff, and with much coaxing was able to get her to accept his advances, but she would not climax. It was not very inspiring.

Rosalind's mind was whirling with the mournful look in the Duke's eyes. She wondered if she should confess to her husband her feelings for the Duke. The sincere tones of his voice when he had professed his love of honesty tormented her. The only thing she could do to honor him would be to show her heart to him, yet she would not.

Her husband would carry her away if he knew of her love of the Duke? Away from the court, the Chevalier, the Marechal, the Princess Mary, the Duke. But she did not want to leave, and sit in a country manor, and speak of the court like her mother. She did not want to raise bitter daughters for unhappy marriages to men who deserved better. She wondered what all her lovers would do with her gone? Seek one another out for comfort? Compose poems about her? It's likely they would forget her and love someone else.

The Chevalier in his hidden corner found the Cleves lovemaking dull. There wasn't the thrill of seeing a secret moment, no fear of getting caught. The Prince would likely stop to chat with him on the way back to his chambers. Bored, the Chevalier focused on catching what glimpses he could of the Prince's body. His thin pale buttocks, the ridges marching down his spine, his hair curling over his neck, the Chevalier memorized these things.

The Chevalier thought he had been in love with the Rosalind, but now he realized it was her coldness that he loved. His feelings for the Prince frightened him. He wished for the Prince to tangle his fingers in the Chevalier's hair like he did in Rosalind's. He pitied her for being unable to love such an excellent man; otherwise, he would have burned with jealousy. If there was a way to steal the Prince from her, he would be the happiest man alive. 

When he watched the Prince's face closely, the Chevalier understood he was considered a confident and playmate, nothing more. He had taken to kissing the Prince when they met, but the Prince shirked away when the Chevalier reached for his sex. Sometimes he would allow the Chevalier to touch his anus and testicles, and the Chevalier licked his neck and ears as he caressed him.

The Prince opened the door, surprise on his face at seeing the Chevalier seated on the floor, leaning against the wall. The Prince motioned for the Chevalier to follow him back to his chambers.

They sat next to one another on the bed. "Is there something troubling you Chevalier?" the Prince asked.

The Chevalier reached out to take the Prince's hand. "I will be honest with you Prince, I prefer spying on people who are not aware of my presence." As the Chevalier spoke, the Prince idly played with his hand. "Would you be cross with me if I said I found my love for your wife fading?"

The Prince laughed. "What a queer thing to say." When the Chevalier frowned the Prince squeezed his hand. "Do not look so morose. Don't you find it strange sometimes, our friendship?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that we became friends again because I caught sinning by yourself in a room one day, and our friendship grew because we were both in love with my wife," the Prince said.

"I guess I don't really think about it," the Chevalier replied blushing. More often than not his thoughts were preoccupied with the Prince. He sighed, and leaned his head on the Prince's chest.

"I do consider you a close friend, and that will not change if you no longer wish to, ah, play with my wife and I," the Prince said, putting his arm around the Chevalier's shoulder.

The Chevalier turned to the Prince and kissed him. He could feel the Prince's lips curve as he smiled. Wrapping his arms around the Prince, the Chevalier pulled him close, then pushed him back onto the bed. Never before had they been alone together like this. They were either furtively playing with one another at court, or with the Princess.

The Prince was pleasantly surprised to find how much he enjoyed the adoration of the Chevalier. Although they had not known one another for long, he found it hard to picture life at court without him. Several times a week, the Chevalier would take the Prince with him to go spy. At first, the Chevalier only showed him lovers. After a while, he began sharing with the Prince his favorite things to spy on. He loved to watch ladies primp, and eat, and play cards. He liked seeing the men dress after a tennis match and write letters. He told the Prince he once he saw a man burning a whole casket full of letters; it was the most amazing thing he had ever seen. He had never been so lucky as to witness such an event again, and he was very sorry the Prince and he had not been friends then.

The Prince was not excited by these scenes, but he did find his blood warmed by the Chevalier's excitement. He would find it hard to describe his emotions for the Chevalier. He rubbed his groin against the Prince's body. The Prince pulled up the Chevalier's shirt to caress his back, and the Chevalier shuddered. He became wild: the Prince was frightened as the Chevalier ripped his chemise apart and began to bite at his shoulder and neck. 

If the Prince did not send the Chevalier away, he would compromise himself in some way. No, as the Chevalier ground himself against the Prince's hip, he knew the manner in which he would yield. He would let the Chevalier take him, if only to know what it was like to be loved.

Reaching up, the Prince laced one hand into the Chevalier's hair, and with the other gripped his ass, urging the Chevalier on. The Chevalier undid the Prince's breeches, his mouth working down the Prince's chest, pinching the flesh between his teeth. Underneath him the Prince writhed, twitching as the Chevalier nipped his skin. The Chevalier stroked his thighs, regarding his sex, unsure of what to do. He could see the Prince's phallus jerking as he stared at it. With his tongue, he touched the tip of the Prince's sex, just above the ridge that ran along the underside. Looking up, he could see the Prince staring at him with a tender warmth lighting his blue eyes. The Chevalier shuddered as the Prince reached down to touch his face. He took the head of the Prince's sex into his mouth, suckling it.

The Prince's breath jerked in and out of him. It was worse the he feared; there was a pleasure that surpassed the simple venal joys of being touched. The Chevalier continued to use his mouth to explore the Prince's sex, placing his teeth on either side of the ridge and running them up and down, caressing the Prince's anus and testicles as he ran his tongue around the crown of his phallus. The Prince took his shoulders and pulled him up to join their lips. The Chevalier discarded his clothes, the Prince clinging to him as he undressed.




The Princess of Cleves #09



The Prince was afraid that if he stopped touching the Chevalier, he would regret his decision. While he knew what he did betrayed both his marriage vows and God's law, he could not stop, he did not wish to stop. With the Chevalier's bare flesh pressed against him, all thoughts flew from his mind. He was aware of the Chevalier's sex pressed against his anus, the dew seeping from it lubricating its head. They gazed into each other's eyes as the Chevalier worked himself inside the Prince. Every time the Prince winced in pain, the Chevalier covered his face with kisses and asked him if his wished to stop.

The Prince would shake his head, and stroke the Chevalier's buttocks until he again began to move. They made love clasping one another, the Prince sighing like a maid. Even as it hurt, there was a thrill of pleasure beneath the pain. He reached down to grasp himself in the space between their bodies, and the Chevalier pulled his hand away.

"You will make me come too soon Prince if you touch yourself." 

The Prince smiled and began to rub the Chevalier's anus. 

"That is not any better." The Chevalier took the Prince's hands and held them over his head. He kissed the Prince's throat as he stretched the Prince's body out beneath him. Pressing the Prince into the bed, he took him. He could feel the Prince clutching his sex as he approached orgasm. As the Prince came, the Chevalier kissed him, and unable to resist any longer, spilt his seed inside the Prince.

After, he saw a flicker of worry on the Prince's face, and moment of doubt. He took the Prince's hand, and the Prince gave a contented sigh. That emotion the Chevalier wished to see in his eyes was there, though the Prince tried to hide it. The Chevalier told himself he would only hold the Prince until he fell asleep, but he could not bring himself to leave. 

The Prince found a peace in his dreams that he had never known before. 

The Chevalier slept lightly. He kept waking to touch the Prince, to pull the blankets around his shoulders.

* * * *

France would make peace with Spain the old fashioned way, with a marriage. The Duke of Alva was coming to Paris to marry Lady Elisa as the King's plenipotentiary. It had taken much work to convince the young woman to accept this match, as she had been promised the young Spanish Prince for a husband. The King thought of nothing but how to show the splendor of his court. He declared ballets and comedies too dull, and announced a tourney. The peasants and bourgeois would come and cheer. There would be jousting, and combat on both horseback and foot.

Henry II declared the Marechal, the Chevalier, the Duke, and himself to be the four champions. It was proclaimed that on the 15th of June the King and his champions would hold their tourney against all challengers. 

A field was set up near in the shade of the Bastille, and the men did nothing but ride and fight in front of the ladies. With the women arrayed by the fences, the King showed his new horses in the ring. Half tamed, they stomped and tossed their manes. The King and Duke choose most fiery and high mettled of the horses for their mounts. The beasts locked eyes across the lists, and began to charge. Fearing to injure the King, the Duke yanked at the reins, and crashed his horse into the fence. The Duke was thrown and knocked against a wall.

The whole company rushed to the Duke thinking him dead. He woke to a host of faces peering down at him. The Duke's bleary eyes focused on the countenance of Rosalind. The shock and tears painted on those pretty features betrayed her love. He almost swooned again as he realized her coldness toward him was a mask for her affection. Instead, he lay on the ground, stunned. Rosalind knelt by his side with Princess Mary and her other ladies. While they tried to revive him by chafing his limbs and sprinkling him with spirits, he felt a small hand close around his.

The Chevalier watched Rosalind; he saw how pale she was and how she trembled. If the entire court had not been focused on the wounded Duke, they too would have noticed the effects of his tumble had on her. His heart clenched in his chest. She had betrayed him, and betrayed her husband. Even worse, the Duke knew Rosalind loved him. All the man needed to do was open his eyes and focus a little on those blanched features, and he would find all the words of love written in its lines.

The Chevalier lingered at the back of the crowd. He could not help but notice how the Duke's crooked smile sparkled as he thanked the ladies for their concern. So, in an unguarded moment, in front of the entire court, Rosalind had confessed her love. The King rushed to help the Duke to his feet, and ordered him to rest.

Rosalind walked past the Chevalier, her face still pale, and she became flustered as he took her arm. "I believe it is I and your husband who have been truly wounded today," he said.

"What does that mean?" the Princess asked. She tried to pull away from the Chevalier, but he would not release her, and to continue to struggle would have caused a scene.

"Pardon me if I speak freely and show you how my heart grieves at what my eyes have seen. You love neither me nor the Prince, and that I could bear knowing there was none for whom your heart quickened." The Chevalier's voice became choked as he spoke. "Now I see that you do love, but not as you should. My own wound I can bear, but that you have delivered to another what belongs to your husband is..."

Rosalind turned and pushed him against the wall. He was surprised by the force of her hands. Her eyes were wild and her mouth tight. "Do you think I want to be in love with the Duke? Do you think I am insensible to how deserving my husband is of my affections and that I withhold them by choice?" She closed her eyes and a tear fell from them.

The Chevalier was overwhelmed with guilt, and his face flushed red. "I am sorry to have upset you."

She sighed. "Please, do not tell my husband. If he must be told, I wish to do it myself. I can only hope that the Duke did not notice."

"I am afraid that there is little chance of that Rosalind. He looked very happy for a man just fallen from a horse." He placed his hand over hers. "Would you like me to take you to the Marechal? I believe I saw him trailing after the King."

Rosalind looked at him from below her long eyelashes, and the Chevalier remembered why he had fallen in love with her. It wasn't her frozen heart, but the sweet innocence and sincerity that venal acts could never mar, the gloss of rose scented air above the filth of Paris. "Yes please," she said, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. The Marechal was puzzled, but he took Rosalind for their accustomed walk with its traditional banter.

The Duke lingered in front of his glass, admiring his winning smile as he arranged his hair and choose his jewelry. The entire court could not help but notice the change that came over him, his gay air and ready laugh. Everyone again gathered around him to listen to his discourse. Rosalind looked on from the outskirts of the crowd, chewing her lip. The Duke saw her, her carefully composed features, her eyes that would not meet his. Before he thought she found him repugnant, but now he knew her coldness was only a token of her love.

Lignerol did not know whether to rejoice or despair. The Duke was happy, he was eating, but his passion only burned hotter. He no longer neglected Lignerol as his tenderness spilled over. While he dressed the Duke in the morning, he would reach out to tease Lignerol, tweaking his buttocks and pinching his thighs. Sometimes he would become too excited, and he would bend Lignerol over the bed and take him. Lignerol would lay there, sighing into his pillow.



The Princess of Cleves #10



The Marechal noticed Rosalind appeared quite troubled as of late. He knew she was in love with the Duke, but something else must have happened. He arranged their room for them, only this time there was an arrangement of flowers with some refreshments for her.

She frowned as he opened the door. "Am I really so melancholy?"

As always, the Marechal locked the door and dropped all pretense. "Yes." He led her to the couch and gave her a glass of wine.

"Thank you."

They sat like that for a while, sipping at their glasses. Rosalind sighed, leaning her head against the Marechal's shoulder. He kissed her brow and poured the rest of his wine into her empty glass. "What is it that troubles you my love?"

She pulled away from him. "Do not call me that. The Duke knows that I love him."

"Pardon me, I forgot myself," he said, taking her hand. "I thought the Duke was aware of your feelings toward him."

She shook her head. "When I returned to Paris, he tried to arrange a tryst with me, and I convinced him he had taken advantage of a moment of weakness caused by my mother's death."

Her full lips were pressed tight together. The Marechal touched her cheek, turning her face toward him. Her eyes were closed, her head tilted up, waiting for him to kiss her. He took her in his arms, all softness and roses, pressing his mouth to hers. Feeling bold, he began to rub her thigh. She yielded to him, and he hiked up her skirts to touch her pale skin.

They were both breathing hard when the Marechal stopped. "I am sorry, you are trying to tell me of your troubles, and my mind is on other things." Even as he apologized, the Marechal was caressing her hands, bringing them up to touch his face.

"When he fell from his horse the other day, I was too distraught to hide my emotions. He saw me, and the Chevalier saw me."

The Marechal snapped to attention. "The Chevalier?" That worried him; he had always felt strange around the man, like he had too many secrets. It was without any concrete reasons that he told her not to trust the man. Diana's suspicions were poor justification for his feelings, as she considered the Guises to be her enemies. If he thought it would help, he would mention Diana's baseless warning as well. It was troublesome enough that the Prince was the Chevalier's confidant without having Rosalind share her heart.

"I think you are wrong to be mistrustful of him. After all, have you heard anything of my having an affair with him?"

"No." If the Marechal was honest with himself, he was jealous. The Chevalier, because of his friendship with the Prince, saw her more often than he, and also enjoyed liberties he only dreamed of. The Prince would never trust the Marechal around his wife.

"After the Duke left, the Chevalier took my arm, and said he knew of my love for the Duke." She slid closer to the Marechal as she talked, and he wrapped his arm around her shoulders. "He said he could bear my not loving him, but that I loved the Duke instead of the Prince..." She sniffled, unable to finish her sentence.

"You feel guilty, but it is not your fault. You must understand that Rosalind. You are so young, your heart will get away from you, regardless of the mortifications you subject yourself to." The Marechal raised her hands to his lips. "And you are brave to have nobly borne the assaults of the court."

"Then why do I feel so unworthy of the love I am given?"

"Because you have a good heart, and it makes you question yourself. There is something I do that helps to ease me when I am troubled." There was a shiver of excitement in his voice, and he began to stroke her thigh. She looked at him, and trembled. "I will be gentle, well, not too gentle. I can bend you over my knee, it will be like you're a naughty little girl." Her cheeks began to glow red.

The Marechal kissed her; he thrust his tongue into her mouth and bit her lower lip. She would lay herself across his lap to be spanked, she was saying "yes". Her fingers were twined in his hair, although she only teased him, wrapping strands around her fingers but not tugging.

"Are you ready?" he asked. She nodded and knelt beside him. He leaned down to kiss her again before he pulled her over his knees. His sex swelled as he pulled up her skirts. He began by rubbing her buttocks, gripping her flesh, cupping his hand around them. Then, he hit her lightly, striking just above the crease of her thigh. Every time, she would flinch.

"Do you want me to hit you harder?" He felt her nod. "Yes?"

She turned to look at him. There were tears in her eyes. "Yes, please."

There was a smart slap as his hand met her backside. She gave a little grunt. He hit her again and again, until she started to writhe. The smell of her arousal made him ache. He placed his hand between her legs, and felt her smooth skin sliding against his fingers. "Do you want me to touch you?"

"Yes," she said, pressing herself against him.

He ran his finger up and down her sex. She gripped his thighs, and he bent over her to kiss the nape of her neck. Licking his finger, he moaned at the salty taste on his tongue. He rubbed at the bud between her legs and her anus. The Princess had straightened her legs, her back arched, her pert ass sticking perfectly up, and ground her groin against his hands. It took all his strength to not give her what she asked for: he slipped one hand under her arm to mover her on top of his sex. In that moment he felt her moisten, her sex pulsed in his hands, and he pressed his fingers into her ass. He slapped her as she came with a hot rush that wet her skirts.

She was still twitching when the Marechal laid her on the floor. He freed his sex and pressed it between her red swollen lips. A few quick darts, and he was holding his handkerchief over his phallus as he spilled his seed. Beneath him, Rosalind squirmed, trying to take him inside her. He rolled onto his back beside her, still stroking himself. He turned his head to see her staring at him with a sour expression.

"If you wish for more, you must first let me carry you away." As the Marechal spoke, his one hand idly pinched her breasts and teased her sex. He would take the flesh around her bud in between two fingers and roll it. Her brows wrinkled and her mouth opened partially. He hardened again. "No no, I'm sorry my dear, I cannot play with you anymore."

Rosalind opened her eyes and frowned. "Why not?"

"Because you are too tempting." He turned away from her who was undulating her hips, calling him to her. Instead, he stood and cleansed his mind with a deep breath of the fragrant bouquet on the table.

Rosalind rolled onto her side, curling her knees up to her chest. The Marechal pulled her up onto the couch and held her, kissing her cheeks, smoothing her hair. When she had calmed herself, they left. The pair was so agitated, the court assumed they had quarreled.

* * * *

The King, the Duke, the Viscount de Chartes, and the Chevalier were all playing tennis. As they jumped after the ball, a letter fell, and the Prince de Conde snatched it up and brought it to Princess Mary.

"Your Highness, I have found you something pertaining to your favorite mystery." Conde bowed, proffering a letter which had no name on the envelope. "A love letter, fallen from the Duke's pocket. Now we will have a clue as to the name of the woman who has been haunting him."

Mary clapped her hands together in excitement and tucked the missive into her pocket. After the game, everyone wandered inside. 

Rosalind paid court to Mary, as did the Duke, and the Marechal. The Marechal was watching the Duke who watched Rosalind. On most days, this arrangement soothed her, like a warm hand made of her lovers' gazes. She fretted over the letter in Mary's pocket, and thought herself terribly naive for believing that she had somehow altered the Duke so that his heart stayed true. 

Mary knew what troubled her, and decided to send Rosalind home with the letter and banish this rival from her heart. 

The Duke kept looking to Rosalind, expecting to catch her staring at him from out of the corner of her eye. Today she managed to sit with her back to him. The smirk on the Marechal's face only led him to greater despair, as that man smiled at his misery. 

It was true, that among the three lovers there, only the Marechal felt any cheer. Mary had been unable to coax any more favors from the little Rosalind, and could only find pleasure by having Anne dressed like a noblewoman and thoroughly rouged.

When Mary asked Rosalind to read the letter, and return to report on its contents, she at first refused. Mary pressed her, and she finally acquiesced. She shut herself up in her room when she returned home. Reading this letter which had been given to the Duke by one of his lovers, she wept. The Prince and the Chevalier knocked, and she stuffed it under her pillow. She sent them away, claiming her stomach to be upset.

The Prince and the Chevalier stood outside her room, looking at one another. By a tacit agreement, they had never spoken of the night they had spent together. They were both too frightened to speak of their emotions, but when the Chevalier slipped his hand into the Prince's, the Prince led them to his room. 

Locking the door behind them, the Prince turned into the Chevalier's ready arms. They stumbled over to the bed, dropping their clothes along the way. The Prince pushed the Chevalier onto his back, then knelt in front of him. He opened his mouth wide and began to lave the Chevalier's sex with his tongue. He took the head into his mouth, and he thought of it pressing against his anus, stretching out his asshole. Working his lips up and down the shaft, he thought of it filling his body, moving in and out of him. He could feel the Chevalier's sex growing harder, the pulse of blood in it.

The Chevalier had to push the Prince away, or he would have spilt his seed in the Prince's mouth. He held the Prince's back to him, rubbing his phallus in between the Prince's buttocks. The Chevalier retrieved a bottle of oil from his clothes, and dripped it over his phallus, eager to claim his Prince. Arching his back, the Prince pressed the Chevalier's sex into his anus. Their bodies moved against each other. The Prince came in the Chevalier's hand, and the Chevalier came.

Later, the Chevalier roused his lover with his mouth. The Prince eagerly responded, and then the Chevalier turned his back to the Prince, and the Prince understood what his lover wanted. He covered the Chevalier's shoulders and back with kisses as he ground his sex against Chevalier. He thought of his wedding night, and how tender he had been with his wife, and he thought of giving himself to the Chevalier. The Prince put his fingers in his mouth, and he began to play with the Chevalier's anus. He let the Chevalier feel the head of his sex pressing against the Chevalier's ass. A moment of fumbling in the dark, and the Prince spilled oil all over himself and his lover, and they were overwhelmed with scent of sage. The Chevalier's giggle became a moan as the Prince moved the tip of his phallus against him. The Prince worked himself into Chevalier as his lover gasped. Feeling the Prince move, the Chevalier began to rock his hips in a slow rhythm. The Prince had his arms wrapped around the Chevalier, idly kissing the Chevalier's cheek as he made love to him. They orgasmed together. That night, the Chevalier stayed until the sky turned gray, and crept out as the servants were beginning to stir.

* * * *

The Duke had sweet dreams all that night. Lignerol lay in his arms, and in his sleep he caressed his valet, dreaming that he held Rosalind. He would have slept late that morning, made love to Lignerol, and spent hours dressing himself, but the Viscount de Chartes arrived early that morning, and insisted he speak with the Duke. Upon hearing the commotion at his master's door, Lignerol scurried off naked to his own chambers.

Were the Duke not in a such a good mood, he would have been cross at this intrusion. As things were, the Viscount found him smiling.

"My dearest Viscount, to what do I owe the honor?" the Duke asked, pulling on a dressing gown.

The Duke jumped back as the Viscount fell at his feet. "I beg you, Duke, please save me. By now you have heard that Princess Mary found a letter at the tennis courts. You must say that it is your letter, or I am ruined."

The Duke frowned. "You must think I have no mistress with which to quarrel. If I admit that this is my letter, she will be cross," the Duke said. There was a time when it would have been a thrill to debase himself in the eyes of Rosalind by making such a claim. Perhaps he may have roused some disgust within her: any emotion would be better than her indifference. But now, now he knew that she loved him, and her coldness was only a declaration of her love.

"There is no doubt in my mind that you have a mistress, and I will give you proof that the letter is mine to show to her." The Viscount withdrew a missive from his coat, his name written in a clean hand.

"What have you done Viscount, that you come charging into my room at the break of dawn, and now tremble in front of me, almost in tears?" The Duke shifted in his seat, hiding his state of arousal which was only being exacerbated by the Viscount's desperation.

"I tell you this out of necessity, for you will loose what respect you have for me." The Viscount rested back on his heels, his eyes on the floor, and the Duke's hands held tight in his. "The Queen has always shown me marks of favor, but I thought little on the matter. As I was deeply in love with Madame de Themines, the Queen never entered my mind." At these words, the Duke could not help but lean closer to the Viscount. "The Court was at Fontainebleau, and on several occasions I found myself speaking with the Queen in her apartments when there were few others about. My wit pleased her greatly, and she approved of all of the thoughts that I shared."

"So, these rumors I hear of your interest in our great Queen are not mere fantasy," the Duke said. He stroked the Viscount's hair, and as though his confession had weakened the man, the Viscount slumped forward to rest his cheek on the Duke's knee.

"One day, the conversation turned to confidants, and I said I never shared my secrets, as those who did always repented. Because of my feelings, many people confided in me, and I knew many things that I did not tell. After this, the Queen often spoke with me on this theme. She said how she esteemed me for my discretion, that in France everyone is such a gossip that she found herself unable to speak freely with anyone." The Viscount turned his head so the Duke's fingers touched his cheek.

"She was indisposed that week, and requested I keep her company while the King and courtiers went on a hunt. She sent her attendants away and we sat by the pond alone."

There was a knocking at the door. The Viscount wiped his tears from his eyes and sat beside the Duke on the bed. "Come in," the Duke said, knowing it was Lignerol with some coffee and scones. After he left, the Duke motioned for the Viscount to sit with him and eat.

The Viscount first made himself a cup of coffee, and smeared some butter and jam on a scone. He could not think of eating, as nauseated as he was, but he was glad for a moment to collect his words.

The Duke interrupted the Viscount's thoughts, saying to him, "You were speaking of the Queen."

"Yes. She said to me, 'I would have you think of me as a friend. If you confidant, you would know that the place where you meet your mistress is discovered, and there is plot to surprise you there.' Can you imagine my reaction?"

"So, where you met Madame de Themines was discovered?"

"No, if my trysts had be discovered, they were not with Madame de Themines, but rather another, less discreet woman." 

The Duke gave the Viscount a disapproving look, and the Viscount said, "Oh, it gets worse. I sensed that she may have some secret aim behind this revelation, so I lied and said I was not in love with anyone. I found them unworthy of my honorable heart."

The Duke had to cough to disguise a laugh. "Did she believe you?" the Duke asked, unable to suppress his smile.

"No. She said she desired my friendship and my sincerity. Were I to be her confidant, she must know all my engagements, so that she may dictate my conduct. I was given two days to make my answer, to decide whether these terms were too severe." The Viscount drank his coffee, and picked at his food.

"And what did you do, what reply did you make to her?"

"I broke off with the one woman, while continuing my correspondence with Madame de Themines. I lied to the Queen, and told her I had nothing to conceal, because that is what she wanted, and it flattered me to be chosen by her as a friend. She told me if I deceived her though, I would regret it."

"Which I hope would bring us to this letter," the Duke said.

"It was from Madame de Themines, detailing the elaborate revenge she had wreaked upon me for having another mistress. It worked too, for I believed she no longer loved me until I received this letter. Should the Queen see it though, she will understand how thoroughly I have deceived her. That is why I am here, begging for your mercy."

"And your proof?" the Duke asked.

"A letter from the woman who acted as our courier, demanding the letter back from me. If your mistress has read Madame de Themines' missive, then there will be no doubt in her mind that this note addressed to me refers to that same letter." The Viscount put his face in his hands.

"You do not deserve to be rescued. Even I did not use women so," the Duke said. "You're right, I found I have lost all respect for you."

The Viscount wailed. "Please Duke, if not for me, then do this for my niece, Rosalind. The Queen will not hesitate to make this young woman her enemy."

The Duke scowled, as the Viscount was correct. "Give me that note then."

The Viscount fell upon Duke's hands, kissing them. "Thank you, it is Princess Mary who has the letter."

"You already told me that. It will be easy to get it back, Monsieur d'Anville will know where the letter is." The Duke shooed away the Viscount and dressed. He became panicked when he learned that the letter had been given to Rosalind and everyone was eagerly awaiting her to report on its contents. The Duke flew to her quarters.

* * * *

When the Duke demanded entry at such an early hour, claiming it to be urgent business, Rosalind sent him away. Her eyes were red and her mouth sour from crying; her head softly throbbed. She never thought he would go and petition the Prince, but that is what he did. 

The Prince was confused; for a moment he thought the Duke was the Chevalier, then he remembered briefly waking when the Chevalier crept away.

"Please excuse my intrusion at this hour, but I am on an urgent mission from the Rosalind's uncle, the Viscount de Chartes. I must speak with your wife," the Duke said, pulling back the curtain of the Prince's bed.

The Prince shrunk back into the darkness. "Then go bother her," he mumbled, still groggy.

The Duke smiled. "I thought it prudent to come to you first Prince." He heard the man sigh, then the Prince emerged, put on his robe, and took the Duke to Rosalind's chambers.

The Prince knocked on the door, and without waiting for a reply he entered. "Madam, the Duke is here on an urgent mission from you uncle. I will be attending the King if you need me." He bowed and left, closing the door behind him.

The Duke and the Princess were very aware that they were alone together, and the silence weighed heavily on the Duke. The Viscount had paraphrased the contents of the letter to him, and he knew that the Princess must think very little of him now.

"I am sorry to come so early, but the letter you have was written to the Viscount de Chartes by his mistress, Madame de Themines, and she wishes to have it back." Peeking between the curtains he could see Rosalind's pale face watching him intently. "He asked that I claim the letter to be mine, to save him from ruin, and to preserve Madame de Themines reputation."




The Princess of Cleves #10



Finally, she spoke to him. "After having read this letter, I am not surprised to find you are able to dissemble so well. Were I more naive, I would believe you."

The Duke took the note from his pocket and held it out to her. "The Viscount gave me this to show to you. It is a letter, demanding back the one which you have." 

Rosalind's fingers were trembling as she reached out to take the piece of paper. 

"Let me draw back the curtains so you may have some light," he said. When he saw the dark circles under her eyes, her disheveled appearance, like that of one who spent the entire night tossing and turning, his heart quickened. She had spent the entire night weeping when she thought he betrayed her.

Rosalind blushed when she saw the Duke looking at her. She wanted to believe him, but found herself thinking of the things her mother had said of him, and the rumors she heard of him in the court. The letter she held was addressed to her uncle, the Viscount, and reading it, she could not forbear smiling. "It seems I have misjudged you, I apologize."

The Duke sat on the bed and took her hand. "There is no need to apologize. You were told it was my letter, and much to my shame, my reputation is such that it is not fantastic for me receive such a missive. I am glad that you know the truth now." 

When he looked into her eyes, he saw that love she tried so hard to conceal. He moved so that he was beside her, and she looked away from him. He raised her fingers to his lips and kissed them. "I understand your desire to be loyal to your husband, so I will not speak to you of love. Only let me sit here with you for a moment, lean your head upon my shoulder, so that I may pretend that you are my love."

She shifted to be closer to him, then laid her cheek on his shoulder as he wrapped one arm around her. He stroked her hair, then took her chin to turn her face toward him. 

He had lied to her. There was nothing in the world he desired more than her seduction, and she was weary from grief, exultant at his fidelity: a rush of strong emotions that had left her empty and pliant. He pressed his lips to her's, and she kissed him back. Her arms twined around his neck, and he moved to lay on top of her. There was a thick layer of covers between their bodies, and he thrust himself against her hips.

She ran her hands down his back as he covered her throats in kisses. "Oh Rosalind," he murmured, feeling her reach into his jacket to touch his chest, his waist. He kicked off his boots, and threw his coat and shirt to the floor. Pulling back the covers, he saw the Princess in only her chemise. She shied away from him, but he embraced her and would not release her. Her palms were pressed against his chest, and he kissed her until she ceased to struggle. He pulled off her nightgown, and her face flushed red. His lips worked all over her skin; he bit her nipples and ran his hand between her thighs.

Rosalind did not know what to do as he forced his fingers forward, until they rested just outside her sex. The slightest release of pressure, and he would be touching her. He was waiting for her permission, and if she relaxed any muscle in her legs, they would make love. 

It was different than when she was with the Chevalier. Her husband was not there, hiding, or eagerly awaiting his turn. When others took her, it only moved her body. Her heart was pounding, her anticipation like an ache in her stomach.

The Duke felt her relax, and he again placed his hand in her sex. As he warmed her with his fingers, she became slick, and he withdrew himself from his breeches. He rubbed his phallus against her sex, staring into her eyes. They widened with surprised when she felt the head of his sex straining against her.

He was so large, for a moment it hurt. He was gentle though, using his fingers to spread her lips wide apart, rubbing the head of his phallus against the opening of her sex, lubricating it, before he entered her again. Rosalind came when he pressed his entire length into her. 

With each stroke, she shuddered, and she reached down to take her little bud in her fingers, and when she came she did so with a hot gush of liquid and a great moan. The Duke grasped her shoulder, her hips, and moved her beneath him, thrusting into her as he jerked her down. His knees and elbow and feet were planted as firmly as he could on the bed, leverage for pulsing their bodies together. They orgasmed together, grunting like animals, their faces red twisted masks. Rosalind had never felt this before, her heart moving with her body.

The Duke spoke to her of love, holding her little hand over his heart. He determined a means for them to exchange notes, and arranged for a tryst in the dead of night, two nights from now. He would come to her just before people began to rouse from their first sleep. If the Chevalier and Prince were not with her, she was to shut a handkerchief in her window so he would know to come. The Duke left with the Viscount's letter, and he could not hide the joy that animated his every feature.



The Princess of Cleves #11



Princess Mary noted Rosalind's pink cheeks. She had already been vexed by the Queen's messengers asking for the letter. Ostensibly, that jealous woman believed the letter to belong to the Viscount de Chartes, her favorite. Mary had sent them away with some thin excuse that the letter was in the clothes she wore yesterday, which had gone abroad with their keepers. She knew what really was on the Queen's mind, that there was some affair between Mary and a nobleman. If she said she gave the letter to the Viscount's niece, the Queen would be think she was somehow mixed up in the matter. 

So, she had been impatiently waiting for Rosalind, only to have her arrive pink and flushed from her husband's arms. It made her only more beautiful. That Rosalind had chosen to wear the bracelet she gave her bore ill augury. Whatever she had to say to Mary, it would not please her.

"What has kept you? I have been waiting two hours for you to report to me. Did you bring the letter?" she demanded as Rosalind curtseyed. The color drained from her face, and Mary knew her news. "What has happened to the letter, tell me quickly."

Rosalind gaped for a moment before she formed a story. "I am sorry your Highness, but my husband has given the letter to the Duke. I gave it to the Prince to read. When the Duke came to beg me to get it from you, my careless husband revealed to the Duke we had the letter." She looked at Mary, and knew that she saw through her lie, that something else had happened. "The Duke entreated my husband to give him the missive, and he yielded. I don't know what you shall do, as I do not have the letter to give you."

"Now what will I tell the Queen? She will be convinced that the Viscount de Chartes is my lover and she will give me no peace." Mary gave her a hard look. "As it was I who gave you the letter, did you not think it appropriate to return it to me?"

"I grieve to see you so distressed, but it was not my fault, it was my husband who gave the Duke the letter," Rosalind said, staring at the ground.

Mary knew she was lying. There was no doubt in Mary's mind that the Duke had charmed the letter from the girl. "What woman includes her husband in every petty intrigue? It is your fault, your's alone, and even worse you blame it on the Prince."

"Of course you are right, pardon me. Perhaps it is best that we focus on how to mitigate the consequences as opposed to speaking of who is to blame," she replied.

"Spoken like one who is at fault." As angry as she was, Mary could not resist stroking her mahogany hair. "You must reproduce the letter from memory, and in a hand with which the Queen is unfamiliar." She leaned down to whisper into Rosalind's ear, "And I will expect you at six o'clock. Our agreement did not extend to circumstances which you are almost my ruin." She blushed and her breath came shallow and fast. "Go find your husband, and have him help." Mary waved her away, and she ran from the room, her face red with shame.

* * * *

A step behind Rosalind was the Marechal. Everyone noticed how he was Rosalind's shadow as she moved about the court. He took her arm, and did his best to hide how her present state was affecting him. The Duke had somehow gotten into her room, and he'd taken her. There was a subtle peace to her movements, when normally she was agitated. She had to pull her lips down in order to frown, instead of lifting them up in a hollow smile. He wanted to throw himself in her path so she could trample on him. As he thought of it he shivered, his sex painfully throbbing against his breeches. He turned to look at her, and she was staring back. She nodded, and he started. When she smiled at him, she showed her little teeth.

The Marechal wracked his brain for a place to take her, somewhere that would be empty, where they would not be seen. Two turns and they would be at his chambers; if no one saw them, he could simply lock his door and tell her she must be quiet. Looking around, he saw not a soul, and he dragged her to a trot. Slamming the door behind them, he dropped his keys. He had to catch his breath before he locked them into the room.

Rosalind flopped down onto the Marechal's bed. He crawled over to her, and began to kiss her feet, slipping them out of her shoes. 

The smell of sex overwhelmed him as he began to move his mouth up her legs. She slid her groin closer to him, and he wrapped his arms around her thighs as he buried his face between her legs. Her lips were hot and swollen, and the Marechal licked them lightly. He flicked his tongue over the opening of her sex, consuming the liquid that oozed from her, the trace of her and the Duke's love, as she quivered. He moaned, and she moaned, grinding against his face. He rubbed her asshole, and pressed his tongue inside her. She fluttered on his mouth and whimpered as she came.

He rubbed his cheek against her thigh. With one finger, he felt her little bud throb. She lifted up one foot, stuck it on his chest, and kicked him out from under her skirts. 

The Marechal lay on his back, looking up at her, and wriggled. If he moved like a worm she would know that he wanted to be crushed like one. She rose, and prodded his leg with her toe. She did not put her little slippers back on, but instead stepped onto his thigh. The Marechal reached up to give her his hands, to help her balance, and she slapped them away. She carefully curled her foot over his femur, transferred her weight, then planted the ball of her other foot in his groin. He wanted to writhe against her foot, but instead peeked at her through his half closed eyes. There was a wicked smile on her face, and he almost came.

She shifted more of her weight onto his groin and he susurrated when she placed her foot in his chest. He reached up to touch her legs, and she smashed her foot into his face. When she stuck her toes into his mouth, he nibbled at them. Giggling, she almost lost her balance and he grabbed her hips to steady her. 

Rosalind felt silly then, locked away in a room, standing on some man. The Marechal could read her thoughts in her wide uncertain eyes.

"What is it Rosalind? I know what's put you in a good mood, but not why you're frowning," the Marechal said, seeing her expression change.

"There's all that intrigue about the letter. The Duke is in the middle of it."

"The Duke, it does not surprise me, that man is prone to intrigue. Surely only a very naive woman would fawn over such a man." The Marechal tried very hard not to smile as he spoke.

Her lips pulled down in a moue and she put her foot over his mouth. "You, you are not to speak. You are far too clever. I want you kneeling in front of me." When she stepped off him he scrambled to his knees. "Is that your riding gear?"

The Marechal looked at her, and then at the pile of clothes in the corner, from which the handle of his riding crop peeked out. He licked his lips as his heart began to throb.

"Strip." The Marechal was thrown into confusion as he undressed. As soon as he revealed a patch of bare skin, the Princess would trace his flesh with the crop's leather tip. He blushed furiously under her eyes. Removing his breeches, she massaged his sex with the whip. When he tried to kiss her hands she took his hair in her hand and pulled so he was down on all fours. She started to hit him lightly, against his shoulders and the meat of his buttocks, quick fiery stings. Growing bold, she hit him harder and he gasped. There were hot licks on his ribs, his thighs; she would reach down and pull his hair, rub his genitals with the crop. She beat him, each blow inflamed another, a fiery network crisscrossing his skin until he came.

The Marechal wept on Rosalind's feet. 

He dressed quickly and took her to the King's court. The serenity with which Rosalind moved filled the Marechal with pride. He was her confidante, his body bore the marks of her inner fury. Each step agitated his tender skin, a delicious pain. He could not stay at court, but instead shut himself up in his room to touch himself, dreaming of Rosalind pinned beneath the Duke.

* * * *

The Prince frowned as his wife hurried to him. She looked satiated, carefree, despite the fact that the Duke had intimated to the Prince that whatever business he was about, it was of dire importance to her uncle. 

His frown deepened as he realized how stupid he had been--he left his wife alone with the Duke in her bedchamber. Now he understood her mood, she was in love. That was why his rivals always had a tinge of pity in their eyes. He even saw it when the Princess Mary looked at him. The humiliation should have crushed him, all these people manhandling his young wife, sometimes at his bidding. It only made him aroused.

He barely paid any mind to what she whispered to him, he was picturing the Duke fixing her with his devilish smile before pressing her onto the bed, the same bed he and the Chevalier took her. The Duke conquered what neither the Prince nor the Chevalier had been able to bend to their wills. They could make love to the Princess, but she would not make love back to them. She would touch them, but lust guided her caresses. 

Today, this very morning, as he had stood about the King's court, she made love to the Duke. He must tell the Chevalier; they must find out the schedule of their trysts. He would watch the Duke take his wife, and then he and the Chevalier would... Rosalind gave him a queer look as he shivered. He needed to focus his thoughts elsewhere, he was only exciting himself in public. It did not help that he felt the Chevalier's eyes on him as he walked past.

It was only after they arrived back to their chambers did he understand what was wanted of him. "It will be easy dear. I will send for the Duke and we will just copy out the letter. We'll have a light meal and write it out together." While the Prince was smiling as he spoke, the thought of sending for the Duke his innards in turmoil. 

First, he leaves the man alone with his wife to seduce her, and now he was fetching him to spend the afternoon with them? It was undignified, but so were his desires. If only there were an excuse to bring the Chevalier into their confidence, that way they could each have a lover present.

The thought startled him. He drank his wine to hide his confusion. It was true though, the Chevalier was more his lover than his wife's. 

Rosalind decided not to notice her husband's sudden change in mood. Instead, she refilled his glass and day dreamed of the Duke. She was not left with her thoughts for long, as the man was soon there, his crooked smile lighting his face.

"Prince, Princess, to what do I owe this honor?" the Duke asked, bowing.

"It is necessary that we copy the Viscount de Chartes' letter and give it to the Princess Mary," the Prince said. 

Rosalind sat there, gazing at her new lover, oblivious to the fact that her husband's blue eyes were churning with emotion.

The Duke frowned. "I have already given it to the Viscount, and by now I believe it's in the hands of Madame Themines."

She snapped out of her reverie. "What? You no longer have the letter? What now?"

The Prince shrugged his shoulders. "We shall reconstruct it by memory. By the way, what did you say to Princess Mary when she asked for the letter?"

Rosalind stared at the floor, chewing her lip. "I told her that I had given it to you to read, and that when the Duke came to ask for our help in retrieving the letter, you told him we had it, and gave it to him."

The Prince gave his wife a hard look and the Duke had to swallow his laughter. "That was a very bad lie. Do not frown so Prince, you wife does such a poor job with deception, you should be delighted."

Rosalind automatically smiled, but when she thought about the meaning of Duke's words, she became uncomfortable as did her companions. 

Realizing the implications of what he said, the Duke began to tell amusing stories, setting both of the Cleves laughing. As they worked, he kept them diverted with bits of gossip and rumor. The Prince kept looking from one to the other, seeing how their eyes met, then broke away. His jealousy twisted together with his desire, making his stomach sour. They had a deadline, the Princess was to meet Princess Mary at 6 sharp. 

The Prince was grateful when at 5 he was able to interrupt their nonsense. Soon, he would be free from their claustrophobic desire. It seemed to him that his was reluctant to go meet Princess Mary. When the Duke offered to escort her, he urged her to accept.

Once they were out of hearing from the Prince, the Duke turned to Rosalind. "Is there something troubling you? You have laughed less and less as the time grew closer to your appointment."

Rosalind snuck a glance at the Duke, uncertainty painted on her features. "The Princess Mary has," her head flicked around making sure no one was near, "Expressed an interest in me. I thought we were done with our trysts, but it seems my mistake requires I attend her again."

The Duke stumbled. The thought of Princess Mary forcing herself on Rosalind made his joints loose with lust. "It seems you have been cursed to join a court with good taste. There is no one here who does not wish to love you." She did not respond as the Duke wanted, frowning instead of smiling. "Do you wish me to accompany you? Mary does not look upon me unfavorably."

She shook her head. "No, the error was mine, I will deal with her."

The Duke kissed her cheek. "Really, the fault was mine, I should not have taken the letter. Your uncle is grateful though, and I find your attitude about Mary's anger very gracious." She blushed and smiled. "We are here now. I will see you two nights from now," the Duke said, kissing her cheek.

She held him close for a moment, the Duke inhaling deeply to savor her rose fragrance, then took the copied letter from her pocket. They had done a very poor job with it, and it was unlikely to fool the Queen. She would have be careful to please Mary. Standing in the hall, she took a moment to collect herself.

* * * *

Mary looked at the letter Rosalind gave her, and shook her head. She knelt demurely in front of her, eyes cast upon the floor. When she snuck a glance at Mary, her lips tightened. Mary reached down to stroke the her mahogany hair. "It seems you can do nothing right today my love." Mary dropped the letter, then hiked her skirts up. She pressed Rosalind's cheek to her thigh. "Will you give me kisses, to say that you are sorry?" Mary slid lower in her chair. Rosalind began to rub her soft lips back and forth on Mary's thigh. "You are lucky you're so charming, you've failed me twice today."

Rosalind sat back on her heels, staring at Mary's sex. Pushing her legs apart, Rosalind was able to see her glistening nether lips. She opened her mouth to taste the Mary's body. Mary touched her face, urging her on. Rosalind began to lick her, spreading her apart with her fingers. She took the Mary's hidden bud between her teeth, sucking at it, probing it with her tongue. She began to undulate her hips, and Rosalind pressed her fingers inside of her, stroking the slick wet skin inside her body.

"Oh Rosalind, for that mouth, I would forgive you anything," Mary moaned. She had an orgasm, trapping Rosalind between her thighs and her body convulsed, but she was not done with her. She pulled Rosalind onto her lap, tasting herself on the girl's lips. "I wish you would change your mind about our relationship." Mary pawed at her bosom, rubbing her face against the swell of Rosalind's breasts. Working one hand up her skirt, she soon had Rosalind twitching on her lap. She was surprised when a gush of liquid washed over her hand. "What have you been doing today?" She touched Mary's wrist, trying to still her hand. "Whisper me your secrets little one, and I will let you rest."

Rosalind pressed her cheek to Mary's, her lips moving against Mary's ear as she whispered. "I had a private meeting with the Duke this morning."

"And what did you talk about?"

"The letter, and then we were done with talk."

"Is that why your cheeks were so red this morning?"

Rosalind nodded.

"Is that all you've done today?"

Pulling away from Mary, Rosalind shook her head.

Mary recalled the Marechal following Rosalind from the court. "You went on your walk with the Marechal today, did you not." Instead of answering, Rosalind looked down, and Mary began touching her again. "Did he touch you?" Now Rosalind was moving against her fingers. "He did...Did he taste you?" She reached down to rub herself, and Mary slapped her hand away. Licking her fingers, she could taste the seed and spit of the men who touched her. 

She smothered Rosalind's neck with kisses as she coaxed her to a climax. She could feel the Rosalind's womb twitching on her fingers, and she stroked her deeply. Rosalind hooked her leg around the chair to leverage her body to thrust her sex against Mary's hand. Again she came, this time with a little grunt. She collapsed against Mary, wrapping her limp arms around Mary's neck. When she felt the Princess's sweet lips touching her throat, she clutched the little woman close to her, her heart swelling.

"Perhaps you would like to meet me again, my little Princess," Mary said, stroking the Rosalind's pale shoulders. When she nodded, tears of joy sprang to Mary's eyes. "I will give you another private appointment soon, in a few days."

She didn't say anything, but sat back enough to kiss Mary. Her tongue ran along between the Mary's lip and teeth before darting into her mouth. It was a hot kiss, still full of voluptuous lust. Mary knew what she felt, the languor that came from being glutted with love. She put her hand on the back of the Rosalind's neck, not allowing her to withdraw. When Mary turned to kiss her face, Rosalind's mouth followed her. It was necessary to hold her chin to trace those delicate features with with her mouth. She kissed Rosalind's closed eyes, her soft skin fluttering under her lips. Now she was rubbing her face against Rosalind's neck and chest, running her tongue across her skin.

"I must send you away, it is getting late, but first, a little present for you." Mary pushed Rosalind off her lap. She took out a broach set with a giant pearl surrounded by a host of glittering diamonds and smaller pearls. She pinned it to Rosalind's dress, and kissed her. Shaking her head, she pulled away. "I could spend all night with you, but I must go." She laughed. "Well, you must go."

Rosalind wiped her mouth on the back of her wrist, such a childish gesture, with lips so full they looked sullen. Mary wanted to put her in carriage and ride far away, her, the Princess, and M. d'Anville. It would be the greatest scandal ever. Someone would come and drag them off to the Bastille.

* * * *

The Chevalier and the Prince were standing before Rosalind's door. When she let them in, the Prince pushed her onto the bed. The Chevalier knelt at her feet, taking off her boots, and caressing her thighs as he removed her stockings. The Prince teased the head of his sex against her mouth, stroking her face. The Chevalier finished, and they rolled her over. Together undid the back of her dress, their hands touching as they unlaced her corset. Taking her in his arms, the Prince stood her up, and the Chevalier pulled at her clothes so they pooled at her feet. Together they lifted her onto the bed and now she was pinned between them. 

She could feel them, touching each other over her. They had removed their boots and jackets, but they wanted to torment her, rubbing themselves against her. Everyone's skin was tingling with anticipation. The Chevalier lay in front of the Princess, sucking her nipple as he caressed her thigh. 

It was strange, but after she blossomed under the Duke's touch, he loved her again with the same feverish passion he'd first felt. As he touched her sex, he thought of the Duke touching her, and knew she thought of the same thing. He gripped her buttocks to his groin, then felt the silky head of the Prince's sex. He ground his hard sex into her pubic mound as the Prince took her. Freeing himself from his breeches, the Chevalier rubbed himself against their joined bodies. Lifting one leg, Rosalind was able to reach down and stroke him, but soon she was only holding onto him as her body jerked with the Prince's thrusts. Her eyes were closed, and her mouth open, giving little gasps.




The Princess of Cleves #11



They came together, one shuddering mass of sticky, slick flesh. The men smothered Rosalind in the afterglow of their ardor, touching her and thinking of each other. She squirmed in their arms, hoping they would leave soon so the Duke could come and embrace her. 

In a few minutes they left, and she washed herself as best she could in the basin. There was the sour smell of sweat on her skin, so she sprinkled herself with the fragrance of roses. With a shock she realized she had forgotten to put the handkerchief in the window, which she did with trembling fingers. She left only one candle lit, the one by her bed, and she drowsed while she waited for the Duke.

When a face appeared outside her window she almost shrieked. She doubted she would ever become accustomed to her lovers appearing from out of dark corners. 

Outside in the hall, her husband and the Chevalier stirred, sensing her excitement. It had occurred the Chevalier that the Duke may be too sophisticated to sneak about the halls, and may climb in through the window. Seeing a dark shadow standing over Rosalind, he motioned the Prince over. They both held their breath, waiting for the man's face to be revealed in the flickering candlelight.

It was the Duke; they saw his features clearly as he bent down to take Rosalind's face in his hands, lifting it for a kiss. Her chemise fell from one shoulder, and the men moved closer to each other. It was strange, but they were more excited by that careless exposure than they were by the games they played with her. Her pale hands were playing in the Duke's hair, her arms reaching up to loop around his neck. The men outside trembled, and reached for one another's hands. She lay back on the bed and the Duke hovered over her, stroking her cheek, her neck, her collarbone. 

He wanted to savor her. It was the dead of the night, the doors and windows were locked, and the Prince sleeping soundly. She would be his. He'd remove the trace, the memory, of the other men from her skin. His mouth pressed against her's, his tongue writhed inside her mouth. He drew her full lower lip between his teeth, and as he sucked on it she moaned. She pulled his jacket off, and he rested his weight on top of her. Her hands moved under his shirt, traveling up his spine to embrace his shoulders.

His sex was rock hard against her thigh. Her whole body moved beneath him. She reached down to touch him, but he pulled her hands away. "No touching me, not yet." Her hands caressed his face, and he turned his head to kiss them. She pulled up her skirt, one hand trailing up her thigh to nestle her fingers in her sex. "You can't touch yourself either. Wait my love, wait."

Rosalind frowned. She was drunk with love and wrapped him tight in her arms, pulling him down onto her chest. Gripping the back of his neck, she forced her tongue into his mouth as she rubbed her groin on him. 

The Duke pulled back, gasping, trying to let his mind clear, trying to remember the plan he had made as crept to her room. He wanted to make her quiver and beg for him, but her soft lips were wet and hot on his throat. Gently she suckled and nipped at his skin, her warm breath sending shivers down his back.

He stood up, his heart in his mouth. He tore his clothes from his body, then he pulled off her chemise. Crouching at her feet, he kissed her calves, her thighs, his hands running up her legs to touch her hips. He pushed her knees apart, and rested with his face before her sex. There was an pungent, but not unpleasant smell, and the dark curls of her sex were glossy with moisture. She rocked her hips from side to side as he touched her. 

The temptation was too great, he could not forbear taking her into his mouth. He had never tasted a woman after she had been with another man before. It was strange, but not unpleasant. Her lips were full and flushed pink. She gripped his hair and pressed his face into her as she undulated her torso. He ran his tongue up and down the crease between her thighs, pinching her little bud with his fingers. She almost climaxed, but that wasn't what he wanted.

He leapt on top of her and took her. There was no resistance as he slid himself into her. Her legs hooked around his waist as she arched her back. He could feel seed trickling from her sex as he moved in her. With his phallus, he would purge the Prince from her. Laying down over her, he buried his face in the nape of her neck, taking one of her hands in his. His other hand was working her nipple, rubbing it, massaging her breast. He was panting into her hair, but he couldn't let himself come.

"Roll over," he told her. At first she just blinked at him. "Roll over Rosalind." He touched her leg, and with his hands, he moved her. He pulled her to the edge of the bed and began licking her anus. She bucked underneath him, and he held her buttocks. He thrust his fingers inside while stroking her bud. She pushed back, forcing his tongue into her asshole while she cried out. Her climax was violent, and as she trembled he stood up and thrust himself into her.

He gripped her hips and jerked her body back into him as he surged forward. Her head was turned to the side. He could hear her soft moaning. Her sex was loose, but as he tapped the back of her womb she grew tighter. Soon, she clenched him so hard it hurt. This time, they would come together. There was a pulsing on his sex, his jaw clenched at the pain. A wave washed over Rosalind, and the Duke grunted as he climaxed. Her sex fluttered on him and pleasure radiated over their bodies. 

He collapsed onto her, his chest heaving. He pushed her damp hair away from her neck to lick the sweat that glistened on her skin. He lapped at her back, her spine, and soon felt himself firm again.

Resting on his back, he made Rosalind lay over him, her face nestled between his ankles. He did not enter her, but instead rubbed himself against her slick sex. The head of his phallus pulsed against her bud, her legs twitching. She scrambled to her knees to gain some leverage and writhed against him. He touched her anus, the opening between her lips. Placing a finger inside her, he could feel her whole groin flexing as he touched her. He was gripping her ass with one hand, moving it in circles, and grasping his head in the other, working his knuckle against her bud, when they both came

As the lovers rested from their labors, the men in the hall turned to one another and kissed. The Prince would try to withdraw, and the Chevalier would touch his hand. When the Chevalier tried to rise, the Prince pressed his head to Chevalier's knees, until they were in each other's arms again. Their eyes darted around, and the Chevalier pressed the Prince onto his belly. He worked his tongue into the Prince's anus, drooling as the Prince fluttered against his mouth. With a few quick thrusts he worked himself into the Prince, his arms wrapped his thin shoulders. They were quiet, their gaze always moving. A minute later and they parted, clinging to one another for a moment before they scuttled away, each to his bed.



The Princess of Cleves #12



Even though Rosalind had put a white handkerchief in the window, the Duke did not show. She was restless, her shadow flickering up and down the room as she paced. The Chevalier knelt outside her door, watching her, unsure of what to do. 

He knew the reason for her lover's absence, a quarrel with his favorite Lignerol. It would relieve her, to at least know the Duke would not be coming, instead of waiting. The Chevalier scratched at the door, and the footsteps stopped. He raked his nail up and down the wood until the door opened. Even in the dim light he could see the feverish tint of her cheeks and the disappointment in her eyes. Still crouching, he entered her room.

Sitting on Rosalind's bed, he said to her, "The Duke won't be coming tonight. His favorite is angry with him and he will be busy all night trying to soothe Lignerol's temper."

"Thank you for telling me." She sat beside him. "How is..." She was going to ask him how her husband was, but she did not think she was supposed to know about them. 

Her husband's behavior toward her had become mercurial since her affair with the Duke had begun in earnest. Sometimes he would not leave her be, causing her to miss the Duke's visits. Other times, it was though he could not stand to look at her. He would escort her to court, only his fingertips touching her. His eyes would focus on her ear, her chin, but not her eyes.

The Chevalier sighed. There was something he wanted from Rosalind, an intimacy only she could give him. He wished to speak of her husband, to be treated like the Prince's lover. Already he was happy he disturbed her. 

He moved to lay back against the pillows, and held his arms out to her. She crawled over to him, laying her her cheek on his chest. "I think your husband is conflicted. He suffers because you love the Duke, because he loves to watch you love the Duke, because he loves both you and me. It seems we all suffer."

"Not the Marechal, or the Duke, or the Princess Mary," she replied with a bitter laugh.

"No, the Duke suffers, I see it in his eyes when he knows you are not watching him. And Mary, she risks much in seeing you. She must pine for you." A large ruby ring caught his eye, the true vermillion that they called pigeon's blood. "Was that ring a gift from her?"

"Yes."

"What does the Marechal say about me?"

Rosalind rolled in his arms to look up at him. There was thoughtful look in her eyes, and he stroked her face, waiting for her to answer. "He tells me never to confide in you."

He bent down to kiss her. "Does he tell you not to lay with me?"

"No."

"Doesn't that strike you as odd?"

She shook her head, fidgeting with the ribbon of her chemise. "The Marechal is odd. I think he's waiting for everyone to grow tired of me."

The Chevalier slipped his hand into her gown to cup her breast. "Is that his plan to win your heart, to loiter?"

"No, he's my friend, that's his plan to woo me."

Her nipple hardened under his fingers, and his other hand reached underneath her skirt to rest on her thigh. "Do you think he's right about me, that you shouldn't trust me with your secrets?"

There was color rising in her cheeks, and she was pulling at his shirt to caress his skin. While the court was full of all manner of exotic rumors, none of them concerned her husband having an affair with another man. In fact, there were very few rumors about an affair between her and the Chevalier. Looking into his eyes, she saw something there she did not expect--a shyness, a trembling need. "No, I think he would be jealous though. It pleases him that there is some distance between my husband and I. He doesn't worry about the Duke; he's confidant that my love for him will flare and die, like a moth consumed in a flame." 

She curled one knee in, exposing her sex to him. If he took her now, it would be a secret between them. He had left the Prince fast asleep in his bed, exhausted. His lover had played the man with great fury, and he quickly fell into a slumber when the act was done. "What about me?" the Chevalier asked.

"He fears we could grow to be close friends. I don't know why, but to the Marechal, that is worse than a lover."

"I have heard rumors of his strange passions, and in a way I understand." As he idly stroked her she began to squirm in his arms, arousing him. "Does it worry you, to have so many lovers, in a court so full of gossip?"

"Diana uses her influence to aid me. Regardless of the gossip, there are enough people backing me that it does not matter."

"Did your mother teach you to navigate the court? It would surprise me, you made your debut with that humble elegance of the innocent." The hands touching her were thoughtful now, as if he were tracing her journey through the court, from fresh bud to full blown rose. He did not mean to make her come; his fingers moved by habit, coaxing a hot rush of liquid that coated his hands.

She pushed him away, panting. "No, she did not. The Marechal is teaching me, and the Duke. And you and the Prince, you two teach me discretion."

The Chevalier chuckled. "You are a poor pupil then. You are always being spied upon, having your name whispered."

She stiffened in his arms for a moment. "It is just you and my husband who watch at my doors, right?"

"Don't worry, the only man I have caught peeping in at you is the Duke, which I doubt you mind."

"You're right, that I don't mind." Taking his hands, she put his finger in her mouth.

"Do you want me to make love to you?" the Chevalier asked. There was a feral look in her eyes as she took a measured breath. He rolled so she was under him, his sex pressed between her legs.

"There's no one watching," she said, tangling her fingers in his hair.

The Chevalier ran his hand along her thigh, hitching up her chemise. "Maybe the Duke will see us, maybe the Prince will wake." He pulled down the top of her gown so it bunched around her waist, leaving her pale and exposed beneath him.

Her hands reached down, undoing his breeches. She moved her body under him, rubbing him against the crease of her sex. Her little tongue was at the base of his throat, curling up to touch behind his ear, a pressure of teeth before the hot rush of her mouth. She inhaled, sending a cold trickle through his ear to his brain and he shivered. He pressed the head of his sex into her, and she arched her back, taking him deep into her. They surged against each other, coming together, then apart. After, they lay beside one another, kissing each other, stroking their sweat slicked skin.

"Do you want to meet again?" the Chevalier asked.

"Maybe, maybe knock on my door again if there is no one around." She lay there, looking into his eyes. "I liked talking with you."

"I like talking with you too." The Chevalier kissed her goodnight, and slipped away smiling.

* * * *

There was a constant ache in Rosalind's hips and thighs from all the positions she had been wrenched into by her lovers. Her lower back would ache if her corset didn't prevent her from moving her torso. She had to flee from this place. When the Prince accompanied the King to Compiegne, she would retire to Colomiers, never to return. 

She should have left a long time ago, long before Princess Mary began showering her with gifts, before the she and Marechal could read each other through their skin, before she fell asleep in the arms of the Chevalier and woke to the kisses of the Duke. Dark shadows clung under her eyes, her lips were always swollen and raw, and a constant ruddiness tinged her face. Despite her cumbersome garments, she managed to glide with a sensual slowness. 

Even Diana was envious of her. In all her years, not even the infamous Duchess de Valentinois had been able to charm so many of the court's greatest gallants. As a token of admiration, she sent Rosalind a large gold chain. The Marechal added an amber pendant to it.

Rosalind thought about her mother, how glad the Mme. de Chartes must be that she was dead and therefore unable to witness the failures of her daughter. Of course, if the Mme. de Chartes had been there to support and guide her, Rosalind might have avoided folly and temptation. Her upbringing had been so genteel that she had caught every eye in court. While it's doubtful the Mme. de Chartes could have made the young woman love her husband, she may have remained faithful to him. At least, that is what she wanted to believe. She could accept her present sins if she believed that, perhaps, had life taken a different turn, she could have been the wife the Prince deserved.

The only thing Rosalind could do was run. It was shameful for the Prince to have a wife who was always sore from the ardors of the bedroom. If she were able to flee from the court, from the Duke and Chevalier and Marechal and Princess Mary, she could be faithful. 

The only difficulty was the Prince. She wished to purge her soul, and the conversation she'd had with her husband, after the betrayal of his friend, haunted her. He'd said he would admire any woman who confided with sincerity. Would he really feel that way were Rosalind to come to him with her love for the Duke, and her desire to escape him? Somehow, she did not feel that the betrayal of her body was as great as the betrayal of her heart.

She did not love the others with such fervor it altered her demeanor when they entered the room. She rose to greet them, and she smiled and laughed. When the Duke entered the room, she had to turn away from him, and pull her features into a stern expression. It was hard to ignore him without appearing to do so. She could feel his eyes moving on her, and if no one was looking, she would gaze at him. 

Always she caught something new, a charming gesture, an artless curl tumbling down his shoulder, the glint of honey in his eyes. She worshipped him like he were her patron saint. 

During their trysts, the Duke made his own discoveries. He explored her body with different caresses and rhythms, bringing to her to a variety of climaxes. Even now in the hall she shuddered at the memory of him.

She had to leave. She would speak to the Chevalier and he'd help her with her husband. Most likely he was lounging about the tennis courts. If she could catch his eye, and avoid that of the Marechal, her plan could be set in motion today. He did not approve of the budding friendship between her and the Chevalier--even if it helped her escape the Duke, he would still be jealous.

She was heading to the courts when she heard someone behind her clearing his throat. "The Chevalier, I was just looking for you. May we speak for a moment?"

The Chevalier bowed. "I have a few minutes free. You look very severe, what do you want to talk about?"

Her eyes darted around, and Rosalind led the Chevalier to a seat where they could be seen by the other courtiers, but not heard. "I must retire from the court. It is the only way I can be faithful to my wedding vows." The Chevalier was about to speak when she cut him off. "I know, it's pathetic. It's the only thing I can think of, and I'd like your help. I know the Prince is...fond of you."

The Chevalier blushed. "What do you want me to tell him?"

"Nothing, but when he comes and speaks to you, please be supportive of what I want."

"What if he wants me to go with you?"

She reached out to touch his hand. "You may say yes, if you wish."

"Did something happen today which has led you to make such a resolution?" the Chevalier asked.

"It is embarrassing to say." When he sat there and waited, she admitted to him her reasons. "I am sore."

"Sore?"

"Very sore, my legs, and hips--"

"Rosalind, I think I will miss you as you are now. When we retire to the country, you will no longer be so brooding, so distraught."

"Why would you miss that?"

The Chevalier took her chin in his hand to turn her eyes to his. "It makes you look fragile, ephemeral. The Duke, before he secured your favor, had the same look. Now, he has that pink shiny glow of new love." She started to lean toward him, her lips parted. "Not here Rosalind. Will the Duke be seeing you later?"

She shook her head.

"Before I see the Prince, I will stop in to see you, and we will talk. I will think more about your dilemma." He stood up and kissed her hand. "Thank you for considering me your confidante."

For a minute, Rosalind sat on the bench smiling. One thing her mother never would have imagined would be that one's lovers could also be one's friends. As distressing as the thought of any conversation about her feelings with the Prince was, she had two men with whom she could share her thoughts and suspicions. The Marechal was in love with her, and the Chevalier was in love with her and her husband. Both were willing to lend an ear to her problems and offer their advice. She realized, that in some ways, they were like her mother. She grimaced as she thought better of that analogy.

* * * *

It was late. The Duke had just returned from a ball and Lignerol was helping to undress him. Lignerol found himself more and more vexed by his master's behavior. Giving up so easily on his aspirations to marry the Queen of England, incessantly chattering about Rosalind as soon as the door was closed. The woman carried on with half the court, yet the Duke spoke of her as if she were some virtuous maid. She was a charming gallant, which was a lovely thing in and of itself; there was no need to pretend she was some blushing virgin. These days, any blushes on her cheeks were not due to modesty. Lignerol stroked the Duke's pale back. At least he was eating and sleeping now. His skin was again like fine satin, a pleasure to feel beneath his hands.

The Duke turned around smiling. He gave Lignerol a long gentle kiss, and Lignerol melted into him. They lay down and discarded their clothes. Again the Duke was a tender lover. Lignerol lay naked on the bed as the Duke moved his mouth all over his body. He shivered as the Duke's long curls fell over his skin. When the Duke's lips reached his sex, he moaned, and the Duke moaned, sending a low vibration through his groin. The Duke worked him eagerly, taking delight in his lover's sighs and twitches. Lignerol had to push the Duke away, or he would have spent himself in the Duke's mouth.

Lignerol sat up and pushed the Duke on his stomach. Oiling himself, he pressed the tip of his sex against the Duke's anus, and he could feel it move with the Duke's slow breaths. Licking his fingers, he worked one into the Duke before thrusting himself home. A ragged panting came from the Duke's throat, his muscles spasming beneath Lignerol. The Duke gave a little squeak: Lignerol was being rough. He wanted the Duke to remember him when he saw her, he wanted to be a twinge of pain that made the Duke think of his lithe handsome favorite.

Beneath Lignerol, the Duke knew his lover wished to punish him, and he acted the part. When Rosalind had only been a chimera of a fever dream, his mind and body had burned with her. The world had receded before her flushed lips. Now that she was his, he had become aware of Lignerol's unease. Each time he pressed himself into the Duke, the Duke felt his urgency, his jealousy, his rage. The Duke squirmed in discomfort. He owed so much to Lignerol, and if he wanted to hurt the Duke for his transgressions, he would take it with grace.

Lignerol pulled him onto his side and grasped the Duke's jumping sex. His hands were slick with the moisture that had collected at the head of the Duke's phallus. He worked the Duke's sex as he worked his own. When he was close to coming, he began to move his hand in a quick flicking motion over the Duke's head. The Duke climaxed, his ass twitching and clutching Lignerol's sex, and Lignerol came.

Lignerol could think of no greater joy than to lay with his Duke in his arms, feeling him limp with satiety. It would have been perfect, if the Duke had remained silent.

"The Prince will be traveling with the King to Compiegne, and while he is gone, Rosalind will be taking in the country air at Colomiers."

Lignerol sighed.

"I was thinking I would go and visit my sister. She has a house near there."

Lignerol turned to see the Duke's smile. "Are you sure that's prudent?"

"I wasn't going to do anything rash," the Duke replied, pouting.

Lignerol kissed him. "Were it any other lover, I would believe you. But with this woman, you are nothing but rash."

"You're right, you're always right. I would be lost without you." The Duke rolled over to face Lignerol, wrapping his arms around his neck. "I wanted to spy on her."

"Don't you think the Chevalier will catch you? I thought he was in charge of spying on Rosalind."

"I'll be careful."

The Duke began kissing Lignerol, but he pushed the Duke away. "Tell me, will you be done with this woman soon? I prefer your six lovers to this passion you have for her."

"Are you jealous?"

"For the first time since I've been in your service, yes." His voice was very soft, and the Duke could see a tear glittering in the corner of his eye.

The Duke doubted his relentless pursuit of the Princess; questioned all the lover's he took while Lignerol attended and soothed him. Was there any value to having one's names whispered in every court? Did it matter if they were of the same reverant tone one heard in a church? He couldn't picture life without Lignerol, yet he thought very little about him, his feelings. "Do you want me to give her up?"

Lignerol was unable to hide the shock on his face. The Duke had never before shown him such consideration. "Would you do that for me?"

"I...I would want to, but I don't know if I'd be able to." The Duke closed his eyes, he didn't want to see Lignerol's face. He started when he felt Lignerol's hand on his face.

"Thank you for not lying to me," Lignerol said, leaning in to kiss the Duke. "If you had said 'yes', I wouldn't have believed you. You burn bright for her. I wish your love for her was spent, but I will wait."

The Duke kissed Lignerol's hands. He was glad he didn't have a tryst arranged with Rosalind. They talked until they fell asleep. That night, the Duke asked Lignerol about his life, his family. Never before had he shown so much interest in his favorite, and Lignerol felt like he was basking in the glow of the sun. If the Duke's affair with Rosalind would reward him with moments like this, he would tolerate it. These thoughts did not prevent him from being sullen when the Duke was packing to leave.

Lignerol sat on the bed, scowling, when the Duke turned to him with a sigh. "You can come with me, just don't be difficult."

"When have I ever caused you any trouble?"

The Duke looked up from his trunk and rolled his eyes. One incident stood out in his mind, involving a plump young maid, a pitcher of water, and a sputtering Lignerol. How had it never occurred to him that his favorite could be jealous?

* * * *

Rosalind was leaving tomorrow. She would ride with her husband to their house at Colomiers, where he would leave her while he attended the King. She was excited to be leaving the tumult of the court, although she would miss the Marechal, who she was waiting for. When he finally showed, he had a great smile and a package tucked under his arm.

"A little going away present," he told her when he saw her quizzical look. He took her hand to help her rise.

"That's right, I forgot to tell you I would be leaving. Don't fret, I won't be gone long," she said, and the Marechal raised his eyebrow at her. Rosalind frowned. She didn't know how to say goodbye to the Marechal, so she hadn't. As Colomiers was only a day's ride from Paris, she assumed she would see him.

All the Marechal knew was that the Princess was retiring to the country for a few days. He could see the tension in her body, how her numerous affairs wore on her. He watched the glances she exchanged with the Chevalier and sensed a budding friendship there. She would leave him here, that was his fear. After Rosalind fled from the court, she would not need his aid, and it would be unnecessary to humor him. He thought that there was an affection between them, that she considered him a friend, but the fact that he had heard from someone else that she was leaving made him doubt that.




The Princess of Cleves #12



By the time they reached his room he was trembling. He knew it was not the best meeting place, but it would be easier to speak with Rosalind there. She settled herself in an armchair as he fumbled with the lock. Glancing over his shoulder, he tried to decipher her expression, but she was just smiling at him. She wasn't nervous; if anything, there was a voluptuous set to her mouth. The handle of the riding crop he'd had crafted for her was crushed against his ribs. He went to turn, to go sit with her, but he could not move. He heard the rustle of her gown as she approached him, and when her hand touched his shoulder he had to lean against the door to keep from falling.

There was a quaver of panic in her voice as she spoke. "What is the matter Marechal? Has something happened?"

There were tears falling down his cheeks, and he hid his face in his handkerchief. "Were you going to tell me that you were leaving? Or were you just going to let me figure it out when I no longer saw you at court."

Her arms wrapped around his waist. "I'm sorry, I didn't know how to tell you."

"Why are you leaving? Is it because of me?"

She released him and pulled him around to face her. "What are you saying? Of course it isn't because of you. Without you I should have gone mad." Her little hands were on his cheek and she was staring into his eyes. Both her expression and tone were so earnest, the Marechal felt all his doubts drown between her warm fingers.

He did what he longed to do; he sunk to her feet. When she stepped back he stretched his belly across the cold filthy floor. As he approached, she lifted her hem, only an inch, allowing him to gaze upon her red velvet slippers, decked with bows and pearls. He looked up to see her smiling down upon him, and he knew she had worn the shoes for him. He crept close to brush his lips against the soft velvet and smooth pearls. His hands moved up and down her silk stockings, over her delicate ankles and slender legs. He rubbed his face against her until she began to laugh.

"Go sit down, I want to show you your present," the Marechal said. He retrieved his package from where he had dropped it near the door. With his back to her, he took out the riding crop and placed it between his teeth. The warm smell of the leather enveloped him and he shivered. The handle was tipped with mother of pearl, the leather was tooled with a design of wild roses. He crawled over to Rosalind, keeping his eyes on the floor.

He stayed there kneeling, until she took the crop from his mouth. She traced it's soft tip over his face, his lips, his throat. The Marechal started breathing heavily as it moved down his chest to prod his bulging sex. Without even thinking, he was leaning forward, reaching for a dainty foot. She lifted her skirts up to show the top of her stockings, and he stripped one off, her shoe clattering to the floor. She started squirming as he put her toes in his mouth, parting his lips wide to flick his tongue over the soul of her foot. When she jumped, the crop jerked in her hand, poking him painfully in the groin.

"Rosalind," he moaned, holding her foot to his chest. "Why don't you let me carry you away instead?" He moved her foot so it pressed against his sex, and he began thrusting his hips against it. Leaning his cheek against her knee, he started to gasp. With just a twitch of her knee she sent him sprawling back. 

"It's a lovely gift, but I'm not in the mood for these games." 

The Marechal snatched her slipper from the floor and began to caress his cheek with it. "Then why did you wear these?" His voice was low and languid, his eyes closed. When he opened them she was staring, her lips a thin white line. He felt foolish, fawning over her shoe, and he scrambled to sit beside her. It did him no good though, the little red shoe was still in his hands, with all its satin bows and pearls. Even more awkward, he could not forbear running his fingers all over the velvet, the leather sole.

She reached out and laid her hand on top of his to still his movements. Shaking her head, she retrieved her slipper, and tossed it on the floor in front of her. She stuck out her foot, and worked it back into the shoe by wiggling her toes and flexing her foot. Her face scrunched up as she did it.

"Don't like wearing slippers?" It was the blandest thing he could think to say.

Rosalind smiled. "If it's hot and I'm just sitting there, I take off my shoes. I always feel so much cooler." She lifted up her feet, and flipped off both heels, then swung the slippers from her toes.

The Marechal kissed her cheek. "I love you. Can I come see you in the country?"

"Give me a few weeks to clear my head. I would like to write you."

The Marechal couldn't help himself, he started laughing.

"What's so funny?"

He tried to talk, but he was still laughing too hard. When the Princess frowned at him it didn't help, he had to stifle his giggles with his hand. It was only after she turned her face away from him, vexed, that he was able to collect himself. "Can't you see your garden, lit with silver moonlight, and a dark shadow moving though it. And then, it bumps into another dark shadow, soon to be joined by a third."

Her face turned bright red with anger, until she realized it could happen. The Chevalier slinking around as was his wont, the Marechal's servant looking for his letter, the Duke looking for her. She covered her mouth, but still, laughter slipped out it. The sleek Duke colliding with her other awkward lovers, a tangle of limbs and indignation. "The Prince would probably come out to investigate."

They sat there, trying not to howl, tears starting to form at the corners of their eyes. The image was a vivid one, the Prince apoplectic at encountering what would at this point most likely be a fight. Rosalind calmed herself, and remembered her resolution. She took the Marechal's hands, and turned to him. "I won't be seeing the Duke anymore, so it will just be you and the Chevalier. Is there a reason why you told me not to confide in him?"

"No," he said, and felt guilty for lying. "Yes, I was jealous, he already spent so much time with you, I didn't want you becoming friends as well."

She didn't say anything, just leaned closer. 

Her mouth was moving towards his. When she kissed him, it made his heart flutter. There was a tenderness to the way her tongue parted his lips, licking his teeth. He sighed, and when he felt like he would begin to cry, he pushed her away.

"We should part," he said, taking out his handkerchief to dab at his face. "People will wonder where we have been." He handed her a little vial of cologne, rose, and she scented herself with it. It was a ritual between them, these words and gestures. 

She had never declared any feelings of love for the Marechal, yet what else could she be telling him with that kiss? She spoke of her love with her lips pressed to his. After they said goodbye in the hall, he turned to see her walk away, the riding crop tucked under her arm, her red slippers flashing beneath her skirt. Returning to his room, he found she had left him a token of her favor, her white stocking discarded on the floor.

* * * *

Rosalind was walking the gardens of Colomiers with her husband, trying to think of the right way to tell him she was retiring from the court. It would not be easy to convince him that it was necessary. He kept asking if she felt ill; her face was pale and her breathing quick. She kept replying no. They both knew she was lying; they both felt how her hands shook. He sent their attendants away so that she may speak freely. They settled themselves in a vine covered pavilion. It would have been romantic were it not for Rosalind's obvious distress.

"I cannot return to Paris," she mumbled.

"What?"

She took a deep breath, and spoke slowly so she would not garble her words. Her heart jumped to the back of her throat. "I will not be returning to Paris."

The Prince sighed. "I thought we were done with this."

"I tried, for you, to attend the court, but it is to much for me."

The Prince scowled, but quickly softened his expression. "What is this craving for solitude? Why this loathing for Paris? You deprive me of your company, you are in a constant state of melancholy. What has happened?" He squeezed her hands, hoping that she would meet his eyes, but she only frowned, staring at the ground.

"There is nothing troubling me, it's just there is always such a bustle at court, a swarm of people at our house, it throws my mind into disarray. It fatigues me, all I desire is some rest," she recited, her hand fluttering over her heart.

The Prince could not tell if the gesture was contrived, or a genuine expression of his wife's struggle to conceal whatever secret consumed her. "Repose does not suit one your age, and your day at court is hardly taxing. I think you wish to be rid be of me," the Prince replied, his voice so bitter Rosalind could taste it.

"You wrong me to think to think so. Send away that multitude that surrounds you, and stay here with me, there is nothing more that I could desire." She clutched the Prince's hands, and finally raised her gaze to meet his. Her eyes glimmered with tears, and beneath them swirled all her confusion.

The Prince could take her dissimulation any longer. If he could not move her with love, perhaps pity would work. He took a deep breath, and then another, relaxing his face, letting his sorrow weigh down his features, his body. Slumping forward to rest his arm on his knees, he turned to her and said in a tight voice, "Your words are useless Madame, your body does not lie, and it says you wish to be alone. Please, if you have any affection for me, tell me what tortures you so and drives you to such desperate acts."

For a minute, Rosalind remained as still as the marble statues that decorated the garden. When she spoke, her voice was cool. "I lack the power to confess this, please do not force me to. It is not prudent for a woman of my tender years to be mistress of her own conduct, exposed in the midst of the court."

The Prince snorted. Of course, she was right. Without the Madame de Chartes by her side, she collected the court's finest gallants like posies. Any anger he had toward his wife only flared for a moment, for well he remembered his own hand in the matter, and how they now shared a lover. 

This must be about the Duke, no one else could cause her such distress. Dear God, could she pregnant? Was she planning to run off with someone? "In your silence, I find my mind crowded with such horrors that I may not speak of them. I fear that if they are only fantasies, I shall offend you, and if they are true--" 

Rosalind collapsed to her knees. "So, I see I must do what no wife has done before and take my husband into my confidence. All I wanted when we married was to love you, and if I could not do that, to at least be worthy of your esteem." Tears broke through, and she sobbed. 

The Prince sat on the bench, his legs starting to grow numb from the hard stone. 

She was wiping her face with her handkerchief, her chest heaving. "I want to be worthy of your esteem again. Without my mother to guide me, I am afraid that I have fallen prey to the dangers that hunt women of my age." 

The Prince was ready to tell her of his affair with the Chevalier when she began to speak again. 

"It is not fair to ask you to pardon my indiscretions, but I ask you to allow me to repent, by staying here, by breaking my vows no more. If the Duke comes, send him away, and if the Marechal visits, tell him...tell him I am sorry."

There was a lifelessness in her voice. The Prince knew she would lock herself away from the entire world, even if it meant misery, if it was necessary to remain faithful to him. Finally, he saw her before him on her knees, her face drowned in tears. She had never been so beautiful to him, and she was trembling, waiting for him to say something. He reached down to lift her up into his lap. 

When she hid her face in her hands, he kissed them until she began to calm. There weren't any words for what he wanted to tell her, that he was never angry, that the Duke and the rest of the court could burn in Hell, that all he really wanted was to sit by the fire with her and the Chevalier. 

The Chevalier--his breath caught in his throat. She had not said anything of sending him away from her self imposed exile. He and the Chevalier were not as discreet as he thought they were; his wife knew of their affair.

"You said nothing of the Chevalier," he said. Before she could speak he covered her lips. "I know why you said nothing of him, as you are not the only one who has been unfaithful." He looked up into her eyes and they were warm. It was not love, but it was something. "If he could come with us, I would go where ever you wished."

She nodded her head. "Would that work, us sharing a confidante and lover? Has he told you, that he comes to see me sometimes."

The Prince stiffened. "When?"

"Don't be angry with him. At first, he loved me, now, I think he loves you more. More than anything, he wants to talk about you. I told him, that he makes you happy, and I thought he'd break his face smiling."

The Prince felt his jealousy retreating. He knew that his betrayal was as deep as his wife's. As he wondered what precipitated her flight from court, he recalled the words, to simply send the Duke away while the Marechal was to be given an apology. 

Could he have been mistaken, could she have feigned love for the Duke to throw him and the Chevalier off the trail? Why wouldn't she simply fake love for him, her husband, or would it be too hard? It is easy to deceive a lover though, so the Duke may have only been a fool, playing a small role in a complicated scheme to secure Rosalind's freedom. For all the Prince knew, his words to the Marechal may be code to indicate their plans success.

His blue eyes clouded as a thought shocked him. What if the Chevalier was behind all of this?

No, this conspiracy was madness, but he doubted that it was the Duke who held her heart. What if it was the Chevalier? The thought would haunt him until he knew. He would have to pry that last secret from her, even if he had to be cruel. "From the first moment I saw you, I have burned with a passion which nothing could quench. When my hopes of marriage were dashed by my father's disapproval, I loved you still. Your coldness, your infidelity, could not dampen my love. Even taking you, living out my fantasies of being a cuckold..." He started laughing when she looked at him surprised. "Yes, people do desire such things. How can you be surprised, knowing the Marechal as you do?"

Rosalind blushed and tried to get away from her husband, but he only held her tighter, wracked with acrid laughter. He only calmed when he saw that she was frightened, her fingers not caressing his, but rather gripped tightly around his wrists. 

He leaned his head against her shoulders, and she shivered. "I don't really want to talk about him," she said, her voice trembling.

He looked at her, the bewildered expression was familiar, yet he could not place it. Then it hit him like a bolt. "I cannot believe it, the last time you looked at me like this, Madame, was when your picture was lost." Now it was the Prince's turn to tremble. "You gave away that picture, that picture which was mine, that I loved, that you had no right to bestow upon another. Even worse, you gave it to the man who held your heart, the Marechal. That wretched, crooked, insidious man, he's been taking advantage of his position at court, and your naivety, from the start." He gripped the Princess's shoulders so she was looking into his eyes. "What did he do, tell me my Princess, my wife, what did he do that I did not to win your heart?"

"I...I didn't give away the portrait. Please let go, you're hurting me." There were tears falling down cheeks.

"Then what happened to the picture, because I know it was not lost."

When she saw the panic and the pain in the Prince's eyes, she understood that were she to keep the Duke's name from him, she would have to reveal other secrets. "It was not lost, it was taken."

"How do you know?"

"I saw it taken. I did not want to speak up then, for fear of making a spectacle in confronting the thief. I did not want to confront him privately either. I thought it best for me to feign ignorance of the matter."

"Is it this man, the one who stole your picture, the same as the one who stole your heart?"

She nodded, her breath sticking in her throat.

"Tell me his name."

She looked into the Prince's feverish eyes. It would be so easy to lie, to say the Marechal, and he would be bared from Colomiers. The Prince and Chevalier would keep the Duke away out of their own dislike. Then, they could make their preparations, and travel far far away from Paris and its court. 

If she was honest with herself, she did not want to end her relationship with the Marechal. His friendship was invaluable to her, and he would be the one thing she missed about the court. "Please, Prince, this is something I cannot do." She took his hands and raised them to her lips.

He looked at her, and she was frail, her tears inflaming her face. There was nothing more to gain from her today; he would have to acquiesce with the intention of asking her again when she was calmer. 

He caressed her face, drawing her mouth down to his. They were both flustered, and the Prince could think of only one thing to sooth his nerves. He looked around, and seeing the servants occupied with one another, he pushed up Rosalind's skirts and freed himself from his breeches.

* * * *

That morning, the Duke had gone hunting. He was separated from the main party when he went chasing after a large buck, and was soon happily lost in the woods. Coming across a stream, he followed it until he reached a road. He knew he was near Colomiers, and after pacing up and down the road for a minute, he choose what he believed to be the right direction. When he encountered a peasant, he asked for directions and was delighted to find himself on the right path. Soon, he came upon a manor: it must belong to the Cleves. He led his horse into the woods where he tied it to a tree, and ate the bread and cheese Lignerol had stuffed into his pannier. The Duke frowned, thinking his favorite would be concerned, but Lignerol was used to his disappearances. It was stupid of him to worry, he knew that, but he could still envision Lignerol's expression when the others arrived without him. They would be together again tonight.

He started through the woods to the manor, and was surprised to find the Prince and Princess strolling the gardens with a train of attendants. Tucking himself in a bower, he looked around for somewhere to hide, and crouched in the hollow of a bush. He was getting ready to make his escape, when the Prince and Princess moved closer to him, while the servants moved, blocking off his retreat. 

He was trapped, but trapped close enough to overhear the couple's conversation. Rosalind looked ill, and the food he had eaten before seemed to come alive in his stomach. He grimaced, and to distract himself he focused very intently on them.

His heart leapt into his mouth when he realized she was talking to her husband about leaving the court. When he heard her curt instructions for his dismissal, his chest tightened, and then burned as he learned the Marechal was to be sent away with a few parting words. It was a small kindness, a kindness he, as the man she claimed to truly love, had not warranted. Inwardly he vacillated between believing it was a mark of her indifference, or that it was really a signal of her true love for him, just as her coldness was.

When their conversation turned to the Chevalier, he was shocked to learn that the man was carrying on an affair with both of the Cleves. He knew that the Chevalier had somehow become a confidante of the Prince, but he had never guessed the means the Chevalier had used to achieve this. No, but that wasn't right. He had seen the two men together, and always felt like there was some secret between them. Both men were in love with each other, and Rosalind as well. He had to stifle a laugh--what a mess that woman had made. The gallants hounded her with such fervor that her husband had been caught as well.




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. 



The Princess of Cleves #13



The Chevalier was watching the Prince. It was clear the man struggled with some strong emotion. He wondered what had passed between Rosalind and him when she made her request to stay in Colomiers. From way the Prince kept looking at the Chevalier, he had a feeling she had revealed their private trysts to him, though he wasn't sure. The Prince, he wasn't angry; he just looked hurt and troubled. After they were done attending the King, the Prince approached him. They didn't speak to one another as they traveled back to the Prince's private quarters.

When they were alone, the Chevalier thought it best to admit any fault before the Prince spoke. "I believe from the looks you've been giving me, your wife has told you that sometimes we see one another without you there," the Chevalier said as he sat on the Prince's bed. By the time he thought better of this choice, the Prince was sitting beside him, reaching for his hands.

"Yes, she did. I was jealous, until she said you often spoke of me." The Prince was intent on the Chevalier, ready to judge his reaction.

The Chevalier blushed and turned away, embarrassed that his lover knew he sought solace from his wife. "She's the only person I can talk to about you," he mumbled. The Prince reached his arms out, and with a sigh the Chevalier fell against his chest. "I am sorry."

"Don't apologize. After all, I encouraged you."

The Chevalier turned to the Prince, wary that there was some double meaning behind his words. "You're not angry?"

"No, I'm not." The Prince took a deep breath, holding the Chevalier closer. For a moment, he lay there with his lover, and forgot that his wife loved another whose name he did not know.

"What did the King want with you?"

"He wishes Rosalind and I to conduct Madame Elisa to Spain," the Prince replied.

"That is quite an honor."

Silence stretched out, and the Chevalier reached out to touch the Prince's cheek. Their lips met, and they lay on the bed, covering one another with languid kisses. The Prince pushed the Chevalier under him and began to remove his clothes. Each stretch of skin he revealed, the Prince covered with his lips, caressed with his fingers. The Chevalier felt his stomach churning in knots. He knew there was something troubling the Prince, and he wanted to talk with him about Rosalind and her desire to retire from court. His head was fuzzy, and the Prince's touch chased away all semblance of coherent thought. The Prince was removing his own clothes, their boots, tugging back the covers for him and the Chevalier.

He was rubbing himself against the Chevalier, when he noticed the frown on the Chevalier's face. "What is it?" Looking into the Chevalier's eyes, he could see the man struggling to gather his thoughts. He drew back from him, allowing his lover to collect his mind.

His head clearing, the Chevalier recalled Rosalind's request for aid in retiring from the court. He wasn't sure he wanted to discuss that instead of making love to the Prince. He leaned forward to kiss him when the Prince grabbed his shoulders.

"No, you wanted to talk to me about something. What was it?"

"I want to know what's troubling you."

"Did my wife tell you she wished to retire from court?" 

The Chevalier jerked his hands in the air, searching for an answer. 

"She wanted your help to convince me."

"Yes."

"Did she make any suggestions as far as methods to persuade me?" the Prince asked, pulling the Chevalier closer to him. The tip of the Chevalier's sex quivered against his stomach, a bead of moisture wetting the Prince's skin.

"No..."

Their lips met again, their naked limbs twined together. The Chevalier oiled his phallus and began to work his finger into the Prince's anus. They made love, and the Chevalier spent the night.

When they awoke that morning, they were loathe to leave the bed. The Prince took the Chevalier, the slender man quivering and moaning as the Prince moved within him. With his hand slick with the Chevalier's dew, the Prince worked the head of his phallus. The Prince came as he felt the Chevalier surging in his hands. He bit into Chevalier's shoulder as he spilt his seed, feeling himself washing back down over his phallus as he shuddered.

The Chevalier drowsed in the Prince's arms. "If we go to the country, I want you to come with us."

The Chevalier twisted to face the Prince. "What did you say?"

"Rosalind told me to send away both the Duke, and the Marechal. She never said anything about you. We both want you to come with us."

Tears stung the Chevalier's eyes, and he shook in the Prince's arms. "You don't mean that, do you?"

The Prince kissed his lover's face. "Yes, we are fond of you."

"Do you think we could all sleep in the same bed?" There was a look on the Chevalier's face, joy and wonder. 

"We could. We might have pay the servants more to keep them from talking."

The Chevalier laughed, kissing the Prince's face and hand. "I love you, and I love Rosalind."

"I...I love you too," the Prince stuttered, blushing. The Chevalier frowned, and the Prince clutched him to his chest. "No, don't be angry, I do, it's just...I'm married."

"And I'm a man."

The Prince met the Chevalier's eyes. While there was no expression on his face, the Prince could see the amusement in his eyes. "Yes, there's that as well. We need to get dressed now, and you need to sneak away."

At those words, the Chevalier's heart stopped beating. Sneaking, spying, he could no longer do these things if he moved to the country with the Cleves. Would he want to though, nestled between the Prince and Princess, would he even care that there was a court in Paris?

"You don't have to come with us, of course. I'd understand if you'd miss the court," the Prince said, staring at the floor as he pulled on his stockings.

"If I miss the court I can visit," the Chevalier replied without hesitation. The two men smiled at one another. The Chevalier had never been happier, and the Prince was relieved. He would do as his wife wished, they would move to the country. Thank God their parents were gone and didn't have to live through the scandal of their marriage.

* * * *

The weather was fair, but Rosalind did not enjoy it. She was nauseated, bouncing about in the carriage, and not looking forward to seeing her husband. Her head was pounding, she hadn't slept, all she could think about was the inquisition waiting for her. Somehow, the swaying rhythm lulled her into a light sleep. She jerked awake when they stopped. It took a few minutes for her to exit, her limps were all pins and needles.

She found her husband in their chambers, writing. He greeted her with a warm embrace and a kiss. Searching his face, she found him surprisingly content. In response to her puzzled look, the Prince gestured to a chair. "Please, sit love. I wanted to talk to you."

Frowning, Rosalind settled herself into a chair. "I would assume this concerns my retirement."

"Among other things." For a moment they just looked at each other, both reluctant to begin an unpleasant conversation. The Prince found his mind flicking between the Marechal and the Duke, wondering which man had so captivated his wife, and what secret they used. With a sigh, he shook his head. "You know what it is that I wish to ask."

"I think I'm going to pretend that I do not," she replied, giving the Prince a weak smile.

"Take pity on me, think of the unbearable position in which you have put me. You have made an extraordinary confession, yet have not given me a name." When she replied by only clenching her teeth, the Prince continued. "I do not hold you at fault for giving to another that which is mine, it is the folly of a young heart, grown too cold under your mother's care. Can you fault me for my most natural, most human, curiosity?"

"I don't know what to say," the Princess said, her stony eyes fixed on the ground. "I die with shame when I think I have betrayed you, and the memory of my mother. I conjure you, spare me such cruel questioning."

"What do you wish of me then?" the Prince asked, his voice harsher than he intended.

She shirked away from him, and her reply was very soft. "Please, stay by my side and regulate my conduct, and let see no one. All I wish is to try and be worthy of you."

"Forgive me. I abuse your goodness, and your confidence. We will speak no more of this, I swear." When she started to sniffle, he knelt down and kissed her hands. 

"No, it is I who should be begging for your pardon. All you have done is love me, and for it you have received nothing but pain," she murmured.

The Prince rose so swiftly to stare into his wife's eyes, she started in her chair. "If you wish to be worthy of me, you will never say such things again." Returning to his seat, the Prince took a moment to collect himself. "There is something else we need to discuss, though this I think will please you."

"Will we be traveling far away?" she asked.

"Spain, actually."

She looked at him surprised. "What?"

"The King has asked us to accompany Madame Elisa to Spain after her marriage. Everyone felt that you would be a credit to the court." Now the Prince paused. Rosalind was still nervous, and her sleepless night showed plainly on her face. He felt guilty for what he was about to say, but still, it would answer an important question. "The Marechal may join us. Would you like that?" He was watching her intently as he spoke, waiting for her to react to the name of the man she loved.

"Oh, I am sure he will be well received by the Spanish court," she said.

It wasn't a strong reaction. "If he can outshine the Duke he will, for there are rumors that he will accompany Madame as well."

At that word, Duke, her eyes flew open and her face blanched. The thought of being exposed to his presence over a long journey with her husband and the Marechal watching her made he feel ill. She did her best to feign indifference, and said to her husband, "I hope that is not the case, or the honors that would have been given to you and the Marechal will be his instead."

"Is that what causes you such distress, honor?"

She gave a feeble nod, not trusting her voice.

"I think there is something else that causes your uneasiness. Any other woman in your position would be overjoyed to find themselves in such close quarters with their lover, but instead you are distraught. Don't worry, neither the Marechal nor the Duke will be coming with us, it was just a lie I used to find out that which you refused to tell me."

"Are you happy now that you know his name?" the Princess asked, her face flushed an angry red.

"No, I would rather it be any other man, even the Chevalier. Of course, the greatest man in court has captured your heart. Is that what you needed, a man with whom the entire court is in love? If I had shone the brightest, would you have loved me?"

"I don't know, and honestly, I don't care. Don't you have something to do besides tormenting your wife?"

Now the Prince was angry as well. "Tormenting you? By tormenting, do you mean carrying on with half the court, arranging trysts with my four different lovers?"

"I only need to take care of three of them, the fourth you arrange yourself, or did you forget you were the one who wanted me to sleep with the Chevalier? You've known about them this entire time. You'd rather crouch outside the door with your lover, and watch than have a faithful wife, so don't accuse me like you are innocent."

The Prince stood up, his face dark. "I wish I had never met you," he said and stormed away. Rosalind threw a glass at his head as he left, but it flew wide of its target.

She sat there, shaking, her hands clenched into fists, her nails biting into her palms. A servant came to see if she needed anything, and she snapped at the woman, sending her scurrying away. She wished her mother had died before they came to Paris. That way, she could have died a nun in a convent, never knowing that life held pleasures beyond a clever book or pleasant weather.

Steps were approaching, and she was getting ready to shout again when her heart froze. It was the Duke. 

He walked quickly, several servants at his heels. She could see by the expressions on their faces that they were unsure of how to react to his rudeness. They were plucking at his sleeve, entreating him to wait for them to summon their mistress, and he waved his hands at them like they were flies. They nimbly avoided his blows, but were unable to prevent his progress. He slammed the door behind him, and they stared at each other.

* * * *

Rosalind was livid. "For God's sake, leave me in peace." She stood and tried to open the door, but the Duke leaned his body against it. He had a crooked charming cad smiles on his face. She could feel the weight of her keys in her pocket. When she locked the door, the Duke reached out draw her into his arms and kiss her. He found her stiff when she should have been melting. Her lips were limp against his mouth, her hands pressed against his chest.

"What's wrong with you?" he asked, releasing her.

She turned away from him towards the trunk that contained her and her husband's riding gear. She could feel the Duke's eyes on her body, his unease, as she picked up the riding crop the Marechal had given her. It didn't feel right in her hand, and she instead chose her husband's. A little heavier and made of coarser leather, it would be perfect for the Duke.

"Take off your shirt and kneel," she said, her voice thick and low. 

It moved the Duke, and without thinking he fell to knees, tossing off his clothes. His sex strained against his breeches as he watched Rosalind arrange herself in a chair, flipping her skirt up over her knees, the little quirt in her hands. "Come here. No, don't walk, crawl."

The Duke was in a half crouch, staring into Rosalind's eyes. Her face was a high red color, and there was no warmth in her expression. For a moment he paused before sinking back down to the floor. He made his way to her on his hands and knees, his eyes still holding hers. 

He was overcome with a queer excitement, something like anticipating his lover's nails on his back, only a keener thrill. Rosalind had crossed her legs, and was bobbing one foot up and down. When the Duke drew near, she slipped off her shoe and extended her toes to his lips. He recoiled. Her hand darted to the back of his head, gripping his hair. She held him, and rubbed her toes across his bottom lip while he squirmed. Laughing, she him go, and he wiped off his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Now, turn around," she commanded, caressing his waist with the leather tip of her whip.

He knelt with his back to her, his fingers laced behind his neck. She slapped him gently up and down his sides, and across his broad back. Even though it didn't really hurt, the Duke still flinched at each tap. She used the handle to massage his anus and testicles, bringing a moan to the Duke's lips. 

He jumped as she landed a smart blow to the meat of his shoulders. It stung for a moment before it became a delicious warmth on his skin. The strength of her blows gradually increased, and the Duke reached into his breeches to grasp his throbbing sex. Rosalind stopped beating him for a moment, and the Duke turned to see her pulling her skirts up even higher so she could touch herself with her free hand. It was too much for the Duke, three more blows and he was spent. She came soon after him, gasping as she continued to work the Duke's skin.

"Get dressed."

The Duke turned to see the Princess rearranging her skirts. She rose to stand by the door, the key in her hand. She watched him coldly as he dressed, she even pushed him away when he tried to kiss her good bye.

"I guess I will see you soon then," the Duke said, searching her eyes for some sign of warmth, but the fire glowing in her delicate eyes was not one kindled with love. He told himself that her severe conduct was only a token of her affection.

He returned to his chambers and told Lignerol to prepare him a cool bath with some milk and honey in it to soothe his skin. It was necessary for Lignerol to help him remove his clothes, as his shoulders had gone stiff, and he gasped when he saw the red welts that covered the Duke's upper body.

"What is this?" he demanded, poking at an angry weal.

The Duke pulled away. "The Princess was in an...unusual mood today."

"And you let her do this to you?" Lignerol threw the Duke's jacket in the corner, and dropped his sword to the ground.

"I wasn't really sure what it was she wanted."

"Oh, and when she picked up, whatever it is she used, when she took some whip in her hand, you did not figure out what her intentions were then?" He pushed the Duke into a chair to wrench off his boots. "Well, I hope your adventures have not left you too badly injured. The Duke d'Alva is on his way to espouse Madame Elisa for the King of Spain, and our King wishes for you to go greet him."

"Damn it, when will he be here?"

"Soon," Lignerol said with a wicked smile.

The Duke was so busy with the preparations for the nuptials, he saw little of Rosalind. First, the Duke d'Alva had to be entertained. Once that royal arrived, the Duke was always in attendance upon him. He heard tales of the splendid Rosalind charming the members of this foreign court, but he did not see her. As far as their affair, she refused to see him. He began to grow thin again.

* * * *

The Duke had been so pleased with the confession he had overheard Rosalind make to her husband, he had foolishly confided in her uncle, the Viscount de Chartes. Little did he expect so much trouble from a moment of weakness. Although he told the Viscount the tale concerned a dear friend, the Viscount did not believe him. When the Viscount retold the story, he was very clear about his own beliefs, that the Duke was in love with a married woman who gave no sign of it. Creeping about his beloved's quarters, the Duke was lucky enough to eavesdrop upon the most extraordinary conversation.

Princess Mary squealed with delight when she heard the tale. Rosalind had become frigid to her again, and the rumor would give her the perfect opportunity to torment her. She enlisted the aid of her lover, M. d'Anville, to send the Duke to her after she broached the topic with Rosalind. She felt perfectly wicked, so much so that she was getting ready to abort her plan. When Rosalind arrived wearing one of her love tokens, her guilt dissipated. If she was going to shut their love away, then she should also leave Mary's jewels in their box.

"I have a little treat for you. Come, sit here with me," Mary said, patting the bed next to her.

The Princess' smile faltered, spooked by Mary's cold tone. "What is it?"

"Well, you know how queer the Duke has been behaving, like he is in love, but with no sign of a mistress." Mary's smile widened as Rosalind nodded her head. "It would seem our gallant is desperately in love with one of our court's finest ladies, and she returns his love."

Rosalind tried to manage her features, but Mary could see her heart shattering. She started to reach for Rosalind's hands, but she stopped herself, lest she appear sympathetic to a pain she inflicted.

"This is hardly a surprise. The Duke is a handsome man, with a good fortune, and much loved by the court. Of course he has caught the heart of some lady," Rosalind replied stiffly.

"You didn't let me finish. It would seem that this lady is so enamored of the Duke that she has confessed her feelings to her husband and begged for him to carry her away."

Rosalind tasted bile in her throat. "How would the Duke know such a thing; it is a fantasy."

"While it is extraordinary, it was the Duke himself who related the tale to the Viscount de Chartes. Although the Duke would not give the lady's name, or even admit that he was the man in the story, the Viscount is convinced that he was speaking of himself." The bed trembled as Rosalind began to shake. "Are you feeling unwell dear?" Mary asked, taking her hand.




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.



The Princess of Cleves #14



Sorry I've been bad about updating! I'm submitting the rest of Princess, and then another short story about a sexy encounter with a vampire. 

* * * * * * * * *

Rosalind had been depressed lately. The Marechal took advantage of the chaos of the impeding nuptials, stuffed a coach full of champagne and roses, and kidnapped her for the afternoon. She laughed until she wept when he shoved her into the carriage, much to the Marechal's chagrin. In the end though, he understood why she was laughing. The man who loved to be trammeled underfoot was carrying her away in a carriage full of flowers like the most maudlin of lovers.

He was taking her to his little cottage for the first time. All his toys were there, including a great quantity of silken rope. It was his desire to bind Rosalind and torment her. His favorite hobby was crafting whips, and he had made one with feathers, and one with mink tails, for his sweet lover. The carriage rumbled down the road, bouncing them against one another. They were holding hands, spilling champagne everywhere, occasionally yelping at a thorn. Laughing, they tumbled from the coach into his little house. There was a small room with a meal set out, two hot baths, all waiting for them, and not a servant in sight.

She wandered around, picking at the food, and smelling the bouquets of flowers. When she reached the Marechal's bedroom, with post beside the bed, she shook. He took her elbow and pressed his cheek against hers, trying to gauge her mood. For the life of him, he couldn't tell what was going on in her mind, so he waited.

He could feel her head moving as her eyes took in the array of toys on the bed, a variety of pretty things he had put out for her. She gasped, and he knew she had seen the purple leather boots with the dark green velvet ribbons.

"You always know how to cheer me up," she exclaimed, sitting down so she could change her shoes. "And what are these?" She picked up the feather and fur whips which he'd left carefully arranged across the pillows.

"I made them for you." Her face flushed brightly. "I want to bind you to that post, and torture you with them."

"You have a lively imagination."

The Marechal knelt in front of her and fastened the new boots onto her feet. "I thought you liked that about me." His fingers crept to her knees until she swatted him away.

"What if I tie you up instead."

Unable to hide his disappointment, the Marechal buried his face in her skirts.

"I wish more people disagreed with me as you do," Rosalind said, stroking his hair. "You can tie me up, and then I'd like a bath. You always tell me what a skilled attendant you are."

"Thank you my love."

The Marechal kissed her, and then threw several logs on the fire, stoking it, until she began to perspire. He stripped her down to her chemise, and made her kneel in front of the post on a little pillow, her back turned to the instrument. Crouching behind her, he bound her wrists to a pair of pegs close to her waist. The knots were loose enough that if she wanted, she could slip free from the ropes. The post was padded, and she was already leaning against it. With a smooth wooden bar, he tied an ankle to each end, forcing her to spread her knees wide.

This time when he kissed her, it was different. He thrust his tongue deep into her mouth, roughly pulling down her chemise to bare her bosom. She gasped as he tweaked one nipple then squeezed her breast hard. When he stood up, he saw Rosalind's eyes wide with surprise. She had seen the suave courtier, the timid lover who crept at her feet, and now she would see the man.

He choose the feather tipped whip first. Before he touched her, he tied a square of silk over her eyes. In his mind, she was blind, bound, and at his mercy. Fortunately for her, his most wicked desire was to carry her away and live like a dissolute Russian noble, spending weeks in bed, eating caviar, drinking vodka, and making love. As he trailed the feathers from her jaw down her throat and along her decolletage, goosebumps rose from her skin. He felt himself tighten in his breeches as her lips parted. Darting forward, he pressed her to the post, grabbing her ass and grinding his sex against her pubic mound. Her legs were wrenched at an awkward angle, her hips curled up towards him. He rubbed himself against her until he was close to climax, then delicately put her down.

Her body was pink and white, and everywhere that was touched by a blush he teased with the feathers. He saw her fidgeting with her ropes. "Do you want me to take them off, or do you want me to tie them tighter?"

"Tighter."

First, the Marechal took two little puffs of cotton and placed one in front of each eye before tightening the sash around her brow. A small sigh escaped her lips, and he saw she was smiling. He removed his breeches, and when he went to refasten her bonds, he pressed his sex between her breasts. 

If she could have seen the position he had to contort himself into to manage this feat, she would have laughed. Instead, all she felt was his silken phallus with its drops of dew moving against her skin. She shivered, waiting for him to touch her. He reached toward her breasts and saw her body tense; she was peeking underneath the gauze. Lifting up her skirt, he leaned his hips toward her, bringing his phallus close to the dark glossy curls of her sex. He wanted to know if she would let him inside her. Watching her closely, he could see by the gentle undulation of her hips that she wanted him, and he wanted her, but not yet. Flicking the feathers over her breasts, he made her nipples flush and wrinkle.

"You're cruel," she said, and she began to try and free herself.

The Marechal laughed. "No my love, I will not free you so you can satiate yourself. I will torment you, until you drip like a split open ripe peach." As he spoke, he used the smooth handle of the whip to part her nether lips. When she tried to rub her bud against it, he pulled it away. Lowering his body to be within her range of vision, he licked from the handle every drop of moisture she had left.

"I hate you."

He slapped her breast, and bit her nipple.

"Oh God, please..." she moaned.

His lips were working down her torso, his teeth nipping her waist.

"Why will you never make love to me? Is it because of the other men."

He paused at her hips. "In a way. I think every time you take another lover, it adds to your confusion. I wish I had the strength to simply be your friend, to fight my desires." He laved the crease between her thigh and hip with his tongue. "But you are so sweet, to yield to you is such a pleasure." Grasping her buttocks, he pulled her pelvis forward and began to suckle her bud.

"Then yield my love, yield," she murmured as she began to writhe.

He pressed his sex against hers. He pulled off her blindfold to look into her eyes. "I love you," he said, and thrust himself into her. It was not how he had planned it, he first wanted her to agree to leave with him, but she desired him, and he could not refuse her. He held her waist and slowly worked his phallus in and out of her. She was slick with lust, and her breath hot in his ear. "Rosalind," he growled as he shuddered and came.

"Well that didn't take long," she said. "Oh God I'm sorry."

The Marechal started laughing. "No, you're right, I was very quick. I have wanted you for a long time, but..."

"But?"

He was still inside of her, his sex pulsing. "I guess I am, in some perverted manner, a hopeless romantic," he mumbled. There was a trail of sweat at the nape of her neck that stung his lips. "I wanted our first time together to be special. I didn't want to rush in like the others. I guess I failed" 

She started laughing.

A tear fell from his eye, and he clung to her. She laughed even harder. "Marechal, you are nothing like the others. Untie me now."

After the sharp prick of her mirth, her warm tone was like a soothing poultice. In a moment, her hands and wrists were free, and he was sweeping everything off the bed to lay her on it. He was again moving inside of her, and her hands were twined in his hair, drawing his lips down to her mouth. From this position, he was able to sink his full length inside her, and she pumped her hips against him. Her tongue curled inside of his mouth.

He had to push her away for a moment, feeling himself close to orgasm. Her sex twitched, and his sex answered. 

"Tell me you love me, kiss me, my Marechal."

"Please, come away with me. You don't love the Prince or the Chevalier or the Duke."

He leaned down to kiss her, but she stopped him. "That's not telling me you love me."

"No, that's me telling you, Rosalind, that you love me." Her hand went limp, and he took her lower lip between his, pinching it with his teeth. He began to move again, trying to feel her mood through her body. 

She was soft and tender, her hands moving up and down his back, her legs hooked around his waist. When she tried to pull away to speak, he stuck his fingers in her mouth. He started to shake, and he buried his face in her hair to hide his tears. Why did he have to say that?

Taking his hand from her mouth, she placed it over her heart. "You're right, I do love you." 

The Marechal gave a harsh sob. 

"You've always been my friend, you've always tried to help me. After I return from Spain, we will leave the court."

The Marechal was weeping in earnest now. "I will take you to Spain my love," he whispered.

"I do not wish to go to Spain, but to accompany my husband while he is made a Grandee. It is the least I can do."

The thought of the Prince dulled his ardor, but Rosalind reached back to stroke his anus. Slipping in a finger, she urged him on to a climax. She came with him, moaning.

He lay on top of her, kissing her cheek, her jaw, her neck. "You'll have to tell me again later, that you've agreed to leave the court with me, that you love me. It is, more, than I could have hoped for."

She wrapped her arms around his shoulder. "I love you, and I will leave with you. I'd like my bath now, please."

"Follow me my love," the Marechal said, taking her hand. She melted into the hot water, and he washed her hair, lazily scrubbing her scalp. Afterward he worked a light rose oil over her skin while she drowsed on a couch. He coaxed her into having a cup of chocolate, and he took her back to court. Every move she made, he watched with an unnerving intensity, looking for those things, a lighter step, and small smile, that betrayed a private happiness. 

By the time they reached court, he was no longer concerned with her sincerity, but instead worried that she would give them away. They agreed to keep their walks to public places, and correspond by letter.

* * * *

When the shields for the tourney were hung, there was much puzzlement over the colors. The King always wore black and white for his mistress, Diana, who was a widow. The Duke had chosen yellow and black, for reasons no one understood except Rosalind. She recalled telling the Duke that she always lamented that she could not wear her favorite shade of yellow with her complexion. 

There was even more conversation about the Marechal's garish combination of purple and green. The Princess was careful to conceal her purple boots from the public, lest someone discern they matched the streamers that fluttered from the Marechal's helm. The Chevalier had chosen pink and white, colors that made the Prince blush. He had always praised the Prince's skin for being carnation and cream.

The crowd became raucous when the men took to the lists. Every time the Marechal appeared, Rosalind held her breath, at a loss to conceal her relief when he ran the lists unscathed. When the Chevalier was struck she reached for her husband's hand, only to have him push her away. His lips were moving as he chewed on them, his hands clenched into fists. He was so cold, even his lover, the Chevalier, had changed toward her. The Chevalier still visited her, but it would seem he lost his passion. They would discuss mundane matters, and she was grateful for even that little bit of attention.

The Duke was mounted on a black stallion. His armor was chased with gold, the mane and tail of his horse braided with yellow and gold ribbons. Every one sighed as he ran and triumphed. Even Rosalind felt her heart lift as he ran in that buttercup shade he had chosen for her. Her excitement died when she saw how the Prince was frowning. 

By the end of the day, she was falling asleep in her chair. The King was being stubborn: if he didn't break another lance, he would fall behind his champions. He called for the Count de Montgomery to joust, who at first refused, and then offered a plethora of excuses. When the King again summoned him, this time angry, the Count came. It was then the Queen who implored him to return home as he had already made a fine showing. Henry II replied coldly that it was for her sake that he ran the lists again, and then smiled at Diana. The Duke d'Alva was sent out to tug at the King's bridle, but he was rebuffed.

They ran; the lances broke in a shock of splinters. A sliver of the Count de Montgomery's lance pierced the King's eye and he fell. The entire court rushed to the King, astonished to see him laying stunned on the ground. 

Prone on the stretcher he took the Count de Montgomery's hand, and assured that noble man he forgave him. Smiling, he told the court it was only a slight wound. He was carried to bed. The Duke d'Alva sent his physician, and that wise man judged the King a dead man.

Rosalind hid from a court embroiled in intrigue. Although she feigned illness and saw no one, she knew every move that was made. The Chevalier often crept into her room to whisper to her about the plans for Diana's disgrace and the rise of the House of Guise. 

Rosalind wanted to confide in him her own plans, but she couldn't. Her and the Marechal only saw one another for a few minutes a week. They spoke very little, but instead spent the time holding one another and kissing. He said they would make love again under a more auspicious occasion. She had the sensation that things were being quietly sent to the country. The Marechal had been having good luck at the card tables and was buying jewelry.

Her husband still ignored her, and she had a lot time of to herself to think. That pang of emotion she had felt for the Duke upon seeing him mastering the lists troubled her, and she sought to harden her heart against him. She'd believed him different from the other men at the court, then he starts spreading fantastic rumors. 

What better way to secure his reputation at the court's greatest gallant than to make Rosalind's love for him known? Capturing her heart was a feat believed to be beyond any man. There was still a flutter in her breast at the thought of him, and she held her breath, willing it to be gone. 

Instead, she thought of the Marechal, the stories he had told her of a walled garden, a pond with ducks and fish, and a picturesque little manor. He was having roses planted for her and a bower of wisteria constructed.

Rosalind locked her door, and curled up in bed, her hands between her legs. Thinking about the Marechal made her slick. She rubbed her hidden bud with one hand while she teased her anus with the other. That afternoon with him was the last time someone had touched her. 

In a few minutes her groin was twitching, her small mouth stretched open over a moist spot on her pillow. She came with a small grunt, and felt terribly lonely. Even though it was early afternoon, she cried herself to sleep. That night, she refused to eat, staying locked in her room. There was a knock on her window, and waiting for her on the sill was a small bouquet of flowers. Tucked inside was a note from the Marechal:

My Dearest R--,

I hope this note finds you well. The preparations are coming along. My gardener assures me that you will be delighted with the grounds. I have purchased the most lovely horses and a smart equipage. I cannot wait to escape with you.

All my Love,

M--

She crumpled the note in her fist and fell asleep with it beneath her cheek. The next morning her cheek was stained with ink. It was an excuse to not stir from her room, the difficulty she had in removing this smear. Unfortunately, tomorrow she would have guests, a few ladies. She would stare at them as they prattled on, dreaming of carriage rides with the Marechal.

* * * *

The Duke had again fallen into a state of despair. There was no doubt in his mind that it was his idle tongue which has lost him the love of Rosalind. Even worse, he was haunted by his last meeting with her. Her confusion, her anger, there was nothing he could do to mitigate these emotions of hers, for she never allowed herself to be seen by him. Before the tourney, he'd seen her carrying Princess Mary's train during the procession behind the Duke d'Alva. 

Now, in the disarray that followed the King's mortal injury, she hid entirely, and he thought of nothing but seeking her out, to say what though? That he knew she loved him, because he spied on her? That he betrayed her secret to the Viscount de Chartes and he was awfully sorry? How could his passion spurn her to love when she abhored the sight of him? It seemed so fantastic to him. He was grateful the court was in mourning, as his melancholy went unnoticed.

When he was barely clinging to life, the King had Madame Elisa married to the Duke d'Alva. The Duke was summoned as a witness to the hasty nuptials. It was a very sad ending for an affair that had begun so joyously. They had gone from a shining company of courtiers, glittering in cloth of gold, to kneeling around a deathbed at midnight in the dim light of candles. 

It was 3 that night when the King expired. The Louvre was seized by a low moaning wail as people were woken and informed of the King's death.

The upheavals began the next day, with different cabals battling for control of the now widowed Queen and her son. The Queen quickly united with the House de Guise. Messengers were dispatched, rallying troops to oppose the Guises, but they were too slow. The courtiers who remained standing against the Queen were dispatched with Madame Elisa to Spain. This was a mortifying blow to the Prince, the intended recipient of this honor. There was no recourse for him. Only a fool would start squawking about decorum in the middle of coup.

The Duke took great joy in this, for the journey would have carried his love far away from him. Now Lignerol was preparing his clothes for a journey to Chambort to see the new King crowned. He was determined to try and have a private audience with Rosalind. He waited until the end of the day. Luck was with him, and two women were just exiting her apartments when he arrived. His hopes were dashed when he was told Rosalind was ill. The women were more careful with him now, standing in front of the door they guarded. He begged, he bribed, and in the end went away in tears.

The Prince was at the Louvre when he overheard the Duke had left to visit his wife. His heart grew thick with bile at the thought of the Duke whispering to Rosalind while she giggled. It was jealousy: that bitter taste in his mouth, a passion which seized him with the same ferocity as his love. All the sincere feelings that he'd once had for his wife changed to a burning fever of paranoia. Without any thought of what he wished to do, to surprise the pair together, to satisfy himself of either his wife's guilt of innocence, he ran home.

He rushed into his wife's chambers, and in her disorder found signs of her sin. Pacing around her bed, he spoke to her of unimportant matters while his eyes darted in every corner, seeing traces of the Duke in the shadows. Finally, he asked her what plagued his mind. "So, tell me, how did you spend your day?"




The Princess of Cleves #14



"Oh, I did very little."

"Did you see anyone?"

"Why yes, my uncle, and then few ladies came to wish me well."

There was something in the way she spoke; if it was not an outright lie, it was at least a lie of omission. "Were they pleasant visits?"

"Yes," she replied, giving her husband a suspicious look.

"I only ask because you look out of sorts my love."

Rosalind frowned. The Prince could see her slowly decide to stop feigning ignorance and admit that she had seen the Duke, that he may still be hiding in this very room. "The Duke came to see me, and I sent my women to tell him I was ill."

Sitting beside her, the Prince took her pale clammy hands. "Why did you do this my love? Is he not just another courtier?"

"Stop calling me that." Tears began to shine in her eyes, and her head hung down to her chest.

"But you are my love, my darling wife," the Prince said. He pressed his mouth roughly against her's, holding her wrist in an iron grip as she tried to move away from him. Something cruel within him had awoken, and he wanted to make her cry. He bore her down beneath him, rubbing his sex against her hips. "Tell me my faithful, tender spouse, has the Duke done something to offend you?"

She was weeping, shaking. "N...no...he has not," she stammered. Her face was flushed red. She was aroused, or angry. No, this was his Rosalind, it was both.

The Prince found her flesh warm, inviting. With his wife and lover, he had gotten used a life filled voluptuous nights and languorous afternoons. Now, he barely remembered the last time he'd made use of his privileges. Pinning her arms by her sides, he kissed her throat and chest, tugging her chemise down with his teeth. "Don't you understand, the Duke, and possibly others as well, will think you sent him away because you love him, and seeing him in private would be unbearable."

She turned her face away from him. "I thought we weren't going to speak of this," she said stiffly as he penetrated her.

"Yes, I thought so as well." Each word was a grunt as he thrust himself inside her. "I find myself as unworthy of your confession as you are of my love." Taking her hair, he forced her to look at him. "I am the unhappiest man in court. Not only are you in love with another, but he knows of your love."

Her sullen expression was melting away to lust. At first she lay still and passive, then she began moving beneath him, arching her hips to meet his body. 

She had just refused to see the man she loved, and now was being roughly used by her husband. There should have been anger in her face, perhaps sorrow, but not acquiescence, not the first soft blur of pleasure. Who did she love, if not the Duke? The question pounded his mind, who who who who? He didn't notice her hands caressing him until she cried out with her climax. When she looked up at him, her eyes had softened.

It was too much like a reconcilliation when what he wanted was a fight. He withdrew from her, his own desire unsatiated, and left the room without a word. Listening at her door, he was only satisfied when he heard her weeping.

* * * *

After the King's death, the Chevalier was very busy with his family's political machinations. He thought he'd been forgotten, written off as weak and left to his own devices. What really happened was the Duke de Guise saw a great deal of use for spy in the family, and so the Chevalier had been allowed to develop naturally. At least, he'd been told this before he'd been handed a list with places and times. Those marked in black were meetings upon which he was to spy, and those in red were one where he'd report what he'd learned to his family. 

Try as he could, he couldn't completely focus on family business. The Prince was mad at his wife, thinking she'd spread the rumor of her confession. Caught between them, he thought it best to allow the Prince some time to calm down, and reconnect with his wife. If the Prince remained stubborn, the Chevalier would then intervene on Rosalind's behalf.

He continued to see her, and was disturbed to find how tense her relationship with her husband had become. Even though he knew making love to her would soothe her, the Prince was so angry even seeing her felt like betraying him. Of the Prince, he had seen little. The man had been sulky and intractable, half the time locking his door and feigning sleep. The Chevalier was desperate to speak with his lover before the chaos of the court's journey to Chambort.

Much to the Duke de Guise's displeasure, the Chevalier informed him he would be unavailable to spy after 10. If he wasn't so useful, there would have been a row. As things were, the Chevalier had been more than cooperative, providing them with critical knowledge, and he was allowed to take the evening off from his duties. The Chevalier spent his first hour sniffing around the Cleves' quarters. The Princess was shut in her room crying, and from the Prince's chambers came an unnatural stillness.

The Chevalier scratched at the door, but his lover decided not to hear him. He scratched a second time before he tried the door, only to find it locked. The Prince was being stubborn, surely he realized the Chevalier would secure his own copy of keys for their apartments. Letting himself in the room, he expected the Prince to say something to him, make some expression of joy or anger.

When he touched his shoulder, the Prince remained limp. For a moment, the Chevalier panicked and scrambled onto the bed, pressing his fingers all over the Prince, searching for signs of life.

"Wretched man, can't you see I don't want you."

At those words the Chevalier began to wail. The Prince was touching him, trying to get his arms around the Chevalier as he crouched over the Prince's prone form. He knew what the Prince wanted, that they not be discovered, so he stuffed his fist in his mouth. There were soothing words coming from the Prince's lips, but he could not understand them over the blood pounding in his ears and the keening that continued in his head.

Something wet touched his cheeks, and it was not his tears. He turned to find the Prince kissing him, tears staining his pink and cream cheeks. Their lips met, and it felt like it had been an eternity since the Prince kissed him like that.

"I'm sorry, it's stupid of me to be jealous of you and my wife. After I instigated the affair, I can hardly be cross if enjoy both her and my company," the Prince murmured as the Chevalier peeled back the covers of the bed to reveal the Prince trembling in his nightshirt. He continued to babble as the Chevalier caressed his thighs, slowly revealing more and more of his velvet skin. Just as the Chevalier's tongue reached out to touch the Prince's sex, the Prince stopped him. "No, please, before you touch me, tell me that you love me, that you forgive me for my jealousy."

"I haven't touched your wife since you quarreled with her. In all honesty, even talking to her feels like a betrayal to you." The Chevalier smiled, and took his lover's hand. "I love you, and forgive you. Now that my family is in power, now that they need me to help them spy, I shall bedeck you with such riches and honors that while you will be a Prince in name, in truth you will be King."

They kissed, wreathing their tongues around one another, feeling the seams of each other's clothing as they pressed their bodies together. "I don't want those things, I just want you. And I don't want to have to share you with that woman either, any of you."

The anger, the need, in the Prince's voice startled the Chevalier. The man he'd first met wasn't capable of such fire, but it seemed the gossip and rumors of court had finally cracked the Prince's sweet and noble spirit. It only made him love the Prince more, and want to protect him. If he put it into Rosalind's head to run off with someone, he and the Prince could live in peace.

The Chevalier made these plans as he made love to the Prince. He took the Prince's sex into his mouth, thrusting it deep into his throat until he gagged and the saliva streamed from his gaping lips. He would feel hoarse tomorrow, and every time he spoke he would think of the Prince's soft moans, his hand clutching the back of the Chevalier's head as he thrust his hips upward. With one hand, the Chevalier stroked his shaft, twisting his fingers as he worked them up and down. The other he used to loosen the Prince's anus, preparing him for the Chevalier's sex. His phallus ached as he thought about Prince in his arms, his cheeks flushed. He thought about the Prince's limp wet sex laying between them, stirring to life as the Chevalier plunged himself into the Prince.

Spurned on by these fantasies, the Chevalier worked his mouth on the Prince with great ferocity, and soon he drinking the Prince's seed, moaning at the feel of the Prince's sex surging in his mouth. It was in the afterglow of an orgasm that the Chevalier liked to take the Prince. He rubbed the tip of his phallus against the Prince's anus, making him twitch. He feebly batted the Chevalier away as he milked the Prince's soft sex, rubbing the drops of dew he coaxed from it on his own sex.

The Prince hissed as the Chevalier slid himself in, slowly, gently, until Prince arched his back so the Chevalier sheathed the full length of his sex inside the Prince. The Prince gripped the Chevalier's hip, coaxing him to a hard and rapid rhythm. The Prince's phallus grew turgid and pressed uncomfortably into the Chevalier. The Prince's head was thrown back, his mouth stretched open in a grotesque contortion. 

When he came for the second time, his anus clutched the Chevalier's sex so tightly he gasped in pain. He grunted as he came inside the Prince. The Prince wrapped his arms around the Chevalier, undulating his hips to move the Chevalier inside his body, but the Chevalier only slipped out with a hot wash of his seed. They fell asleep in one another's arms, filthy, exhausted. When they woke from their first sleep, they found they had become stuck together, and it was necessary to conceal their laughter.

* * * *

It would seem the night before the journey to Chambort the entire French court thought of nothing but love. Hearing the Duke had attempted to see his mistress, the Marechal was determined to sneak into her room that night and see how she fared. Now that the Prince and Princess would no longer be leaving for Spain, they would have to alter their plans. If the Marechal could excuse himself from the trip to Chambort, he could focus on his preparations, and they would be ready to leave when the court returned. He would have to ask Rosalind if she would be traveling with her husband.

It was early, 9, and the Marechal was already hiding in the garden, waiting for true dark. At 10 he saw a figure creeping around the hall, most likely the Chevalier. It headed toward the Prince's room after an hour of getting lost in shadows, pausing, watching. The Marechal tapped at her window. Rosalind's face emerged from the blankets, her eyes red and raw. She rushed to open the window.

"What are you doing here?" she asked. "You'll be caught, you must leave. I think I heard the Chevalier earlier."

"I'll only be caught if you leave me standing here." The Marechal quickly jumped up onto the sill and into the room. "Please pardon me for intruding. I heard the Duke had been here today, and I wanted to check on you," he said, taking her hands.

She yanked them away from him and snapped, "I didn't even see him."

"And still, he upsets you. I promise my love, we will leave hear soon." She let the Marechal hold her, and he could feel her tears wetting his shirt.

"I will be going to Colomiers while the Prince attends the King's coronation in Chambort. After that, someone else will conduct Madame Elisa to Spain while I languish at the Louvre. Would it be possible for you to take me away while he is gone?"

"It will be difficult, but for you I will try," the Marechal said, lifting up her chin to kiss her.

"I want you to make love to me, and to tell me about our new house, and our new life."

The Marechal trembled. "Rosalind, you make me the most happy man in the world." Stripping off his clothes, he climbed into her bed. She laid beside him, and he took her from behind, describing their new house, a day in their new life.

"We will sleep as late as we wish, and in the summer when we get up, we will have breakfast outside in the courtyard." He eased himself into her as he spoke, his nostrils filled with the smell of sweat and roses. "There will be fragrant sweet peas and all manner of blooms, and when one blossom fades, another will open. My gardener has promised me, my garden will never be without flowers."

"What will we eat?"

"Why, cream and berries, and a baguette and bowls of hot chocolate. After our meal, if we feel ambitious, we will get dressed." She was arching her back, taking in his full length, one leg raised high. With one hand he kneaded her breast and twisted her nipple. "Then we will go for a ride in our carriage. We will take a picnic basket with us, and eat under an oak tree that stands by the pastures. We will watch the shepherds and shepherdesses tend their flocks and listen to their songs. We will make love in the dappled sunlight."

The Princess clutched his hand to her breast, holding his arms tight around her.

"When we return home, we will send away the servants so that we may play." He felt her sex tighten around him. "I will teach you how to tie knots, and you can bind me and do to me as you will. And some nights, it will be my turn to be your master. I will show you what pleasure there is to be found in pain."

As he whispered those words into her ear, she orgasmed. The Marechal told to her about the textures of different leathers, the glorious freedom one feels when one is released from one's bonds. He told her how he would torment her orifices, how he would first take her from the front, and then from behind. They came together, and then lay in her bed, conspiring.

"I will have a carriage waiting at midnight outside of Colomiers, the night before the courtiers leave to return to Paris. Will you be bringing much with you?"

"No, there's nothing I want from this place. All I want to do is leave," she said.

"Soon, the Louvre, the Prince, the Duke, they will be distant memories, that I promise you. Do you remember where I would leave my notes?"

"Yes, why? I'll only be gone a few days before we leave," she replied.

"In case there is an emergency, that's how we will communicate with one another." He saw the suspicion in her eyes. She must be miserable to be doubting him, his poor love. "I am not lying to you, I will carry you away from this place, it's what I always wanted. From now on, it is too risky for us to see one another. The next time I see you, we will never have to part again."

They talked for a few more hours, their hands idly moving over one another's bodies. They discussed the new wardrobe Rosalind would need for her life in the country. The Marechal watched her as they conversed. She had gone from despair to joy, and it was because of him. He was only able to half focus on their conversation, his heart was so full. 



The Princess of Cleves #15



The Queen was delighted to have Mme. de Martingues back at court. After the King's coronation at the new Chateau Chambort, settled in to spend their summer in the country side. Mme. de Martingues caught the attention of the entire court as she related to them her visit with Rosalind at Colomiers. She told of the charming solitude in which this woman spent her time, sending away her servants so that she might stroll the gardens in quiet contemplation. It was a cloistered existence, her days spent out of doors and her evenings practicing the arts of the finer sex. She displayed for the court a lovely handkerchief Rosalind made for her. What she didn't tell them was how that clever lady had hidden the initials of her lover, the Count, in the design. When Rosalind showed her, Mme. de Martingues wondered how she had ever come up with such a thing.

The Prince was listening intently to Mme. de Martingues' account of his wife. Her absence softened his anger, and the Chevalier reproached him for his callousness. At his urging, the Prince had sent her a sincere letter of apology. She had written him back, a respectful but reserved note. At first he feared he had forever lost her esteem, but then a more sinister thought occurred to him. What if she was planning on leaving him? What then? He would appear to be a fool in front of the whole court. Though, it could be a blessing as well. His heart was already broken, whether his wife lived in solitude at Colomiers or ran off to Austria with the Duke. He could remarry, or go back to being the happy bachelor. No one in court would reproach him for swearing off women. As it was unlikely the Chevalier would ever marry, they could live with one another for company, as two sworn bachelors sometimes would.

Looking around for his lover, he found instead the Duke staring at Mme. de Martingues, frozen as though her words had turned him to stone. The glittering light in the Duke's eyes made the Prince uneasy. What plans were in that man's head? He couldn't be planning to slip off to Colomiers to see Rosalind? The crooked smile that lit the Duke's face confirmed the Prince's suspicion. He stayed at the royal audience, and trailed after the Duke when he went to speak to the King. The Prince overheard the Duke explaining to the King that he had urgent business in Paris. There was no doubt in the Prince's mind: this was a lie.

Later, when the Chevalier had snuck into his chambers, the Prince spoke to him of the matter. "Mme. de Martingues returned from visiting Rosalind at Colomiers today."

The Chevalier, who had been brushing the Prince's golden hair, stiffened. "I had heard this."

"You don't have to be worried love. While our marriage will never be a happy one, we've come to an understanding. Besides, for once, it isn't my wife who is troubling me. At least, not directly."

"Oh, what is it then? Who has you worried, is it the Marechal?" the Chevalier asked, returning to brushing the Prince's hair.

"The Marechal, why should I be worried about him? His cabal has lost all its power. No, what concerns me is the Duke. He is to leave for Paris in two days, but I believe he means to go see my wife at Colomiers."

"And what makes you think this?"

"Just the way the Duke was listening to Mme. de Martingues speak of Rosalind. He looked like a dog drooling over a bone. Directly after, he tells the King he has urgent business in Paris. I think I will excuse myself and see if I can't surprised the Duke on the road by Colomiers."

The Chevalier shook his head. "You don't listen to me at all when I try and teach you to play court. If you leave, you will have to tell the King, and the Duke will surely hear of it. He will be too spooked to go and visit your wife. And that's what you wish to know, if your wife is still having an affair with the Duke?"

"Yes, at least, I think I do."

"Don't think ill of me, but I wish she'd just run off with someone," the Chevalier said sighing.

A laugh escaped the Prince. "Yes, I thought much the same thing at the audience this afternoon. I can't say I wish I never married her." The Prince took the Chevalier's hand, and the two men smiled at each other. There were times when the Prince wondered if he and the Chevalier would have ever become such close friends were it not for her. "If she runs away, we will get a house together."

"I think my family gave up on the notion of my being with anyone, man or woman. If I don't have a wife and children, I can come and go as I please to spy. My father would be happy to sacrifice a few heirs from this stunted branch for a spy." The Chevalier leaned down, draping his arms around the Prince's chest, touching his lips to the Prince's throat. "We might even be able to encourage your wife to run away. Do you have a man you'd trust not with your life, but your dearest secret? It's not always the same man who will die for you and who will keep your business to himself."

The Prince thought. "Yes, yes I do. I'll send him to Colomiers, to spy on the Princess."

The Chevalier kissed the Prince, his mouth loose and wet over the Prince's, their tongues moving together. "Maybe you do listen to me."

They stripped each other before laying down in bed. Kissing, their hands wandered freely, stroking, cupping, pinching. Making the Chevalier get on his hands and knees above him, the Prince brought his lover's musky anus to his lips. With his hands, he caressed the Chevalier's sex, working up and down the thick ridge on the underside of his sex, rubbing little circles on the head with his thumb. The Chevalier moaned, his chest resting on the Prince's groin, his cheek on the Prince's thigh. Thrusting his tongue into the Chevalier's anus, the Prince felt his whole body undulate on top of him. The Prince's phallus was so hard it hurt.

When he felt the Chevalier's body begin to clench and release, he moaned. He gripped the Chevalier's waist as his body shook violently. He felt the Chevalier come over all his stomach in a few hot licks. After the Chevalier recovered, he laid him down on his belly to take him from behind. He had worked the Chevalier's anus soft and pliant with his tongue, and his saliva served as lubricant. Beneath him, the Chevalier happily sighed and grunted as the Prince sheathed his sex inside him.

The Prince buried his mouth in the nape of the Chevalier's neck. He nipped at the Chevalier's skin, and in response the Chevalier arched his back, bringing his ass up against the Prince's hips, sinking the Prince's sex deep into him. Their bodies moved together, the Prince panting, and then he came. The Chevalier carefully rolled them onto their sides, and while the Prince was still hard, he caressed himself, coming for a second time.

In a moment, they had themselves cleaned off. They had a routine now. They made love, they cleansed, they slept. When everyone woke from their first sleep, they lay in bed and talked of court. After the Prince was dreaming once again, the Chevalier would creep away. A few times, he accidentally spent the night. He managed to creep away without anyone seeing him. Even if they had though, they would have assumed he was about family business.

The Prince sent a message summoning his man, and locked them in his chambers as he explained what was wanted. Giving the man a large purse, he sent him on his way, preceding the Duke by a day. Every time the Prince caught a glimpse of the Duke, and the small smile that lecherous man could not suppress, he became angry. The Prince could just imagine, his wretched head filled with voluptuous pictures of Rosalind, her chemise drooping off her shoulder, the pale length of her stockings showing beneath her petticoat.

* * * *

The Duke rode to Colomiers whistling until his mouth was sore. He had borrowed a cloak from the Chevalier, and thought himself very clever. Well, borrow wasn't really the right word; he had stolen it, but he as his intention was to return it after this trip, he thought of it as borrowed. Finding a tavern near the manor, he left his horse there, and cut through the woods to sit outside the garden. He thought it prudent to wait until full dark, so he rested with his back to the palisades that surrounded the grounds, and drank a bottle of wine. 

At sunset, he had a light meal. As the stars began to show, he started to pace. When the darkness became inky, he fought his way into the garden. Everything was as he remembered. His knees felt weak when he approached the bush where he had overheard her confession of love. It bore clusters of small red berries, and he plucked a sprig as a souvenir.

Moving slowly through the garden, he kept to the deepest shadows, listening for any speech or movement. His heart stopped as he caught a glimpse of Rosalind inside a small pavilion, the windows thrown open to the warm night breeze. The Duke found himself able to peer inside to watch his love. She was alone, her women moving about inside the house. There was a painting in the room, and the table was scattered with bits of embroidery floss and ribbons.

She was piling together the ribbons, holding up different combinations of colors. First, she sighed, holding up green and purple ribbons, the colors the Marechal wore to the tourney. The Duke's vision blurred as tears formed in his eyes. In a moment he would blindly flee from the garden, crashing into everything and getting caught by the servants. Next, she pulled out a white ribbon and placed beside it every shade of pink. She laughed, combining them with the colors of the House of Cleves. He did not know what to make of her amusement, only it did not stir his jealousy. Her face became solemn as she shoved aside the other ribbons to contemplate a pair of black and yellow ones. She stroked the silk with her fingers as two shining trails appeared on her face. She was weeping over him.

The Duke snuck closer, enraptured by her sweet sorrow. Taking a candle, she sat gazing upon a portrait of the heroes of The Siege of Mets. Her eyes seemed to turn from one man to another. His heart was pounding, and he moved so he could see her face. Who was she looking at? When she took a deep breath and touched her lips, was she thinking of him or the Marechal? Could it be the Chevalier, or even the Prince? Her eyes darted to where her women were, and she turned her back to them so that she now faced the Duke. It was as if she knew he was watching, for she lifted her skirts up to her waist, revealing the flushed petals of her sex. Reaching behind her, she took out a pretty little whip.

Surely this garden must be Eden, so full of earthly delights. The Duke rubbed his breeches as Rosalind held her flower open with one hand, using the other to tease her little bud with the smooth handle of the riding crop. She kept dipping the handle into into her womb to moisten it and lazily stroke herself. When she inserted the whip into herself, he withdrew his painfully swollen sex, and with a few strokes he came.

His mind clearer, he focused on watching Rosalind pleasure herself. For the rest of his life, he would have sweet dreams of this. Pinching her bud, she worked the riding crop at a fiendish pace. Her face scrunched up as her mouth popped open. A quick glance over her shoulder to make sure her women were still busy, and she thrust the handle farther into herself, working her bud with such fervor the candle beside her flickered wildly.

Her face turned red as she held her breath, and blanched white as she came. A small jet of liquid gushed from her, flashing in the candlelight. She sighed, flopping back against the chair. The riding crop jumped up and down as her body twitched in the aftershock. Again, she checked on her women. Assured she'd remain undisturbed, she thrust her fingers into her mouth and moaned as she reached down to touch herself again. The leather tip of the whip waggled up and down in the air as she rubbed herself. Her eyes were tightly closed, her breath a rapid pant.

The Duke could not stop himself. Rushing to an open window, he vaulted inside. Rosalind's eyes few open at the sight of him, and she bit her hand to keep from crying out. He fell upon her, his sex hard and lubricated with his seed. There was a mix of terror and lust in her eyes. Straddling her, he grasped the riding crop. Pressing his sex against her, she only yielded to the very tip. The smooth grain of the varnished wood squeezed him from one side, and her hot slick flesh from the other. Grunting, he continued to work her until he could move the entire head of his phallus in and out of her swollen sex. She moaned as he thrust himself in further. It felt like the whip quivered against his sex every time she made a sound. Her skin was taut and pulsing. The orgasm he coaxed from her forced both him and the crop from her contracting womb. She spasmed and gasped, then opened her eyes as the Duke spilt his seed on her sex.

Snatching the whip from the grinning Duke's hands, she raised it to hit him. The blow caught his cheek and he fled the bower. She did not pursue him into the night, so the Duke crouched in the shadow of a tree to collect himself. What had he done, by giving into his lust? First, he fills the courts with stories of her sweet and gentle confession of love, and now, when he finally has a moment to tell her he was sorry and offer some sincere proofs of affection, he treats her no better than a common maid. He should have been declaring his love, not sticking her like an eager groom. 

The damage had been done though. He could not return, not tonight. Her face as she struck him had been terrifying. Every emotion he had ever seen shape those dear features had crowded out at once, creating an ugly amalgamation of fear, lust, sorrow, confusion, and so many others he could not name. He needed to go to his room and sleep, it was the only thing that could help him now. Dawn was starting to show as a gray light on the horizon. He needed to be gone from here anyways, lest he be seen. Making his way back to the tavern, the Duke kept looking behind him, hearing the snap of a twig or a rustle of branches. He could feel eyes on his back, but he assured himself it was only paranoia.

That day he lay in his room sighing, dreaming of Rosalind. In some, she came to him clothed in flames with whip in hand, and she scourged him for every crime he had committed against her sex. In his bed, he sweated and shivered with excitement. Others were the pedestrian type of dreams one had about ever lover, laying in bed together, walking in a garden of flowers. One did wake the Duke, and it was no dream but rather a nightmare. 

He and Rosalind were strolling by a little brook, and she slipped and fell into some reeds. They laughed, for she was covered with mud. Only, when he tried to pull her out, the earth began to consume her, the plants reached out their cold leaves to wrap around his arms. Her mouth opened, and there was a sucking sound. The Duke fell out of bed screaming, tangled in the bed clothes.

Laying on the floor, Lignerol's voice sounded in the back of his skull, that woman will be the death of you. His head throbbed with the warning, a steady ringing pain. He felt like he was sinking into the floor, and he started flailing. Bumping his head, he cried out. A moment later the innkeeper flung open the door, his wife at his heels. They soothed the Duke, got him back in bed, and, judging him not greatly injured, they gave him some brandy then left him to rest.

It was full dark when he awoke. His mouth was dry, and he was hungry, but he neither ate nor drank. Instead, he threw the Chevalier's cloak over him, hiding his face. He left for the forest, his body shaking with a wretched headache, to find if his Rosalind waited for him in the garden. He wanted her to be sitting there, gazing at his portrait as much as he wanted to be free of her. This night he took no souvenirs, but made his way slowly to the pavilion. There were no candles, could she be waiting for him in the dark? As he came closer, he saw that there was a single candle, and the window was open.

He was surprised to find the room empty. The candlestick sat on the table, now cleared of all its bits of ribbon and thread. There was something beside the candle, almost invisible in the flickering flame. 

A bouquet, bound with ribbons. The flowers every shade of violet with many glossy leaves, and the ribbons the one he had seen her contemplating first when he spied upon her the other night.

What could this mean? Was she telling him that she had made a choice, that she loved the Marechal? A tear fell upon the mocking blooms, the colors the man she loved had worn to the tourney. Tonight, she would creep in here at some unholy hour to hide them, never dreaming a man would want to keep such a memento. The Duke did; Lignerol would weep with joy when the Duke told him the tale. He also liked the idea of Rosalind fretting all night that her attendants would find the sign, and finally sneaking in here to find there was nothing to worry over.

His vision was blurred as he carried away Rosalind's token. When he arrived at the inn, he asked a meal be brought to his room. Eating and drinking his fill, he fell asleep, grateful that he did not dream. He left the innkeeper a hefty tip, with the instructions that he had never seen the Duke. The bouquet he wrapped in a scarf and tucked into his pannier, a gift for Lignerol.

* * * *

The Prince made his man repeat his story several times. He'd been anxiously waiting for his return. When the Chevalier was sent away on an errand, the Prince thought he would fall to pieces. Thinking back, he recalled all the tricks his wife employed to avoid the society of the court. In the morning she would rise and arrange her coiffure and dress perfectly, then carefully pick apart her hair and wrinkle her dress. In the end, she looked like one who was trying to hide an illness. Where there was a dark corner, she would linger. Whatever garden path was abandoned, she would tread.

It was into this melancholy that the Prince's man rode. The solemnity with which the Prince received him made the man nervous. He paced the room as his master settled himself in an armchair.

After several deep breaths, the Prince felt himself steeled to hear of his wife. "So, how was the Duke's journey?"

"I do no know my Prince."

"What do you mean? You're being coy."

The man started to bounce on the balls of his feet. "I stopped where you instructed me to. I waited in the woods and watched the road. The first night no one came."

"And the second?" the Prince asked, impatient for whatever blow waited for him. His stomach twisted around itself as his throat constricted.

"I saw a man, and I recognized his garments. It wasn't the Duke, but rather the Chevalier that I saw disappear into your garden, Prince. I recognized the cloak he wore."

The room was silent. The Prince thought he would retch the bread he had eaten onto the floor, and his bowels gave a threatening howl. Taking a few deep breaths, he calmed himself. "I beg your pardon?" Despite his efforts, his voice veered off into a high pitched squeak.

"I saw the Chevalier creep into your garden, two nights in a row. The first night he crept away before dawn, and seemed deep in thought. The second night he stayed for only a little while, and came away very distraught, carrying something."

"Did...did you see what it was?" the Prince asked.

"No."

The Prince unlocked a cabinet and fetched a bottle of strong liquor. Pouring two glasses, he gave one to his man and drank down the other. He sat, bottle in hand. Halfway through his second glass, he made the man repeat his story.

"When he left the first night, was he happy, displeased?"

"I don't know, I didn't see his face. If I had to say, he seemed pensive," the man mumbled. 

The Prince noticed he had not touched his drink. Here he was, making his servant uncomfortable with his wild behavior. He sent him away with instructions to make excuses for the Prince's absence, a sudden illness. Unable to think, he crawled into bed with the bottle and wept until he finally fell asleep.




The Princess of Cleves #15



The next day he truly did feel ill. The Chevalier returned to court that afternoon, but the Prince refused him. When the King's doctor arrived, the Prince knew it was the Chevalier that sent him, and so the Prince refused entry to that man as well. The doctors who were looking after him were lost as to the cause of his affliction. It was a mystery to them why a young man of twenty would suddenly have the weak and feeble heart of a man of sixty.

The servants asked if they should send for his wife, Rosalind, and he would only turn away from them weeping. The Chevalier snuck into the Prince's chambers to bathe the Prince's hands with his tears. He must have waited for hours to find a moment when the Prince was unattended. The Prince had wept as well, but that was the only response he gave to the Chevalier. Too distraught to speak, the Chevalier left him a letter.

The Prince read it, and found it full of concern for his health, and pledges of undying love. The Chevalier promised to be patient, to wait for whatever rumor it was that had upset the Prince to be resolved. It was the second paragraph that melted the Prince's heart:

I understand you have been betrayed my love. As blameless as Rosalind may be, her inability to love you was the first, and deepest betrayal. I will never grow weary of proving to you my loyalty, that my heart belongs only to you. Whenever you are ready to be my friend again, I will welcome you with open arms, and never shall I reproach you.

With difficulty the Prince was able to communicate to his valet that he was to fetch the Chevalier. It would seem that man was sure of the power of his letter, for he had not gone far. In a matter of moments, he was shut up in the Prince's chambers. He held the sobbing Prince, and the garbled tale came from his lips. Quickly, the Chevalier determined what had happened. A garment he thought misplaced had really been taken, and it caused the Prince to grow sick with a broken and jealous heart.

The Chevalier calmed the Prince as best he could, then sent for the doctors. Against the Prince's wishes, he wrote to Rosalind to come to her husband. After that day the Chevalier took up residence on the couch outside the Prince's bedroom. The Duke de Guise tried several times to employ the Chevalier in the house's schemes, but found the man to be useless.

Despite the Chevalier's tender ministrations, the Prince's health would not improve. The guilt he had felt at sending for his wife was soon replaced with the certainty that he had done the correct thing. She would clear up this mystery as to who she saw in the garden, if anyone. It would be better for the pair to reconcile in person as well, if this truly was the end of the Prince, and the Chevalier was beginning to fear it was. The doctors were already frustrated--should the man run a fever or begin to tremble, they would be outwitted.

* * * *

It was a very messy letter. Rosalind had been in a panic when she had written it.

My Dearest M--

I have just received a letter from the Chevalier, informing me of the Prince's illness. There is something strange happening, I can feel it on my skin. All my little hairs stand on end as my maids prepare my clothes for Chambort. Each time one breezes by, it is as though someone has stepped on my grave.

The Duke came to see me one night, and, as he interrupted me, I admitted him to my chambers. I don't know why I did it, and I regretted it after, as pleasant as it had been seeing him. I know you will think me silly, but I want to apologize for being unfaithful to you. The next night I left for him some posies, bound in the colors that you wore to the tourney.

It was a week later that I heard from the Chevalier. A few days after I saw the Duke the Prince became ill. I can't imagine the Prince would send someone to spy on me, but the Chevalier is his closest confidante. That man most certainly would send someone to watch me, if not go himself. Would the Prince really become ill at this betrayal? It wouldn't be the first.

I don't like the situation. I wish you were at Chambort, you could help to prepare me. The Chevalier, I have a hard time trusting, only because he is so close to the Prince. I could see where he had tried to erase the tear stains from his letter. Hopefully his love will be all the balm the Prince needs. Were my husband to die, I would expire from guilt. The first thought I had at reading the Chevalier's letter was that I would be freed from so many troubles. I am a wretched woman. I have been praying for the Prince's health ever since.

Your Mistress,

R--

The Marechal read the letter twice before throwing it in the fire. There was too much detail in it for him to keep. He frowned when he read about Rosalind and the Duke, although he had not been surprised. It would take her a while to get over her infatuation with the man. For their first year together, he would have to be careful about asking her of her thoughts, lest she awkwardly blush and stammer, reminding him that she pined for her other lovers.

The Marechal had been impatiently waiting for her riding habits to be completed. Now he was glad he had delayed. The guilt at having abandoned her husband before a serious illness would have haunted Rosalind. If he had died while they were on their honeymoon, she would have never forgiven herself. There was nothing for him to do but to travel to Chambort to see Rosalind, and raise some more money gambling. After the court moved, his only option had been to play with the wealthy bourgeois, but they would accuse any man who won of cheating, as the Marechal had learned one night. Of course, there were times when he did cheat, but only when his own luck ran out.

It was a dangerous time to for him to be going to court. The current cabal--the widowed Queen, the new King, and the House of Guise--thought very little of him. He'd stayed in the shadows while the political upheaval went on around him. To be regarded as insignificant was the best thing for him. If he was regarded as being loyal to the late King, he'd be banished like the others. To throw his hand in the with the Queen now, he would not be trusted. It would be assumed that as soon as the wind blew another direction, he would abandon his current master. If he hadn't been planning on running off, he would have waited for the court to return to Paris, and made his debut at the gaming tables before making a formal appearance.

He would have to make a grand entrance at Chambort, no skulking back into the presence of his King and Queen. The clothes he chose were somber, plain. Humility was the only thing that could save him. From his jewelry he choose his most understated pieces, cabochons of onyx set in silver. He'd sent a man ahead of him to secure a room at an inn so he may arrive freshly bathed, not covered in road dust and reeking of horse.

He kept the Prince in his prayers. If that man could find happiness with the Chevalier, stealing his wife would weigh more easily upon the Marechal's conscience. Although, he had kept her from the Duke. One thing had always been clear, albeit unspoken, among the trio of suitors: any of them was preferable to the Duke. There was something delightful in watching him suffer.

Just before he left, he penned a note to Rosalind:

My Dear,

I'm sending this message ahead of me to Chambort. My preparations are nearly finished, although I'm glad I tarried in Paris, seeing to these last few details, otherwise there would have been an inauspicious beginning to our journey.

As always, I am your servant. I shall endeavor to find out what I can as far as court rumors when I arrive. I shall not try and see you, but I will send you letters.

I think that was a lovely gift for the Duke. I've always admired your cleverness my love.

M--

He told the messenger to fly, and gave him a sizable purse so that he may purchase fresh horses. More money was promised if he made the journey in three days. The Marechal left an hour later in his coach. He would have to stop at night, otherwise there would be rumors of a nobleman riding through the countryside like the hounds of Hell were at his heels. When he flew in his carriage, it would be with Rosalind on his knee.

* * * *

When the man approached her and furtively handed her a note, Rosalind made him stay. Surely it was word from the Marechal. Learning that he would be arriving at Chambort soon, she bade the man stay nearby and give her word of his arrival. She wished to be conducted to his rooms to greet him when he came. Reluctantly, the servant agreed to do so.

After that, she was doubly anxious. The Prince would not admit her to his chambers. Instead the Chevalier provided her with an array of excuses. He never met her eye as he spoke, and she knew there was something he wasn't telling her. It made her miserable. Thankfully the Duke was avoiding her with the same fastidiousness that she avoided him. The last thing either of them wanted was an awkward confrontation in a court where people were still settling into the new hierarchy. Any gossip would soon be used to obtain whatever favors it was worth. A story about the great Rosalind fighting with the Duke would fetch a good price.

The Chevalier was finished giving that day's excuses. The Prince had been given an emetic which had not taken affect. He didn't want the Princess to see him retching. The Prince was terribly sorry, he hoped he would be able to see his wife tomorrow. She didn't even try to get the Chevalier to stay a talk with her after he finished giving his report. Standing in the doorway, she watched him hurry back to his lover.

Rosalind remained despondent until she saw the Marechal's man standing in a corner. Glancing up and down the hall, he threw a cloak over her without a word, and brought her to a waiting carriage. "He'll be here soon. He sent word ahead to have a bath drawn for him."

"Did he say anything about me?"

"No, but that's because he does not know you will be waiting for him. We wanted your presence to be a surprise. He's been rather glum about the...delay, and we thought it would cheer him up."

She fingered the riding crop she kept hidden under her skirts, something she kept close to remind her of her lover. "Yes, I think he will be happy to see me."

She was seated on the Marechal's bed, fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. Her heart began pounding when she heard his voice, his boots approaching closer. When he opened the door, she squealed and threw her arms around him.

"Rosalind, what are you doing here? Is this why my staff has been grinning at me?" he asked, laughing as he embraced her.

He closed the door behind him, and they both wept. She helped him remove his road stained clothing then attended him during his bath. The Marechal was too sore from his journey for any games so she tucked him into bed. Laying down with him, she rested her head on his chest.

"I haven't seen the Prince yet. The Chevalier keeps giving me excuses as to why I can't."

"And the Duke?"

She sighed. "Thankfully, he's left me alone. The only person I really talk to is the Chevalier, and we don't really talk."

The Marechal held her closer. "It would seem that there is no place for us in this court, which is for the best, as we will soon be leaving." His hands strayed lower to cup her ass. "Oh, how I've missed you my love." Kissing Rosalind, the Marechal pulled up her skirts to touch her. "Heaven will be waking up next to your sweet smile. Now, let me taste you."

Gathering up her petticoats, the Princess knelt over the Marechal's face. Moaning, he took her hips and pulled his sex down to his lips. Leaning against the wall, she hissed as she felt his tongue parting her lips. As he suckled on her hidden bud, she started rocking her hips across his face. His hands were caressing her smooth thighs, gently fingering her anus. The Princess had to bite her wrist to stifle her cries. It felt like she had not been touched in ages. Her night with the Duke, he may as well have been a statue for all the feeling he stirred in her. The Marechal's lingering licks felt like declarations of love. The way his finger moved in and out of her ass, thrusting inside each time her groin clenched, was a promise to stay with her always. In the court she felt invisible, while the Marechal made her feel like the whole world.

He protested when she rose and flipped her body around. He buried his face between her legs, and started moaning into her sex as she searched under the covers for his hard phallus. Placing the smooth tip of his sex in her mouth, she stretched her lips open wide, flicking her tongue down to the base of his phallus. They were clutching one another's hips, their bodies writhing. As the Marechal's sex pulsed in Rosalind's mouth, her own groin tightened. They came together, spluttering and bucking against each other.

She cleaned off her face, then scurried back to Chambort. She snuck back into the castle without meeting any obstacles. That night she slept well, with pleasant dreams. Her and the Marechal sat side by side in a caleche, and they laughed. The next morning, she expected to find herself in the solitude of Colomiers. When the unfamiliar room came into focus, she realized she was still with the court.

Rumors of the Marechal's appearance were already circulating. He had sent a messenger to the King and Queen, requesting permission to join the court. An unnecessary formality, it was a gesture of submission that caused much speculation. No one could determine how this could be in the Marechal's interest. Rosalind did her best to look disinterested until she remembered hardly anyone watched her now. The Chevalier guarded the Prince's bedside, the Duke hid from her, and the Marechal would not watch her when he did come to court for fear of giving away their scheme.

It was late afternoon when the Marechal arrived. He treated his cold reception like a great favor, and smiled warmly at everyone. Later on, he was heard praising the new King, and his lovely chateau Chambort. Before going to bed, the Queen was heard to remark upon her surprise at the noble conduct of the Marechal.

Rosalind was looking forward to another night's peaceful rest, when the Chevalier arrived.

"The Prince is ready to see you. I'm afraid if he doesn't speak with you now--" The man's sentence was choked off by a sob.

She rose to embrace him. She had forgotten about her husband's lingering illness with the excitement of her lover's arrival. Guilt hit her, a nauseating sensation. She was about to face the end of the life her mother wanted for her. While Madame de Chartes' lessons had long been neglected, the thing which she worked the hardest for, her daughter's marriage, had survived, in one form or another. Now it was wasting away with the Prince's withered body.

The Chevalier gave her a few moments to collect herself and touch up her toilet so that she would be prepared to see her husband.

Rosalind was staring at her jewelry, unsure. "Do you think the Prince will think I'm mocking him if I wear the jewelry he gave me?" As she spoke, tears sprang to her eyes.

"No, not if those tears are sincere, and I believe they are."

* * * *

The Chevalier held onto Rosalind's hand as they walked through the halls of Chambort to the Prince's chambers. She was shaken, and the sorrow on her features was genuine. The last week had been a daze of worry, and whenever he had seen her, he had been so exhausted, he hadn't thought about what she must be feeling. Now he realized, he still loved her, and she was quite beautiful right now.

The smell of death stamped out any fires that were rekindling in the Chevalier's heart. Rosalind cried out and fell to her knees beside the bed, weeping. The Prince's eyes were glittering slits, his face white except for the dark sunken pits around his eyes. It was a minute before he reacted to the presence of his wife.

"Rosalind, do not hide yourself from me. Come, sit on my bed, hold my hand."

Sniffling, she obeyed. Her eyes were tender, but the set of her mouth spoke of guilt. She stroked the back of his hand like it was made of glass and tears rolled down her cheeks. The Chevalier had advised the Prince to make peace with his wife, that given his state she would refuse him nothing.

"I am dying. Will you finally answer my questions?"

She frowned, but nodded. Her eyes darted over to the Chevalier, and he reached out to touch her shoulder.

"Are you in love with the Duke?"

"I was, but not any more," she replied.

"Are you in love with someone now?" The Prince spoke barely over a whisper.

She was silent.

"Who is it?"

"The Marechal," she mumbled.

The Prince began to laugh, startling both his wife and lover. "I do believe the Chevalier guessed better than I did."

The Chevalier and Rosalind shared a glance, and then smiled at one another.

"Were you...were you going to run off with him?" the Prince asked, grasping her hand.

"Yes, I thought that we could finally be happy. I, disgraced in the country with the Marechal, and you and the Chevalier, happy bachelor."

"The Chevalier and I had the same plan."

They didn't speak after that, just sat there, holding hands. The Chevalier wanted to know who had been in her garden, who had stolen his cloak. It would seem he'd have to ask Rosalind later. He didn't want to disturb the solemn quiet of the pair. When the Prince drifted off into a shallow sleep, she rose to leave.

The Chevalier followed her. "Pardon me Rosalind, for asking you this during such a sensitive time. I must ask. If you know, please tell me who it was that crept into your garden at Colomiers? Whatever man it was, he stole one of my cloaks. The Prince sent a servant to keep an eye on you, and when that man returned with reports of my infidelity, the Prince became ill. In a way, whoever stole my cloak had a hand in the Prince's death, which is why I want to know his name."

She froze, and her features became hard and angry. "It was the Duke, may he burn in Hell."

"I suspected as much. As far as Hell, the Duke may live for many years yet, so I intend to make his mortal life unpleasant too," the Chevalier said coldly.

She took his hand. "If there is anything I can do, please let me know. My husband did not deserve such a death. I am grateful to you, for your patience and kindness, and love, for the Prince."

The Chevalier's heart throbbed, painful, brimming over with sweet sentiments for her. "I will take you up on your offer. As you are the only one capable of breaking the Duke's heart as the Prince's death will break mine, it would be foolish not to." He smiled, kissing her cheek.

When he returned to the Prince's side, his mind was consumed with crafting the perfect letter to send to the Duke. The Prince stirred and asked him what was on his mind. The Chevalier evaded until his lover became cross.

"In speaking with your wife, I discovered it was the Duke who snuck into your gardens, wearing a cloak he had taken from me. I'm going to use his love for Rosalind to rip out his heart, because if he hadn't stolen that cloak, I am certain you would have never fallen ill."

To the Chevalier's surprise, the Prince smiled. "This is the most cheerful I've seen you all week. For a moment, I feared you had renewed your affair with my wife, but instead you have sworn to revenge me." Taking the Chevalier's hand, the Prince brought it to his cold lips.

"It is all that is left to me. I love you Prince, and I doubt that I shall ever love another as I do you. In your memory, I shall persecute that man, and each of his tears shall appear to me as your sweet smile."

The Prince reached up to embrace the Chevalier with such force, the Chevalier tumbled onto his chest. Their lips met with the same fervor they had when they first shared Rosalind's bed. With shaking fingers, the Prince undid the Chevalier's breeches.




The Princess of Cleves #15



"I want you to take me one last time."

"You're too weak," the Chevalier protested. "I'm afraid I'll kill you."

"If I die in your arms, then I die the happiest man in the world. Here, take this unguent, and use it to grease my backside. Perhaps you can cure me of what the doctors cannot."

The Chevalier was still reluctant, but ultimately couldn't refuse his lover. He did as the Prince requested, and gently took the feeble man. When the Prince came, the Chevalier tried to withdraw, but the Prince stopped him.

"Please my love, I know this body must disgust you, but I ask that you take pleasure in me this one last time," the Prince said, clutching the Chevalier's hips.

"I am not disgusted by you, but rather I feared of hurting you. Now I see that I have hurt you, just in a different way." The Chevalier kissed the Prince, and began sliding himself in and out of him, pretending that his lover was full of life instead of a wasting husk. He came, and then seeing that the Prince's doctors would be in to attend to him soon, hurried to get dressed.



The Princess of Cleves #16



It was a brilliant plan, but she had to tell the Marechal, or he would be upset. The Chevalier was at first indifferent to the Marechal's suffering and anguish, until Rosalind mentioned that the he would probably cause all manner of trouble if his mistress suddenly changed her mind and pledged her love to another man. At this point, the Chevalier agreed. She and the Marechal were still communicating with letters, and she hoped he received this one quickly. In the hallway, they stole glances at one another. Once, she dropped a handkerchief which the Marechal nonchalantly retrieved. This month, there was little for her to do except mourn.

She and the Chevalier met at night, drafting letters to the Duke. First, she tried to write down what she remembered from the previous letters. Then, they sought to craft one which would pull at the Duke's heart strings, but not raise suspicion. In the end, they decided against outward declarations of love, and wrote something more reserved and tender.

My Dearest Duke,

For so long, I have been confused and frightened. The emotions I have for you terrified me. I tried everything in my power to quash them. I treated you with cold indifference as I lied to myself. I hid from you, but it only made me think of your absence. Whether I saw you, or avoided you, it was you that consumed my heart and mind. It was awful, to hide myself from the court, my husband, but most of all from you.

Now that the Prince has died, I feel hollow. All the times I wished him gone, it was as though God had answered my prayers to punish me. My eyes are sore from weeping, my head aches. And still, you haunt my mind. It is torture to see you as guilt stabs me to the quick, and to be apart from you is a never ending Hell.

I don't know what to do, or even why I'm writing this letter. I do not know whether I shall send it to you, or toss it to the hearth like so many others. All I can say is that you are in my thoughts. Please forgive my harsh treatment of you the last time we met. I left the Marechal's colors for you in hopes that you would forget about me, and find love with another. If you have, then simply discard this letter, and now and then, if it's not too hard, think fondly of me.

Rosalind

To complete the effect, they flicked a few drops of water on the page for tears. The Chevalier suggested they perfume it, but Rosalind thought it too coquettish, then thought better of this sentiment and drowned it in rose. Now they would just have to get the message to the Duke without his favorite, Lignerol, getting wind of it. The Marechal offered to help them. While the Duke was playing tennis one day, the Marechal slipped the missive into his pocket.

The Chevalier skulked around to see how the Duke would react to the letter. At first, when he saw the seal, his face blanched. His eyes darted around the room, then he hurried off to a private corner. The Chevalier could see his lips move as he read the letter, and soon tears had sprung to his eyes. Some were probably due to the cologne. After he dried his eyes, the Duke fled the court. That night, there were rumors that the Duke had broken off his relationship with his favorite. It was more than the Chevalier could have hoped for.

He and Rosalind anxiously waited for the Duke's reply. They expected to receive it immediately, but had to wait two restless days. It was necessary the pair avoid one another entirely. Their nervousness was painted on their skin, and if they were seen together, it would be known that they were playing some game. If the Duke caught wind of this, he would easily piece together that he was somehow involved, that there was be a retribution for the Prince's death.

Finally, Rosalind received a reply. She did not run to inform the Chevalier of this, lest the Duke be watching, but instead made a great show of franticly opening the letter, and weeping at its contents. It was in fact a very touching letter, and for a moment, she felt a touch of the emotions she had described in such florid terms.

My Dear Rosalind

You are my entire world, and I give all of myself to you. I am sorry to write such things, I know you still mourn for the Prince, and that you loved him as a friend. It is vulgar, this declaration of love, but my passion for you has rendered me a base creature. I need your tender hand to guide me in the rightness of love.

I should not confess these things to you, but I suspect you have heard rumors of them, the great Duke, conquering the court's finest ladies. At first when I saw you, that's all you were to me, a beautiful and virtuous woman with whom I would have my way.

But you resisted, and it made me want you more. And still, you turned me away, and I fell in love with you. It was stupid, I know, that I should fixate on the one thing which I could not have.

When I fell from that horse and woke to your horror stricken face, I was so happy. It was the first time you showed me you were not indifferent to my presence. When you saw me steal your portrait, but remained silent, it was the first time I thought you might love me. I was not sure, perhaps you did not wish to cause a scene. Now I see how foolish such doubts were.

I must see you. Please, send a note and tell me when we might meet. Be careful my love, I see the Chevalier skulking around you, and the Marechal watches you like a hungry cat.

Your Faithful Duke

Slipping the note in her bodice, she walked to her chambers, wiggling her fingers at the ground. It was the signal for the Chevalier to come and see her. A wide grin split his face when he read the letter, until he read the last passage.

"Do you think he suspects anything?" the Chevalier asked.

"No, the letter seems sincere."

The Chevalier could see within her features the vestiges of a great passion as she spoke of the Duke's letter. "Do you still want to do this?" If she didn't, he would lose his means of perfect revenge. Yet, in the time they had spent together, his affection for her had changed. He did not love her as he did when he first saw her, nor did he hold her close to the heart like her husband. She was a part of their time together, she had brought together the Prince and Chevalier. It felt wrong to cause her distress, she was the thing that was left of their love.

"I do. Sometimes, I think I still love him, but I understand, it's the glitter of the court that I love. It was my naivety, not my heart, that was seduced by him." Tears fell from her eyes. "The Prince sought to find happiness in our marriage, and he could not. He would have found it with you. The Duke took that away with some petty gallant's trick."

They put their heads together, and decided they would reply that night, setting up a meeting for the next evening. Then they practiced what she would say, how she would act. Tears flowed freely as their real emotions mixed with the ones they simulated. The gray light of dawn was showing by the time they finished. Their plan would have to be put off for another night. The Chevalier made sure to show himself at court, while Rosalind was indisposed. For the first time since her husband's death, she slept deeply. It would seem that purging her tears with the Chevalier had given her some respite.

* * * *

The Duke was having difficulty dressing for his meeting with Rosalind. Without Lignerol there, he wasn't even sure of what he owned, or where all his clothes were. His manservants were at a loss, looking for jewelry he'd borrowed and coats he'd worn through. It was a good thing he started dressing early, or he would have been late. His hair was disheveled, and he couldn't find his watch, but no matter, he wouldn't keep his love waiting.

He went to the bower where he was to meet her, and his heart stopped, seeing it empty. Then she moved, and he realized the gray dress she wore blended in perfectly with the shadows. A long veil concealed her face, and when she saw him, she raised it to reveal her tear stained face.

Without a word, he threw himself at her feet and began weeping in her lap. His shoulders shook as her delicate fingers traced through his hair and over his shoulders. Beneath him, he felt her tremble, and within him, his stomach formed a knot of dread. He knew something was wrong, but he refused to believe that fate would keep them apart. Clutching the case in his pocket, he gathered his strength to ask her the question burning in his mind.

"Rosalind, will you marry me," he asked, pushing the box onto her lap and opening it to reveal a matched pearl necklace.

"I...I can't." Her voice was flat and hollow.

The box fell to the ground with a clatter as his fingers went numb. "What?"

"I can't marry you. Before the Prince died, he made me swear not to marry you."

The Duke stopped breathing. His chest was so tight, that when he forced himself to breath, it was painful. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

She took his hands. "I said I cannot marry you. I'm sorry, but I promised the Prince."

"You promised not to remarry," he said slowly.

"No...I promised not to marry you."

The Duke's body went limp. He slid to the ground, his hands wrapped loosely around her ankles. His cheek rested on her red velvet slippers, tears streaming down his face. There was nothing, nothing left for him. His fingers clenched around the hilt of his dagger, and he rolled onto his back, holding it both hands. Rosalind cried out and fell upon him, knocking the his hand away.

He pushed her, sobbing, and they fought for the knife. The Duke became tangled in her skirts. When she flung the blade far away, he clasped her to him and kissed her. Her tears were like honey to him. Her faith to her dead husband couldn't be greater than her love for him. She yielded to his lips, while his hands she fended off. Finally, he lay beside her and curled into a ball.

Rosalind sat up, her chest heaving, her hair wild, leaves festooning her dress. "I must go," she said.

When she reached for the Duke's waist, he thought she had changed her mind, and he sought to touch her face. She ducked her head away from his fingers, and nimbly took his sword. He watched her with a look of amazement as she stooped and retrieved his dagger from beneath a bush.

"I do not trust these with you."

As she walked away, the Duke's eyes blurred with tears. "Rosalind," he whispered. He had more blades, he was sure there were poisonous draughts to be found in Paris. It wasn't what she wanted though. She must still love him.

The Duke sprang to his feet after her. Catching her shoulder, he spun her around. There were tears all down her cheeks, and her pretty mouth quivered.

"Don't cry, if you wish me to live that is enough for me, even if we can't be together."

He wrapped his arms around her, and he gave a great sigh of contentment.

"Please, tell me, where will you go?" he asked, holding her tight to him.

"To a nunnery."

"What? Is this your husband's doing? Was he so jealous that his dying wish was for the flower of the French court to rot among relics and dottering old women?" He felt her shake her head against his chest. "This is your desire?" She nodded. "What a wretched wish."

She pushed him away. "What is wretched about mortifying myself in front of God, expiating my sins?" she asked angrily.

The Duke took hands. "God made you beautiful, and charming. What sins could you have committed Rosalind?"

"The death of my husband, with my lover as my accomplice. Your trick to conceal your identity worked Monsieur, for he thought the Chevalier climbed into my garden. He thought his wife and closest confidante betrayed him, and his jealousy killed him."

Her words were like ice in his heart, and the hatred that flashed in her eyes, subsuming her love, was real. The Duke stumbled to his knees, clutching her skirt. "I killed him Rosalind, not you. Please, do not shut yourself away from this world for my sin." He thought the worst thing in the world was her rejection, but it was knowing he had condemned her to eternal misery.

"It is our sin. I wanted to tell you, before you first attacked yourself, and then me, that you should do the same. This earth shall be a Hell to us, but we will find our reward in Heaven."

"No, Rosalind, no, I will not become a monk. God wants us to be happy."

Shaking her head, she withdrew, her face closing. His heart sank as she pressed his sword and dagger to him, as if she no longer cared for his immortal soul. "No, God has given me this sorrow to lead me to Him. Goodbye, Duke."

As she curtseyed, she held her hand out for the Duke to kiss. That was the last time he saw her. Soon after their meeting, she disappeared. Until she did, he lived in mortal terror lest he see her and do something rash. He had to leave the court, he needed Lignerol, but he didn't know where his favorite had gone. While they may have quarreled, the Duke still sent him away well provisioned. There was nothing else to do but leave, and try to find him.

He ordered his servants to pack for a long journey, and he bought a lovely carriage with fine leather equipages. The horses he purchased were ones Lignerol had shown him, in hopes that he would love them as Lignerol loved them. Instead, the Duke declared them expensive. But money was useless to the Duke: he needed Lignerol.

* * * *

The Marechal was frowning at his two co-conspirators. Rosalind was disheveled, and the Chevalier's cheeks were colored with excitement.

"So, how did the Duke take the news?" the Marechal asked.

Instead of replying, she lowered her head and blushed. From the vicious grin that lit the Chevalier's face, the Marechal knew it had been ugly. "Well, don't keep me waiting. You two are being cruel."

"No, not I, it's only Rosalind who is cruel. The Duke would have plunged a dagger into his heart were it not for her." The Chevalier began to laugh. "She waited for him to fall to his knees and propose. And then..."

The Marechal stepped closer to Rosalind as the Chevalier began to cackle. The man appeared to be mad with grief, and it unnerved him. He collected his love to his side while the Chevalier gasped.

"I am sorry. It was just brilliant, she told him the Prince made her promise not marry him." Tears glittered in his eyes. "Mind you, he didn't make her promise not to remarry, only that she would not marry the Duke. He was undone. That was when he flopped back and..." The Chevalier took out his dagger, and with his tongue lolling from his mouth, held it before him as though he were about to plunge it into his breast.

"And Rosalind leapt upon him, flinging away his blade," the Chevalier said, waving his knife around before sheathing it. "The Duke importuned her with kisses, and she held him at arm's length."

"Will you calm yourself?" 

The Chevalier had been spinning, his mouth stretched wide, about to begin again. At these words, he stopped, embarrassed. "I'm sorry. The Duke chased after her, and she told him, stricken with guilt at her husband's death, she was going to be a nun."

The Marechal let out a loud guffaw at this. They all began laughing then, their faces flushing red. They laughed so hard, they had to sit on the floor, and still, it would not cease. It wasn't until their ribs hurt, their faces were wet with tears, and their mouths dry, that they stopped. Then, they could barely move. The Marechal stood up first. He helped the Chevalier and Rosalind to the couch.

There was not much space, and they all lay together. The Chevalier reached out to take the Rosalind's hand. The Marechal did not object. Secretly, he had always been jealous of the Prince's arrangement with the Chevalier. He too wanted to see her possessed by another man. Looking at the Chevalier, he saw sorrow etched on every feature. Her eyes were closed. With her other hand, she reached out to run her fingers through the Marechal's hair. He felt her grip tighten, and he melted against her. When the Chevalier began to lift up her skirts, the Marechal started unlacing her gown.

Rosalind shivered.

Leaning close to her, the Chevalier whispered, "Do you want me to stop?"

Behind her, the Marechal shook his head. "No."

"I didn't ask you."

In reply, the Princess pressed her lips to the Chevalier and her buttocks to the Marechal. Acting in concert the men stripped her in seconds. She whimpered, and she started pulling off the Chevalier's clothes. They were naked now, their limbs twined around one another. The Chevalier took her as the Marechal held her.

To watch his love in another man's arms, to hear her pant as he gave her pleasure, it was the ultimate humiliation. He understood the pleasure the Prince had taken in being cuckolded. Rubbing her asshole, he made her orgasm, and the Chevalier came as well. The Marechal slipped into her from behind, and she started moaning. His sex slick with the Chevalier's seed, he pressed the tip of his phallus against her anus.

"Yes," she moaned.

The Marechal slowly forced himself inside her, one hand clutching her breast, the other holding her hips. Her body twitched on him, and he could feel the Chevalier's fingers moving inside her. Finally, he pressed his full length into her anus, gently moving in and out. Meeting the Chevalier's eyes, he paused. Rosalind cried out as the Chevalier found his vigor renewed and took her again.

The Marechal could feel her silken skin pressed against his chest, and the Chevalier's coarse hands moving over her. She threw her head back, a harsh guttural sound escaping her throat. Her legs twitched as her body convulsed. The men had to hold her as she bucked, her powerful orgasm making them both come.

They lay caressing Rosalind after. It was well into the second sleep before the little party dispersed. She would flee with the Marechal, and they would be wed in secret. To the Chevalier they extended an open invitation to visit.

The Marechal barely slept the next few days, he was so busy with the preparations for their trip. At night, he fantasized of being left bound, gagged, and naked on the floor while the Chevalier made love to Rosalind. In his day dreams, they would beat him, step on him, and laugh at him. Then, he would have his turn. He would tie them so they were on all fours, and he would use their orifices as he pleased. With a pretty little quirt, he would beat them pink and raw.

When the time finally came for them to escape, as soon as the carriage door shut behind Rosalind, he fell upon her. She squealed with delight, and he found her in a state ready to meet him. They made love in the carriage, and after that, the Marechal fell asleep in her arms. Deep cloaks hid their faces at their evening stops. It was a fortnight's journey, but it was worth it. Two days after their arrival, they were wed.

* * * *

Lignerol had settled at an inn a few days away from Paris. He'd been drowning his sorrows in his cups and gambling. After only a week, he was already down half the purse the Duke had given him. It was late, and he was in his normal position, slumped over in his seat with his head on the table. Half asleep, he was dreaming of the Duke.

He heard his lover's voice, and the rhythm of the steps approaching him were so familiar. "No..." he moaned. "It's just a dream."

There was a hand on his shoulder.

"Just leave me." Looking up, he saw the bottle in front of him was empty. "Bring more wine first."

"I think you've had enough wine, Lignerol."

Opening his eyes wider, he found the Duke was sitting in front of him. "What the fuck do you want?" he slurred.

The Duke stared at the table.

"She didn't want you, did she? She just wanted to rip out your heart, her, the Chevalier, and the Marechal. You're a fool."

"What?"

Lignerol turned and looked him in the eyes. "You are a fool, my master. The Chevalier loved the Prince, and the Prince returned his love."




The Princess of Cleves #16



The Duke's face blanched.

"Ah, I see you understand now. The Chevalier easily convinced the Princess to help him gain his revenge on you. They crafted that letter to drive you mad. "

"She's not going to a nunnery, she's going to leave with the Marechal," the Duke stated.

"Of course she is. Have you noticed that man's gambling habits of late? No, how could you, you're a selfish ass. If you weren't, you'd have noticed that the Marechal has been winning a lot more than he normally does. He's also been working on his country house."

The Duke put his head in his hands and began to cry.

"More wine," Lignerol shouted. "You know I can't abide a sober man when I'm drunk. God, stop crying. If you're going to sit here and weep about her, I'll never speak with you again."

Wiping his eyes, the Duke drank down the cup that was been placed in front of him. "Why do I leave you?"

"The same reason I take you back, stupidity. This is the last time. If you want to chase around some maids or grooms I don't care, I know you'll never be faithful. She is the last noblewoman I will sit and watch you fawn over." Lignerol refilled the Duke's glass.

As always, the Duke became amorous as he drank. They had to retire to Lignerol's room, as the Duke's wandering hands were attracting too much attention.

The Duke fell on the bed, and started to cry again.

"If you say her name, I swear to God I will kill us both."

"No, no, it's not that. It's you, I've always treated you cruelly, taken you for granted."

Lignerol patted his head. "You've said this before."

"I know. Do you remember those horses you showed me?"

"What?"

"Those horses you wanted me to buy."

Lignerol laughed. "I was just teasing you. They were pretty, but overpriced."

"Well, I bought them. I've packed my things, and brought a carriage. We shall go wherever you wish. I know I've said these things before, and I've meant them every time. Now, I will leave you as master of my conduct so that I will be true to them." The Duke took off his signet ring and gave it to Lignerol.

Lignerol slipped the ring onto his finger. "Does this mean I get to monitor your correspondence?"

"Everything, I give you everything, you're the only person who could love a bastard like me." The Duke's keys clattered as he gave them to his favorite. "Here, take my sword, and you will be the Duke, and I shall be Lignerol."

"Oh, Duke!" Lignerol could not forebear embracing him, kissing him, at this sacrifice. "My sweet Duke," he murmured, pulling off the Duke's breeches.

"Lignerol..."

Their lips met. Lignerol spat in his hand and rubbed his sex. Beneath him the Duke squirmed, bringing the tip of Lignerol's phallus to his anus. Arching his back, the Duke drove Lignerol into him. Gasping, Lignerol clutched him, plunging deeper and deeper into the Duke. A few strokes, and the Duke came. Lignerol soon followed.

It took the servants a while to become accustomed to calling Lignerol the Duke, and the Duke as his favorite Lignerol. They traveled to foreign courts and were declared charming by all. The pair had never been more content, even if the Duke's skills as an attendant left much to be desired.

* * * *

The Princess and Marechal had wedded and set up house. It was a modest manor, and they kept only five servants. The Princess helped to putter in the garden, and the Marechal would hunt game for the table. The Chevalier had just left, and they were both tender from all the games they had played. At the moment, neither cared.

The Marechal had bound the Princess' arms behind her back, thrown her over the bed, and now was behind her, pumping furiously. Her face was turning red as she held her breath, and when her body convulsed with an orgasm, the Marechal spilt his seed.

Standing back, he watched his seed dribble from her. Her back was arched, her pert buttocks begging for abuse. Taking up his riding crop, he started to slap her. She writhed and moaned; he could see her groin clench and release. When her skin was bright red, he was again rock hard. He wet himself inside her womb before he took her anus. The silken slick skin gripped his sex as he moved in and out of her. He worked one hand beneath her, to stroke her little bud, and he made come again and again. Her last orgasm squeezed every drop of seed from his body.

He untied her bindings, and they lay in one another's arms. The Princess drowsed, and the Marechal informed the servants that they would have a bath. It was an idyllic existence. Murmurs would reach them from court. The Duke de Nemours was traveling abroad. The House of Guise fell. They did not trouble themselves about such things. Instead, they managed their affairs with little regard for the world around them. Soon, they had to hire a nanny and tutor for their children.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Thank you everyone for reading!

Please note: this story is based on the novel by Mme de La Fayette.