Jillian Hunter: The Wicked Duke Takes a Wife

Thus beheld by him in her rawest state, Harriet could hardly be expected to fade into the background. And as to disregarding her personal needs, the duke seemed devoted to encouraging just the opposite. She doubted he would leave an inch of her not completely kissed and conquered before he was done. His tapered fingers made a leisurely study of her back, stroking across her bottom, then sweeping up again to her breasts. She would have expressed her enjoyment quite eloquently had he not rendered her too aroused to articulate a sentence.

Indeed, he paid her unclad form such tribute that she became impatient for the chance to return the favor. At length, with one arm wrapped around the bedpost, she brought the other up to the hair knotted at her nape and pulled out all the pins.

He drew back.

The dark flare in his eyes acknowledged her desire to participate. She unwound her arm from the post and brought her hands to his chest. His eyes widened in pleasure.

“I have never let a woman undress me before tonight,” he confessed as she went to work on his coat, waistcoat, neckcloth, and shirt.

She smoothed her fingers over his well-muscled chest. “And I never knew you were a champion archer until the breakfast party.”

He bent his head, his kiss leaving her dizzy and breathless. “It’s a damned good thing you didn’t walk past me as I took aim.”

He caught her hand on its way into his waistband. “I shall take care of that. Lie down, my love, and let me gaze at you while I do it.”

She reclined back on the bed, grateful that this was his suite and there were no hideous decorations on the headboard to wake up to in the morning. She still couldn’t believe she would sleep beside him and see his face whenever she opened her eyes.

She could see far more than his face right now, and her heart pounded at the beauty of his lithe virility. In fact, the warm reality of his body filled her with a wonderful desperation. She parted her thighs without prompting as he slid up the bed between her legs. His mouth grazed her soft white breasts. Her nipples darkened and stiffened instantly. With nary a thought to propriety, she reached up and allowed herself full knowledge of her husband’s amorous skills. The world fell away as she applied herself to unparalleled midnight pleasures and acts of creation that were anything but polite.

She hooked her legs over his backside. He groaned, slipping his hands under her rump until the head of his erection pushed deeply into her passage. She ran her hands down his back and felt his beautiful body tremble.

“‘Fear not,’” her wicked husband quoted as he possessed her in the throes of uncontrollable passion, “‘that I shall be the instrument of future mischief. My work is nearly complete.’”

Great God! What a scene has just taken place!… I demand a creature of another sex, but as hideous as myself… It is true we shall be monsters… but on that account we shall be more attached to one another .

Frankenstein was published anonymously in 1818 in three volumes (not as a single novel) and became an instant bestseller. Thirteen years later Mary Shelley admitted authorship and confessed to the public that her groundbreaking novel had been conceived one rainy summer in Geneva during a competition against three other novelists to produce the best ghost story.

Mary won, still a teenager, and invented the science-fiction genre. I became fascinated with her life and work over a decade ago while researching a short novel I was writing about a horror novelist.

Mary was sixteen when she ran away with poet Percy Bysshe Shelley. Their marriage was plagued with scandals and personal tragedy and reads nothing like a modern-day romance. Percy drowned in 1822. Mary died of a brain tumor when she was fifty-three.

For errors made and liberties taken, I hope that Mary and my readers will “compassionate” me. If not, let Percy have the last word:

“What!”-Cried he, “this is my reward

For nights of thought, and days of toil?

Do poets, but to be abhorred

By men of whom they never heard,

Consume their spirit’s oil?”

I hope you will be inspired to read Frankenstein if you have not done so, and discover Mary Shelley’s brilliance and her fascinating life as a writer and feminist.

Cheers,

JILLIAN HUNTER