Victoria Janssen - The Duchess, Her Maid, the Groom & Their Lover

Her husband had drizzled wine from Marrine’s breasts to her thighs, and was currently snuffling in her quim while she swatted at his flanks with a handful of the roses. He waved a negligent hand and said, “Vilmos, take her to her rooms and secure the door. Bring her back to me next week, and we shall see if she is more amenable.” Then he returned to his concubine. She was forgotten. Camille felt cold. The duke’s treatment of her made it obvious that he no longer cared if she became pregnant or not. She was only a toy to him now, and one of which he would soon tire.

Her time was rapidly running out.

CHAPTER FOUR

By the time Henri finished mucking out Guirlande’s stall and carting the soiled straw to compost, the moon was up. He stopped midway back to look at the stars.

Even a stableboy could be dazzled by the glory of the night sky. His heart slowed and swelled with awe. He couldn’t touch the stars, but he had touched the duchess.

He sighed and trundled his smelly wheelbarrow back to the yard. He needed to stop thinking of his afternoon with the duchess, stop making it into more than it had been. She had used him. Hadn’t she?

He couldn’t deny that, secretly, he had wanted her for years. Desire had slowly replaced his earlier fantasies that she’d singled him out for equestrian training because he was somehow special. Now the danger was past, he didn’t even mind she’d used him. There was no other way he could have had her.

How bovine he’d been, blurting out that he would help her escape. As if she would ever need him to rush to her rescue. Her maid was loyal, and her eunuchs. There would be others, too, greater than a stableboy. He wondered if any of them cared for her at all.

He took a last walk down the row of his charges, petting the noses of those horses still awake and eyeing him over their stall doors. He would have to be up early to school Tulipe in the ring, and Lilas needed to be conditioned on the longe line. Guirlande, he sensed, would be coming into season soon, and possibly Tonnelle also. That would mean a trip to one of the far-flung breeding barns and, for him, relative luxury. Not only would he be caring for far fewer horses, he wouldn’t be assigned odd jobs, as when he was easily in view of the stable- master and his chief grooms. He wouldn’t be catching the associated random blows. Even better, the breeding barns were built in past days of unimaginable affluence, for a duke who had loved his horses, so the hayloft where Henri slept would rival—well, he had used to think it would rival the very bedchamber of the duke, but today he had been disabused of that notion. It didn’t matter. Small luxuries were easier to enjoy.

He felt again the weight and smoothness of her dress as it sagged from his hands, inhaled the flowery perfume she’d worn in the crook of her neck. While he, Henri, stank of horse sweat and dung. She hadn’t flinched from his hands upon her. Still, he hadn’t dared touch her face, or kiss her lips. He wished now he had. Then he would feel they’d known each other, however briefly.

It was childish of him to expect so much. She was as far above him as the stars, and old enough to be his mother. It was true many men took brides much younger than themselves, so perhaps it wasn’t so awful. Why not the reverse? He imagined her in his imaginary cottage, gorgeously gowned, rocking a cradle, and he laughed. More likely he’d be rocking the baby and changing nappies.

He turned away from Tonnelle and headed out the double doors, into the night. His body hummed. He couldn’t sleep yet.

It was late, but not too late for a bath. Perhaps, afterward, he would indulge in something more. The Dewy Rose specialized in all sorts of relaxations, and he never spent much of his paltry wages, sleeping as he did amid the horses. Perhaps he would share some of his money with the girls of the Dewy Rose. He could afford one of the cheaper whores. For an hour, perhaps. He always allowed himself the possibility, though in the end he usually decided to save his money, knowing that if he was frugal, his own cottage would be real that much sooner.

He walked into the town, principal seat of the duchy. The streets were more active than the estate had been. Drunken revelers spilled from a tavern near the gate, coaches rattled over the cobbles, and a raucous game of dice devoured an entire alley. Most of the street whores ignored him. He looked like empty pockets. He was just as happy to be on his way unmolested. It hurt him to look at the streetgirls’ eyes.

The Dewy Rose, a massive building of rough gray stone, towered three stories over the neighbors on either side, its white windowsills scrubbed clean daily and the shingled roof trimmed with decorative strips of copper. Its baths were cheap and popular. It cost extra, though, to climb the stairs with one of the girls, and cost considerably more for one of the young men Madame Hubert had imported from a desert land far to the south. He had glimpsed them once or twice, on his way to the baths: slender men with flawless skin and dark outlining around their eyes, wearing only long silken drawers, layers of necklaces and silver rings on their bare toes. The duchess might have bought herself one of those, through an intermediary. Except their skin was too dark for any child of theirs to pass as the duke’s.

Torches crackled at either side of the grand front entrance. Henri shoved open the carved oaken door and was confronted by a giant elderly eunuch wearing a black robe. He silently held out one slablike palm, and Henri laid a quarter-copper there. The eunuch’s hand closed over it; with his other hand, he jerked a thumb at the corridor beyond. Manic laughter swelled from the house’s interior, mingled with the clink of goblets and knives and, faintly, a twinging harp.

The common room’s doors were folded back to allow heat to escape, and to let the bath’s patrons have a preview of the evening’s entertainment. Henri had meant to pass straight by. He could not resist a look, though, to see if his memories of the room’s appointments compared ill or favorably with those of the duchess’s.

He could not see much of the furnishings. The long buffet table bore food on either end and a nude woman in the middle; two men in shirtsleeves were licking honey and wine from her belly and breasts. A couple copulated in the chair nearest the door. The woman, bodice pulled down to her waist, gripped the arms of the chair to raise and lower herself on her partner’s swollen red cock, her white buttocks flashing as her minuscule skirt fluttered with each stroke. Henri gaped, amazed that they were allowed to do that in the common room, even in a brothel, until he saw a ring of watchers. This was some staged entertainment, like the two women arranged on a chaise by the fireplace, one daintily fondling the other, who plunged an ivory dildo into herself. One of the male whores was massaging her feet. She looked up, as if awaiting orders. Henri followed her gaze to the center of the room and saw the duchess.

He had seen that court gown at a distance, and the outline of her hair confined within its tiara was familiar to him from the coin he’d just placed in a eunuch’s palm. The skin around his cock tightened automatically. Except—she could not be here. She would not be here. He looked closer, and of course the duchess was only Madame Hubert, was only a whore.

If he emptied his savings and paid her fee, he could have her. Well, almost. In a year or two he would have enough. For a moment he considered it; but it would be a mockery. He felt ashamed even for letting the thought cross his mind.