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."