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.