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.