Princess Mary noted Rosalind's pink cheeks. She had already been vexed by the Queen's messengers asking for the letter. Ostensibly, that jealous woman believed the letter to belong to the Viscount de Chartes, her favorite. Mary had sent them away with some thin excuse that the letter was in the clothes she wore yesterday, which had gone abroad with their keepers. She knew what really was on the Queen's mind, that there was some affair between Mary and a nobleman. If she said she gave the letter to the Viscount's niece, the Queen would be think she was somehow mixed up in the matter.
So, she had been impatiently waiting for Rosalind, only to have her arrive pink and flushed from her husband's arms. It made her only more beautiful. That Rosalind had chosen to wear the bracelet she gave her bore ill augury. Whatever she had to say to Mary, it would not please her.
"What has kept you? I have been waiting two hours for you to report to me. Did you bring the letter?" she demanded as Rosalind curtseyed. The color drained from her face, and Mary knew her news. "What has happened to the letter, tell me quickly."
Rosalind gaped for a moment before she formed a story. "I am sorry your Highness, but my husband has given the letter to the Duke. I gave it to the Prince to read. When the Duke came to beg me to get it from you, my careless husband revealed to the Duke we had the letter." She looked at Mary, and knew that she saw through her lie, that something else had happened. "The Duke entreated my husband to give him the missive, and he yielded. I don't know what you shall do, as I do not have the letter to give you."
"Now what will I tell the Queen? She will be convinced that the Viscount de Chartes is my lover and she will give me no peace." Mary gave her a hard look. "As it was I who gave you the letter, did you not think it appropriate to return it to me?"
"I grieve to see you so distressed, but it was not my fault, it was my husband who gave the Duke the letter," Rosalind said, staring at the ground.
Mary knew she was lying. There was no doubt in Mary's mind that the Duke had charmed the letter from the girl. "What woman includes her husband in every petty intrigue? It is your fault, your's alone, and even worse you blame it on the Prince."
"Of course you are right, pardon me. Perhaps it is best that we focus on how to mitigate the consequences as opposed to speaking of who is to blame," she replied.
"Spoken like one who is at fault." As angry as she was, Mary could not resist stroking her mahogany hair. "You must reproduce the letter from memory, and in a hand with which the Queen is unfamiliar." She leaned down to whisper into Rosalind's ear, "And I will expect you at six o'clock. Our agreement did not extend to circumstances which you are almost my ruin." She blushed and her breath came shallow and fast. "Go find your husband, and have him help." Mary waved her away, and she ran from the room, her face red with shame.
* * * *
A step behind Rosalind was the Marechal. Everyone noticed how he was Rosalind's shadow as she moved about the court. He took her arm, and did his best to hide how her present state was affecting him. The Duke had somehow gotten into her room, and he'd taken her. There was a subtle peace to her movements, when normally she was agitated. She had to pull her lips down in order to frown, instead of lifting them up in a hollow smile. He wanted to throw himself in her path so she could trample on him. As he thought of it he shivered, his sex painfully throbbing against his breeches. He turned to look at her, and she was staring back. She nodded, and he started. When she smiled at him, she showed her little teeth.
The Marechal wracked his brain for a place to take her, somewhere that would be empty, where they would not be seen. Two turns and they would be at his chambers; if no one saw them, he could simply lock his door and tell her she must be quiet. Looking around, he saw not a soul, and he dragged her to a trot. Slamming the door behind them, he dropped his keys. He had to catch his breath before he locked them into the room.
Rosalind flopped down onto the Marechal's bed. He crawled over to her, and began to kiss her feet, slipping them out of her shoes.
The smell of sex overwhelmed him as he began to move his mouth up her legs. She slid her groin closer to him, and he wrapped his arms around her thighs as he buried his face between her legs. Her lips were hot and swollen, and the Marechal licked them lightly. He flicked his tongue over the opening of her sex, consuming the liquid that oozed from her, the trace of her and the Duke's love, as she quivered. He moaned, and she moaned, grinding against his face. He rubbed her asshole, and pressed his tongue inside her. She fluttered on his mouth and whimpered as she came.
He rubbed his cheek against her thigh. With one finger, he felt her little bud throb. She lifted up one foot, stuck it on his chest, and kicked him out from under her skirts.
The Marechal lay on his back, looking up at her, and wriggled. If he moved like a worm she would know that he wanted to be crushed like one. She rose, and prodded his leg with her toe. She did not put her little slippers back on, but instead stepped onto his thigh. The Marechal reached up to give her his hands, to help her balance, and she slapped them away. She carefully curled her foot over his femur, transferred her weight, then planted the ball of her other foot in his groin. He wanted to writhe against her foot, but instead peeked at her through his half closed eyes. There was a wicked smile on her face, and he almost came.
She shifted more of her weight onto his groin and he susurrated when she placed her foot in his chest. He reached up to touch her legs, and she smashed her foot into his face. When she stuck her toes into his mouth, he nibbled at them. Giggling, she almost lost her balance and he grabbed her hips to steady her.
Rosalind felt silly then, locked away in a room, standing on some man. The Marechal could read her thoughts in her wide uncertain eyes.
"What is it Rosalind? I know what's put you in a good mood, but not why you're frowning," the Marechal said, seeing her expression change.
"There's all that intrigue about the letter. The Duke is in the middle of it."
"The Duke, it does not surprise me, that man is prone to intrigue. Surely only a very naive woman would fawn over such a man." The Marechal tried very hard not to smile as he spoke.
Her lips pulled down in a moue and she put her foot over his mouth. "You, you are not to speak. You are far too clever. I want you kneeling in front of me." When she stepped off him he scrambled to his knees. "Is that your riding gear?"
The Marechal looked at her, and then at the pile of clothes in the corner, from which the handle of his riding crop peeked out. He licked his lips as his heart began to throb.
"Strip." The Marechal was thrown into confusion as he undressed. As soon as he revealed a patch of bare skin, the Princess would trace his flesh with the crop's leather tip. He blushed furiously under her eyes. Removing his breeches, she massaged his sex with the whip. When he tried to kiss her hands she took his hair in her hand and pulled so he was down on all fours. She started to hit him lightly, against his shoulders and the meat of his buttocks, quick fiery stings. Growing bold, she hit him harder and he gasped. There were hot licks on his ribs, his thighs; she would reach down and pull his hair, rub his genitals with the crop. She beat him, each blow inflamed another, a fiery network crisscrossing his skin until he came.
