The Princess of Cleves #13

The Chevalier was watching the Prince. It was clear the man struggled with some strong emotion. He wondered what had passed between Rosalind and him when she made her request to stay in Colomiers. From way the Prince kept looking at the Chevalier, he had a feeling she had revealed their private trysts to him, though he wasn't sure. The Prince, he wasn't angry; he just looked hurt and troubled. After they were done attending the King, the Prince approached him. They didn't speak to one another as they traveled back to the Prince's private quarters.

When they were alone, the Chevalier thought it best to admit any fault before the Prince spoke. "I believe from the looks you've been giving me, your wife has told you that sometimes we see one another without you there," the Chevalier said as he sat on the Prince's bed. By the time he thought better of this choice, the Prince was sitting beside him, reaching for his hands.

"Yes, she did. I was jealous, until she said you often spoke of me." The Prince was intent on the Chevalier, ready to judge his reaction.

The Chevalier blushed and turned away, embarrassed that his lover knew he sought solace from his wife. "She's the only person I can talk to about you," he mumbled. The Prince reached his arms out, and with a sigh the Chevalier fell against his chest. "I am sorry."

"Don't apologize. After all, I encouraged you."

The Chevalier turned to the Prince, wary that there was some double meaning behind his words. "You're not angry?"

"No, I'm not." The Prince took a deep breath, holding the Chevalier closer. For a moment, he lay there with his lover, and forgot that his wife loved another whose name he did not know.

"What did the King want with you?"

"He wishes Rosalind and I to conduct Madame Elisa to Spain," the Prince replied.

"That is quite an honor."

Silence stretched out, and the Chevalier reached out to touch the Prince's cheek. Their lips met, and they lay on the bed, covering one another with languid kisses. The Prince pushed the Chevalier under him and began to remove his clothes. Each stretch of skin he revealed, the Prince covered with his lips, caressed with his fingers. The Chevalier felt his stomach churning in knots. He knew there was something troubling the Prince, and he wanted to talk with him about Rosalind and her desire to retire from court. His head was fuzzy, and the Prince's touch chased away all semblance of coherent thought. The Prince was removing his own clothes, their boots, tugging back the covers for him and the Chevalier.

He was rubbing himself against the Chevalier, when he noticed the frown on the Chevalier's face. "What is it?" Looking into the Chevalier's eyes, he could see the man struggling to gather his thoughts. He drew back from him, allowing his lover to collect his mind.

His head clearing, the Chevalier recalled Rosalind's request for aid in retiring from the court. He wasn't sure he wanted to discuss that instead of making love to the Prince. He leaned forward to kiss him when the Prince grabbed his shoulders.

"No, you wanted to talk to me about something. What was it?"

"I want to know what's troubling you."

"Did my wife tell you she wished to retire from court?"

The Chevalier jerked his hands in the air, searching for an answer.

"She wanted your help to convince me."

"Yes."

"Did she make any suggestions as far as methods to persuade me?" the Prince asked, pulling the Chevalier closer to him. The tip of the Chevalier's sex quivered against his stomach, a bead of moisture wetting the Prince's skin.

"No..."

Their lips met again, their naked limbs twined together. The Chevalier oiled his phallus and began to work his finger into the Prince's anus. They made love, and the Chevalier spent the night.

When they awoke that morning, they were loathe to leave the bed. The Prince took the Chevalier, the slender man quivering and moaning as the Prince moved within him. With his hand slick with the Chevalier's dew, the Prince worked the head of his phallus. The Prince came as he felt the Chevalier surging in his hands. He bit into Chevalier's shoulder as he spilt his seed, feeling himself washing back down over his phallus as he shuddered.

The Chevalier drowsed in the Prince's arms. "If we go to the country, I want you to come with us."

The Chevalier twisted to face the Prince. "What did you say?"

"Rosalind told me to send away both the Duke, and the Marechal. She never said anything about you. We both want you to come with us."

Tears stung the Chevalier's eyes, and he shook in the Prince's arms. "You don't mean that, do you?"

The Prince kissed his lover's face. "Yes, we are fond of you."

"Do you think we could all sleep in the same bed?" There was a look on the Chevalier's face, joy and wonder.

"We could. We might have pay the servants more to keep them from talking."

The Chevalier laughed, kissing the Prince's face and hand. "I love you, and I love Rosalind."

"I...I love you too," the Prince stuttered, blushing. The Chevalier frowned, and the Prince clutched him to his chest. "No, don't be angry, I do, it's just...I'm married."

"And I'm a man."

The Prince met the Chevalier's eyes. While there was no expression on his face, the Prince could see the amusement in his eyes. "Yes, there's that as well. We need to get dressed now, and you need to sneak away."

At those words, the Chevalier's heart stopped beating. Sneaking, spying, he could no longer do these things if he moved to the country with the Cleves. Would he want to though, nestled between the Prince and Princess, would he even care that there was a court in Paris?

"You don't have to come with us, of course. I'd understand if you'd miss the court," the Prince said, staring at the floor as he pulled on his stockings.

"If I miss the court I can visit," the Chevalier replied without hesitation. The two men smiled at one another. The Chevalier had never been happier, and the Prince was relieved. He would do as his wife wished, they would move to the country. Thank God their parents were gone and didn't have to live through the scandal of their marriage.

* * * *

The weather was fair, but Rosalind did not enjoy it. She was nauseated, bouncing about in the carriage, and not looking forward to seeing her husband. Her head was pounding, she hadn't slept, all she could think about was the inquisition waiting for her. Somehow, the swaying rhythm lulled her into a light sleep. She jerked awake when they stopped. It took a few minutes for her to exit, her limps were all pins and needles.

She found her husband in their chambers, writing. He greeted her with a warm embrace and a kiss. Searching his face, she found him surprisingly content. In response to her puzzled look, the Prince gestured to a chair. "Please, sit love. I wanted to talk to you."

Frowning, Rosalind settled herself into a chair. "I would assume this concerns my retirement."

"Among other things." For a moment they just looked at each other, both reluctant to begin an unpleasant conversation. The Prince found his mind flicking between the Marechal and the Duke, wondering which man had so captivated his wife, and what secret they used. With a sigh, he shook his head. "You know what it is that I wish to ask."

"I think I'm going to pretend that I do not," she replied, giving the Prince a weak smile.

"Take pity on me, think of the unbearable position in which you have put me. You have made an extraordinary confession, yet have not given me a name." When she replied by only clenching her teeth, the Prince continued. "I do not hold you at fault for giving to another that which is mine, it is the folly of a young heart, grown too cold under your mother's care. Can you fault me for my most natural, most human, curiosity?"

"I don't know what to say," the Princess said, her stony eyes fixed on the ground. "I die with shame when I think I have betrayed you, and the memory of my mother. I conjure you, spare me such cruel questioning."

"What do you wish of me then?" the Prince asked, his voice harsher than he intended.

She shirked away from him, and her reply was very soft. "Please, stay by my side and regulate my conduct, and let see no one. All I wish is to try and be worthy of you."

"Forgive me. I abuse your goodness, and your confidence. We will speak no more of this, I swear." When she started to sniffle, he knelt down and kissed her hands.

"No, it is I who should be begging for your pardon. All you have done is love me, and for it you have received nothing but pain," she murmured.

The Prince rose so swiftly to stare into his wife's eyes, she started in her chair. "If you wish to be worthy of me, you will never say such things again." Returning to his seat, the Prince took a moment to collect himself. "There is something else we need to discuss, though this I think will please you."

"Will we be traveling far away?" she asked.

"Spain, actually."

She looked at him surprised. "What?"

"The King has asked us to accompany Madame Elisa to Spain after her marriage. Everyone felt that you would be a credit to the court." Now the Prince paused. Rosalind was still nervous, and her sleepless night showed plainly on her face. He felt guilty for what he was about to say, but still, it would answer an important question. "The Marechal may join us. Would you like that?" He was watching her intently as he spoke, waiting for her to react to the name of the man she loved.

"Oh, I am sure he will be well received by the Spanish court," she said.

It wasn't a strong reaction. "If he can outshine the Duke he will, for there are rumors that he will accompany Madame as well."

At that word, Duke, her eyes flew open and her face blanched. The thought of being exposed to his presence over a long journey with her husband and the Marechal watching her made he feel ill. She did her best to feign indifference, and said to her husband, "I hope that is not the case, or the honors that would have been given to you and the Marechal will be his instead."

"Is that what causes you such distress, honor?"

She gave a feeble nod, not trusting her voice.

"I think there is something else that causes your uneasiness. Any other woman in your position would be overjoyed to find themselves in such close quarters with their lover, but instead you are distraught. Don't worry, neither the Marechal nor the Duke will be coming with us, it was just a lie I used to find out that which you refused to tell me."

"Are you happy now that you know his name?" the Princess asked, her face flushed an angry red.

"No, I would rather it be any other man, even the Chevalier. Of course, the greatest man in court has captured your heart. Is that what you needed, a man with whom the entire court is in love? If I had shone the brightest, would you have loved me?"

"I don't know, and honestly, I don't care. Don't you have something to do besides tormenting your wife?"

Now the Prince was angry as well. "Tormenting you? By tormenting, do you mean carrying on with half the court, arranging trysts with my four different lovers?"

"I only need to take care of three of them, the fourth you arrange yourself, or did you forget you were the one who wanted me to sleep with the Chevalier? You've known about them this entire time. You'd rather crouch outside the door with your lover, and watch than have a faithful wife, so don't accuse me like you are innocent."

The Prince stood up, his face dark. "I wish I had never met you," he said and stormed away. Rosalind threw a glass at his head as he left, but it flew wide of its target.

She sat there, shaking, her hands clenched into fists, her nails biting into her palms. A servant came to see if she needed anything, and she snapped at the woman, sending her scurrying away. She wished her mother had died before they came to Paris. That way, she could have died a nun in a convent, never knowing that life held pleasures beyond a clever book or pleasant weather.

Steps were approaching, and she was getting ready to shout again when her heart froze. It was the Duke.

He walked quickly, several servants at his heels. She could see by the expressions on their faces that they were unsure of how to react to his rudeness. They were plucking at his sleeve, entreating him to wait for them to summon their mistress, and he waved his hands at them like they were flies. They nimbly avoided his blows, but were unable to prevent his progress. He slammed the door behind him, and they stared at each other.

* * * *

Rosalind was livid. "For God's sake, leave me in peace." She stood and tried to open the door, but the Duke leaned his body against it. He had a crooked charming cad smiles on his face. She could feel the weight of her keys in her pocket. When she locked the door, the Duke reached out draw her into his arms and kiss her. He found her stiff when she should have been melting. Her lips were limp against his mouth, her hands pressed against his chest.

"What's wrong with you?" he asked, releasing her.

She turned away from him towards the trunk that contained her and her husband's riding gear. She could feel the Duke's eyes on her body, his unease, as she picked up the riding crop the Marechal had given her. It didn't feel right in her hand, and she instead chose her husband's. A little heavier and made of coarser leather, it would be perfect for the Duke.

"Take off your shirt and kneel," she said, her voice thick and low.

It moved the Duke, and without thinking he fell to knees, tossing off his clothes. His sex strained against his breeches as he watched Rosalind arrange herself in a chair, flipping her skirt up over her knees, the little quirt in her hands. "Come here. No, don't walk, crawl."

The Duke was in a half crouch, staring into Rosalind's eyes. Her face was a high red color, and there was no warmth in her expression. For a moment he paused before sinking back down to the floor. He made his way to her on his hands and knees, his eyes still holding hers.

He was overcome with a queer excitement, something like anticipating his lover's nails on his back, only a keener thrill. Rosalind had crossed her legs, and was bobbing one foot up and down. When the Duke drew near, she slipped off her shoe and extended her toes to his lips. He recoiled. Her hand darted to the back of his head, gripping his hair. She held him, and rubbed her toes across his bottom lip while he squirmed. Laughing, she him go, and he wiped off his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Now, turn around," she commanded, caressing his waist with the leather tip of her whip.

He knelt with his back to her, his fingers laced behind his neck. She slapped him gently up and down his sides, and across his broad back. Even though it didn't really hurt, the Duke still flinched at each tap. She used the handle to massage his anus and testicles, bringing a moan to the Duke's lips.

He jumped as she landed a smart blow to the meat of his shoulders. It stung for a moment before it became a delicious warmth on his skin. The strength of her blows gradually increased, and the Duke reached into his breeches to grasp his throbbing sex. Rosalind stopped beating him for a moment, and the Duke turned to see her pulling her skirts up even higher so she could touch herself with her free hand. It was too much for the Duke, three more blows and he was spent. She came soon after him, gasping as she continued to work the Duke's skin.

"Get dressed."

The Duke turned to see the Princess rearranging her skirts. She rose to stand by the door, the key in her hand. She watched him coldly as he dressed, she even pushed him away when he tried to kiss her good bye.

"I guess I will see you soon then," the Duke said, searching her eyes for some sign of warmth, but the fire glowing in her delicate eyes was not one kindled with love. He told himself that her severe conduct was only a token of her affection.

He returned to his chambers and told Lignerol to prepare him a cool bath with some milk and honey in it to soothe his skin. It was necessary for Lignerol to help him remove his clothes, as his shoulders had gone stiff, and he gasped when he saw the red welts that covered the Duke's upper body.

"What is this?" he demanded, poking at an angry weal.

The Duke pulled away. "The Princess was in an...unusual mood today."

"And you let her do this to you?" Lignerol threw the Duke's jacket in the corner, and dropped his sword to the ground.

"I wasn't really sure what it was she wanted."

"Oh, and when she picked up, whatever it is she used, when she took some whip in her hand, you did not figure out what her intentions were then?" He pushed the Duke into a chair to wrench off his boots. "Well, I hope your adventures have not left you too badly injured. The Duke d'Alva is on his way to espouse Madame Elisa for the King of Spain, and our King wishes for you to go greet him."

"Damn it, when will he be here?"

"Soon," Lignerol said with a wicked smile.

The Duke was so busy with the preparations for the nuptials, he saw little of Rosalind. First, the Duke d'Alva had to be entertained. Once that royal arrived, the Duke was always in attendance upon him. He heard tales of the splendid Rosalind charming the members of this foreign court, but he did not see her. As far as their affair, she refused to see him. He began to grow thin again.

* * * *

The Duke had been so pleased with the confession he had overheard Rosalind make to her husband, he had foolishly confided in her uncle, the Viscount de Chartes. Little did he expect so much trouble from a moment of weakness. Although he told the Viscount the tale concerned a dear friend, the Viscount did not believe him. When the Viscount retold the story, he was very clear about his own beliefs, that the Duke was in love with a married woman who gave no sign of it. Creeping about his beloved's quarters, the Duke was lucky enough to eavesdrop upon the most extraordinary conversation.

Princess Mary squealed with delight when she heard the tale. Rosalind had become frigid to her again, and the rumor would give her the perfect opportunity to torment her. She enlisted the aid of her lover, M. d'Anville, to send the Duke to her after she broached the topic with Rosalind. She felt perfectly wicked, so much so that she was getting ready to abort her plan. When Rosalind arrived wearing one of her love tokens, her guilt dissipated. If she was going to shut their love away, then she should also leave Mary's jewels in their box.

"I have a little treat for you. Come, sit here with me," Mary said, patting the bed next to her.

The Princess' smile faltered, spooked by Mary's cold tone. "What is it?"

"Well, you know how queer the Duke has been behaving, like he is in love, but with no sign of a mistress." Mary's smile widened as Rosalind nodded her head. "It would seem our gallant is desperately in love with one of our court's finest ladies, and she returns his love."

Rosalind tried to manage her features, but Mary could see her heart shattering. She started to reach for Rosalind's hands, but she stopped herself, lest she appear sympathetic to a pain she inflicted.

"This is hardly a surprise. The Duke is a handsome man, with a good fortune, and much loved by the court. Of course he has caught the heart of some lady," Rosalind replied stiffly.

"You didn't let me finish. It would seem that this lady is so enamored of the Duke that she has confessed her feelings to her husband and begged for him to carry her away."

Rosalind tasted bile in her throat. "How would the Duke know such a thing; it is a fantasy."

"While it is extraordinary, it was the Duke himself who related the tale to the Viscount de Chartes. Although the Duke would not give the lady's name, or even admit that he was the man in the story, the Viscount is convinced that he was speaking of himself." The bed trembled as Rosalind began to shake. "Are you feeling unwell dear?" Mary asked, taking her hand.