The Duchess, Her Maid, the Groom & Their Lover

He felt again the weight and smoothness of her dress as it sagged from his hands, inhaled the flowery perfume she’d worn in the crook of her neck. While he, Henri, stank of horse sweat and dung. She hadn’t flinched from his hands upon her. Still, he hadn’t dared touch her face, or kiss her lips. He wished now he had. Then he would feel they’d known each other, however briefly.

It was childish of him to expect so much. She was as far above him as the stars, and old enough to be his mother. It was true many men took brides much younger than themselves, so perhaps it wasn’t so awful. Why not the reverse? He imagined her in his imaginary cottage, gorgeously gowned, rocking a cradle, and he laughed. More likely he’d be rocking the baby and changing nappies.

He turned away from Tonnelle and headed out the double doors, into the night. His body hummed. He couldn’t sleep yet.

It was late, but not too late for a bath. Perhaps, afterward, he would indulge in something more. The Dewy Rose specialized in all sorts of relaxations, and he never spent much of his paltry wages, sleeping as he did amid the horses. Perhaps he would share some of his money with the girls of the Dewy Rose. He could afford one of the cheaper whores. For an hour, perhaps. He always allowed himself the possibility, though in the end he usually decided to save his money, knowing that if he was frugal, his own cottage would be real that much sooner.

He walked into the town, principal seat of the duchy. The streets were more active than the estate had been. Drunken revelers spilled from a tavern near the gate, coaches rattled over the cobbles, and a raucous game of dice devoured an entire alley. Most of the street whores ignored him. He looked like empty pockets. He was just as happy to be on his way unmolested. It hurt him to look at the streetgirls’ eyes.

The Dewy Rose, a massive building of rough gray stone, towered three stories over the neighbors on either side, its white windowsills scrubbed clean daily and the shingled roof trimmed with decorative strips of copper. Its baths were cheap and popular. It cost extra, though, to climb the stairs with one of the girls, and cost considerably more for one of the young men Madame Hubert had imported from a desert land far to the south. He had glimpsed them once or twice, on his way to the baths: slender men with flawless skin and dark outlining around their eyes, wearing only long silken drawers, layers of necklaces and silver rings on their bare toes. The duchess might have bought herself one of those, through an intermediary. Except their skin was too dark for any child of theirs to pass as the duke’s.

Torches crackled at either side of the grand front entrance. Henri shoved open the carved oaken door and was confronted by a giant elderly eunuch wearing a black robe. He silently held out one slablike palm, and Henri laid a quarter-copper there. The eunuch’s hand closed over it; with his other hand, he jerked a thumb at the corridor beyond. Manic laughter swelled from the house’s interior, mingled with the clink of goblets and knives and, faintly, a twinging harp.

The common room’s doors were folded back to allow heat to escape, and to let the bath’s patrons have a preview of the evening’s entertainment. Henri had meant to pass straight by. He could not resist a look, though, to see if his memories of the room’s appointments compared ill or favorably with those of the duchess’s.

He could not see much of the furnishings. The long buffet table bore food on either end and a nude woman in the middle; two men in shirtsleeves were licking honey and wine from her belly and breasts. A couple copulated in the chair nearest the door. The woman, bodice pulled down to her waist, gripped the arms of the chair to raise and lower herself on her partner’s swollen red cock, her white buttocks flashing as her minuscule skirt fluttered with each stroke. Henri gaped, amazed that they were allowed to do that in the common room, even in a brothel, until he saw a ring of watchers. This was some staged entertainment, like the two women arranged on a chaise by the fireplace, one daintily fondling the other, who plunged an ivory dildo into herself. One of the male whores was massaging her feet. She looked up, as if awaiting orders. Henri followed her gaze to the center of the room and saw the duchess.

He had seen that court gown at a distance, and the outline of her hair confined within its tiara was familiar to him from the coin he’d just placed in a eunuch’s palm. The skin around his cock tightened automatically. Except—she could not be here. She would not be here. He looked closer, and of course the duchess was only Madame Hubert, was only a whore.

If he emptied his savings and paid her fee, he could have her. Well, almost. In a year or two he would have enough. For a moment he considered it; but it would be a mockery. He felt ashamed even for letting the thought cross his mind.

He hurried down the corridor and exited into the quiet rear yard. The bathhouse occupied almost the entire space; the narrow alley between its wooden walls and the tall fence had been planted with wandering roses. Their scent flooded his nostrils, clearing the indoor stench of perfume and wine and sweat, and sweetened the woodsmoke which rose from stoves at the rear. He followed a white gravel path to the entrance and pushed open the door.

The bathhouse was unusually quiet; he could hear water lapping and trickling. The pre-supper crowd had already departed, and visitors to the brothel would not yet have emerged for a sluicing before they returned home.

Henri stepped onto a rough straw mat in the narrow corridor running the length of the building. To his right was an alcove with hooks and benches where he hung his clothes and left his boots. The child who normally guarded belongings was sleeping on a pile of towels in the corner. Henri let him be; he had nothing of value to steal, anyway, except his boots, which were mired in horse muck. He took a towel from a shelf and entered the next room along the corridor. The floor in there was limestone, just rough enough to avoid getting slippery. The sluicing room held stools and stone bowls of soft, gritty soap, the cheapest kind. Smooth perfumed varieties had to be purchased separately; Henri always used what was provided. It did well enough.

He hung his towel and scrubbed off. His shoulder and elbow were scraped where one of the upper grooms had shoved him into a wall that afternoon for being late. He washed the wounds gently, but they had stopped bleeding hours ago and the bruises were emerging. He’d barely noticed them at the time, and if they’d known the reason for his being late, it would have been much worse. A few bumps and bruises were a small price to pay.

Pipes trickled warm water into flagons; when they overflowed, the water drained through a hole in the center of the floor. During peak times, the time saved in heating separate containers of water balanced out the waste of it, and the brothel didn’t need to worry about their water supply running out since they controlled a natural spring, a secondary source of Madame Hubert’s wealth. The duke had a spring, too, somewhere in the bowels of the palace. To lay siege to a place with its own pure water supply would be the purest folly; that was one reason he held so much power. Or so people said. Henri thought it would be easy enough to take the palace, from the inside. But the people inside the palace lived in luxury, and were likely well satisfied with their lot in life. They wouldn’t want to tear it apart. Well, maybe the duke’s servants weren’t satisfied, but if he were one of them, he would go after the duke, not the palace. He’d want the palace for his own afterward. Any smart person would. A treacherous thought intruded: he would want the duchess for his own, as well.

Pouring water over his head, he didn’t hear the bathmaid enter. He shook his wet hair from his eyes and startled at the quiet figure standing near the door. She was perhaps his own age or a little older, with short-cropped ebony hair over a beautifully-shaped skull. The short cut made her dark eyes seem even larger than they really were. He didn’t often see this girl working in the evenings; usually it was the one-legged man, or the girl who never stopped talking.

She wore a thin shift that hung only to her knees. It clung damply to her small breasts and curving hips and a darker shadow between her legs. Sometimes the bathmaids worked in the nude, but Henri found her minimal clothing a thousand times more enticing. Her breasts looked like round peaches, just the size to cup in his two hands. She smelled of soap and roses.

He realized he was standing with his mouth open, soapsuds running down his legs, and a flagon dangling forgotten from his hand. He deliberately did not look down at his cock. It had risen as he handled it to wash, and he did not want to draw the maid’s attention to it. She likely had to deal with lecherous men all day, every day. He did not need to add to that. He’d had a tumble already. With mild hysteria, he thought of explaining to her that he was having a bath because that afternoon he’d fucked the duchess.

She said, prompting, “Are you ready for the tub, sir?”

Henri nodded. He hurriedly reached to place his flagon on the floor, but she took it from him, chose a full one, and said, “Stand still. There’s more soap.”

Henri closed his eyes as she doused him, head to foot, twice more. The water trickling down his body could have been her fingers, small and chapped from constant washing. He didn’t usually have this much trouble in the baths. Of course, usually the room was full of other men, and they would be dousing each other with careful courtesy. He wasn’t used to being alone with a bathmaid, much less a pretty one. He tried to think cold thoughts, and his erection did subside a little.

The bathmaid wrapped his towel around his waist before leading him to the next room. He’d never received such a service before. Perhaps she thought he was someone important? Or just hoped for a good tip. Or thought he was too slow to do it himself, and she wanted him to be done and clear out. She said, “My name is Nicolette. Nico.”

“Henri,” he said. Or perhaps she was being friendly.

She smiled at him and said, “I know. I’ve seen you here.” In the flickering lamplight, he watched the curves of her bottom move as she walked ahead of him and bent to turn a stopcock. Steaming water gushed from the pipe and into the copper tub. She tested the water and added cold water from a bucket, then tested it again. At her gesture, he climbed inside.

He’d worked hard all day, both before and after his visit to the duchess. The heat flooded his tired muscles like the rush of orgasm. “That’s nice,” he said, reaching out his legs and wiggling his toes.

“Let me wash your hair,” Nico said. “Here, lean back onto this towel.”

“I didn’t pay for—” He hoped she would not get into trouble for offering a free service.

“It’s all right,” she said. “We haven’t any other customers right now, and Suzette will tend to them if we do.”

“If you’re sure it’s all right,” Henri said, already tensing in anticipation of an unexpected treat. He leaned back.

“Suzette told me you work in the duke’s stables?”

Suzette had to be the one who never stopped talking. “I care for the horses that the duchess rode,” he said. “I hope someday she will ride them again.”

“I do, too,” Nico said. “I’ve always admired her. She seems so strong and dignified.”

Henri tried to think of a neutral comment. “She rides beautifully,” Henri said. “I’m lucky to learn from her horses.”

“Annette—she’s the midwife in the brothel—Annette has actually met her. In the palace, the duchess didn’t come here, of course. I asked what she was like. Annette wouldn’t tell me. She only looked sad. Annette never looks sad, that’s one reason why we…why I…oh, no. You’ll think I’ve turned into Suzette, if I keep on like this. You’re a good listener. Close your eyes.” She poured warm water over his head, then dabbed the drips from his face. She winnowed her fingers through his wet hair. “Your hair is so thick. It’s a pleasure to handle. I miss my own hair, but working here, it’s so much more convenient to keep it clipped. Madame Hubert requires it, anyway.”

“Clipped…it suits you,” he said. “I think so. I think it, it makes you look beautiful.” He could feel a blush scalding his cheeks, but in the dim room he hoped she wouldn’t notice.

“Thank you,” she said. “You’re very kind to say so.” She dug her fingers into his hair again, this time after coating them with soap. The scent of lavender washed over him as she scrubbed his scalp and squeezed the soap through hanks of his hair. He had to work not to moan at the pleasure of it. Each scratch of her fingers seemed to shoot straight to his cock.

“Do you like this?” she asked.

“Oh, yes,” he said. He felt drunk, only better, like being drunk ought to feel.

“Do you have time to stay a little longer?” Nico asked.

She’d sounded lonely when she spoke of Annette. “As long as you want,” he said.

“Sit up, and close your eyes.” She poured rinse water over his head, another hot rush of pleasure, then did it again, and again. Henri felt limp, except for his cock, which he could feel bobbing in the water like an eager puppy.

“Done,” she said. Then, “I would like you to fuck me.”

He began to turn around, but Nico put her hands on his shoulders, preventing him. “You’re wondering why,” she said.

This was true.

Nico began to massage his shoulders, digging strong fingers into the muscles by his neck, and he moaned. “You like that? Good.”

He more than liked it, he had never felt anything so good in his life, except his cock inside a woman’s slippery tunnel. He’d been ready to do anything she wanted after she’d washed his hair. He wasn’t going to tell her to stop, though.

Nico said, “The bathhouse is going to get crowded again later. It always does, after the shows in the house let out. Then we get another rush in the morning. Right now, it’s the only time there’s any privacy, and then you came in, and I’ve seen you. You’re always nice to us. Not like some others.”

“Hmm?” Henri said. He was listening, but her massage was making him sleepy at the same time that it aroused him.

“You don’t grab,” she said. “I like that. So I thought, why shouldn’t you get a reward? And why shouldn’t I have a little something for myself? We can enjoy each other.”

“Anything you want,” Henri said. Surely he was dreaming. No other explanation made sense for a day like this.

“Let’s go in the steam room, then. Have you ever tried it?” She gathered up his towel and a pile of others, tucking them under one arm.

“Costs extra,” he pointed out, standing up slowly. His blood was having trouble reaching his head. It kept getting diverted and pumping into his cock.

Nico held out her hand and he placed his within it. It felt natural to do so. She was like him, she knew what it was like to work all day and then to want to relax. He squeezed her hand and she peeked over her shoulder and smiled at him. She had a wide mouth, almost too large for her face, but somehow just right with her long nose and big brown eyes. When she smiled, her upper lip crinkled and so did the corners of her eyes. He would have followed her anywhere.

The steam room wasn’t very large. All of the walls were tiled, and running with droplets of water. Vapor poured into the room from a pipe near the floor. Through the billowing steam, he could barely see three wide benches placed against the walls.

He took a deep breath and nearly choked, the air was so thick. He began to sweat, or perhaps it was the steam on his skin. He couldn’t tell. “Easy,” Nico said, and then he could breathe, more deeply than he’d ever breathed before. The odor of crushed peppermint stung his nostrils. Relaxation flowed through him.

Nico spread the towels over one of the benches and all at once he understood their purpose. His cock, which had flagged a bit, recovered quickly. Nico turned to him and smiled again. “Would you help me with this?” She plucked at her now-sodden shift.

Henri palmed her breasts through the cloth first, sighing with her as he rubbed the wet fabric against her nipples. “I could eat them like apples,” he said. When he realized what he’d said, he looked away in embarrassment, but Nico giggled and put her hands on either side of his face.

“You are sweet,” she said, and kissed him. A droplet of salty sweat ran off her upper lip and into his mouth, and he swept his tongue after it, moaning low in his throat when she reciprocated, suckling his tongue and making him think of what it would be like to have a mouth on his cock. He ran one hand over the soft spikiness of her cropped hair over and over, but the other didn’t want to let go of her breast. He squeezed it rhythmically as they kissed, sure he’d found the softest thing in the world. It was funny that so soft a thing could make him so hard.

They stopped to breathe, slowly taking in the steam and letting it out again. He helped her drag her wet shift over her head, and then was lost again as he tasted the sweat on her throat and breasts while his hands traced her upper arms, petal-soft skin over muscles hard from labor. In return, Nico gripped and massaged his arms, his shoulders, his back. When her hands wandered down to his buttocks, he pressed his erection into her belly and thrust tantalizing, twisting strokes against her slippery skin.

His skin was wet, too, but felt as if it was on fire. He was going to come in a minute if he wasn’t careful. He pulled away from her, sucking air, and walked toward the bench with the towels, Nico playfully backing toward it as well. The bench caught her behind her knees, and she sat, reaching out her arms for him.

Henri sat next to her and dragged her onto his lap. He had to be inside of her soon, but he couldn’t stop moving against her for that delicious drag of wet bare skin on skin. He writhed against her with his hands, his face, his chest, his thighs. Nico straddled him now, her breasts on a level with his face. He buried his nose between them, where her scent and heat were strongest, and it was like being inside of her. He could feel her heart pounding, racing.

She shoved her belly against his erection, forcing it back against his stomach, and rubbing it between their two slick bodies. Little gasps escaped her, and he darted his tongue into her mouth three times, quickly. “Please, please let me fuck you,” he said. Before he’d quite finished speaking her chapped hand wrapped around his cock and fed it into her cunt. She plunged down and he grunted from feeling her wet cunt lips slap against his balls.

Gripping his shoulders painfully, she writhed on his cock, as if she were trying to find purchase, sucking at him from the inside and then shoving her hips forward. He worked his hand between their bodies and let her grind against the heel of his hand, hoping desperately she would start to move up and down soon; at the same time, he never wanted her to stop this exquisite torture.

“More,” she said. “More, more, fuck me!”

“Yes,” he said. Bracing his feet on the floor, he thrust upward with enough force that she jostled on his lap. Soon she joined in his motion and rode him until he thought his heart would burst. She came twice, he thought; the first time he was concentrating so hard to keep his own control that he wasn’t sure he really felt her inner flutters, but the second time was unmistakable; her cries rose and rose and then broke. He pumped into her a few more deep strokes and then he was spurting inside of her, his tension releasing in excruciating, ecstatic jerks, and even more wetness was trickling over his legs. He threw his head back against the wall, gasping, feeling as if he could sink into the wood bench. Nico leaned over to nuzzle his throat.

“You’re so sweet, Henri,” she said. “But I think you need another bath.”

This time, Nico scrubbed him off, and he scrubbed her in return. Their toweling dry turned into an impromptu kissing game, and by the time they had rubbed each other’s skins with oil, he wished he could stay even longer. But noises at the house were signaling an end to their evening together. He kissed her goodbye just inside the door, promised to return when he could, and hurried back to the stables, resolved that Nico was a very good reason to forget all about his imprudent dreams of the duchess.

CHAPTER FIVE

Vilmos ushered Camille personally into her rooms, indicating that Kaspar and Arno were to accompany her inside, instead of posting themselves to either side of her door as they normally did.

She wished they had not been so protective of her in the duke’s presence. The duke’s will was always supposed to supersede her own, even in the matter of her personal safety. They might pay for their loyalty later. She would have to take better care for their safety. Escaping the palace would be a good first step.

Vilmos stood, as if waiting. Arno turned his back suddenly and prowled the edges of the room. “Yes?” Camille said.

“Your Grace,” Vilmos said, and inclined his head.

Camille lifted her chin. She might have sucked his cock, but she was never going to bring up the subject again, even if Vilmos felt the need to apologize. She’d had little choice. Neither had he. It was useless to dwell upon past humiliation.

Vilmos bent respectfully into a low bow, then departed, locking the door behind him. She heard the bolts slide home, and the clank of the large iron hasp that bore the duke’s seal.

With that final sound, Camille’s knees weakened. She forced herself to stay upright. She might be safe while the duke was occupied with his private amusements, but…she no longer believed she would be safe any longer than that, even if she had gotten herself with child. She could no longer bear the thought of letting the duke fuck her, and if he did not, she would be killed as quickly for being pregnant by another as he would have her killed for being barren. She had been fooling herself to think that if she gave the duke what he wanted, he would let her live.

The clock on the marble mantel, a fantastically ugly creation embellished with golden angels and white-lacquered sheep and their shepherdesses, showed that the middle of the night had just passed. She felt as if days had gone by since she had summoned Henri to her audience chamber. How long would it be before the duke found a way to take her life? What would he do to her before he had her beheaded? Was it true that one could still see after one’s head had been sliced off? She felt like a bird fluttering against the bars of its gilded cage. She picked up her sketchbook, then put it down. She rubbed her wrists, though they bore no marks.

Kaspar said, “Shall I call for a bath for Your Grace?”

He always spoke first. She had never noticed particularly, but Arno always deferred to him, perhaps because Kaspar was older. He was nearly thirty, she thought, while Arno had been delivered to the palace at eighteen and was now not quite twenty-three. She had asked Sylvie their ages; it was difficult to tell when they never put on a man’s muscle, at least not in the way one was used to seeing.

“Where is Sylvie?” she asked. Baths were Sylvie’s duty.

“Sleeping, Your Grace,” Kaspar said. He stood at ease, his big hands resting on his sheathed twin swords. From this close, she could see the thin white scars that marked his forearms, old injuries from training with blades. His eyes were pale gray. “Shall I wake her?”

“No,” Camille said. She wanted a bath, but not enough to wait for one to be prepared. She had to think. And Sylvie had slept little recently, instead spending most of a night and day finding Henri and arranging to bring him to Camille. She should let Sylvie sleep now, she realized, because they must escape the palace tonight, she and Sylvie and her eunuchs as well; she could not allow them to die because of her. To die in her service was one thing. To die for nothing was quite another.