Page 16 of Mistletoe Minx

His wife didn’t even twitch at the announcement. “Of course. I shall, ah, visit my mother and father. They are at the Hertford estate.”

At the stark, cock-withering reminder that while he was a mess of inner turmoil, Frances truly didn’t care what he did, Dalton nodded briskly. “Excellent. Ah, here’s the beef course. Let’s eat before it cools.”

Two more days.

He could do this.

CHAPTER 5

It was Christmas Day. And what a contrast it would be.

Unable to sleep a minute more, Frances sat up in bed. This morning she would be a most seemly and charitable duchess: attending chapel with Dashford and most of the staff, overseeing a shared meal in the large dining room and distributing the baskets they had carefully prepared yesterday. But this afternoon…she would travel to a country house party orgy in a hired carriage organized by Lady Warenne, to become a bold, red-haired wanton named Mrs. Jones. A wanton who wished to be teased and tormented and taken by the experienced and skillful rake she’d married.

Frances shivered in delight at the thought. Yes, this plan involved deception, and Dashford would no doubt be furious when she eventually revealed her true identity. But desperate times called for desperate measures. After that taste of passion on his desk, she simply couldn’t return to those dutiful couplings. Not when they both deserved so much more.

And she had been practicing studiously.

Reaching under her quilt, Frances brought out the drawstring bag containing her two toys, tipped them out, and selected the larger phallus to play with. It had been heady to snatch little moments alone with her new jade friends, sometimes in bed, but other times behind the large embroidered screen that offered privacy for bathing or ablutions. Even in a few days, she was now comfortable with more than half the phallus in her mouth; the serenity to be found in the mindless act of sucking and licking was quite remarkable. Not so the toy for her backside though, which brought all her senses to blazing life. The uncomfortable stretch and solid fullness left her quite breathless, but made her core very, very wet.

Wait. Not her core. Her pussy or cunt. They were the words that Dashford and Lady Warenne had used. That Mrs. Jones would use, too.

“Pussy,” whispered Frances into the cool silence of her bedchamber, enjoying the rebellion as she stroked and fondled the toy. “Pussy. Cunt. Cock. My name is Mrs. Jones. Delighted to meet you, sir. Please may I have your cock in my pussy.”

After pushing the phallus into her mouth, Frances closed her eyes as her tongue began to move, imagining it was Dashford she was pleasuring. He would be so steely with his commands, making her take more and more, praising her when she did…

A sharp knock sounded at the door. Thankfully her wild yelp was muffled by the toy, and with mere moments to spare, Frances managed to shove all the items back into their bag and drop it into her side drawer before Nancy bustled in. Her maid carried a bucket of steaming hot water on her arm, plus a plate of buttered toast in one hand and a lit candelabra in the other.

“Morning, Your Grace, and Merry Christmas,” Nancy said cheerfully. “You’ve a busy day ahead, so best we get started. Have a bite to eat while I stoke the fire and light the wicks. Have you decided which gown you’d like to wear today? Or should I say which gowns?”

Frances flushed guiltily as she ate the toast while Nancy hastened about. To ensure absolute secrecy, not even her longtime maid knew about her scandalous plans—Nancy also believed Frances was spending the coming days with her parents. Fortunately, Lady Warenne would provide the green novice gowns, red wig, and black demi mask, so only unexceptional items needed to be packed: gowns, spencers, woolen stockings, shoes, chemises and stays, night rail, warm cloak, gloves, and personal toiletry goods. “Merry Christmas to you. I would like the sapphire-blue velvet for this morning, and the brown calico to travel to Hertford.”

“Very good, madam.”

“How are things belowstairs?” asked Frances.

Nancy grinned as she coaxed the smoldering coals in the hearth to a healthy blaze. “Jolly. The Dashford Christmastide baskets are the most anticipated event of the year, and everyone is cock-a-hoop to not only have tomorrow free, but light duties for several days after that. Cook, after spending the last month barricaded in the kitchens preparing all the food and drink, is getting quietly sotted on leftover brandy. Mr. Gower and Mr. Thorpe were grumbling over His Grace’s decision to attend the Warenne affair, then Mrs. Thorpe told them both to hush up because it wasn’t January 25. They all laughed, I’m not sure why. But they thought you did sterling work with the baskets…and are all praying for a babe in the nursery next year.”

Pure longing surged through Frances. Her only Christmas wish was this absurd and risky plan resulting in Dashford taking her so many times in so many ways that a year from now she would be tucking soft blankets around a sleeping infant.

Their child.

“Indeed,” she said eventually. “The staff aren’t the only ones hoping for that. But I must get dressed; I certainly don’t want to be the first Duchess of Dashford late for chapel in her own home.”

After Frances had given herself a sponge bath in front of the fire, she stood obediently still while Nancy dressed her in woolen stockings, a fresh linen chemise, stays, a fine flannel petticoat, and the elegant, long-sleeved blue velvet gown. Her curls were swept up into a neat chignon secured with sapphire-studded silver combs, and she stepped into heeled silver slippers.

“You look like a Christmas angel,” said Nancy admiringly. “Perhaps Himself will cancel his travel.”

No!

“Dashford is intent on visiting his friends,” said Frances smoothly. “But I wonder if I need a little more jewelry. On the other hand, I don’t want to be vulgar.”

Nancy snorted. “Leave that garden wall of a diamond bracelet in its box, then…begging your pardon, madam.”

Frances hid a smile. “I thought perhaps the engraved silver locket with the single diamond that His Grace gave me on our wedding day.”

“That is a fine piece,” said the maid grudgingly, as she retrieved it from Frances’ jewelry box before fastening it about Frances’ neck. “Lovely.”

Frances stared at her looking glass as she adjusted the heart-shaped locket so it lay flat below her collarbone. When Dashford had presented it to her, she’d honestly thought it a declaration of his feelings and been ecstatic. But the marriage was about duty, not love.