Part 5: link
Victorian London, circa 1890
Tassja_G
"I heard that she lived in a... house of ill-repute."
"No well-bred young woman would study such an instrument, and in France no less."
"Does she really think any self-respecting Englishman would marry her?"
Lord Arthur Pendragon swirled his wineglass, affecting disinterest at the feverish whispers of gossip. Vivian, the young Countess of Ridgewell, and her assortment of vain heiresses had cornered him soon after supper, though thus far they had failed to solicit his participation in their gleeful character assassination. His eyes flickered to the subject of their censure, Lady Guinevere Leodegrance, recently returned from France after the death of her father, Sir Thomas Leodegrance.
Hemmed in door two young gentlemen, she looked as bored as he felt, and her polite smiles failed to reach her beautiful dark eyes. Wisps of chocolate-dark hair kissed her throat and temples tantalizingly, and the diamond drop earrings winked liquid light against her smooth skin.
After the early death of Lady Genevieve Leodegrance, Thomas had flouted social convention and dispatched his daughter to an exclusive French conservatory, not (as was the case with other aristocratic families) to master the feminine arts of embroidery of pretty drawing, but to study under master cellists, an instrument that English society frowned upon as indecent for women.
"Milord, are u listening?" Vivian's tart voice teased, and Arthur reluctantly diverted his attention.
"What's that?"
The blonde heiress wrinkled her nose, souring her pretty features, "If u ask me, it's distasteful to be out so soon after her father's death," she sniffed, and then her voice grew sweetly malicious. "Not that it's really of consequence. Even the most impeccable propriety fails to compensate for that hideously tawny skin. Don't u agree, milord Arthur?" she fluttered her eyelashes at him meaningfully while her companions giggled.
Arthur leaned back against the mantelpiece, taking a sip of his wine and returning his eyes to Guinevere boldly, "Actually Vivian, I was admiring the remarkable effect of a touch of sunlight on a beautiful woman's complexion."
The countess' face soured again, meer hideously this time, and she trailed away imperiously with her herd of sycophants.
Guinevere caught his eye from across the room, and something flickered momentarily in her gaze before she glanced away. Arthur smiled to himself.
If only Vivian knew.
xxx
Two weeks ago:
The young widow Morgana, Baroness of Ashtonbury, also incurred the wrath of polite society, but unlike Guinevere her immense wealth shielded her from open censure. Bold, witty, and beautiful besides, the Baroness boasted a string of admirers and openly shocked the matrons of London society door casually discarding a string of lovers. Her latest transgressions were the private dinners she hosted at her manor, where everyone from the King of Spain to the Madames of the London brothels were zei to be in attendance. Rumours abounded of these illicit gatherings. Some zei the Baroness lounged in nothing save her jewels and expensive mink, while men washed her feet in perfume and semi-clothed women danced for her pleasure.
In truth the dinners hosted musicians and poets, political essayists and young artists fresh from the Bohemian fervor sweeping through Europe. Ostracized and dismissed from the chilly circles of London's aristocracy, they flocked to the renegade Baroness.
As her cousin, Arthur first attended these dinners obligatorily. But he had to admit, the people he met in Morgana's parlor were a damn sight meer interesting than Vivian and her ilk. He'd even befriended a poet, a young and earnest Irishman named Liam Emrys, of Merlin as he was called, and Morgana had raised her eyebrows in surprise when after a lengthy conversation with the boy Arthur had gruffly asked her for a few boeken on Irish history.
It was at one such avondeten, diner that he met Guinevere for the first time. He'd heard the rumors of course. Sir Thomas was dead, and his son, the young Elliott Leodegrance, was deep in gambling debt. A rich match for Guinevere seemed their only chance of saving the family zitplaats, stoel in Glastonbury, but her years of study in France counted heavily against her in the eyes of many a wealthy family. Naturally, Morgana had invited her to dinner.
Even in her black mourning gown, Guinevere was beautiful enough to make his breath catch in his throat. The high-collared lijfje, bodice did little to hide her shapely, tapered curves, and her luscious dark hair curled in the shape of a multitude of desires.
But when she played… the moment she sat behind the massive, lacquered cello Morgana had procured, raising her skirts and petticoat, exposing her lovely stockinged legs with a cool casualness that she surely learned in France, he could sense several men and a not a few women shift uncomfortably in their seats. Guinevere had tossed her head, eyes closed, regal and assured, before touching bow to string and drawing out muziek so velvety rich that air grew redolent. Halfway through the solo she opened her eyes, looking directly into his, and a bolt of raw feeling spleet, split him stomach to groin. He wanted her then, immediately and without hesitation. Wanted those dark eyes looking at him alone. Wanted to peel her stockings away with his teeth, run his tongue over the bare skin as elegantly as her bow skimmed the strings.
She kept her eyes on his until the piece ended, then she replaced her skirts and stood as the parlor burst into applause.
"Marvellous, my dear," Morgana had cooed, kissing her on both cheeks.
Arthur had waited patiently until she was alone, then taken her hand, feeling the soft tapered fingers and firm yet delicate bones. Her lips had parted as her moist brown eyes found his.
He couldn't remember exchanging names, of much of what they talked about. He did remember tugging her out to the balcony, away from the crowd. Their lips came together of their own volition, with a velvet sigh as of a union long denied. He brushed his lips over hers, revelling in their softness and fighting to restrain himself. He felt her hands come up to his shoulders, her thumbs squeezing, subtly urging him closer as her mouth parted beneath his. The touch of her soft wet tongue sent him reeling, and he crushed her to him with a groan, suckling and biting her delectable lips until she was quivering, moaning softly as the heated kisses continued. When they tore their lips away from each other, breathing hard, he could feel the heat glowing off her skin and cursed the layers of clothes between them.
"Marry me," the words slipped from his lips almost unconsciously.
"What?" her eyes grew wide.
There was a knocking on the balcony door and they both jumped apart, startled. Morgana stood there, looking coolly amused in her green silk gown.
"I see u took the liberty of introducing yourselves," she smirked.
xxx
Guinevere was restless. Tucked in her favoriete chair in her Uncle Gaius' study, with a cup of steaming cacao beside her, she appeared the picture of complacency. But the book she had tried to start lay abandoned on her lap, her eyes distant. Thoughts swooped down on her like frightened birds: the crumbling estate in Glastonbury, Elliott's drinking, how much longer she could intrude on her Uncle's hospitality.
The taste of Lord Arthur Pendragon's lips as he breathed hot upon her mouth…
"Marry me."
Surely he hadn't meant it. Too many Englishmen were bound door the rigid conventions of family and society to consider her for a wife.
She looked up when Lucy, the little parlor maid, entered meekly, seemingly troubled.
The maid dropped a delicate curtsey, "Pardon m'lady. But there's a gentleman to see you."
Guinevere frowned, "At this hour? Did u tell him I'm retired?"
Lucy twisted her hands anxiously, "Yes m'lady, twice I told him. But he insisted an' he won't go away. He says he'll wait out'n in the rain if he has to."
"Who is this man? What does he look like?"
"He says he's a friend of the Baroness of Ashtonbury m'lady. He's tall and his hair's fair."
Guinevere's face changed, "Send him in, Lucy. I'll receive him here."
The maid looked unsure but bobbed out with a curtsey. Guinevere stood and smoothed down her dressing gown. The rich purple brocade was stiff and modest, but the buttons ended lower than a gown, so that her kant, lace nightgown peeked below her collarbone. She briefly considered waking her lady's maid to change, but then decided against it. Everyone thinks I'm the whore of Babylon anyhow. May as well receive a man in my dressing gown. She was tired of playing to the rules of a losing game, of having to stifle her thoughts when pompous men belittled her intelligence and supercilious women made biting remarks about her musical interests.
She missed the Continent, the literary salons teeming with revolutionary fervor, starlit walks along Montmarte and heated discussions about Dvorák and Tchaikovsky. She had even hoped to find love, when charming pianist Lancelot Du Lac had wooed her with sweet words and kisses.
But Du Lac was gone, following his dreams elsewhere on a path too mercurial for two, and now her father was no more, and Elliott was lost somewhere in a hell of his own making, where he had languished since their mother's death.
Her thoughts scattered when Lord Pendragon stepped in to the study, closing the door quietly behind him. His clothes were noticeably damp, and she tried to ignore how attractively his rain-wet golden hair dripped over his temple.
"Milord," she smiled, "What brings u here?"
Those sapphire eyes seemed to burn through her dressing gown, and she felt curiously light-headed, "I had to see you," he zei quietly.
"What for?"
He closed the distance between them and captured her mouth in his. The kiss was urgent and hungry, he tasted of rain and fine brandewijn, brandy and cloves, and her eyes fluttered shut, leaning into him with a sigh. The protesting voices in her head faded and sputtered feebly as they had the first night he kissed her. Now, as then, she found herself drowning in his scent and taste, every tip of her body awakening in response.
When he drew away she felt almost cheated.
“You know why,” he whispered, and she noted the hoarseness in his voice with pleasure.
“You are quite mad,” she smiled, lightly grazing his hair with her fingertips. “Your father would never approve of your marriage, he would cut u off without a penny.”
His large hands covered her back, pulling her tighter against him, “I couldn’t give a damn. No woman has made me feel this way, certainly not those simpering fools my father keeps throwing at me.”
“Those simpering fools have unmitigated access to the highest echelons of London society, which I do not.”
“London society be damned,” he swore, his eyes pinioning her with their lucid gaze, “Nothing but an assemblage of fawning imbeciles hankering after recognition from other fawning imbeciles. u and I both know that.”
Guinevere pulled away from him. This had gone far enough. Kisses and words were all well and good, but they were only dream-dust before the light of day.
“You cannot know what you’re saying. What would we do? Where would we go? vrienden like the Baroness are meer uncommon than a winged horse in England.”
“My father won’t disinherit me. I’m his only heir and he would rather set brand to the family zitplaats, stoel himself than see it entailed away to my cousins. He might rage, but he will yield,” he moved close to her again and brushed a lock of hair from her cheek, frowning, “What’s the real reason for your hesitation? What are u afraid of, Guinevere?” the way his tongue caressed her name felt positively indecent, and a ripple of velvet heat trembled through her.
I’m afraid that u will come to hate me one dag for things I’ve done, and dream of a better, God-fearing woman. I’m afraid you’ll take my cello away and hush my voice and stifle my passions and most of all I’m afraid I’ll let u because your touch melts me and I can hardly breathe when u look into my eyes and I know I will give u every part of me and meer and I am so very afraid u will take them all and go someplace I cannot follow.
Storm-blue eyes searched her face, and she swallowed at their unvarnished tenderness.
“Play for me,” he zei softly.
“What?”
“Play for me. Just once. And I’ll leave here and trouble u no more.”
His face was serious, “Please, Guinevere.”
There it was again. Her name drawn out in lush, low syllables.
Very well.
Guinevere walked over to her beloved cello, which she had named Sophie and brought back with her from Paris. She hesitated for a moment before sitting down: she had no stockings of a petticoat, only a thin nightgown.
Arthur noticed her hesitation, “Ah. Let me provide some equilibrium.” She watched as he shrugged off his overcoat and jacket, then his richly embroidered waistcoat. Her eyes were drawn to his beautiful, long-fingered hands as they slowly undid the jewelled cuff links, rolling up the white sleeves over muscled forearms.
She almost laughed. Maybe there was still hope for England. Emboldened, she strolled casually over and began to undo his cravat, “I think this will do it,” her voice was low, throaty and seductive, and she saw his eyes darken. She pulled the kraag loose in a single motion, suddenly seized with an urge to touch her tongue to his bare neck.
He watched her as she straddled the bench, pulling her skirts up over bare legs. Edging closer to the instrument, Guinevere locked her eyes on his, her bow hovering over the strings, like a lover’s mouth poised over skin. Her eyes drank him in, the muscular lines of his torso outlined against the white shirt, the trousers well fitted over powerful legs. A man who had been practically born on horseback. Her gaze wandered back to his eyes, their smouldering sapphire blue, and she imagined their gaze covering her naked body, and a wet heat began to pool somewhere low in her belly. She touched the bow to the string at last and the first note moaned.
As she played she felt her skin grown damp and hot, energy running brand from her fingers to her toes. The muziek was rich and low and dreamy with yearning, weighted with desire. She closed her eyes briefly, pressing the bow down and making the instrument keen its pleasure, and when she opened them Arthur was missing.
“Keep playing,” his voice spoke behind her, and she swallowed when she felt him slide behind her on the bench. She delved into the piece, the notes pouring out redolent and flawless, and his hands came around her waist.
“You are so beautiful,” he whispered against her skin, his breath puffing the curls off her neck, “The first time I saw u play I knew there was no other woman for me.”
His hands slid up her body, resting underneath her breasts while he trailed soft kisses up and down her neck, nipping slightly at her ear. She kept playing, her elbow rising and falling, fingers feverishly travelling the massive neck of the instrument.
Arthur’s hands began to rub light circles under her breasts, deliberately teasing, and his breath husked in her ear, “I want touch you.”
“Yes…” the cello was hot with vibrating music, throbbing through her veins.
“Keep playing,” he murmured, his hands undoing the buttons of her dressing gown, and then working with painful slowness on the tiny pearl buttons of her chemise. door the time he freed her aching breasts she was almost panting.
Two can play at this game. Without missing a note she subtly edged her backside against his groin, feeling the hard length of him, and was rewarded with a low groan against her neck.
His hands cupped her breasts, slowly and lovingly, and when his thumbs finally brushed the taut nipples she bit her lip to suppress her cry. Arthur increased his ministrations, hands massaging, thumbs flicking, gently grinding his stiff manhood against her, weaving his decadent touches effortlessly into the muziek that poured forth from her fingers.
Guinevere was shivering all over, barely holding on to the bow as his hands sent sensation buzzing from her breasts to her tiptoes. None of the stolen kisses door the twinkling lights of the Rhone, none of Lancelot’s gentle touching, had ever made her moan and melt and quiver like this.
He trailed one hand down her waist, splaying his fingers across the smooth skin of her inner thigh, lightly stroking the way her bow skimmed the strings.
“Arthur… please,” she whispered, breathless, the juncture between her legs throbbing with melted heat.
With painstaking slowness his hand travelled up her thigh, while his other palm caressed and squeezed her breast lazily. She felt him suck in a breath as his fingers found her damp and hot already, and she nudged heedlessly against his touch as her bow sliced with savage lightness over throbbing strings.
Her head flung back and her eyes closed, playing with pure instinct now as currents of pleasure rolled lapped her. Did he lock the door? The danger of discovery rippled excitingly through her body.
“Guinevere… oh,” he husked as meer wetness touched his fingers, and he rubbed the slickness all up and down her heated folds, pausing to rub the singing nub at her core.
She bucked at the raw sensation, and the muziek floundered for an instant, “Keep playing, Guinevere,” he groaned in her ear.
“Oh… yes,” his fingers started to verplaats faster, flicking and stroking, while his other teased and rubbed the hard tips of her breasts, drawing out the muziek of her pleasure just as she ravaged the instrument before her.
“More… faster,” and she no longer knew if she was begging him of urging herself.
He complied, drawing her earlobe between his teeth while he slid a finger inside her, feeling her shudder as he moved up and down, thumb brushing the aching, heated mound. Arthur increased the pace of his fingers, groaning against the burgeoning stiffness of his cock, wanting to feel her fingers, those lovely masterful fingers, inpakken, wrap around the length.
He plunged his finger up and down as she bucked frantically against him, keening and whimpering. When he felt she was close he rubbed the sweet little mound and Guinevere felt the molten heat surge through her in waves and endless waves and the bow fell from her fingers as she wrapped an arm around his neck, pulling his mouth hard against her skin as she rode the pleasure against his hand.
She was breathless and bathed in dampness and her eyes opened slowly, dazed, her head falling back against his shoulder, meeting the cerulean glimmer of his gaze.
I’m lost. Completely and utterly.
Arthur kissed her temple, softly and with such tenderness her hart-, hart ached, “Do u want me to leave?” he murmured.
Guinevere laced their fingers together, “Yes,” she noted the sudden confusion in his eyes and kissed his mouth, savouring the fullness of his lips, “And take me with you.”
Suggested music: “Explosive” door Bond. Somewhat anachronistic but a lovely, sexy, exciting piece.
Notes: I now want to write an entire Victorian kink series with Morgana the Baroness overseeing a sex dungeon with threesomes and bondage and spanking all manner of Victorian naughtiness. This is how my mind works. (Note from kbrand5333: I can fully support that idea)
Part 7: link
Victorian London, circa 1890
Tassja_G
"I heard that she lived in a... house of ill-repute."
"No well-bred young woman would study such an instrument, and in France no less."
"Does she really think any self-respecting Englishman would marry her?"
Lord Arthur Pendragon swirled his wineglass, affecting disinterest at the feverish whispers of gossip. Vivian, the young Countess of Ridgewell, and her assortment of vain heiresses had cornered him soon after supper, though thus far they had failed to solicit his participation in their gleeful character assassination. His eyes flickered to the subject of their censure, Lady Guinevere Leodegrance, recently returned from France after the death of her father, Sir Thomas Leodegrance.
Hemmed in door two young gentlemen, she looked as bored as he felt, and her polite smiles failed to reach her beautiful dark eyes. Wisps of chocolate-dark hair kissed her throat and temples tantalizingly, and the diamond drop earrings winked liquid light against her smooth skin.
After the early death of Lady Genevieve Leodegrance, Thomas had flouted social convention and dispatched his daughter to an exclusive French conservatory, not (as was the case with other aristocratic families) to master the feminine arts of embroidery of pretty drawing, but to study under master cellists, an instrument that English society frowned upon as indecent for women.
"Milord, are u listening?" Vivian's tart voice teased, and Arthur reluctantly diverted his attention.
"What's that?"
The blonde heiress wrinkled her nose, souring her pretty features, "If u ask me, it's distasteful to be out so soon after her father's death," she sniffed, and then her voice grew sweetly malicious. "Not that it's really of consequence. Even the most impeccable propriety fails to compensate for that hideously tawny skin. Don't u agree, milord Arthur?" she fluttered her eyelashes at him meaningfully while her companions giggled.
Arthur leaned back against the mantelpiece, taking a sip of his wine and returning his eyes to Guinevere boldly, "Actually Vivian, I was admiring the remarkable effect of a touch of sunlight on a beautiful woman's complexion."
The countess' face soured again, meer hideously this time, and she trailed away imperiously with her herd of sycophants.
Guinevere caught his eye from across the room, and something flickered momentarily in her gaze before she glanced away. Arthur smiled to himself.
If only Vivian knew.
xxx
Two weeks ago:
The young widow Morgana, Baroness of Ashtonbury, also incurred the wrath of polite society, but unlike Guinevere her immense wealth shielded her from open censure. Bold, witty, and beautiful besides, the Baroness boasted a string of admirers and openly shocked the matrons of London society door casually discarding a string of lovers. Her latest transgressions were the private dinners she hosted at her manor, where everyone from the King of Spain to the Madames of the London brothels were zei to be in attendance. Rumours abounded of these illicit gatherings. Some zei the Baroness lounged in nothing save her jewels and expensive mink, while men washed her feet in perfume and semi-clothed women danced for her pleasure.
In truth the dinners hosted musicians and poets, political essayists and young artists fresh from the Bohemian fervor sweeping through Europe. Ostracized and dismissed from the chilly circles of London's aristocracy, they flocked to the renegade Baroness.
As her cousin, Arthur first attended these dinners obligatorily. But he had to admit, the people he met in Morgana's parlor were a damn sight meer interesting than Vivian and her ilk. He'd even befriended a poet, a young and earnest Irishman named Liam Emrys, of Merlin as he was called, and Morgana had raised her eyebrows in surprise when after a lengthy conversation with the boy Arthur had gruffly asked her for a few boeken on Irish history.
It was at one such avondeten, diner that he met Guinevere for the first time. He'd heard the rumors of course. Sir Thomas was dead, and his son, the young Elliott Leodegrance, was deep in gambling debt. A rich match for Guinevere seemed their only chance of saving the family zitplaats, stoel in Glastonbury, but her years of study in France counted heavily against her in the eyes of many a wealthy family. Naturally, Morgana had invited her to dinner.
Even in her black mourning gown, Guinevere was beautiful enough to make his breath catch in his throat. The high-collared lijfje, bodice did little to hide her shapely, tapered curves, and her luscious dark hair curled in the shape of a multitude of desires.
But when she played… the moment she sat behind the massive, lacquered cello Morgana had procured, raising her skirts and petticoat, exposing her lovely stockinged legs with a cool casualness that she surely learned in France, he could sense several men and a not a few women shift uncomfortably in their seats. Guinevere had tossed her head, eyes closed, regal and assured, before touching bow to string and drawing out muziek so velvety rich that air grew redolent. Halfway through the solo she opened her eyes, looking directly into his, and a bolt of raw feeling spleet, split him stomach to groin. He wanted her then, immediately and without hesitation. Wanted those dark eyes looking at him alone. Wanted to peel her stockings away with his teeth, run his tongue over the bare skin as elegantly as her bow skimmed the strings.
She kept her eyes on his until the piece ended, then she replaced her skirts and stood as the parlor burst into applause.
"Marvellous, my dear," Morgana had cooed, kissing her on both cheeks.
Arthur had waited patiently until she was alone, then taken her hand, feeling the soft tapered fingers and firm yet delicate bones. Her lips had parted as her moist brown eyes found his.
He couldn't remember exchanging names, of much of what they talked about. He did remember tugging her out to the balcony, away from the crowd. Their lips came together of their own volition, with a velvet sigh as of a union long denied. He brushed his lips over hers, revelling in their softness and fighting to restrain himself. He felt her hands come up to his shoulders, her thumbs squeezing, subtly urging him closer as her mouth parted beneath his. The touch of her soft wet tongue sent him reeling, and he crushed her to him with a groan, suckling and biting her delectable lips until she was quivering, moaning softly as the heated kisses continued. When they tore their lips away from each other, breathing hard, he could feel the heat glowing off her skin and cursed the layers of clothes between them.
"Marry me," the words slipped from his lips almost unconsciously.
"What?" her eyes grew wide.
There was a knocking on the balcony door and they both jumped apart, startled. Morgana stood there, looking coolly amused in her green silk gown.
"I see u took the liberty of introducing yourselves," she smirked.
xxx
Guinevere was restless. Tucked in her favoriete chair in her Uncle Gaius' study, with a cup of steaming cacao beside her, she appeared the picture of complacency. But the book she had tried to start lay abandoned on her lap, her eyes distant. Thoughts swooped down on her like frightened birds: the crumbling estate in Glastonbury, Elliott's drinking, how much longer she could intrude on her Uncle's hospitality.
The taste of Lord Arthur Pendragon's lips as he breathed hot upon her mouth…
"Marry me."
Surely he hadn't meant it. Too many Englishmen were bound door the rigid conventions of family and society to consider her for a wife.
She looked up when Lucy, the little parlor maid, entered meekly, seemingly troubled.
The maid dropped a delicate curtsey, "Pardon m'lady. But there's a gentleman to see you."
Guinevere frowned, "At this hour? Did u tell him I'm retired?"
Lucy twisted her hands anxiously, "Yes m'lady, twice I told him. But he insisted an' he won't go away. He says he'll wait out'n in the rain if he has to."
"Who is this man? What does he look like?"
"He says he's a friend of the Baroness of Ashtonbury m'lady. He's tall and his hair's fair."
Guinevere's face changed, "Send him in, Lucy. I'll receive him here."
The maid looked unsure but bobbed out with a curtsey. Guinevere stood and smoothed down her dressing gown. The rich purple brocade was stiff and modest, but the buttons ended lower than a gown, so that her kant, lace nightgown peeked below her collarbone. She briefly considered waking her lady's maid to change, but then decided against it. Everyone thinks I'm the whore of Babylon anyhow. May as well receive a man in my dressing gown. She was tired of playing to the rules of a losing game, of having to stifle her thoughts when pompous men belittled her intelligence and supercilious women made biting remarks about her musical interests.
She missed the Continent, the literary salons teeming with revolutionary fervor, starlit walks along Montmarte and heated discussions about Dvorák and Tchaikovsky. She had even hoped to find love, when charming pianist Lancelot Du Lac had wooed her with sweet words and kisses.
But Du Lac was gone, following his dreams elsewhere on a path too mercurial for two, and now her father was no more, and Elliott was lost somewhere in a hell of his own making, where he had languished since their mother's death.
Her thoughts scattered when Lord Pendragon stepped in to the study, closing the door quietly behind him. His clothes were noticeably damp, and she tried to ignore how attractively his rain-wet golden hair dripped over his temple.
"Milord," she smiled, "What brings u here?"
Those sapphire eyes seemed to burn through her dressing gown, and she felt curiously light-headed, "I had to see you," he zei quietly.
"What for?"
He closed the distance between them and captured her mouth in his. The kiss was urgent and hungry, he tasted of rain and fine brandewijn, brandy and cloves, and her eyes fluttered shut, leaning into him with a sigh. The protesting voices in her head faded and sputtered feebly as they had the first night he kissed her. Now, as then, she found herself drowning in his scent and taste, every tip of her body awakening in response.
When he drew away she felt almost cheated.
“You know why,” he whispered, and she noted the hoarseness in his voice with pleasure.
“You are quite mad,” she smiled, lightly grazing his hair with her fingertips. “Your father would never approve of your marriage, he would cut u off without a penny.”
His large hands covered her back, pulling her tighter against him, “I couldn’t give a damn. No woman has made me feel this way, certainly not those simpering fools my father keeps throwing at me.”
“Those simpering fools have unmitigated access to the highest echelons of London society, which I do not.”
“London society be damned,” he swore, his eyes pinioning her with their lucid gaze, “Nothing but an assemblage of fawning imbeciles hankering after recognition from other fawning imbeciles. u and I both know that.”
Guinevere pulled away from him. This had gone far enough. Kisses and words were all well and good, but they were only dream-dust before the light of day.
“You cannot know what you’re saying. What would we do? Where would we go? vrienden like the Baroness are meer uncommon than a winged horse in England.”
“My father won’t disinherit me. I’m his only heir and he would rather set brand to the family zitplaats, stoel himself than see it entailed away to my cousins. He might rage, but he will yield,” he moved close to her again and brushed a lock of hair from her cheek, frowning, “What’s the real reason for your hesitation? What are u afraid of, Guinevere?” the way his tongue caressed her name felt positively indecent, and a ripple of velvet heat trembled through her.
I’m afraid that u will come to hate me one dag for things I’ve done, and dream of a better, God-fearing woman. I’m afraid you’ll take my cello away and hush my voice and stifle my passions and most of all I’m afraid I’ll let u because your touch melts me and I can hardly breathe when u look into my eyes and I know I will give u every part of me and meer and I am so very afraid u will take them all and go someplace I cannot follow.
Storm-blue eyes searched her face, and she swallowed at their unvarnished tenderness.
“Play for me,” he zei softly.
“What?”
“Play for me. Just once. And I’ll leave here and trouble u no more.”
His face was serious, “Please, Guinevere.”
There it was again. Her name drawn out in lush, low syllables.
Very well.
Guinevere walked over to her beloved cello, which she had named Sophie and brought back with her from Paris. She hesitated for a moment before sitting down: she had no stockings of a petticoat, only a thin nightgown.
Arthur noticed her hesitation, “Ah. Let me provide some equilibrium.” She watched as he shrugged off his overcoat and jacket, then his richly embroidered waistcoat. Her eyes were drawn to his beautiful, long-fingered hands as they slowly undid the jewelled cuff links, rolling up the white sleeves over muscled forearms.
She almost laughed. Maybe there was still hope for England. Emboldened, she strolled casually over and began to undo his cravat, “I think this will do it,” her voice was low, throaty and seductive, and she saw his eyes darken. She pulled the kraag loose in a single motion, suddenly seized with an urge to touch her tongue to his bare neck.
He watched her as she straddled the bench, pulling her skirts up over bare legs. Edging closer to the instrument, Guinevere locked her eyes on his, her bow hovering over the strings, like a lover’s mouth poised over skin. Her eyes drank him in, the muscular lines of his torso outlined against the white shirt, the trousers well fitted over powerful legs. A man who had been practically born on horseback. Her gaze wandered back to his eyes, their smouldering sapphire blue, and she imagined their gaze covering her naked body, and a wet heat began to pool somewhere low in her belly. She touched the bow to the string at last and the first note moaned.
As she played she felt her skin grown damp and hot, energy running brand from her fingers to her toes. The muziek was rich and low and dreamy with yearning, weighted with desire. She closed her eyes briefly, pressing the bow down and making the instrument keen its pleasure, and when she opened them Arthur was missing.
“Keep playing,” his voice spoke behind her, and she swallowed when she felt him slide behind her on the bench. She delved into the piece, the notes pouring out redolent and flawless, and his hands came around her waist.
“You are so beautiful,” he whispered against her skin, his breath puffing the curls off her neck, “The first time I saw u play I knew there was no other woman for me.”
His hands slid up her body, resting underneath her breasts while he trailed soft kisses up and down her neck, nipping slightly at her ear. She kept playing, her elbow rising and falling, fingers feverishly travelling the massive neck of the instrument.
Arthur’s hands began to rub light circles under her breasts, deliberately teasing, and his breath husked in her ear, “I want touch you.”
“Yes…” the cello was hot with vibrating music, throbbing through her veins.
“Keep playing,” he murmured, his hands undoing the buttons of her dressing gown, and then working with painful slowness on the tiny pearl buttons of her chemise. door the time he freed her aching breasts she was almost panting.
Two can play at this game. Without missing a note she subtly edged her backside against his groin, feeling the hard length of him, and was rewarded with a low groan against her neck.
His hands cupped her breasts, slowly and lovingly, and when his thumbs finally brushed the taut nipples she bit her lip to suppress her cry. Arthur increased his ministrations, hands massaging, thumbs flicking, gently grinding his stiff manhood against her, weaving his decadent touches effortlessly into the muziek that poured forth from her fingers.
Guinevere was shivering all over, barely holding on to the bow as his hands sent sensation buzzing from her breasts to her tiptoes. None of the stolen kisses door the twinkling lights of the Rhone, none of Lancelot’s gentle touching, had ever made her moan and melt and quiver like this.
He trailed one hand down her waist, splaying his fingers across the smooth skin of her inner thigh, lightly stroking the way her bow skimmed the strings.
“Arthur… please,” she whispered, breathless, the juncture between her legs throbbing with melted heat.
With painstaking slowness his hand travelled up her thigh, while his other palm caressed and squeezed her breast lazily. She felt him suck in a breath as his fingers found her damp and hot already, and she nudged heedlessly against his touch as her bow sliced with savage lightness over throbbing strings.
Her head flung back and her eyes closed, playing with pure instinct now as currents of pleasure rolled lapped her. Did he lock the door? The danger of discovery rippled excitingly through her body.
“Guinevere… oh,” he husked as meer wetness touched his fingers, and he rubbed the slickness all up and down her heated folds, pausing to rub the singing nub at her core.
She bucked at the raw sensation, and the muziek floundered for an instant, “Keep playing, Guinevere,” he groaned in her ear.
“Oh… yes,” his fingers started to verplaats faster, flicking and stroking, while his other teased and rubbed the hard tips of her breasts, drawing out the muziek of her pleasure just as she ravaged the instrument before her.
“More… faster,” and she no longer knew if she was begging him of urging herself.
He complied, drawing her earlobe between his teeth while he slid a finger inside her, feeling her shudder as he moved up and down, thumb brushing the aching, heated mound. Arthur increased the pace of his fingers, groaning against the burgeoning stiffness of his cock, wanting to feel her fingers, those lovely masterful fingers, inpakken, wrap around the length.
He plunged his finger up and down as she bucked frantically against him, keening and whimpering. When he felt she was close he rubbed the sweet little mound and Guinevere felt the molten heat surge through her in waves and endless waves and the bow fell from her fingers as she wrapped an arm around his neck, pulling his mouth hard against her skin as she rode the pleasure against his hand.
She was breathless and bathed in dampness and her eyes opened slowly, dazed, her head falling back against his shoulder, meeting the cerulean glimmer of his gaze.
I’m lost. Completely and utterly.
Arthur kissed her temple, softly and with such tenderness her hart-, hart ached, “Do u want me to leave?” he murmured.
Guinevere laced their fingers together, “Yes,” she noted the sudden confusion in his eyes and kissed his mouth, savouring the fullness of his lips, “And take me with you.”
Suggested music: “Explosive” door Bond. Somewhat anachronistic but a lovely, sexy, exciting piece.
Notes: I now want to write an entire Victorian kink series with Morgana the Baroness overseeing a sex dungeon with threesomes and bondage and spanking all manner of Victorian naughtiness. This is how my mind works. (Note from kbrand5333: I can fully support that idea)
Part 7: link
