On the table, next to his glass of port, rested the stag mask he’d worn as the High Buckthorn, one of the legendary Grand Bucks. As a happily married man, those days were now over, and that papier-mâché mask would join myriad family treasures in the attic. Someday, someone might come across it and wonder where the rest of the fancy dress costume had been laid, when, in fact, he’d worn the mask while nude.
He had fond memories of his bucking days, but Frederick didn’t regret securing his wife when the opportunity presented itself. She was too dear to escape him.
Frederick swallowed another sip of port. That didn’t sound right, not allowing her to escape him. He loathed overbearing, dominant husbands who kept their wives alternately at arm’s length and in terror. No, he would undertake to be a gentle sort of helpmate to Marianne.
Tell that to his cock. He was hot and hard, thinking of having his bride in any way she’d allow. Frederick turned his stag maskto look away and then parted his dressing gown to survey his southern horn.
He was undeniably stiff, though hopefully not so large as to present a problem. Should he oil himself before going to his wife? He should have asked one of the former Bucks who had attended his wedding. Their wives looked glowing and satisfied; his friends would have known how to ease the way.
Perhaps he should worship between Marianne’s thighs first? But did young ladies know about such things and look upon them with favor? While the fact was still unknown to her, he knew she had some knowledge of sex, having played at the Forest and seen glimpses when passions brought tapestry walls down.
When had his hand come to stroke his shaft? His cockhead was leaking copious amounts of fluid, all because he imagined doing something he could experience in the flesh if he simply walked next door.
Frederick rose to his feet. He was a little unsteady at first because of the speed at which he stood; his cock must be requiring too much of his blood right now.
Blood. He considered that virgins sometimes bled as their maidenheads gave way. The idea of Marianne suffering made him shudder. He’d need to be gentle to ensure her comfort.
At first, there was no response to his knock at the door. Then he heard a yelp from the duchess’s apartments and showed himself inside.
On the bed, in a position reminiscent of a hare spread and ready for cleaning, was his bride. She wore a gauzy nightgown — the sort of thing designed to make grooms sweat as though the fires were roaring — and she regarded him with some fear.
His heart sank that she feared him and dreaded the consummation of their marriage.
“Marianne, may I enter?” he asked from the doorway.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
That would never do. The fluttering in his belly only intensified as he walked closer and considered what to say.
“Frederick.”
Her brows winged up in an unspoken question.
“Your husband’s name is Frederick.”
“Oh. Yes. Frederick.”
Aside from their vows, it was the first time he’d heard her say his name. Why did it sound as musical as the notes she played? He had a hand on one bedpost to steady himself.
He took in her prone form and subtly made sure his dressing gown covered his throbbing cock. It wouldn’t do to scare her with the sight of it.
Marianne looked down her body at him. Her head rested on a raft of pillows as if she were Sleeping Beauty lying in state. He jerked involuntarily at the thought.
Just when he realized he should move the consummation along, Marianne shyly lifted the hem of that gauzy nightgown and gave him a peek of her ankle.
It was his first glimpse of it, despite his claim he’d seen it in the ballroom; they both knew that didn’t happen. And so his bride was willingly revealing it for the first time, to his delight.
“Marianne, you’re beautiful,” he breathed.
She pulled the hem further. “Do you really think so?” she asked, vulnerable and trembling as she exposed her shapely calves.
He was going to descend into a rut like an animal at this rate. His sack ached for want of entering her channel and flooding her womb. This was going to kill him.
Frederick climbed onto the bed, desirous of consummating the marriage. Without prompting, his bride spread her legs so he fit right between them.
As he shrugged off his dressing gown, she bent her knees. The nightgown slid up and up, finally revealing a shadowy hint of her slit.
Words failed him as he took in the sight, his mouth dry and cock ready to burst. Frederick brought one finger to his wife’s seam and stroked the hair, as if petting her.
