Page 24 of Marrying Bluebeard

I gasp as his mouth latches onto my neck, sucking with bruising pressure, and I writhe helplessly beneath him as he shifts his attention lower, one hand holding my wrists while the other slips behind my back and works the tiny buttons holding my dress in place. Despite the intensity of his movements, he doesn’t rip or tear the delicate fabric, and there’s an undercurrent of awe in his voice as he gazes at my breasts, bared and glowing in the moonlight. “Exquisite.”

A soft mew escapes my mouth as he palms one of the aching mounds, the pad of his thumb rubbing the tip and sending spirals of pleasure straight between my legs. He doesn’t linger, however, and I can’t help but frown as he shifts away, releasing his hold on my wrists.

He responds with a wicked grin. “Don’t worry, love, I plan to worship those wondrous tits properly tonight.” He sinks to his knees in front of me. “When you’re splayed, naked and sopping wet, beneath me.” Long fingers caress my calves, and I bite my lip to keep from exclaiming as he lifts the hem of my dress, rucking it up over my knees. I recall a conversation with Julia, one I’d been too embarrassed to broach with my sister, when I’d ask her how exactly women had relations with other women. While she’d been vague on the details, the overall gist was made.

As Bertrand tugs my undergarments down and gently parts my legs, baring my most private of areas to his hungry gaze, I feel a tight coil of anticipation as I realize he plans to do the same. He’s going to⁠—

“Oh my—” A moan, loud and wanton, fills the carriage as his tongue glides through my folds and flicks the sensitive bud nestled above. I’m intimately familiar with the pleasure it can bring when properly teased, but nothing has prepared me for the feel of his mouth as he sucks it between his lips. And that beard.

May he never, ever shave that beard.

Over and over that tongue laps and flicks, teases and twists me into a frenzy. His top hat lies on the floor where my hand has knocked it away in my need for purchase. Fingers tangled in his thick black hair, I grind shamelessly against his face. Later I’ll remember the driver and blush as I recall the noises that emanate from deep in my core, but right now, with his tongue dipping inside my slit and his fingers working my nub like a maestro before his orchestra, all I can do is ride the waves of pleasure as they build to a deafening crash.

He slows to a languid series of kisses as the moment subsides, pressing one first on my tender nub, then the inside of each of my thighs. My breath has yet to calm as he slides the undergarments back on, cupping my backside as he secures them. My skirts fall into place as he removes himself from between my legs, taking one last, long look at my breasts before tucking them away.

I lick my lips as he perches on the bench beside me, brushing my hair over my shoulder before slowly securing each button back into place. I’m desperate to speak, and yet the words won’t form. What does one even say after something like that? Thank you? That was lovely? I glance at his lap, his own arousal obvious in the rigid tenting of his pants.

“Should I…?” Julia hadn’t had anything to say in regards to the male side of things, but my instincts tell me the act he just performed can go both ways. I bite my lip, trying to picture it in my head. Where would I put my hands? Do I just kind of lick it or…?

Bertrand secures the final button and draws me into his side, pressing a kiss against my hair. “You may do whatever manner of wicked things you wish to me,” he murmurs, the deep treble of his voice setting off a fresh wave of delicious tingles. “But you’ll have to wait.” He nods out the window, and I see the faint outline of a stone cottage draped in ivy drawing near. As the carriage rolls to a stop, he takes my hand, voice sober in the hushed darkness.

“Are you ready to become Madame de Montragoux?”

The wedding is short and sweet, the vicar and his wife presiding over the ceremony in their night clothes, a single candlestick casting light on the parchment as they sign their witness. I follow Bertrand’s lead as if in a dream, each moment more surreal than the last. The night drifts into a blissful fog, and it isn’t until I wake the following morning, naked and entangled in a set of white sheets with the cheery noise of birds filling the room and the bright morning sun streaming through the window, that it truly hits me.

I, Adelaide Brindamour, of sound mind and body, have married a complete and utter stranger.

16

ADELAIDE

It’s funny how I knew Bertrand was French, and yet it never occurred to me that his home would be—surprise, surprise—in France. But as the ship we board this morning pulls away from the harbor (after a whirlwind shopping excursion in Dover the day before), there can be no denying it. I’m leaving everything I know behind to follow this man.

Not just any man—my husband.

“Is your home far from Calais?” I place my hand on Bertrand’s arm as he stands, rigid and tense, at the rail. Not clustered with the other passengers waving goodbye to loved ones who fill the air with shouts of “bon voyage” and “safe travels”, but staring pensively at the faint outline of France’s distant coastline.

He blinks, the tension in his expression disappearing as he looks down at me. The transition is so fast, so seamless, I wonder if I imagined it. If I’m looking for things that aren’t there, and letting my own anxieties play games with my head. “Our home”—he turns, placing his hands on my hips and gently tugging me closer—“is a full day’s ride after we disembark, I’m afraid. We’ll have to stay at a hotel tonight before making the trip.”

“A hotel doesn’t sound too bad.” I walk my fingers up his chest and lace them around his neck. “I rather liked the inn we stayed at last night.”

“The room was tiny,” Bertrand reminds me.

“I thought it was cozy.”

“Cozy, was it?” He dips his head, his mouth a breath away from mine. “I’d say it was positively snug.”

I grin against his lips. “I thought you liked snug places. You spent enough time buried in one last night.”

“Not nearly long enough,” he groans, claiming my mouth. I gently suck on his lower lip, and his reaction is immediate as a delicious hardness presses into my stomach. “We should probably… take a look… make sure the room on board is to your… satisfaction.”

Breathless, I pull back just enough to slide my hands down his chest, fingers grasping his lapels. “I couldn’t agree more.”

With one last squeeze, Bertrand releases me as we run giggling into the ship’s hold. He leads me through a maze of hallways until finally coming to a stop in front of one of the numbered doors. But as he moves to slide the key into the lock, his hand shakes. The key clatters to the floor as he drops to his knees.

“Bertrand!” I kneel beside him, panic making my hands flutter about uselessly. I know I should be doing something with them, but I can’t think what. Not when Bertrand’s face has grown so very pale, his knuckles turning white as he clutches his throat. His other hand fumbles inside his jacket.

His tonic, of course. “Let me help you.” I lean forward, reaching for his coat.