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Standard disclaimer.
Arthur showed the Paynes out. When he returned, he was glowering.
"What was that?" he asked.
"I don't know. They seemed to have the wrong idea," Gwen replied.
"Well, you didn't leap to correct them. You barely spoke at all, except for all that 'your grace'-ing and 'my lord and lady'-ing."
He was angry with her.
"What else should I say? He is a lord. She is a lady. And you are a duke."
"But on intellect and character, you are the equal of anyone in the room. Why would you defer so easily to them, when you've never been anything but impertinent with me?"
"It's different with you. Everything's different with you. But you can't blame this all on me. You were rather standoffish yourself. It's not as though, you jumped to tell them, we're having a deeply passionate affair."
He gestured towards the door.
"Because I knew how they'd receive it."
"Precisely. The same way everyone would receive that news. As an impossibility, at best. At worst, something shameful and sordid."
Gwen understood why he was upset. She felt the same way.
The people who'd just visited them, were the closest thing they had to mutual friends, and if even they wouldn't credit a relationship between Arthur and her, it was truly hopeless. No one would accept them together. No one.
She sighed.
It shouldn't come as a surprise.
It didn't matter what the poems said. There was no other England, no other London with its Tower.
There was only this world they lived in, and it was unyielding on matters of class.
"There are thirty-three ranks of precedence, between a serving girl and a duchess," she said quietly. "Did you know that? The chart takes up three pages in Mrs. Worthing's Wisdom. I have it all in my head. Duchesses are at the very top...after the queen and princesses, of course. The order goes duchesses, marchionesses, countesses..."
As she recited the ranks, she ticked them off on her fingers.
"...then wives of the eldest sons of marquesses, then wives of the younger sons of dukes. Then come the daughters. Daughters of dukes, daughters of marquesses. Next viscountesses, then wives of eldest sons of earls. Then daughters of earls..."
"Gwen..."
"...that's ten ranks already, and I'm not even to baronesses yet. Let alone, all the orders of knighthood and the military ranks. And below those, you have..."
Arthur approached her and tipped her face, forcing her to look him in the eye.
"Guinevere."
"I'm not even on the chart." She blinked hard. "A girl like me, Arthur...I'm so far below you. When we're alone together, we might be able to forget it. But no one else will."
"Forget it? You think I forget who you are when we're together?"
She fidgeted.
He must forget, a little.
From their very first meeting, he'd afforded her more respect and attention, than any nobleman would ever intentionally give a servant.
"What matters is, we have to remember ourselves eventually. If we don't, society will force the point."
He stared at her for a long moment.
"Perhaps, you're right. We should remember ourselves."
"I'm glad you agree."
He crossed the room, closed the study door, and turned the key in the lock. It gave an ominous click.
"Clear the desk, Miss Campbell."
"What? I don't see..."
"Don't argue," he said in a clipped tone. "You're a serving girl, and you wanted me to remember that. I'm the duke in the room, and I've bid you to clear the desk. It's what you do, isn't it? Clear tables?"
Is that what he was initiating? Playing roles? The libertine duke and the naughty serving girl? 'Well...'
After about a two second pause, Gwen decided she could get inspired for that.
She reached for the inkwell and cautiously moved it to a nearby lamp table, where it wouldn't spill.
Then, with one hand, she made a broad sweep across the desktop, sending blotter, papers, sealing wax, and more crashing to the floor.
"There."
"Such impertinence," he said, smirking.
"It's what you like."
He tugged at his cravat, loosening it, as he crossed the room.
"You need to learn your place."
"Is this my place, your grace?" She pushed herself up to sit on the desktop, legs dangling.
"For now."
He sat in the desk chair before her, boots sprawled on either side of her dangling legs, and fixed her with a dark, commanding gaze.
The moment stretched into a thin, brittle thing and Gwen sat very still, just waiting for it to snap.
"Lift your skirts," he said.
His words were a starting pistol, and her pulse took the cue to race.
After kicking off one slipper, she toed the other one loose. Both dropped to the floor.
She placed her stocking clad foot on his thigh and slowly drew the lacy hem of her frock higher, revealing her leg all the way to the knee.
"Like this?"
"Higher."
She dragged her lacy hem upward, inching it along her thigh. Her garter peeked through the edge of her petticoat...a saucy wink of lavender ribbon.
"More," he commanded.
She slid her foot to his groin, rubbing the growing bulge in his trousers.
With concentrated slow motions, she teased him harder, rubbing her silky instep up and down the long, firm ridge.
Soon, the sounds of labored breathing filled the air. Both his and hers.
The smooth friction against the sensitive arch of her foot, was a surprising source of pleasure.
And the way he looked at her...unashamed of his rampant arousal, penetrating her with his dark, intense gaze.
He had her panting and wet for him, without so much as a kiss.
"Higher," Arthur demanded, encircling her ankle with his strong grip. "All the way to your waist. Show me everything."
The dark command in his voice thrilled Gwen.
She wriggled on the desk, working her skirts higher, until cool air rushed over her exposed, aroused femininity.
"Yes," he said, sitting forward in his chair. "That's it."
He caressed her calf, running his hand up and down the silky curve.
His thumb pressed against the hollow of her knee, and her thighs fell apart, as if he'd found some hidden lever.
He grabbed her by the hips, jerking her to the edge of the desk.
His fingers went to work, tracing the dewy folds of her womanhood, slipping over her aroused flesh, in such sweet, sweet torture.
"Take me," she pleaded.
He clucked his tongue.
"I shall do as I please. And it pleases me to taste you."
As he lowered his head, she squirmed away, breaking the little scene they played.
"Arthur, wait. No one's..." She licked her lips, nervous. "No one's ever done that for me."
He raised his head.
His smile was slow to spread and overtly wicked.
"If you hoped to dissuade me, that was the wrong thing to say."
He framed her hips in his hands and pulled her forward again, pressing his mouth to her core.
And as promised, he kissed her...there.
The contact was so shocking and so indescribably arousing, Gwen jolted in Arthur's arms, but his grip on her body was like iron.
He was not going to let her escape this erotic embrace.
So, she reclined, limp, on the mahogany surface, surrendering to the inescapable bliss.
She spread her arms wide, covering the full span of the desk. With all the papers and correspondence gone, she was his work. And he was attending to her thoroughly.
Single-mindedly.
Masterfully.
His tongue explored her most feminine, intimate places with confidence and zeal.
She relaxed her thighs, spreading herself for his kiss, trusting that he knew what he was doing.
And he did.
He was good at it. A true champion.
Of course, Gwen had no basis for comparison, but she'd wager the entirety of her thousand pounds on the fact...if there were an order of knighthood awarded for proficiency in pleasuring women, Arthur would achieve the top rank.
The duke licked up and down Gwen's most intimate parts, savoring her, as if she were the most delicious course in a royal banquet.
When he lavished attention on that tight, swollen bundle of nerves, at the crest of her sex, she couldn't help but moan.
Then, he parted her folds with his thumbs, and using his tongue, he delved inside her sheath.
He moved his tongue in and out, in shallow thrusts that mimicked intercourse.
"Arthur..." She writhed on the desk.
He didn't pause to reply, but answered her by sliding one hand to her breast, squeezing and kneading her through the fabric.
She clutched at his head, shoving impatiently through layers of petticoats, to weave her fingers into the lush, blonde waves of his hair and grip tight.
She held him fast to her, grinding against his hot, wet, talented mouth.
"Yes," she panted. "Please, don't stop."
He wouldn't stop. He showed no signs of flagging in the least.
His every lick and thrust pushed her higher and she began to whimper, wordlessly begging him for release.
Arthur continued his ministrations, moving his head back and forth, nuzzling Gwen intimately.
"Oh...Oh..." she moaned.
She arched straight off the desktop, rocketing through an intense, soaring climax.
He pressed the heel of his hand to her mouth, giving her that something she needed to bite and moan, and cry out against.
Eventually the tremors of bliss subsided, and he let his hand slip to cup her breast again.
For several moments, she stared mutely up at the ceiling, while he fondled her breasts and dropped lazy kisses along her thighs.
There were no words she could utter. None.
"Did you enjoy that?"
"Yes," she managed. There were no words, save that one. "Yes, yes, yes!"
"Do you believe that I worshiped every inch of this lithe, delectable body? Do you understand that I would take a saber to the kidneys, before letting you come to harm?"
She nodded, breathless.
"Good." His expression darkened. "Because now, I'm going to teach you a lesson."
He lifted her to her feet, spun her about, and then moved her toward the desk until she bent at the waist. Her breath rushed out, as her breasts met the unyielding surface of the desktop.
Behind her, Arthur pushed up her skirts with brisk motions, gathering all the heavy fabric of gown and petticoats and shoving it above her hips.
His hand cupped her backside, and his knee nudged her thighs apart.
"This is what happens to serving girls who forget themselves with a duke. They get a firm reminder."
At the playful sternness in his voice, Gwen felt the slope of her inner thighs erupt into goose-flesh.
Her nipples hardened against the cool, polished wood.
"Impertinent minx," he muttered.
His palm spanked lightly against her bottom, and she let out a breath, that was part startled laugh and part sensual excitement.
There was no pain, only a stinging pleasure.
"Saucy temptress."
Another delicious smack.
She knew he wouldn't hurt her...this was a fantasy for him. If she could play at being a seductress, he was welcome to play his role, too.
She liked that he would be playful. It meant he felt safe with her.
Arthur leaned over Gwen, pinning her to the desk with his body weight. His breath was hot against her neck.
"You are a very naughty girl."
As he whispered to her in a rough, needy voice, his hand worked between her legs, rubbing her aroused, sensitized womanhood.
"You like this," he said. "You like to imagine that you drive me out of my mind with wanting. Until my length does all the thinking, and I forget myself completely."
"I..." Her voice failed her, as his fingertip brushed over her pearl.
"Answer me," he demanded and slipped a finger inside her.
"Yes."
"Yes, what?" He thrust his finger deep.
She moaned.
"Yes, your grace."
"Know this," he said. "I do not forget my place. And you will not forget it, either."
Oh, how she hoped his rightful place was deep, deep inside her.
She wanted him so badly, she would have said anything to please him...call him by any name he liked.
The duke slid his finger almost entirely out of her slickness, before pushing back in.
"Who am I?"
"A duke," she managed.
"And what do you want of me?" He withdrew his fingers, leaving her empty and aching for more.
"I..." She writhed on the desk. "I want you to tup me."
At her use of such crude language, she felt his member jump against her thigh.
Despite all his chastisement, she knew her words excited him. This language was who she was, after all. Common. Low-born.
"Manners." He gave her bottom another teasing smack. "Remember whom you are addressing."
"Please, your grace." By now Gwen was desperate for him. She made her voice as sultry and enticing as she could. "Tup your humble servant, I beg of you."
"That's better."
He lifted her hips and slid into her, in one smooth, rapid stroke. Her moan of satisfaction echoed his.
Because she was wet and ready from his earlier efforts, Arthur didn't need to proceed slowly, so he wasted no time in setting a brisk pace, driving deep, and deeper still.
Gwen gripped the edges of the desktop, to keep from being tupped straight off the desk.
The heat and fullness of Arthur thrilled her. He was reaching unexplored places inside her, showing her new, dark facets of herself. And the pleasure consumed her.
"Harder," she gasped. "Harder, if it pleases your grace."
He growled.
"Oh, it pleases me."
He lifted her by the waist, until her toes left the carpet, holding her off the ground, as he pumped his hips harder and faster.
She bit the soft flesh of her forearm, to keep from crying out.
He had her weightless, utterly at his mercy, as he rode her at whatever angle and pace he desired. He was using her for his pleasure, and using her well.
Then, he lowered her feet to the floor and bent forward, looming over her on the desk.
His hands covered hers where she clutched the edges of the desktop and she felt a drop of his perspiration splash against her exposed shoulder.
"Who am I?" His voice was so close...and so guttural. Her intimate places pulsed in response.
"A duke."
"Which duke?"
"The eighth Duke of Bradford...your grace."
Her whole body throbbed for release.
His member was so long and solid inside her...
He stopped.
Why had he stopped?
She rolled her hips, trying to entice him back into a rhythm.
He held firm, motionless. "The courtesy titles. Recite them, too."
Oh, God. "I don't recall."
"I recall. I never forget who I am. Not even when I'm this deep inside you and so desperate to come, I could explode." His hips flexed. "Do you understand?"
He began to move again.
This time his pace was slow but relentless.
He drove into her with such force, a dry sob wrenched from her throat, with his every thrust.
"Arthur," she pleaded.
This 'lesson' of his, was both arousing and devastating.
When they were together, alone, she wanted him to forget the thirty-three rungs between them, on the ladder of English society.
But he couldn't. And she couldn't.
The truth would never go away.
"I'm the Duke of Bradford," Arthur said, plunging deep.
Gwen closed her eyes, trying not to cry. It was all too much...the emotion, the pleasure. The hopelessness.
"I'm the Marquess of Westmore."
Thrust.
"I'm also the Earl of Ridingham. Viscount Newthorpe. Lord Hartford-on-Trent."
Thrust. Thrust. Thrust.
"And I am your slave, Guinevere."
'Oh, mercy.'
She sobbed in earnest that time. She couldn't help it.
He stopped, the full length of him buried deep inside her. Filling her, lifting her, shaping her to his desire.
When they parted, she would ache with emptiness for him, always.
The duke's voice edged with need.
"Do you hear me? Do you believe it now? There could be a thousand ranks between us, and I would not give one damn. Every blue-blooded vein in this body, pounds with desire for you."
He slid an arm beneath her torso, lifting her, as he drew himself tall.
Her back fell against his chest, as he held her up, with that strong, powerful arm, and his other hand burrowed under bunched petticoats, until his fingertips grazed her pearl.
A shiver of ecstasy had her trembling on her toes.
"Look up at me," he rasped. "Kiss me."
Gwen did as he bade, and gladly, turning her head and stretching, to press her lips to his.
His tongue plundered her mouth, his length filled her womanhood, and his fingertips worked her, just where she needed it.
He had her wrapped in strength and adoration.
She didn't want to come. She didn't want this to ever end. This was the purest bliss she'd ever known.
But he was wicked and skillful and so cursed efficient, within moments, her whole body was rocked by waves of pleasure.
His thrusts quickened, and lost their elegance.
Once again, that coiled power in his thighs, had her toes lifting off the ground.
He broke the kiss and buried his face in her hair.
Profane, inarticulate mutterings rained on her ear, making her pulse drum even harder.
"I don't forget who you are," he whispered. "And it's you I want. So...damned...much."
At that, he withdrew, finishing with a few last thrusts between her thighs.
His primal growl gave her a thrill of satisfaction.
And then, he held her so tightly, it grew difficult to breathe. But she didn't mind.
"Well," he said finally, hoarsely. "I hope that's settled."
"Quite."
He slumped into the armchair and pulled her into his lap.
They sprawled there, tangled and sweaty, filling the silence with ragged breaths, as he lazily stroked her hair with one hand.
She pressed her face to his shirtfront.
"Arthur, that was..."
"I know," he said. "I know. It was. I don't mind saying I'm rather proud of it."
"You should be."
His chest rose and fell with a deep, satisfied sigh.
"I feel like jaunting over to Piccadilly, to wait for someone in passing to ask me, 'How do you do?', simply so I could reply, just had the best sexual encounter of my life, thanks for asking."
She laughed, imagining that exchange.
"Best of your life?" she couldn't help but ask. "Truly?"
"Until later tonight, at least." He nuzzled her neck. "Guinevere, every time with you is the best of my life."
And how many more times would they have left? Too few, too few.
Ding...ding...ding...
As if it were some fateful portent of their time growing short, a nearby timepiece chimed the hour.
Gwen looked over at the side table. She recognized it as the clock he'd been tinkering with all week.
"You were able to repair it," she said.
He shushed her, and his breath warmed her earlobe.
"Watch."
From a little window in the front, a tiny couple emerged...a soldier and a lady. In halting, mechanical motions, they bowed to one another, twirled in a little waltz, then parted and retreated back into the clock.
"Oh, that's charming," she said, smiling.
"I always loved watching it when I was a boy."
A hint of melancholy deepened his voice. No doubt he'd hoped his own offspring would one day love watching it, too.
Now, he believed he would never have someone to share it with.
At least, she could share it with him now.
She slid an arm around his back, hugging him tight. Listening to the last chimes of the clock and the fierce thump of his heart.
"I was thinking I'd donate it to the Foundling Hospital," he said. "I thought perhaps, the children in the infirmary would enjoy it."
"I'm sure they would."
"Well, then. I'll have my mother take it, when she visits next."
She twisted in his lap and peered up at him.
"I have a better idea."
Stay safe!