Good morning, darlings!
Thank you ever so much to Mel and Pamela!
XIX
LIAM
12 September 1897
Baltic Sea
There has always been something wistful in the scent of salt air. It smells of new beginnings, of chances being taken, of adventure on the horizon.
At least, this is what I am told.
Where one might inhale the salt-stained air and find joy in the unfamiliar, I am acutely aware of just how far I have ventured outside of my comfort zone, and how much farther still I will have to travel.
Despite my reputation, I am not a risk taker. Every move I make—while perhaps appearing to be random—is in fact calculated, precise.
Life is a chess board, and I am a mastermind in the shape of a pawn.
Our accommodations since we left London have been comfortable, at least by my standards. I can tell that the duchess has been unimpressed with her meager quarters, and though she has not outright complained, even Rosalie is having a hard time with the ship's lodgings. Both women have been placed in their own rooms while I have been left to bunk with the crew. It is not a bad sleeping arrangement, as far as those go. The sailors are friendly enough folk, though few speak English, and I have managed to win a decent amount of coin off the men gambling at night. They grumble every time I come away victorious, but the fact that I am asked to play again the next night tells me that I am still on the friendly side of competition.
I am ever watchful for that moment when I might switch from friend to foe. It has taken me by surprise before in life, and I have sworn never to let it happen again.
The Russian emissary, Dimitri, is a rather foul man, but seemingly harmless enough. He makes a show of a big game and parades his wealth before Rosalie and the duchess in the form of gems and furs, but if I had to guess, I'd bet that he's all mouth and no trousers. He seems like the weak-cocked sort of fellow who is desperate to prove his value despite his waning manhood.
Still, I keep an eye on him, for I have sworn to the duke that I will look after his family, as they have looked after me.
Our voyage across the sea was only meant to take a handful of days, but a storm has driven us to port in Gotland for the last two nights. We are finally back on our path, and based on first mate's estimations, should be arriving in St. Petersburg by tomorrow.
Since it is to be our last night aboard, I have been invited to dine in the captain's quarters with Dimitri, the duchess, and Rosalie.
I dress for dinner, wishing I could stay behind and gamble with the crew another night, before making my way across the deck.
The captain's quarters are large and stately, with decadent furnishings bedecked in yards of velvet and silk. Based on the rags I've been sleeping with in the crew's quarters, it's clear that this captain does not take good care of his men.
A valet escorts me to the dinner table, announcing me as I take the last available seat beside Mr. McCarty. He offers me a nod as I settle, and I return the gesture. I have not spoken much with the translator yet, though I intend to seek him out often as I try to learn Russian. I have a gift for languages, but even I have had a hard time picking it up from the phrases I've heard around the ship. I shall need all the help I can get.
Across the table from me is Rosalie, who is sitting next to her mother. The emissary is at one end of the table, the captain at the head.
"Velcome," the captain says in a commanding voice. "Drink!"
Immediately, a butler steps forward and fills my glass with a clear liquid. I thank him as the duchess speaks up.
"Captain, you said that we will be arriving sometime tomorrow?" she asks, her hands delicately folded in her lap, her drink for once untouched.
"Da," the captain says loudly. "Dzhe storm passing is mean ve vill khave short trip."
Both Rosalie and the duchess glance at me, and I give them a reassuring smile. One more night, and we will be in Russia.
In my wildest dreams as a boy, I could not imagine such an adventure for myself.
A plate is brought before me, and I glance down at the small dish of caviar. I have never seen it look so fresh.
"Utonchennost'," the captain says, waving one hand in front of him.
Quietly, Mr. McCarty clears his throat, and the captain waves him on. "It is a Russian delicacy," he explains. "The captain is pleased to offer ladies of such a noble house his best caviar."
True to form, the duchess looks pleased and preens under his words. My eyes land on Rosalie's face, and I am surprised to see her look a little flush when she gazes at Mr. McCarty.
I may have had my foolish moments, but I am certainly not a fool. I know how Rosalie feels about me. While his sister's affections went unnoticed by Edward, I have known her feelings since the first day we met.
I have done what I can to discourage her, though admittedly, I have done a spectacular job at failing to do so.
The truth is, no matter how much I might love her in return, the reality of the daughter of a duke marrying an orphan of common blood like me is impossible. The duke would never allow his daughter to settle for the likes of me, and I would never ask her to walk away from her family. What is between us is a tender flower, doomed for the cold frostbite touch of winter.
It should make me jealous that another man has turned her head, but truthfully, I feel sad for her. She is going to let herself get caught with feelings of infatuation for another man she can never have, as if her heart is so easily mended that she is willing to lend it out for heartbreak at every opportunity.
I watch them throughout dinner without trying to make it obvious. Mr. McCarty laughs at the one joke Rosalie makes, and she returns the favor by laughing at his two. They are mostly silent, despite these small moments, for it is Dimitri and the captain who fill most of the conversation, but I catch, on multiple occasions, Rosalie stealing a glance at the translator.
I have sworn to protect her, and as I watch her gaze across the table at him, I wonder if I will have to protect her heart as well.
What lengths must I go to in order to save her?
Time will tell.
Supper is a tedious affair, if for no other reason than I am ignored at the table and find myself growing bored with the surrounding conversation. I wish to be in the belly of the hull, learning Russian curses and gambling with the men.
After the dessert plates are finally cleared, the duchess lets out a soft clearing of her throat. "Captain, I do hate to complain, but my room is ever so stuffy. It seems that my window does not work properly."
The captain's heavy brow furrows. "I vill send man to fix," he says.
"Oh, surely not a strange man in my room." The duchess gasps, a hand flying over her mouth. "Please, isn't there something else we can do?"
The captain looks confused, and I clear my throat. "My lady, I am no handyman, but if you are willing, I can try to fix the window. Perhaps all it needs is some cajoling," I joke. The duchess looks surprised. "If I am unable to work it open, perhaps I can escort one of the captain's men?"
The captain nods his agreement and the duchess brings her napkin to her lips, dabbing delicately. "Very well," she agrees.
I can see the captain and Dimitri itching for their nightcaps, and though I know the duchess to drink well into the night, she excuses herself and her daughter from joining them. When we are finally free, I escort Rosalie and the duchess back to their rooms. I bid Rosalie a good night, ignoring the way my heart twists when she gives me that soft, warm smile she seems to hold only for me.
When she is safely secured, I turn to follow the duchess to her room.
It is a small space, though large compared to the bunk I am crammed into. There is a bed laid with red silk and an ornate dresser fastened to the wall opposite it.
"Is it this window, my lady?" I ask, moving across the room and pointing to the first porthole.
I hear the door close behind me and the duchess clears her throat. "Liam, we need to talk."
I turn to look at her, surprised. Gone is the coy charade she wears in front of the emissary and the captain. Before me is the true Duchess of Devonshire: unflinching, calculating, and far too clever to have her life squandered on frivolous matters like social etiquette and parties.
"What is it, my lady?" I ask, feeling wary.
She steps toward me, her hands moving to her bodice and popping open the first button at her throat.
"I have something important to tell you," she says, slowly unfastening her top.
I watch her mutely, my stomach feeling slick and hollow. "Madame, surely there is not time enough for me to please you," I whisper. It's a lie; there is all the time in the world and I know how to please her, far quicker than any lover she's had before.
"Liam," she says, reaching out and gently pushing against my shoulders until I sit back on the bed. She stands before me, shedding her blouse and skirt until she is in her corset and under clothes. Slowly, she reaches for the laces of her corset, loosening it. "What are your plans?" she asks as she sheds her layers.
"What do you mean?" I ask, my eyes darting between the laces slipping loose around her torso and her hooded eyes.
"My son is gone, abandoned me," she snarls. "And my daughter is about to be sold off to the highest Russian bidder." She scowls, and despite her sometimes cold nature, I do know this troubles her. The duchess loves her children, in her own way. "Soon, I will have no children at home, and your time," she says, finally unlacing the corset and letting it fall away. "Will be up."
She steps between my legs, and automatically my hands go around her waist. "What would you have me do?" I ask, my hands moving across her hips. I slip one hand under her bottommost layer, sliding my fingers up her inner thigh until she hisses and pulls at my hair, yanking my head back.
"Fuck me," she demands.
This is the price I have paid to be a part of my best friend's life. This is the price demanded for staying in the favor of the duchess. The first time she took me into her bed, I was a nervous young lad, almost completely inexperienced and uncertain of how to please a woman.
The duke and duchess don't share a bed. I know this because of the nights I have spent buried between the duchess's thighs, learning to please her, fighting for my keep.
Edward has no idea the nature of the relationship I have with his mother, and if I have it my way, he will never learn of it. I do not want him to know what it has cost me to live by his side.
Elizabeth hitches her dress up over her hips and throws one leg over my shoulder as I scoot to the edge of the bed. I take hold of her hips before I meet her scorching center with my tongue.
Immediately, she arches above me, crying out as her body bends and thrusts against me.
She is a beautiful woman, and sometimes, when the light is just so and I am lost between her thighs, I can imagine it is Rosalie and not her mother that my cock is buried in.
Elizabeth's cunt is swollen and dripping, and I realize she must have been thinking of this for days, for she is practically coming apart at my slightest touch.
She pulls her hips from my mouth and I lean back, watching her. She smiles, grabbing my chin and bending down to lick her juices from me.
Despite myself, I can feel my cock growing hard, and soon, I am aching to be buried in her.
Wordlessly, Elizabeth pulls back from me and lifts her sheath over her head until she is completely naked. She gives me a tantalizing smile as she stretches out on the bed beside me, bending her arms so that her breasts point in my direction, teasing.
I am powerless to stop myself from ripping my tunic over my head and climbing over her, taking her breast in my mouth.
Everything I know about sex, I have learned from Elizabeth. When our affair first began, I worried about us getting caught, but it soon became clear that her husband did not care enough about her to notice what she did, and her children were too trusting in the world to suspect her.
My fingers fumble with the ties of my breeches, and I struggle to be rid of them as Elizabeth wraps her long, soft legs around my waist.
The moment my cock is free, I plunge into her, making her moan into her own shoulder. Despite the reprieve it has been to be apart from her, my body sings at our reconnected contact once again.
Sometimes, I loathe myself.
I fuck Elizabeth, hard and fast until our bodies are slicked with sweat and she is crying into a pillow, her hands under my shirt, nails scraping across my back as her body constricts around mine, drawing out my own pleasure that is so bright, I feel I will go blind.
When we are both sated, sprawled out and panting in the wake of our lust, Elizabeth turns on her side to look at me.
"I'm pregnant."
My stomach drops, and I turn to look at her, trying to understand what she's saying.
"The duke's?" I ask, even though I know better.
She shakes her head. "I haven't slept with him in years," she reminds me.
My heart sinks. Fuck.
My eyes skip down her body to her stomach. I cannot discern any difference, but there is every reason in the world for her not to be pregnant. I cannot imagine she is making this up for any reason.
"What will you do?" I ask, wondering if the duke will allow me to escape with my life, or if I will be a hunted man.
"I can hide it for another few months," she says, rubbing a hand over her stomach. "When I cannot anymore, I will feign sickness. I will leave court and have the baby in the countryside. It'll be raised in an orphanage, and I will return as if nothing has happened."
I stare at her. It is a horrible future she paints for this child, but this is a good plan, a sensible plan. The child will be fine, being raised in an orphanage. I was.
"Okay," I agree, nodding my head once.
"Your days in my house are numbered," she continues. My eyes flicker up to her face. "My children will be gone, and I will not be able to justify your presence."
I nod. "I understand."
Her hand moves to land on my chest, somewhere near my heart. Her touch is somehow both hot and cold at the same time against my skin.
"No one can know," she says, her nails biting slightly into my flesh. "Not even once we are through."
I nod, trying not to flinch. "I understand," I say again.
And it's true. I do understand the need for discretion. This is just another secret that I will be carrying with me to my grave.
Elizabeth nods. "Good." Her eyes wander down my body, and I see a frown pull at her eyebrows. "If only my husband could fuck me like you do." She sighs, letting me go and flopping back on the bed. "Get out of here, and don't get caught."
I get up and get dressed without another word.
Once I'm presentable, I leave her room and slip back into the dark dank hole of the crew's quarters where I belong.
