A Scandalous Entanglement

IX

"I still fail to believe it. How could they have died? They were just alive running a race that almost every lord in town betted one." Devyn turned from the window. "They were poisoned Charles. Poisoned. Now I know you will say it is silly but I think this is all the works of lord Abbington. He killed my horses." "Horse's shit, you and Abbington have been at a war with yourselves for more than a decade. It even almost got your mother involved!"

Devyn's mouth soured and he chose his words wisely. "That was her doing Charles," He breathed with fury. "My mother's affairs have long stop concerning me, whatever she pleases she does according to her will." "Spoken like a true gentleman." Charles raised his glass.

He brought his attention to the reminder of his horses outside making a round on the wet grass yet the only image he was able to come up with was that of his wife's hand being held in the man that led the horses. "Devyn?" Charles got up from his seat and followed his gaze to the horses that were now making a gallop for the wild space. "Are you sure nothing is wrong?"

Devyn urged his horse on a slow trot despite the cold biting wind that tore through him. Another cold sweat broke on his back, and even though he tried enjoying the view before him he couldn't help himself to the emotions he battled with. Emotions of jealousy and hatred, envy and displeasure. Emotions all directed at himself for most probably being an arse. He should have chased after his wife when she found him deep in the lady Clara Leavening, he shouldn't have sat outside her door as he heard the soft wailing softs of his wife crying into the late night. And yet the coward that he was, retired to his bed dreading that his wife would start a scandal, dragging his name though the mud and being overly hysterical. And he had planned, countered a way on turning the scandal against her, saving his name, and most probably ruining hers even if it meant bribing all souls that roamed the earth.

And yet she hadn't bothered with that, rather she had held herself at a distance, a distance he knew he didn't like yet didn't try to do anything to resolve the dispute between himself and his wife. Then there was the dress she had worn. A full look at his wife told him she was indeed blessed with the sort of curves and soft skin a man dreamt of kissing, loving, tenderly touching during the dark hours of a cold night.

The soft curves that he wanted to touch and kiss.

"Fuck!"

Then there was the fullness of her breasts. He had no doubt their heaviness could fit in his hands.

And he had imagined during the short seconds of her standing before him of how it would feel like rubbing the bud of his thumb against their soft peeks, what colour they would take when erect and how they would taste in his mouth. Warm softness of honey and milk and her simple smell.

Another questioned tugged at him, would she moan out a soft cry? Arching her back so that her two bosoms were for him and his pleasure or would she rather he fondled her, teasing her with his fingers till she could take the bliss of his hands no more? He sighed and shifted uncomfortably on his horse, distressing the fine beast that trotted elegantly on the hard ground. It was going to be a long while till he go the image, her image out of his body.

The town came into view and he found himself eagerly looking forward to seeing her once more in the dress. It wasn't as if he had any business in town, as a matter of fact, the only reason he had picked up horse and rode after Emilia not long after was simply because he felt the weather was far too cold for her, especially with the type of seductive dress she wore. And she needed a shawl since her coat had been forgotten at lady Clara Leavenings ball.

The gravel crunched underneath his boots as he contacted the floor. "Give him a good brush down. He loves scratches behind his ear and be warily of his tail, he gives a mean kick." He tossed a coin to a young lad that sat by a hitching post with an enormous hat covering half of his face and a single stick of hay in his mouth.