Page 20 of Mistletoe Minx

His gaze swooped like an eagle onto the woman in question. She had red hair, artfully arranged to frame her mask, and appeared delightfully petite and slender in her short-sleeved green velvet gown. As a rite of passage, novice gowns were little more than a simple tunic cinched at the waist with silken cord, worn without stays or chemises. More interesting than her clothing, though, was the way Mrs. Jones’ head moved left and right to observe rather than keeping it modestly bowed. Was she merely curious, or perhaps his favorite kind of submissive: a provocative one? The fact she was already wed to a man she cared for pleased him greatly. Mrs. Jones would expect nothing more than four days of bedding—they could then leave each other with a cheerful farewell and carry on with their lives.

“Yes,” Dalton said abruptly. “She’ll suit. With a few provisos.”

Juliette raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Let us have the old minstrel’s gallery. Mrs. Jones must wait for me looking out to the party with her hands on the railing. If she lifts them, I will stop. If she turns around, I will stop. And…she must not speak. Only nod or shake her head.”

Even as the words hung in the air, Dalton winced at how utterly ridiculous they were. Who would agree to such rigid terms? Juliette would tell him to go to hell. Or Mrs. Jones would. And why would he even demand them?

Because seeing Mrs. Jones’ face or hearing her voice would break the spell…

Dalton scowled. Spell? What bloody spell?

Yet Juliette merely tapped her cheek as she studied him. Then her lips twitched again. “As you wish, mon cher. I shall inform Madame Jones of your requirements, and if she agrees, she will wait for you up there. Anything else?”

“A selection of toys,” he blurted. “And wine.”

Now, Juliette grinned. But she didn’t say a word, merely pivoted gracefully and walked away.

For what seemed like hours, Dalton watched his friend stroll through the crowd and greet her merry guests. Next, she went to Noah for a long kiss, before finally carrying on to Mrs. Jones, who wasn’t standing still, but rocking back and forth on her heels.

After a brief conversation, Juliette gestured up toward the wooden minstrel’s gallery, a now-enclosed space about eight feet wide and the same long, that couples often used when they wished to fuck in privacy but also watch activities happening below.

Dalton held his breath.

Say yes. Say yes.

The redhead dipped into a surprisingly smooth curtsy, then miracle of miracles, hurried toward the gallery.

Mrs. Jones wanted this.

A slow smile curved Dalton’s lips. His future lover would be well rewarded for such enthusiasm. From what Juliette had mentioned, Mrs. Jones deserved many, many orgasms for enduring such a foolish husband, but she would need to earn each and every one.

As languid as his hostess had been, he made his way to the gallery stairs, nodding at acquaintances, even stopping to gulp a tot of premium brandy from a passing footman. Then he started climbing the stairs, his footfall heavy on the sturdy wood. Mrs. Jones would certainly hear his approach.

At the gallery entrance he paused to savor the view in front of him. Mrs. Jones was trembling a little, but her hands were firmly splayed either side of her body on the solid wooden railing at her waist height.

The very portrait of a new and perfect submissive: unsure but determined to obey.

Dalton prowled closer, his cock hardening further with every step. Something about this delectable woman was turning him into a primitive beast. “Good evening, Mrs. Jones. My name is Dash and I am delighted you accepted my offer. First, I must ensure you freely agree to my rules; that you won’t turn around or speak, and if you lift your hands from the railing, I will halt immediately. Do you consent?”

She nodded, firm and deliberate.

“Excellent,” he purred. “We may begin.”

Could a woman orgasm just from a man’s tone? Because much like in the carriage before the Kyles’ soiree, or perched atop his library desk, her husband’s voice was making her wet.

Frances shivered. He hadn’t yet touched her, but she could feel his large, unyielding presence behind her. Finally, he was about to show her what it meant to be the Duke of Dashford’s lover. Because in this red wig, scandalous tunic gown, and a demi mask covering half of her face, she wasn’t Frances, but the bold, wanton Mrs. Jones. And thanks to her husband’s surprisingly strict rules, her deception was far, far easier than it could have been.

When his big hands came to rest on her shoulders and his thumbs began rhythmically pressing in, easing the travel soreness, Frances couldn’t halt a tiny whimper.

“Poor sweetheart,” Dashford crooned, as his magical fingers continued to expertly massage her neck, releasing tension until she slumped a little against his chest. “Let me make everything better.”

But when his mouth replaced his fingers, his warm lips trailing a path of fire from her neck to her shoulder before nipping the sensitive skin, her breathing stuttered. How could a kiss be felt in so many other places? Already her nipples jutted lewdly against her gown, and between her legs a pulsing ache demanded attention.

Soon, his left hand slid around to lightly grip her chin, his thumb lazily tracing her lower lip. “Open your mouth for me.”

The heady hint of ownership gave her courage. Before she could even consider the action, Frances darted out her tongue and delicately lapped at his thumb.