His Last Duchess by Gabrielle Kimm Page B

wanting—but as much as he intended to try again, so a pinching feeling of unprecedented anxiety held him back.
    It had never happened before.
    Never with any woman he had bedded in the past—not with the castle servants he had once “persuaded” to indulge him as a boy, not with the harlots he had paid for more adventurous activities as he grew up, not with the libidinous countess with whom he had tumbled for several years under the nose of her unintelligent husband, and certainly never with Francesca. Never.
    The thought of his failure this evening frightened him. Accusations and misgivings whined in his head. What if it happened again? Now? Another time? Every time? Why had it happened earlier? What if—Alfonso swallowed uncomfortably and then spoke aloud to drown the doubts. “Take off your chemise, Lucrezia.”
    He would not give it a chance to happen again.
    Lucrezia said nothing, but knelt up on the mattress, crossed her arms in front of her and grasped the hem of her shift. In one fluid movement she pulled it over her head, and then sat back on her heels, her arms folded across her breasts, her eyes on his. His cock twitched.
    Alfonso climbed onto the bed; he held her shoulders. She unfolded her legs and lay back. Compliant. He liked the word. Searched for another: obedient. He ran a hand up over her belly and onto her breast. She stiffened again as she had before. He felt as though he had a fever: his skin was burning but the flesh below it was chilled and shivering. He looked at Lucrezia’s body. The perfect image. His to possess. His to enjoy. He slid one knee up and over her legs. The swollen heaviness in his groin tightened again. He moved her breast under his palm, then pushed his other hand downwards, between their two bodies.
    Lucrezia sucked in a shuddering breath. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry if I…” Her voice cracked and died away.
    At the sound of her voice, the softening began and, as it did so, a knot of anxiety tightened around his throat like a noose. Determined not to fail again, he closed his fingers more firmly on Lucrezia’s breast. Too firmly: she made a small noise of distress and squirmed away from his grip.
    It was like trying to stop water trickling away into sand. The tightness in his cock subsided. Retreated. Faded. Shrivelled. He closed his eyes, almost suffocated by a black drench of defeat and swore under his breath. He turned away and sat on the edge of the bed with his back to her.
    There was a long pause.
    Lucrezia whispered, “Please—don’t leave.”
    â€œNo,” he said, still facing away from her. “The servants would talk, should I not be here when they arrive in the morning.”
    He felt her flinch, as though he had made to hit her.
    Alfonso wanted to leave the room—as desperate for the silent safety of his own chamber as is a drowning man for air. With the humiliation of this second failure sneering at him from one side, and the thought of his servants’ shocked reactions if he were to abscond taunting him from the other, he forced himself to remain in the room. He walked slowly to the window.
    He stood motionless for what seemed like hours, sightlessly staring at nothing, his mind numb. Then, too tired to stand any longer, he returned to the bed and lay on his back next to Lucrezia. She made no move to touch him, and so they remained, side by side—like two stone effigies from the great cathedral—until the grey light of morning filled the room.

5
    Waiting-woman to a duchess? Catelina stroked the corn-coloured woollen skirts of her newest dress and stifled a disbelieving grin. She picked up an ivory comb and began trying to work it through the Signora’s hair. It felt strange to be standing so close to someone so grand, someone dressed in such beautiful clothes, actually being asked to touch her lovely hair. Catelina looked at her own hands. They were red,