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8,938 words * ˛ ✦ ･ It was her laugh that did it. Not at him—never at him. She was laughing with a groom in the stables, something about a lame horse, and the sound was so pure it had stopped him mid-stride. He'd stood in the shadows and felt his entire world tilt on its axis. That night, he'd tried to speak to her at dinner. What came out was, "you seem fond of the stables, perhaps you should sleep there." He'd meant it as a jest. She'd taken it as condemnation and stopped eating at the main table shortly after.

WARNINGS: third person pov (fem!reader), alternate universe – gothic, DILF!CALEB — AGE GAP, established relationship — married, mutual pining, miscommunication, mild angst, DUKE!CALEB, making out, nipple play, worship, cunnilingus, fingering, unprotected vaginal sex, cum-marking, exhibitionism, overstimulation, implications of future anal, spitting.

The fire cracks in the grate, casting monstrous shadows across the mahogany walls, and he tells himself he prefers the solitude. Any other man in his position—Duke of Skyhaven, commander of the most feared private guard in Philos—would revel in having an estate this size to himself.

But he is not any other man, and the silence only amplifies the sound of his own useless worrying, which always circles back to his wife.

She occupies the east wing. He occupies the west. Between them lies a marble corridor that might as well be an ocean. Caleb hasn't seen her take breakfast in the main dining hall for seventeen days. He knows this because Mrs. Josephine, the head housekeeper, mentioned it in passing, and Caleb catalogued the information with the same precision he once used to track enemy artillery positions.

The staff whispers that Her Grace prefers trays in her sitting room. They say she is quiet, polite, unfailingly kind. They say she asks after his health.

Caleb knows they lie to spare his feelings.

The gifts began three months ago, after he overheard her humming a particular melody in the rose garden. He'd been lurking behind the conservatory windows, a habit he's developed because direct proximity to her makes his tongue thicken and his thoughts scatter. The tune was French, something about swallows and spring. By evening, he'd dispatched his man Gideon to acquire the sheet music from London.

When it appeared on her vanity, she left it untouched for two days before having it returned via a trembling maid with a note that read: Unnecessary, but thank you for your consideration, Your Grace.

It sits in his wardrobe now, atop a growing pile of similar failures.

Caleb learns her desires the way a desperate man hunts for water in a desert—by watching, listening, piecing together fragments. He notices the way her fingers trail over the spines of botanical texts in the library. He hears her ask Cook if the kitchens might obtain Turkish delight, just once, as she remembers it from childhood. He sees the ink stains on her left hand and deduces she favours a particular brand of nib that the London shops rarely stock.

Each discovery becomes a mission. Each mission ends in rejection.

Last week, it was the jasmine tea. The week before, a shawl in precisely the shade of blue she wore to the Yuletide ball. Before that, a first printing of that poetry she likes, which he'd spent two months hunting down through three separate dealers.

All returned. All pristine. All breaking something in him he didn't know could break further.

Caleb stands before his dressing mirror and allows his valet to knot his cravat while his mind fixates on the faint scent of her soap that still lingers in the corridor outside her chambers. It's lavender and something else—sage, perhaps. He caught it yesterday when he walked past, deliberately slow, hoping for a glimpse. The door remained shut. He'd pressed his palm flat against the wood like a besotted schoolboy, then fled when footsteps approached.

The dining hall is cavernous at breakfast. His sister, Lady Simone, sometimes joins him, though she's learned not to mention his wife's absence. Today she tries anyway, buttering toast with too much care. "You could simply knock on her door, you know."

"I am not twelve," Caleb snaps, and Simone's mouth tightens into a line that says, 'exactly, you are a grown man behaving like a ghost.'

She changes the subject to the royal council's latest nonsense about railway taxes. Caleb nods, but his eyes keep drifting to the empty chair at the head of the table, where his duchess should sit.

He remembers the day the betrothal contract arrived. He was twenty-nine, already a veteran of campaigns in the northern territories, and she was not yet born. The Xia family owed the crown a debt and the crown required an alliance. His father signed the papers while Caleb was still bleeding from a wound that would have killed a lesser man. He'd raged, then. Smashed furniture, cursed God, swore he'd never touch a child-bride forced upon him. But the girl grew into a woman while he was away at war, and by the time he returned to Skyhaven for good, she was nineteen and he was in his late forties, and something in him shifted without permission.

It was her laugh that did it. Not at him—never at him.

She was laughing with a groom in the stables, something about a lame horse, and the sound was so pure it had stopped him mid-stride. He'd stood in the shadows and felt his entire world tilt on its axis. That night, he'd tried to speak to her at dinner. What came out was, "you seem fond of the stables, perhaps you should sleep there." He'd meant it as a jest. She'd taken it as condemnation and stopped eating at the main table shortly after.

Another time, he'd seen her sketching in the solarium—delicate watercolours of hawks in flight. He'd stood behind her chair, his shadow falling across her paper, and said, "Your brushwork lacks confidence." He'd wanted to offer to teach her. She'd heard only criticism and never painted in that room again.

Each attempt to bridge the chasm only widens it. Each word that emerges from his mouth is a shard of glass, and he watches her bleed and hates himself and hates her for making him want so desperately.

The staff see it. They watch him prowl the halls after midnight, pausing outside her door. They watch her face at windows, staring out at the moors. They know the marriage remains unconsummated. They've removed the connecting door between their chambers at her request—she'd claimed it was a draught—and Caleb had agreed because the thought of having that temptation so close, of hearing her breathe while he lay alone, made his hands shake.

Today, he finds her in the morning room, curled in the window seat with a book.

She wears grey muslin, something modest and simple, and her hair is pinned haphazardly. The late autumn light catches the curve of her cheek. Caleb hovers in the doorway, his hand gripping the jamb, and wills himself to turn around. Instead, his feet carry him forward.

She hears his boots on the parquet and stiffens. The book snaps shut. Her eyes, those devastating eyes, fix on the windowpane.

"You have no need to keep sending me gifts," she starts, and her voice is so small, so tired. She looks anywhere but at him, and Caleb feels the familiar ache of knowing he makes her uncomfortable. "The estate is under your command, no one will say a word if you stop playing your role. I know—I know that you do not really want this, and that is fine for me. I shall keep to my room and my duties, you do not have to do anything, you will not even see me at all. Y-You can even bring a mistress if you wish, I would not mind—"

"Enough." The word emerges more scathing than intended, steeped in incredulity and a hurt he's been nursing for months. The gifts are piling up in his wardrobe, a museum of his own inadequacy. "This estate is a reflection of our covenant. I will not tarnish it with another. It will do you well to be heedful of the same sentiment."

She shrinks, actually flinches as if she's been struck, and her eyes immediately fill with tears.

Damn her for being so soft, so delicate, so utterly incapable of understanding that his cruelty is just love turned inside-out. "I would never," she whispers, and Caleb knows she speaks true. "I just wanted you to know … it is not my place, but I grant you permission all the same. I shall not blame you if you do."

The sharpness of his gaze softens, imperceptibly. Probably isn't noticed, what with the way tears cloud her vision. He sways closer, his hand lifting—just a fraction, a phantom of a touch he won't allow. Then he sways back. He whispers her name now, quiet enough to be intimate. "That is not and will never be necessary. I am faithful," to you, his mind screams, "to the promise of our families to one another."

For a moment, something in her expression lifts. Hope, fragile and terrible. Then it crashes down again as his words land wrong, as they always do.

She deflates, just a bit, before catching herself and nodding. She shuffles backwards, out of reach, and Caleb watches her retreat with his jaw so tight he feels his teeth might crack.

He wants to tell her that the gifts aren't duty. He wants to say he knows she prefers her tea with honey, not sugar, because he saw her refuse the sugar tongs six times. That the rug matches the exact colour of the ribbon she wore the day she arrived at Skyhaven, twenty years old and trembling. That the book on hawks was returned because he'd written an inscription inside the cover—For my duchess, who sees farther than I—and had been too cowardly to sign it with his name, so she'd likely thought it a printer's error.

But the words calcify in his throat.

She dips into a curtsey that is more of an escape than actualdeference. "Your Grace," she murmurs, the title erecting a wall between them, and flees before he can utter another syllable. Caleb stands in the empty morning room, the scent of her lavender soap lingering like an accusation. He closes his eyes and hears the phantom echo of her voice granting him permission to betray her.

The cruelty of it nearly brings him to his knees.

In his chambers, he unlocks the wardrobe that holds his shame. The sheet music. The shawl. The tea, still fragrant in its tin. The garnet hairpin he thought might suit her complexion. A dozen other tokens, each chosen with a care he cannot articulate.

Caleb sinks into his desk chair, pulls out a sheet of crested stationery, and begins to write. My dearest wife, he starts, then crosses it out. He tries with just her name, but that feels too bold.

So, he settles on with no salutation at all.

The roses you admired in July have bloomed again, though they are past their season. I thought you might like to see them. I am told you have been unwell. If you require anything—

He stops abruptly and crumples the paper, throwing it into the fire. It curls into ash, another unsent confession.

Gideon knocks, enters with tea that Caleb doesn't want. "Her Grace's maid mentioned she admired the new piano in the music room, Your Grace."

"She returned the sheet music," Caleb says flatly.

"She cannot read French notation, sir. She said so to the footman. She feared ruining such a fine edition."

Caleb's hand stills on the teacup. A crack appears in the porcelain. He releases it before it shatters entirely. "She said that?"

"In passing, Your Grace. As one does."

The footman. Of course. The footman is eighteen and handsome and laughs at her jokes. Caleb's knuckles whiten. He will not invent danger to remove her from the staff's company. He will not. He is not that far gone.

He is lying to himself.

That evening, he takes dinner alone again. Simone is in London, and the long table feels like a sarcophagus. He pushes roasted quail around his plate and thinks of her eating soup in her rooms, perhaps reading, perhaps thinking of him with the same misery that consumes him. The thought that she might not think of him at all is worse.

Caleb pours himself brandy he doesn't need and walks the parapets of Skyhaven Estate. The wind is vicious tonight, whipping his coat. From here, he can see her window, a faint square of golden light. He watches it for an hour, two, until it goes dark. Then he returns to his study, pulls out another sheet of paper, and writes without thinking:

I do not hate you. I have never hated you. I hate only myself for wanting you when you were meant for a better man.

Then he locks it in his desk, where it will join the other two hundred and forty-seven letters he has written and never sent. The gifts will keep coming. The silence will stretch. And he will remain, as always, the ghost in his own marriage, haunting a woman who thinks he despises her while he drowns in a love he cannot name.

Mrs. Josephine's mop has left the floor slippery enough to skate on if you’re brave and wearing stockings instead of shoes, which Tara, eight, made leader by the pleasure of being the eldest, definitely is. Right behind her are the twins: little Patrick and Timothy, six, identical except for the way Timothy’s ears stick out like jug handles and Patrick has front teeth still coming in crooked.

All three wear oversized aprons turned into sacks by knotting the strings.

“She said clean, not die o’ boredom,” Tara announces, planting her broom like a flagpole outside the forbidden door. “An’ if we finish quick we can take the letters to ’er Grace, like proper post-men.”

“Post-kids,” Timothy corrects, proud of the word.

Patrick pinches his sleeve. “Shh. If 'is Grace comes back an’ catches us gossipin’, he’ll turn us to statues.”

“He only does that to soldiers,” Tara scoffs, though she lowers her voice to a theatrical whisper. “An’ he ain’t even 'ere. Gone at dawn, horse all smoke—Mrs. Josephine said things are urgent f'the port ships.” She pauses for effect, then pushes the heavy oak with both palms. It swings inward on well-oiled hinges, revealing the study like a cave of dark treasure.

The children creep inside.

Sunlight slants dustily through tall windows, catching on silver inkwells, brass dividers, and the great scarred desk that looks—at least to the eyes of children—big enough to land a massive bird. Books climb the walls like ivy; maps curl on stands; the air tastes of smoke and something metallic, maybe blood, maybe secrets.

Timothy’s nearly jumps in place with excitement.

“Look'it—papers everywhere.” He points to a drift of cream-coloured sheets escaping the half-locked drawer Mrs. Josephine meant them to polish around, not rummage through. “Might be treasure maps.”

“Might be ration lists,” Patrick counters, ever practical.

But Tara, who can read whole pages now thanks to evening lessons with Her Grace, tilts her head. “Letters,” she breathes. “To … ‘My dearest—’ oh.” A blush floods her cheeks hotter than the coals. “It’s love, innit? Like in the fairy-books 'er Grace reads.”

All three bunch closer, mouths forming perfect ‘O’s. The topmost letter lies open, ink still wet in places where a man’s hand pressed too hard. Words sparkle up at them: longing, apology, roses blooming out of season, a promise never to hate.

Timothy traces a line with a grubby finger. “He calls ’er dove. Birds’re s’posed t'be free. That’s romantic.”

“Romantic means kissing,” Patrick informs him, disgusted. “Yuck.”

Tara chews her lip, torn between rules and wonder. “We oughta leave ’em… but ’er Grace oughta know, right? She’s sad of evenings; I seen her starin’ out the window like she’s waitin’ for sumthin'. Maybe she’s been waitin’ for these.”

A breeze rattles the panes, as if the house itself urges haste.

“Bundle,” she commands. The twins obey, scooping every sheet—folded, unfolded, half-scribbled—into their apron-pouches. Paper rustles like startled doves. Ink smudges across Timothy’s thumb; he wipes it on his britches, leaving a black comma.

Drawer shut, dust swiped with sleeve, they back out, pulling the door until the latch clicks soft as secrecy.

Halfway down the servants’ stair, voices float up—Mr. Gideon and Mrs. Josephine ascending for inspection. Panicked, Tara flaps her arms. The three scurry into the linen alcove, pressing against shelves of lavender-scented sheets.

Footsteps pass, and a held breath later, they erupt giggling, muffling mouths with tiny fists.

“Mission,” Tara declares, eyes bright as candle nubs. “We get these to ’er Grace 'fore tea, else the Duke’s temper’ll roast us.”

They tear through hidden passages only children of servants know—behind the faded tapestry of the sea battle, across the lumber room that smells of mothballs, popping out two floors above in the pastel hush of the ducal east wing.

Her Grace's door stands ajar; humming trickles through, thin and wistful. The children exchange nods, creep inside. She sits at her desk, quill suspended, staring at nothing. Her eyes tell tales of recent tears; soft hair tumbles unadorned. She does not immediately notice the small invasion.

Patrick, bravest in small bursts, tiptoes forward and lays the first letter atop the blotter like an offering. “Fer you, milady. Found in the big scary room.”

She blinks, focus sharpening. Three moppets cluster, aprons bulging paper, faces lit with expectancy and a hint of terror. She picks up the sheet, recognises the crested watermark, the slanted hand that could belong to no other.

And her breath snags, caught.

“Oh … oh, children, these are—” Words fail; her red-rimmed eyes fill anew, but it seems different now.

“We cleaned,” Tara volunteers quickly. “Din’t read much, only enough t'know they’re proper important. An’ we brought ’em all, every one, like royal couriers.” She hefts her apron, and a snowstorm of stationery spills across the carpet.

Timothy adds, “An’ we shan’t tell no one, cross my heart, hope t'be eaten by mice.”

Her Grace kneels, gathers them close despite the ink smudges. “You wonderful, impossible little loves.” Her laugh wobbles, coming out almost as a sob. “Yes, royal couriers indeed.”

Patrick peers up, anxious. “D’they say nice things? 'is Grace is thunder most times, but maybe thunder’s got nice lullaby f'you inside?”

She smooths a crumpled edge, glimpses line after line of raw, yearning contrition.

“They say … everything.” She hugs the pile to chest, feels paper hearts drumming against her own. “And you have given me the world before luncheon.”

The children bask in the glow of a deed bigger than mischief, something approaching heroism. She rises, rings the little silver bell on her table. Moments later, a friendly kitchen maid named Jenna appears, eyes widening at the scene.

“Hot milk with honey for my three adventurers,” She orders. “And almond biscuits. They’ve earned a treat for a job well done.”

The roses you admired in July have defied frost and bloomed again—stubborn things, refusing to bow to reason, much like the thud my heart gives whenever your ribbon disappears round a corner. I clipped one at dawn; its scent is sharp, green, almost angry—rather like me before coffee, or after watching you laugh with the footman whose name I refuse to remember. Sometimes I imagine placing the dried bloom on your breakfast tray, but cowardice folds me smaller than the petal, and so it stays, crumbling a little more each day.

I stood in the rain until my cuffs dripped onto the stone, wondering if the droplets racing downward were doves made of water you have sent my way, carrying some microscopic fragment of your breath. If they were, I drank them, selfish as a monster, pretending it counted as closeness, pretending the water on my tongue tasted of lavender instead of metal and regret.

Cook swears you only picked at your plate yesterday; I wanted to march in and scold, but who am I to demand you eat when I subsist entirely on glimpses of you and the echo of my own stupidity? Instead I told her to prepare almond tart—your favourite, though you never admit it, and I lurked behind the screen like a thief, watching you take a single bite, crumbs clinging to your lip like stars. I nearly stepped forward to brush them away, to taste almond and you in the same breath, but the memory of your flinch the last time I spoke too sharply kept my feet in place.

The seamstress had mentioned you have need of new ribbons; I nearly ordered every bolt of silk from the Capital, imagining your smile if the colours arrived like sunrise delivered to your dressing table without excuse. Instead I selected three shades only, then spent an hour arranging them in a box.

This morning I watched you teaching the kitchen boys their letters, and I felt ancient, a ruin jealousy that craves to have your name scrawled every inch of my walls. I traced your initial on the inside of my wrist with a fountain pen, told the valet it was nothing more than a stain; he believed me because I pay him to believe lies that keep my pride stitched upright.

The physician says the ache in my shoulder is ghost-pain, nerves remembering fire that burned years ago; I nodded politely while thinking the real phantom limb is you asleep three corridors away, close enough to haunt, but also too far to hold. He prescribed laudanum; I prescribed myself five minutes outside your door, ear to wood, listening for the hush of your breathing, counting inhalations the way sailors count stars when land has vanished and hope is measured in pinpricks.

Your gloves lay forgotten on the hall table—pearl-buttoned, smaller than my palm—and I pocketed them like evidence, meaning to return them untouched, meaning to remain honourable, meaning so many things honour laughs at. Instead I pressed them to my face inside the tack room, inhaling until my lungs are filled with you.

I drafted an announcement today—The Duke and Duchess of Skyhaven shall host the midsummer ball—then tore it to shreds because the thought of you dancing with anyone else turns music into cannonade and every gentleman’s hand into a target I long to shoot off at the wrist. Instead I wrote we are indisposed, though indisposed is Latin for lovesick wreck who cannot trust himself not to drag his duchess behind a screen and kiss her breathless while orchestras pretend not to notice the percussion of heartbeats off tempo.

Thunder tonight rattles the portraits in their frames; I imagine it is your laugh magnified by heaven, though heaven and I are currently not on speaking terms since it keeps you just beyond the stretch of my arm.

The tailor measured me for court uniform, and when he asked which lining I preferred I answered whatever shade matches Her Grace’s eyes at twilight, and the poor man stared as if I had requested unicorn hide trimmed with starlight.

Found your handkerchief tangled in my riding coat—how it migrated remains mystery, unless cloth yearns the way flesh does, unless linen can miss the palm that stitched the monogram with such tidy, stubborn loops. I tucked it inside my glove before patrol, felt the lace scrape my wrist each time reins shifted, a secret caress no broadsword hilt could match, and by the time we returned the scent of horse had overpowered lily but the imprint of your initials persisted. I almost sent it back unwashed, then almost kept it forever, then almost confessed everything to the stable cat who blinked once and turned away, uninterested in human follies that smell of sweat and

Surrender tastes like your name I dare not speak of, and yet I stand on ramparts shouting it to the empty moor until my throat is raw and the echo returns sounding like dove, like love, like

I rehearsed apology number forty-six: I will try to speak softly, to smoothen every syllable, to offer my hands palms-up as trowels ready to dig trenches for your sorrow to drain into so nothing drowns us. But when I saw you in the greenhouse today I forgot the script, tongue thick as old honey, and what emerged was delivered in the tone of a reprimand to a recruit who forgot polish.

The daisy had died; I kept its skeleton in a book of tactics; I think of it whenever I see you wear white, whenever I forget that some things wilt because they are loved too hard and too

Caleb’s gloves hit the foyer table with a slap of wet leather. The ride from the Farspace headquarters was a hard three hours, wind knifing across the moor, but the chill in his ribs has nothing to do with weather. It is the sudden, sickening vacancy in his study that chills him—an absence he feels the instant he crosses the threshold.

The drawer gapes. Its brass lock hangs askew. Inside, there is nothing.

Nothing at all.

Every letter, every unsent confession, every raw, humiliating line of longing is gone.

Gone.

For a breath, he simply stares, pulse battering the walls of his throat. Then instinct kicks in, and he yanks the drawer completely out, shakes it like a man trying to conjure coin from an empty purse. A single flake of sealing wax drifts to the carpet—blood-red, damning. Who? The staff are loyal; Mrs. Josephine would flay any prying maid. Yet someone has seen. Someone has read. Someone has taken.

He storms into the corridor, cloak still dripping, boots leaving black commas on the runner.

Caleb does not knock at her sitting-room's door, he invades.

The panel crashes back against plaster. She is there, perched on the window-seat with his letters fanned across her lap like petals, soft hair cascading over a rose-silk dressing gown. Candlelight halos her, and the sight halts him mid-stride, heart skipping a beat.

Her eyes lift. They are swollen, but resolute. In her small hands, the paper looks fragile, yet it cuts through him sharper than any sabre. She rises, barefoot, chin high. “You left these for me to find,” she says softly, and there is no accusation in her tone, just a quiet form of certainty that knocks the wind from his lungs.

Caleb’s mouth opens, closes. The defence that usually leaps, fully armed, to his tongue is nowhere. Instead a mortified growl escapes, “those were never meant for your eyes.”

She steps forward, letters rustling. “Then for whose?” Her voice trembles, yet she does not flinch when his huge frame looms. “You write that you hate yourself for wanting me, that you fear I despise you. Caleb, I never—”

“Stop.” He pivots, planting his back to her so she cannot see the tremor in his shoulders.

The study is across the corridor; its dim light beckons him like a place to hide or die.

He retreats, but she follows in the silence left in his wake.

Caleb rounds the desk, palms braced on scarred mahogany as though holding it down before it flies apart. She stands on the opposite side. “Talk to me,” she whispers. “Please.”

Words cram inside his throat—violent, suffocating, so he selects the one that will cut the sharpest. “There is nothing to discuss. Return the papers and forget you ever saw them.” He hears the aristocratic sneer, feels it land like a slap across both their faces, and hates himself all the more for it.

Her lashes flutter, but her gaze steadies. “I will not.” She lays the stack on the blotter, squares them with deliberate care. “These are addressed to me. They belong to me. And you owe me the truth you have hidden inside of them.”

Neither of them move.

He tries condescension. “Duchess, sentiment is beneath you—”

“Do not treat me like a child.” The reprimand snaps from her, quiet but firm. It is, he realises with a jolt, the first time she has ever countermanded him. Something dangerously close to pride flickers beneath his horror.

She circles the desk, and Caleb retreats until the chair blocks him, then drops into it as if chains bind his wrists. She comes close enough that her breath stirs the hair at his temple. “Read one aloud,” she murmurs. “Just one. Let me hear your voice give it life.”

His laugh is made of broken glass. “So you can flay me with confirmation? No.” He shoves to stand; the chair wheels back and topples. The crash startles them both, but she stands her ground. Her tears glitter, yet her tone stays firm. “I read how you pace the corridor outside my door, how you remember every ribbon I wear, how you fear your longing is monstrous. Caleb, it is not monstrous to be loved and want to be loved in return.”

Loved. He reels, knuckles whitening against desk edge. “You cannot love a thing you fear,” he rasps. “And you fear me—my size, my temper, the way I want you.”

“I feared you hated me,” she corrects, stepping between him and the scattered chair. “These letters prove the opposite.”

Silence elongates, thick as wet wool. Then something inside him snaps—a sound almost physical, like mast timber giving way. His eyes, glowing amethyst in storm-shadow, lock on hers.

Abruptly, he moves; his hands seize her waist, to lift and set her atop the desk in one fluid surge. Papers scatter like startled birds. Ink pot trembles. He cages her with arms braced on either side, chest heaving. “The truth?” he growls, voice so low it vibrates through the wood into her spine. “The truth is that I have starved for the taste of you since the day you arrived. The truth is every night I imagine the scent here—” he buries his face against her neck, inhaling roughly “—and it drives me mad.”

She gasps, hands flying to his shoulders, not to push but to anchor. Her thighs, parted by instinct, brush his hips. The contact draws a ragged groan from him.

He lifts his head, eyes feral. “The truth, little duchess, is that if you stay in this room another minute I will take you—here, now, on this desk—papers beneath your back, ink staining your skin, and I will not stop until every vowel of denial is wrung from your throat.” The confession is a snarl, fanged and desperate, yet his hands tremble against the desk as if guilty that he must await his sentencing.

Instead of fear, her breathing syncs with his, quick and shallow.

Delicate fingers curl into the open collar of his shirt, pulling him infinitesimally closer. “Then take me,” she whispers, boldness shaking but unmistakable. “Consummate this marriage with me, Caleb, and leave no space for ghosts.”

He crushes his mouth to hers, their first kiss since the wedding ceremony, and it is neither gentle nor polite. It is siege and surrender, starvation and feast. He tastes salt tears and honeyed breath and the future exploding open between them. Her lips part on a whimper that becomes his name—not his title, God—and the sound lances straight to his groin.

Caleb’s palm spans her throat, thumb tilting her chin so he can feast on her all the more deeply, while the other hand grabs ribboned hair, anchoring her. She answers with nails scoring his nape, heels locking at the small of his back, arching into the hard line of him.

When they break for air, foreheads pressed, the room spins. “Mine,” he mutters, voice shredded. “Say it.”

“Yours,” she breathes, and the word is both benediction and brand.

His mouth crashes back onto hers before the echo of her "yours" can fade, the kiss raw, starved, reverent and ruinous all at once. Sugar and storm, he thinks, tongue sweeping deep to steal the taste of her—honeyed, nervous, impossibly sweet—then breaking only long enough to growl, "You taste like fucking summer, like strawberries split under noon sun—decadent little wife, I could gorge on you for days."

She whimpers into the next kiss, hands fluttering to his shoulders as if she might still contemplate modesty; and he devours that sound, swallowing it whole while palms slide down the porcelain slope of her arms to the neckline of her gown. Silk protests with a hiss—then rends, ribbon ties giving way beneath his impatient tug.

"Look at you," he breathes, "overflowing my hands already."

Fingers hook beneath the lace, yanking it down so that plush flesh bounces free, nipples pebbling instantly in the draughty study.

His cock jerks against her thigh, thick and insistent inside skintight officer's trousers; she feels it and gasps, thighs tightening reflexively around his hips. A tremor of propriety surfaces within her. "T-the door, Caleb; i-it's open—" She glances past his shoulder; through the gap flickers distant lamplight, the possibility of passing footmen.

Caleb nips the frantic pulse beneath her ear, laves the bite with slow, wet apology. "Let it gape," he croons, voice smoked with lust. "Let every last soul hear how the Duchess finally claims her Duke. Let them hear you sing, little dove."

His palms cup both breasts, thumbs flicking the stiff peaks until she arches, keening low. With reverent roughness he kneads the heavy flesh, mapping every freckle, every shiver.

"Perfection," he mutters, lowering his head. Hot breath ghosts over one nipple; she sucks a breath, and his mouth closes, wet and deliberate, tongue swirling slow spirals that tighten to a pointed flick.

A cry bursts from her throat, bitten back too late, echoing off high book-stacks.

He suckles harder, cheeks hollowing, drawing the nub against his teeth with gentle threat while calloused fingers mirror the torture on her neglected side—pinching, rolling, plucking until she writhes atop the ink-stained desk, scattered parchment sticking to perspiring skin.

Mine to taste, mine to mark. The possessive drumbeat thunders so loudly he fears his ribs will crack.

Switching sides, he laps the under-curve first in broad, flat strokes of tongue that sweep upward as if licking frosting from a bowl, before sealing over the peak and pulling with rhythmic insistence. Every draw sends answering clenches through her core; her hips rock, seeking friction against the hard line of his erection. Breathless little "ah-ah-ah" sounds spill into the quiet, louder than any confession.

Caleb releases her breast with a wet pop, smirks at the glistening nipple, reddened and needy. "Delicious," he growls. "Better than port, better than victory parades. I could sip here until sunrise and still beg for more."

He nuzzles between her breasts, inhaling skin warmed by his mouth, nudging the soft weight aside to trail stubble-rough kisses along the curve toward her sternum.

Weighted hands glide down, bunching ruined silk until fingertips meet bare thighs above stockings. He hums approval. "Silk ribbons for garters? My wicked little wife—dressing like temptation itself." A finger slides beneath one bow, plucks it free, and the stocking sags, exposing more satin flesh. He follows the reveal with open-mouthed kisses, tongue darting into tender creases where leg meets hip.

Her head lolls, hair spilling across forgotten ledgers. She bites her lip, but a moan escapes when his thumbs sweep higher, teasing at damp lace between her legs. "C-Caleb, someone will—"

"Let them." His palms brace her knees, spreading until cool air kisses swollen folds through soaked fabric. "Let them envy their lord for finally having his wife." He dips, pressing reverent lips to the inside of first one knee, then the other—each kiss inching upward, worshipping the shivers that dance over her skin. At halfway up her thigh, he pauses, nose brushing gusset, inhaling deeply. The scent—musk, heat, sweet cream—hits him like musket fire, and a guttural sound tears free. "Fuck, you are drenched for me. My prim little duchess, you have soaked straight through your pretty drawers."

Her whimper is all the answer he needs; fingers hook the lace aside, exposing glistening folds that clench under his gaze. Caleb exhales, hot and deliberate, over sensitized flesh; she jerks, knuckles blanched on desk edge. "Hold still," he orders softly, though his own hands tremble.

One broad lick, from the base of slick entrance to her fluttering clit, coats his tongue in her essence. The taste is pure pleasure; he groans, repeats the motion slower, savouring the salt-sweet taste of perfection.

She cries out, voice ricocheting inside his study and to the hall; somewhere beyond the opened doorway, footsteps come to a halt. Caleb lifts his head just long enough to growl towards the corridor, "keep walking," in the same tone he once used to dismiss mutinous officers.

The footsteps obey.

He smirks against her thigh, satisfaction raw and feral.

Returning to indulge, he spears his tongue gently inside her, feeling velvet walls ripple, hear the wet clutch of eager core tightening around the intrusion. His nose nudges her swollen bud; he circles, thrusts, circles again—setting the tempo until her legs lock over his shoulders, heels drumming between his shoulder-blades.

Slick coats his chin, drips to the blotter below. He hums, vibration thrumming through her sensitive nerves. "Good," he praises, voice muffled. "Ride my mouth, sweet girl, take your pleasure like the lady of the house that you are."

Fingers replace tongue—first one, then two—curling upward to stroke that secret spot that makes her sob. His thumb settles over clit, rubbing tight, deliberate circles while his lips fasten around her throbbing entrance, sucking gently so each plunge draws wet, obscene sounds that echo off the book spines.

Release coils fast, and he feels it in the clamp of thighs, the stutter of her breathing. "C-Caleb, I cannot! I-I'm—"

"You can and you will," he snarls, doubling pace, driving deeper, faster, thumb strumming relentlessly. "Finish on my tongue, wife, right here where I sign treaties, let this desk remember you screaming my name."

The command snaps an invisible thread, and her climax slams through her with a crystalline cry fracturing the study air, inner walls convulsing around his thrusting fingers.

Caleb gentles slowly, just until her tremors subside, her breath sobbing out in soft hiccups.

He rises, wiping glossy mouth with back of hand, eyes molten. Slick streaks his knuckles, and her release perfumes the room—a tang of sea storm and honey. Hands hook under her arms, hauling her upright until their foreheads press, her aftershocks vibrating through both bodies.

Fingers fumble for his fall-front, until buttons yield one-handed. Freed cock springs thick and heavy, flushed dark, veins pulsing. Precum beads at the head, smearing across silk still clinging to her belly. "Feel what you do to me, dove," he groans, guiding her tentative hand to wrap him. Heat brands her palm, and she squeezes experimentally, earning a hiss through grit teeth.

"Inside," he demands, voice shredded velvet. "Need to be inside you now, wife—wrapped in this velvet cunt that drips for me alone." He hooks her leg around his hip, aligning the thick head to her entrance, dragging through folds to coat himself in her sweetness, teasing until she whimpers anew.

A hard flex of hips seats him halfway, and they both freeze, sensation ripping breath from lungs. Tight, scorching, perfect.He waits—barely—until she nods, eyes glassy with renewed hunger.

Caleb drives forward, pushing himself flush against her, heavy balls slapping desk edge. A guttural groan tears free, and her answering cry pitches higher, echoing.

He sets a furious rhythm, desk scooting inch by inch across rug, parchment storm fluttering to floor. One palm braces beside her spine; the other cups her breast, flicking a nipple in time with his thrusts, claiming every inch of herskin.

Her hands scrabble his open shirt, nails carving red trails down sweat-slick chest. "C-Caleb, yes—" Words fracture, reshape into keens.

Inner walls flutter, a crest building anew; he feels it, curses, pistons harder, balls drawing tight.

"Cream on me again," he growls against her ear, voice savage reverence. "Let them hear how thoroughly the Duke worships his Duchess—how sweetly you spend around my cock." The filth unravels her, and she convulses, rippling, milking him in silky pulses that tear his control to shreds.

Release barrels up spine, scalding, uncontainable. He yanks free suddenly, fist pumping—once, twice, until ropes of hot seed stripe her belly, her breasts, her ruined silk; some splash against the crumpled love-letters beneath her, ink and cum mingling in obscene testament.

Caleb’s cock slips free with a slick, reluctant pop, still half-hard and glistening with their mixed release.

The sudden emptiness makes her whimper, thighs twitching, but he’s already moving to let strong arms slide beneath her thighs as he lifts her off the ink-streaked desk. Crushed papers cling to her back before fluttering to the rug like wounded birds. The study door still stands ajar, corridor yawning beyond. He growls low, kicks it shut with a boot-heel that rattles hinges loud enough to echo through the west wing.

Let them wonder, he thinks. Let every servant know their mistress has been thoroughly claimed tonight.

He cradles her flush to his chest, loving how small she feels yet how perfectly she fits—head tucked beneath his chin, breasts slippery with his spend squishing against the opened portion of his shirt. Her breath stutters warm over his collarbones, fingers petting idly through damp chest hair.

A few steps carry them to the rug spread before the cold hearth.

Caleb lowers himself to one knee first, then eases her down onto thick wool that smells of cedar and long-dead fires. The weave is luxurious against her skin; he watches gooseflesh prickle along her outer thigh and follows the trail with a palm. They stretch out side by side, mouths meeting in a languid, open kiss—tongues lazy, tasting leftover salt and musk. He hums into her, hand mapping the curve from shoulder to waist to hip, possessive but unhurried now that urgency has been spent once.

“You took me apart, little wife,” he murmurs between soft nips at her lower lip. “Made a beast of your duke. Christ, I’ll relive that every night before sleep until I die.” His voice is smoke and wonder, reverent fingers circling a nipple beaded with cooling seed.

She flusters yet arches into the touch, seeking more. “I liked it,” she confesses, shy even now, voice tiny. “Liked hearing you, because it is all for me.” The admission snaps something hot behind his ribs; he kisses her again, deeper, swallowing her courage like it is made of liquid gold.

When they part, he trails lips to her ear, breath scalding. “Your cunt still fluttering? Still hungry?” He cups her mound gently, feeling residual quivers, the slippery heat his release helped keep slick. “I can taste how greedy she is—want more, don’t you?”

She whimpers, and nods in bashful agreement.

Molten satisfaction unfurls in his chest like warmed brandy. “Good,” he croons, shifting downward. He peppers soft kisses across her throat, over the sternum, descending inch by inch until he’s kneeling between her sprawled legs.

Palms glide up inner thighs nudging them wider. The rug teases sensitive skin, and she shivers, hands clutching strands of his hair already wild from her earlier tugging. He offers a wicked grin, then bends to lap a broad stripe through the mess painting her belly—cleaning his seed while maintaining eye contact, deliberate and filthy.

Satisfied that her stomach has been marked by both seed and saliva, he moves upward—mouth closing over one breast. This time, the suction is gentle, worshipful. His tongue swirls, teeth grazing but never biting.

A low hum vibrates through tender flesh, and she gasps, back bowing.

Perfection, he thinks, switching sides, lavishing equal devotion.

Between licks, Caleb murmurs praise. “Plump little tits fit my mouth like God’s own mold.” Nip. “Nipples begging to be loved every morning.” Suck. “Shall I wake you this way henceforth? Suckle until you drip down my fingers?” Each word melts her further, her thighs flex restlessly against his ribs.

When her chest is glossy with spit and her nipples are stiff, he kisses down the midline—pausing at her navel to swirl his tongue inside, feeling the muscles jump—then settles lower.

Broad shoulders wedge beneath her knees, and heavy palms cup her backside, tilting her for better access. Her folds are swollen, glistening, his seed slipping out in silky beads. He inhales, savours the musk, then presses a delicate kiss directly atop her clit. She jerks, and his strong forearm pins her hips. “Stay,” he orders softly. The second kiss is wetter and firmer; the third becomes the flat of his tongue sweeping upward, gathering their mingled essence, humming approval at the flavour.

Slow, deliberate laps trace every secret ridge—up one side, down the other, circling entrance where soft suckling draws more cum and her own renewed honey. Each stroke is measured, keeping the pressure light until frustrated mewls spill from her throat.

It's only then does he shift focus on her clit, flicking, then sealing his lips around and sucking rhythmically. Two fingers slide inside, curling unerringly against velvet front wall; she clenches instantly, walls rippling around the intrusion.

Her heels drum against his shoulder blades, moans climb octave by octave, sweeter than any violin strumming in the ballrooms of the capital. He drinks each note, storing them inside his memory like medals.

The sensation begins to overwhelm her, and she splays fingers over her own breasts, pinching already stiff nipples, adding spice to his view. The sight spurs him on. He increases the pressure of his fingers, and pumps them even deeper; at the same time, his mouth suctions firmer until her thighs tremble and the internal flutters tell him she’s hovering on the edge of the cliff again.

When she’s gasping his name like a prayer, he growls, vibrations rumbling through sensitive nerves and sends her crashing.

Her spine arches clear off rug, cry breaking on crystal timbre—clit pulsing, walls clenching and releasing in lush waves. He keeps his tongue gentle now, easing her through the crest, lapping tenderly until the shudders subside.

Caleb crawls up her body, slotting their mouths together so she tastes herself and them. Forehead to forehead, he breathes her air, hands cradling damp hair. “Exquisite,” he praises, voice thick.

“My heart outside my chest—saw you shatter, and it has never been prettier.”

Aftershocks quake her limbs that makes her clutch him, nails scratching lazy patterns along his nape. He rocks his hips so the half-rigid cock nudges her sensitive spot, making her gasp into his shoulder, sensitive but already yearning for more.

He pulls back just enough to meet her eyes and smiles—slow, savage, loving. “Now,” he says, voice sweet, “would Her Grace like to be fucked like a whore? Bent over my reading chair perhaps—hair twisted in my fist while I drive every last ripple out of this greedy cunt?” Her breath hitches, yet her thighs spread wider in invitation.

The answer glows in her eyes. He waits, patient for the syllable, thumb brushing her swollen lower lip. A shy nod evolves into breathless, “y-yes please, Caleb.”

Caleb’s grin spreads slow and dark as sin, the kind that once terrified cadets and now turns his duchess’s knees to water. “Listen to you, already begging to be ruined.” He drags a knuckle through the slick still glazing her folds, lifts it gleaming between them.

“My filthy little wife, perfect in pearl and cream. Could present you at court just like this. let the peerage faint at the sight of you.”

She shivers, mortification and hunger warring in those eyes. She wants to hide, yet lifts her chin for more. Pride surges through him, and he seals it with a kiss that steals her breath before she can voice another plea.

Hands slide beneath her arms, and in one fluid surge he’s standing, bringing her with him. The rug bunches under his boots as he pivots toward the high-backed leather reading chair stationed near the cold hearth. Its brass studs wink like complicit stars. He deposits her on unsteady feet, then spins her to face the chair. A gentle shove between shoulder blades bends her forward, her palms scrambling to catch the rolled top, knuckles whitening. Her back forms a graceful bow, buttocks lifted, thighs trembling—an hourglass about to be flipped.

Caleb palms a cheek in each hand, kneading, spreading, exposing glistening folds already pulsing from last crest. “Look at this cunt, swollen shut from pleasure and still managing to weep for me.” A fingertip taps her clit; she jolts, moan cracking. “Greedy little jewel.”

He leans in, breath ghosting the base of her spine. “And this.” Heavy hands spread her wider, thumbs brushing the pucker of her rear. It flinches, shy, then slowly relaxes under pressure. He chuckles low, bends closer, and spits—a deliberate splat that lands warm and wet directly on the tight ring.

She squeaks, mortified, tries to clench away, but he holds her open, watching saliva bead and drip.

“Pretty hole winks like it knows its future,” he croons, voice velvet menace. “Soon, little wife. Soon I’ll split this one open too, make you take every imperial inch while you sob my name into these cushions.”

She whimpers, pushes back unconsciously; arousal glistens fresh along her slit.

Perfectly responsive girl—shame and desire braided so tight they feed each other.

He rewards her with a gentle slap to one cheek, just enough sting on the skin and draw a breathless cry.

Satisfaction roars through him. He straightens, frees cock fully from his slacks—still half-slick from earlier, but is now stiff again, veins throbbing an angry purple. The head nudges through soaked folds, painting himself in her honey, teasing her clit until her legs quake.

Fingers tangle into the silk of her hair, winding once, twice, then yanking until her spine bows impossibly deep—neck craned, breasts lifted, torso a taut instrument ready to be plucked.

She gasps at the minor pain, but her cunt floods with hotter syrup, clenching on air. “Arch for me,” Caleb orders, voice sandpaper over steel. “Show me how well a duchess curves when she wants to be treated like a back-alley dove.” She obliges, vertebrae popping as the angle opens her sodden entrance beautifully, labia blooming.

The tip of his cock nests at threshold—stretching. He circles his hips, feeding just the crown, retreating, feeding again, taunting until frustrated tears prick her eyes and she tries to shove backward.

He clicks his tongue, and pulls her hair tighter. “Don’t rush. You’ll take every inch because I decide when, and not because this greedy hole steals.”

To emphasize he slides in halfway, feeling her walls spasm, overstimulated nerves lighting up.

She keens, a high fragile sound. He pauses then, lets her feel pulse of blood through shaft. “Breathe,” he murmurs—a rare kindness. When lungs expand, he drives forward, seating himself to the hilt with wet slap of hips to ass.

A ragged sob tears from her throat, her inner walls flutter madly, trying to adjust.

Caleb leans over her back, still gripping hair, mouth at her ear. “Is it too much, little wife?” A dark laugh rumbles when she nods frantically. “Good. I will train this plush cunt to take me raw on demand—just like I trained my fleet to sail through cannon smoke. And by the time I’m done, you shall cream around my cock mid-sermon.”

He withdraws almost completely, groans at the drag of swollen tissues, then slams back—again, again, and again—setting a brutal tempo. Breasts swing beneath her, nipples grazing tufted leather and sparking fresh sparks of pleasure through her frayed nerves.

Sweat beads along his spine, trickles to waistband.

Her cries rise—sharp, desperate, beautiful—echoing off of the ceiling. He shifts his angle slightly, letting the head strike the hidden bundle of nerves deep inside of her until words devolve into senseless pleas.

One hand releases hair to snake beneath, finding clit slick and engorged. He strums fast, matching thrusts, forcing pleasure to braid with overstimulation, until her thighs quake violently; inner walls clamp, trying to force him out, yet also sucking him even deeper. “Take it,” he snarls. “Take what your husband gives. Milk me like the greedy girl you are.”

Fingers pinch clit gently, and she sobs, orgasm crashing through her so hard that her knees buckle, and it is only his grip that keeps her pinned.

Wave after wave ripples along his shaft—sweet, vicious pulses that wrench his own control.

Caleb rides her through it, hips never faltering, prolonging spill with shallow grinding. When spasms fade to tremors he slows, gentling, yet remains buried.

He loosens the grip on her hair, smoothing wild strands, and peppers kisses between shoulder blades tasting salt. “Good girl,” he praises, voice hoarse wonder. “Took every thick inch while falling apart. You will be sore tomorrow, and it shall be a reminder who owns this perfect cunt when you sit at breakfast with me at the main table.”

A final lingering thrust, then he pulls out with a reluctant sigh.

Cum and honey drizzle down trembling thighs; he catches some on fingers, raises them to her lips. Obediently, her tongue darts to lick them clean—an erotic sacrament that makes cock twitch interested again despite the ache.

He lifts her boneless form, settles into chair himself and arranges her across his lap: her spine to his chest, thighs splayed over his so she feels air kiss her swollen folds.

When her breath evens out, he nudges her chin to let their eyes meet. “Next time,” he says, voice quiet thunder, “I sheath in that tight little ass. Train you slow, oil you open, make you beg for each inch. Until then, you will walk these halls remembering how you took your duke like a whore tonight—and loved every second of it.”

SAINT'S NOTES ! the letters in this are heavily inspired by cardan's letters to jude (ifykyk); that scene changed something the way i viewed love letters—that they don't necessarily have to be declarations of love at all times, that all they have to be is honest. some of them are intentionally cut in the middle of a sentence. this is so sappy and i love it so much; we'll get back to our regularly scheduled filth soon. i actually finished this days ago, but i scrapped more than half of it, wrote something new, scrapped it again, until i decided to stop doing that yesterday.

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