the hawk and the dove by virginia henley

The only relief to the black outfit was a pretty white ruff at her throat.

She wore a magnificent outfit of black satin brocade, embroidered overall with jet beads and banded with ebony fur. Queen Elizabeth was the chief mourner of the beautiful young man taken in the fullness of his youth. There were seven hundred mourners in Sir Philip Sidney’s funeral procession, and Frances was reduced to selling her family’s coach and horses to help defray the expenses.

He knew that he could soon invade her veins with pure bliss which would blot out all questions. He wanted to bury himself within her, to make her beg, to make her cry out at a dozen moments of passion. Little by little he managed to coax her from her questions into a loving mood, then overwhelmed her with sheer animal magnetism. He grinned and whispered, “You love me when I fuck you.” She beat his chest with tight little fists. He said with mock solemnity, “My shaft lengthens to ten inches when fully aroused.” “Sorry,” he teased, “you mean you want to know more about me.” He pulled her against his hardness and whispered, “Such as how many times we can do it in one night?” “Can’t we ever have a serious conversation? I have a hundred questions I’d like you to answer.” “You always want to play … you never want to talk.” She pressed her legs together tightly, evading his attempt to slip his finger inside her. “Do you want to talk or do you want to play?” She happens to own lead and tin mines, so without drawing any kind of suspicion, I’m able to trade her marble for lead.” She has a mania for rebuilding her castles. “The marble is for Bess, the countess of Hardwick. His fingers began to work their magic and it was with difficulty that she remembered the question that had plagued her. She slipped her arms about his neck and lost her thread of thought. “Of course,” he admitted as he bit her ear and let his lips play along her throat. “You wanted her to be indebted to you, didn’t you?” She swirled her fingers in the thick matt of black hair upon his chest. “Oh, my darling,” he said, sweeping her up and carrying her to their bed, “so do I, but it cannot be.” He undressed her gently, murmuring, “My little love, I’ll make it up to you.” He kissed her eyelids and smoothed the tiny curls from her temples. “Yes,” she cried, “I want us to be man and wife!” “Don’t you feel bonded to me?” he demanded. I took your virginity and I never want you to know another man.” He shook her. “Sabre, I don’t think of you as my mistress!” She saw the hurt in his eyes. “’Fore God, men are generous with their mistresses.” I’ve deposited ten thousand pounds in your name with Herriot’s, the goldsmith’s.” She stiffened in his arms, surprised at the large sum. “Darling, I never want you to be left in a mess such as Frances is now in. He slipped his arms about her beneath her breasts and bent to place a tender kiss on the top of her head.

The hawk and the dove by virginia henley