Nu et Effrayé [Jaycob]

[Fairess]

How long had it been since she'd seen daylight? Genevieve saw nothing but stone and candlelight in the dungeon, the occasional drape of a shadow darkening her cell when the guards changed shifts. They'd separated her from her mother and father from the very beginning, leaving her to stare at the wall from a straw mattress while her father wept and her mother cursed. Even if she wasn't being beaten or starved, the endless, silent dim was well and truly taking its toll on her mind. Was this to be her life until the very end?

The arrest had been so sudden — one moment she'd been reading in the library, and the next she'd found herself in her father's study, the man already tied up while her mother was held back by a guard, screaming that she'd kill her husband herself.

As the accusation went, it was her father who had sourced and commissioned a rare poison used in an attempt to kill a duke. And it was that duke's commander who read the charges, told his men to seize the rest of the Chatelain family, and have the entire premise searched. She hadn't been given a moment to grab any of her personal things, marched out to a prison carriage in her slippers and loose day dress. They took her pearl necklace and opal ring, too, before shoving her through the duke's estate and locking her into a cell.

Perhaps she should be grateful: her father had it much worse. She'd been able to hear his screaming from some other awful corner of the dungeon, his voice broken over the crack of a whip. Once, twice, three times they marched him to his cell and back again, his wife shouting obscenities at him with every pass.

Though the soldiers were not gentle, they'd barely touched her when she was brought into the obvious torture room. Only once did she go inside, where some dark-haired, well-dressed fellow had grilled her over everything she knew about the incident. Naturally, she'd not known a thing about her father's betrayal, only able to attest to his ill will toward the duke after he'd been fined for tax evasion. They must have believed her, because they did not press her further before escorting her back to her cell and leaving her there to rot.

The only mark she had for time was the meals — porridge and leftover bread for breakfast with a plain potato and leek soup for dinner. She kept note of these tasteless meals every day, pulling a straw from her mattress and setting it down near the opposite corner of her cell to mark the passage of time. On the eighth straw, a group of guards returned to the dungeon, rounding up all three of the Chatelains and marching them outside at last.

"Count Matis Chatelain stands accused of treason for collaborating with and supplying the very man who attempted to take our good Duke's life. According to justice, he shall be hung from the gallows and made an example of for his crimes against man, country, and God." A crier in some military sort of overcoat made the announcement before the large crowd that had been gathered in the estate's courtyard. This was not a public execution, it seemed, but a spectacle for noble eyes only. This was their warning and their consequence — and who wanted to end up squirming, blue-faced, and bulgy-eyed like her father as he was dropped with the noose around his neck?

"Oh God. I must be next." Beside her, Genevieve's mother looked like she was about to faint. Though she felt her own strength fading, she let her mother lean against her side for support. If this was to be their end, she was determined at least to be dignified.

But the guards didn't shepherd them toward the corpse of her father. While the crowd applauded and jeered at the dead man's folly, she and her mother were led back inside the grand, marbled halls of the duke's estate. Rather than heading back for the dungeons, they were lead down one of the servants' halls until they came upon what looked to be a washroom with two wooden tubs that had already been filled with water.

"You should consider yourselves lucky. Your lives have been spared by His Grace. We are to get you cleaned and prepared to carry out your new duties." A stern-looking woman with grey streaks in her dark hair stepped forward, a gaggle of maids waiting behind her.

"His Grace murdered my husband and unjustly had me arrested!" Genevieve's mother, despite her filthy dress and terrible stench, held her head high as she glared the woman down. When one of the maids tried to step forward and guide her to the tub, she slapped the woman away. "Don't you dare touch me, wretch!"

The stern woman simply sighed, gesturing to the guards with a tilt of her head. "I'm afraid it seems we'll have to do this the hard way."

Genevieve felt her knees buckle, tongue suddenly numb as she was guided to one of the tubs by a maid. While they undid the buttons of her dress and uncinched her corset, the same was being done with a good deal more force to her mother. She couldn't quite bring herself to watch, sinking into the rose and lavender scented water while her mother continued to scream. And that screaming only got louder when the sharp slap of a cane hit flesh, snapping away again and again.

The maids who washed her arms and shoulders clean said not a word. Though they, too, flinched at every strike of the cane, their hands were steady as they scrubbed her nails, plucked off every offensive hair that wasn't on her head, and rendered her pale golden locks shiny and smooth.

"Put a gag in the sow's mouth for her own sake." The stern woman, she realized, was standing over her mother while the latter was bent over the edge of the tub sobbing. Both her rear and the back of her thighs had bright red marks, each painfully solid and long against her skin. While she was silenced, the maids finally got to work bathing her in the same fashion Genevieve had been.

"Well, at least one of you has some sense." The stern woman looked Genevieve over as she was brought out of the tub and toweled dry. Her grip was surprisingly powerful as she turned Genevieve about, ensuring she was presentable for… for…

Genevieve's gut clenched tight. She'd been too numb to think properly, but the inevitable fate awaiting her suddenly dawned on her. They wouldn't be bathing her and powdering her derriere unless she was meant to use her body. New duties, that wretched woman had said!

Tears formed at the corner of her eyes, but she refused to sob. No one would have that satisfaction — especially not the duke!

Not that it kept the maids from gossiping all the same. There were comments of concern regarding the 'delicacy' of her frame, particularly in comparison to her mother's 'sturdy hips.' Genevieve had always been a lithe creature, her curves slender and toned through daily dance practice. She had the elegant face of a noblewoman with soft, well-defined cheeks and a pert little nose. The dull green of her eyes was distant, hardly minding the mirrors and the fussing over the quality of her skin. Already, her long, wet hair was starting to loosely curl along her back.

But she wasn't given clothes. Standing there, lost and sick to her stomach, she merely looked about in silent confusion until her mother, too, was finished being 'prepared.' They were both shocked into stumbling about when they were forced to march back down the hall naked, turning sharply up a staircase before they were brought to a handsome wooden door.

The guard leading this sordid, embarrassing parade knocked smartly at the door. "Your Grace, the prisoners are ready and awaiting your judgment."

 

[Jaycob]

It hadn't been long since the Duke had dispatched household staff to collect, clean, and present the two women of House Chatelain. They had been held in his dungeon for some time. Victims, ultimately, of the man who one had called husband and the other had called father. It had been his actions, not Nicolas', that had sealed their fate. Indeed, he'd taken a more merciful route and opted not to have them killed, which was seen as weakness by some of his council and as mercy by others. He would have to do something about that, he knew. Monsieur Chatelain had not acted as he had because he was reckless or stupid; the man must had either had substantial support or he knew who would ascend to the title. Either way, it implied there would be more traitors in the snake den that Nicolas called a court.

Still, he mused, he knew how to stem the rumors of weakness. It would be an affront to his pride, except that he might have shared those sentiments had he been one of the surrounding nobles. Today, he must make an example of the women being brought to him.

He dwelled on how it had come to be.

It had begun when the head of House Chatelain had been caught evading taxes. Nicolas, acting with relative swiftness, had elected to levy a fine against the family equal to the missing sum as well as increase their taxes until the man's death. Additionally, he'd sent several accountants and provided each with armed guards to the estate to independently check incoming payments. The funding for feeding and keeping them had come out of Count Matis' pockets as well. This, he knew, would begin a slow economic slide in the family and leave them indebted to others as he tried to keep up with all the additional and abrupt costs. Ideally, this would keep him too busy to make trouble.

Instead, within months, his food taster keeled over dead. A brief investigation yielded the revelation that it had been poison and, in particular, one derived from a plant found in relatively few places. A brief overview pointed him squarely at Count Matis Chatelain and, because he had already placed a respectable number of troops in the man's household, it had been easy to have him seized.

The trial and execution itself was brief and uneventful - from the perspective of the angry Duke. The women had become hysterical, but he could hardly blame them for that. By then, of course, he had decided to spare them. The younger one was quite beautiful, and he couldn't say that it didn't influence his decision. Her mother was attractive enough, as well, but he'd found himself with eyes only for Genevieve. It wasn't some childish infatuation, nor some fairy tale love at first sight. It was simply a man, a hunter, seeing prey.

Accordingly, the man had ordered them stripped, washed, and brought to him. In the meantime, he had acquired minimal clothing for them, the sort of humiliating uniforms that would cover them, but just barely, and leave their bodies subject to the open gaze of any who saw them. They were done in a mockery of maid's outfits, with very short skirts and a bare midriff and back. Almost a bra, really, and one that pressed their breasts higher.

When the crack of the guard's knock split the night, the tired man vanished and, in his place, was Duke Nicolas of House Artois, accomplished duelist and hunter, lord of his estate. He put on a smile as the women entered the room - not difficult, given their state of undress - and waved the guard out. The man nodded, departing, but only after giving them a lingering stare. Nic shrugged. They were a pair of attractive women, what was he to do? Tell his guards not to notice?

Nicolas looked at them appraisingly, giving Genevieve in particular a long, slow once-over, making sure she saw him. The older woman, the one who was gagged and sobbing, didn't seem to notice how he was staring at her daughter, or maybe she didn't care.

"Kneel." His voice was velvet soft, brooking neither disagreement nor argument. They knelt. "You are alive on my word alone. As such, you're mine to do with as I please. Lady Chatelain, I intend to send you with a foreign dignitary at the soonest convenience. You will marry at or above your previous station, but let it be known: If you come back, ever again, I will have you buried in an unmarked grave far from where your husband lies."

His voice cooled to ice on the final words. He cut an imposing figure, he knew. He was taller than them and broad, with wiry muscles that were hard earned in training. A scar decorated his left cheek, and his nose was mildly disfigured by a small bump that showed where he had gotten the worse end of a brawl. He had black hair, cropped short in a military fashion, and his green eyes were sharp. He looked and sounded perfectly willing to carry out his threat.

"You, Genevieve, are to stay here and serve me as a maid. You will sleep in my room, in my bed, until further notice. You are my personal maid which means you will attend me unless directed otherwise. You will do as I say, when I say it, or there will be consequences. Now." He paused, throwing their uniforms to the floor. "Put these on. You will be serving staff at tonight's feast. You will bear any indignity or humiliation heaped upon you with good grace. Genevieve, you will eat only from my hand and, should food or drink spill on me, you will clean it with your mouth and then a cloth."

He inhaled. "Finally, you are under my protection as well as in my possession. Men may touch you tonight, but in passing. Should anybody try to do anything... Untoward... You will tell me immediately. And I will handle it."

The man looked at the two women, amazed by the contrast he saw. A young woman, resigned but collected, and an older woman, crying into a gag.

"Am I understood?"

 

[Fairess]

"Yes, Your Grace." Genevieve kept her head bowed, her voice tiny and a little rough. Only then did she realize she hadn't actually spoken a word to a single soul for over a week. Her mother was inconsolable, the type of woman who fed on attention to build more negativity until the world around her was just as miserable as she was. Perhaps it was cruel not to have engaged with her, to try to protect her, but for once Genevieve herself could do little more than keep the pain and sadness contained.

Unlike her mother, she had a way of burying her emotions when crises occurred — a very useful trait learned by having no one to rely upon. Someone had to address the debts of their household, and it had certainly never been her father. He didn't have a head for numbers or the ability to refuse his wife, but once the family ledger had been in her hands, it was the one scrap of power she would never give up. It had taken years to earn her father's trust, to demonstrate her abilities until his pride could be softened by greed.

And then that very man went behind her back to use his personal coin for poison. Somewhere inside of her, she knew that she was angry, but she still felt numb and lost. Yes, her father had done something awful, or at least been accused as such, and now he was gone forever. Whatever she wanted to think or remember of him, his presence was now nothing more than an empty hole in her life.

As for her future? She reached out for the top of her uniform — arguably the most scandalous piece of fabric she'd ever touched. Despite being little more than a bra, the material was high-quality, soft on the outside and silky within. As she shakily slipped it on, it became immediately obvious that it was a truly flattering piece, smoothing the shape of her chest while deepening her perky cleavage.

She couldn't bear to look up, even though the intensity of the Duke's gaze was upon her. They'd never met formally until now, but she'd known of his reputation and seen him in passing. The ladies at court found his scar to be fiercely attractive, imagining him as a capably stern and fair man. Despite the sudden passing of his father, he had taken rulership of his extensive holdings with confidence and the noblemen underneath him seemed satisfied.

Well, those who didn't engage in tax evasion and poison were satisfied. She suspected the showing she and her mother were about to make would entertain and horrify in equal measure.

The translucent black thong she was presented with made her nausea surge. It all felt like a wedding night gone wrong. Like so many women her age, she'd been nervous at the marital arrangements her parents foisted on her, but this was by far the worst outcome. Given the shortness of her skirt, half the court was about to learn in no uncertain terms what the shapely curve of her ass looked like.

Even worse? The Duke was simply standing there watching. She tried to tuck her mind somewhere safe, somewhere where the embarrassment wouldn't shred what was left of her dignity, but there was no denying the hot flush of shame that ran through her as the tight, scanty piece of fabric was slipped over her sex. The short skirt followed, ruffled and almost cute with the white lace peeking from under the black. But it rode up so high against her thighs that it was barely even longer than her backside. A frilly apron that did absolutely nothing to cover her was next, the bow large and flirty with long ribbons that trailed down to tickle the backs of her legs.

Frankly, putting on the leggings was even worse than the panties. They were so very tight, and she had to slowly work them up her legs while the Duke shamelessly watched. In any other context, she might have been proud — her long legs were lithe and graceful, the muscle shaped perfectly to accentuate the flexibility her ballet dancing had earned. Her parents had never quite approved, but none had been able to deny that she was all the more graceful for the study of art.

After working the leggings up until they ended mid-thigh, she secured them with frilly garters and took a moment to simply breathe. She was almost done… almost. The final piece was a broad black choker with lace on either side, but the truly damning detail was the metallic loop at the front. Little jingling bells were attached to the loop, along with a delicate chain of silver.

The Duke meant to drag them along behind him like pets, it seemed.

Her fingers trembled as she held the collar, quite at her limit of shame. She just couldn't do it, squeezing the fabric in her hand before turning her attention to her mother.

The woman hadn't even begun to dress, covering her face with her hands as she wept. Such a tragic sight should have moved her to tears, but the first unpleasantly hot sear of anger escaped her at last. She glared, utterly lost for words. You're getting married, Mother. I'm the Duke's whore.

 

[Jaycob]

The Duke sighed quietly, walking before Genevieve and taking the collar, gently but firmly, from her hands. As he affixed it around her neck, he spoke in a low voice.

“I have detractors at court. The options were this or execution, and I didn’t want to kill a pair of hopefully innocent women. I know understanding doesn’t make your role easier, but I hope it helps you see why it’s necessary.”

In his mind, the Duke felt he was being quite fair. By taking her into his household, he was not only providing her with a high standard of living, he was giving protection. He supposed it would gall him, too, in her place: dressed as a sex slave and told that she was to be humiliated in front of people that were once her equals. And, to a degree, he was sure she knew that he would enjoy it, and that that would be offensive, too. She was already proving to be strong willed. He wondered if the night would break her.

Nicolas looked at the Lady Chatelain and sighed again. It seemed to be his preferred method of expressing quiet disappointment or exasperation. The man barked a sharp command, obviously used to being obeyed, and his guard poked his head inside the room questioningly.

“Fetch a maid. The Lady is… Incapable, at this time, of dressing herself.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” The guard closed the door and stomped off.

He toyed with the idea of punishment and discarded it. She was to be a gift anyways, and nobody had witnessed her failure to obey. The Duke once again turned his full attention upon his new personal maid, looking down at her. It again struck him how gorgeous she was, how perfectly the uniform suited her. Dressed as she was, she looked perfect - her breasts were lifted and pressed together, her shapely legs were on full display, and her ass was just barely hidden by the skirt. He marveled internally at how well the tailor had done. Lust sent a man’s mind in strange directions.

“I hope you understood what I said, and that you take instruction well. You will refer to me as sir or ‘Your Grace’ whenever you address me, and as the Duke or ‘His Grace’ whenever you speak of me to others.” He frowned, suddenly unsure if her prior failure to don the choker was due to reticence or some sort of mental breakdown. He decided to check and, in the same stroke, reinforce her position in the household. “Be a good girl and say you understand me, now.”

 

[Fairess]

Perhaps it was a good thing that the Duke's approach drew Genevieve's attention away from her mother — she was inches away from slapping the woman out of her self-pitying stupor. Just as the Duke had threatened, it was humiliation or death. Was continuing to breathe not worth putting her frail emotions aside?

The Duke promptly reminded Genevieve that it was herself she ought to consider first. She gasped when he pried the choker from her fingers, certain she was about to get backhanded for disobedience – or worse. Flinching backwards, she barely caught herself, back arched and head tilted upward to look at him. To the inconvenienced Duke, it must have only been a moment, but for her, that moment when he slowly stooped forward was much too long. Her heart caught in her throat, eyes wide and full of quiet terror.

The silk of the choker touched her first, sending a strange chill across her skin that rose goosebumps on her bare shoulders. She swallowed, submissively angling her chin up so he had better purchase on her neck.

His fingertips brushed against her skin for the first time, surprisingly deft and gentle as he latched the choker in place. It wasn't so tight that it would hinder her breathing, but the satin pressure of the band certainly lingered. And then there was that chain of her leash, now dangling down from her neck, past her breasts, and onto the floor.

The way he spoke, he didn't sound either pleased nor betrayed. It was strange, really — there had been no mockery or self-satisfaction in his greeting, just a very stern warning, even when speaking of having her in his bed. Why, he almost sounded regretful, though the key word there was almost. He did not waver in his decision to debase the two women, but he didn't derive pleasure from it, either. What, then, did he want?

His eyes certainly seemed to know. They lingered on her breasts and followed her curves down to her legs, leaving her feeling more naked than she'd been when in the bath. Something strange inside her stirred, an unfamiliar warmth that turned her cheeks pink. She found herself imagining his fingers hitched under her bra, tickling her sternum as he dragged her upward. Rather than taking her to his feast of debauchery, he'd sit her on his desk instead, those austere lips wandering up from the corner of her jaw and toward her ear.

What's wrong with me, to be thinking such things right now? Genevieve clasped her hands atop her breast, banishing such thoughts so she could properly process what the Duke was beginning to say. His orders were clear enough, but where in the world did 'good girl' come from? It made that uncomfortable warmth in her brighten even as she unsteadily nodded.

"I… I understand, My Lord." And she did, truly. Basic manners and taking orders were simple enough. He surely knew as well as she did that all the trouble lay in just how embarrassing the circumstances were.

Meanwhile, Lady Chatelain was being seen to by a maid, flopping about like a dying fish as she was slid into the uniform's tight constraints. The former countess looked absolutely ridiculous, she thought, and that meant she herself looked just as depraved and awkward.

It was for the best to get it all over with as soon as possible. Seeking to assuage the Duke and continue his 'mercy' toward her and her mother, Genevieve held up the delicate chain of her leash and offered it up to him, silently assuring him that she would follow his lead.

 

[Jaycob]

She'd lifted her chin for him, which was a good start. Her flinch was inoffensive. She'd likely expected that he was upset, and he hadn't exactly made an announcement that he was about to take something from her. When he looked her over, he saw her cheeks darken; outrage, surely? She seemed the proud sort, and there wasn't anything prideful about her situation. Images flashed through his own mind - of pressing her into the bed, or forcing her down to her knees. Feeling her lips on his own, feeling her body surrender to him, and breaking her will so that she was perfectly subservient in all ways. When she had arched her back so prettily for him during her little flinch, when she'd turned wide eyes upward... He blinked once, slowly, taking the moment to calm himself.

Still, Nicolas thought, he didn't want to break her entirely. In this rapidly constructed fantastical world, she was enjoying every second of it. Perhaps she was that type - but then again... He looked at her reddened cheeks, again assuming it was outrage.

Perhaps she wasn't.

Her mother, on the other hand, was beginning to grate on him. Her absolutely absurd reaction to the stress of the situation boggled him. She was going to be married off to somebody of respectable standing - what did she have to complain about? Her daughter, faced with the prospect of being paraded about the estate like some kind of trophy, had maintained her dignity admirably. The master of House Artois felt a budding respect growing alongside his attraction, and the two began to flirt with each other, forming the tenuous beginnings of true attraction.

He tsk'd gently when she'd replied to him. "Your options were 'sir' and 'Your Grace', Mistress Chatelain. I will allow this mistake once, as we are in private. Make it again, and there will be consequences."

She'd been respectful enough, which was the true reason that the Duke hadn't simply struck her. He could see she was trying to play by his rules but, equally, he could afford no flexibility in her station nor his own expectations. At least, not yet. To give leeway on their very first meeting would be to set false expectations, and what if she were to make some minor error when addressing him in front of his nobles? My Lord was an address suitable for a Count, but he was a Duke. To make such a mistake in front of guests could be seen as subtle insolence, which could give boldness to those who respected him less than they should. She was respectable and pleasant to look at, to be sure, which certainly made her attractive, but he could brook no softness in himself nor disobedience in her. In the games played at court, either could easily be fatal.

Nicolas took the proffered leash, pulling her closer with a sharp motion. The man had jerked it roughly, using the strength of his back and arm, maybe even hard enough to make her stumble - though maybe not, given her history in dance, but he hadn't hauled it hard enough to damage the collar. "This time, I am sure you'll get it right. Tell me that you'll be a good girl for me."

 

[Fairess]

It didn't take much to tug along the poor woman, weak with fear as she was. There was no small amount of flustering, either, the warmth in her cheeks quick to spread down the pale curve of her neck. She stumbled right into him, chin angled up and chest thrust forward as she barely managed to catch herself on his chest. Her hands spread over his waistcoat, eyes widening at the taut muscle she was feeling for the first time. Never had she been so exposed in front of a man, nor so close as he glowered down at her.

For a moment, she simply didn't have breath, eyes wide with now-familiar panic. How had she made such a careless mistake in addressing him? What was going to happen to her now that she had touched him?

And yet! This wasn't the same sort of raw panic she'd felt when being dragged into the dungeon. Despite everything, even the intensity in his gaze that demanded perfect obedience, there was something else. Her chest tightened with unfamiliar anticipation, lips softly parted as she stared back at him.

It was difficult to speak the words he desired, both because of the humiliation and the strange fog of arousal brought on by just about everything. Their closeness, the tightness of her bodice felt all the more with every breath, the tension of her collar as he kept the chain taut — for just a moment, she quite forgot about her mother and the awaiting banquet.

And that was quickly rectified by the polite cough of a maid. "Your Grace, the lady is ready."

Genevieve glanced toward the crumpled woman on the floor, promptly tucking her hands meekly against her chest. "M… My apologies, Sir. It won't happen again. I-I'll be… a g-good… a good girl for you."

 

[Jaycob]

Nicolas didn't waver as she stumbled into him. He had to brace slightly - he'd had more than enough time to see her coming. Her small hands thudded into his chest, and he smiled at her. It wasn't quite warm, but it wasn't threatening, either. The man reached up, one hand going to hers, the other catching her at the elbow so that she couldn't step away. As befit somebody who'd recently been bathed, she smelled nice.

"Perfect."

Satisfaction dripped from the word, and the Duke let go of her hand to reach out and cup the lady's cheek. It was a gentle motion, and he traced his thumb along her soft, soft skin. He was reacting to something, and he wasn't quite yet sure what; he did, of course, enjoy looking at her, but it went beyond that. Perhaps a subtlety of her posture, or the way she spoke? Certainly, her touch had sent a thrill coursing through him. Like the hunter he was, he had eyes only for his prey. There was intention behind the way he stared down at her, an almost physical pressure to the gaze.

The maid coughed again, and he, too, came to attention. The master of the House Artois collected himself, stepping back and resuming his calm, confident grace.

"I know you will, my dear. Now," and his tone turned brisk, businesslike, as he turned towards her mother, the erstwhile Lady Chatelain. "Get on your feet, miss. It's time for us to go."

She was a mess and, if the Duke hadn't known that there was a human under all of the clothes, he might have assumed that somebody had left something rigid on the floor and then dumped laundry onto it. He gave a mental eye roll; he had little patience for her lack of composure. The woman got to her feet, and Nicolas twitched his head at the maid. She took the hint and opened the door for them, handing the Lady's leash to Nick as she went. The guard looked in, raised an eyebrow, and leaned back out. He was too professional to let it show in his expression, but his face had reddened when he'd seen the scantily clad "servants". Nicolas wondered if Genevieve had noticed.

Not that it mattered. She'd be getting a lot of that kind of attention. Nicolas almost expected to have to fight a duel; unrelated entirely to any situation outside of his thoughts, he gave a wolfish grin. He did not particularly enjoy killing men, but a good fight was something to be cherished, and he could always fight to first blood.

Three things make a man happy, his father had told him, a good fight, a good horse, and a good hound.

Not a good woman? quipped his mother, and his father had laughed, gathering her in his arms.

All women are good - except for when they're not, and then they're even better!

The memory cheered him even more. The Duke walked ahead of the girls until he quite literally reached the end of his tether, then pulled the leads gently and causing the bells to jingle lightly. He held them both in one hand. The fabric was fragile - it was part of a test. If his maids tried to run, he would have to take action. Their acceptance of their role began with them forfeiting the attempt to escape even when it was made to look possible.

Not that it would be enough to make him trust them, he reflected ruefully, as he was sure at least Genevieve was sharp enough to catch onto his games.

"Come now, girls. We have a feast to get to."

 

[Fairess]

Genevieve's heart was all confusion. On one hand, the Duke had just seen and touched more of her than any other man had, crossing the threshold reserved for man and wife with the brisk ease of a casual exchange at breakfast. He was not especially harsh or cruel with her, but… well, that was the other hand. He wasn't particularly tender or gentle either, leaving no doubt in her mind that he would humiliate and torment her insofar as he felt justice demanded.

As if there were any justice in her situation at all!

He called her my dear, he steadied her without rebuff, and then he didn't hesitate in the slighted to tug at the lead of her collar as though he was guiding a pair of puppies down the hall. Her cheeks reddened at the charming chime of the bells at her neck, quickly realizing that the heels she'd been provided were higher than she was used to. With her neck tugged forward and the angle of her feet posturing her ass up and out, she could only imagine what sort of display she made as she was led along behind the Duke.

Well, the wide-eyed gaze of the servants she passed provided plenty of context about what she ought to expect of her new life. There was no pity, only a gamut between scandalized shock and mockery as two former nobles were paraded about like frilly peacocks due to be bred.

There was no point in glancing at her mother — she could hear the woman whimpering under the gag and knew that the pitiful sight of the former noblewoman limping along would only weaken her own resolve. Instead, she kept her gaze trained on the back of the Duke's head, her thoughts still muddled by the lingering warmth of his hand on her cheek. Her heart had beat so fast in that moment, terror and hope fighting against one another in her very pulse. In the end, her lips had parted, nervous and desperate, but she hadn't gotten a word out before the maid interrupted them.

When the doors to the Great Hall opened, she would have liked very much to remain in the Duke's shadow, but it was not to be so. She tried to keep the angle of her head high and proud, to meet the wicked gaze of her former peers with unsullied decorum, but the susurrus of gasps, giggles, and harsh whispers washed over her in a new wave of shame.

"Gods be good! He's turned the Chatelains into whores!" An older woman's voice, shameless and high-pitched, was clear amid the shocked murmurs.

"Do you think he used them already? That plumper one is shaking like a leaf." Genevieve recognized the smoother, youthful voice of Baron Rivett, which was soon followed up by one of his friends she'd danced with not more than a month ago.

"I always thought Genevieve was tastelessly thin, but look at those legs! Such a fine pair, now all for nothing." Lord Scriven 'tsked,' put out as though he'd lost a racehorse to a bad deal.

Genevieve's ears burned bright red, her gaze fixing onto the floor. Her stockings felt too tight, the bare skin of her thighs brazenly on display no matter how she opted to stand. Beside her, Genevieve's mother let out a strangled sob. But what could they do? Much though people stared at the pair of disgraced women, every person in the room was waiting with bated breath to hear the Duke's sordid announcement.

 

[Jaycob]

The Duke walked confidently, paying no mind to gawking servants. Without looking at their expressions, he had no way of knowing what they were; perhaps envious, or openly lustful? It mattered little to Nicolas as he paraded the women through his halls. They certainly were a spectacle.

Especially, the man thought sourly, with the elder of the two whining in the background. His Genevieve did no such thing.

And he did think of her possessively, now. It was odd, what her courage in the face of the oncoming humiliation did for his regard for her. He almost regretted having to put on this show. Still, it was better than killing them, surely. Conflicting emotions flickered through him as he approached the Great Hall, smoothing into glassy stillness as the doors opened and he put on his court face. It was time to present them, and himself, to scrutiny.

The mockery rang out almost immediately, and he waited for the commotion to die down. Duke Nicolas twitched the leashes lightly, summoning his maids to him. As silence fell, he cleared his throat slightly.

"Esteemed nobles of my court. As you know, I narrowly avoided the assassination attempt of Lord Chatelain not long ago, leading to his capture and summary execution. His wife and daughter, now before you, stood awaiting death with the dignity that befits nobility. I do not believe that they had any hand in such matters and, as such, have taken them into my house as maids."

He paused, allowing the titters to die down. As they did, he looked and reached back with his free hand, grasping Genevieve's firm rear and pushing her forward.

"Genevieve is my personal attendant and will prioritize me, though you may, if needed, call upon her. Her mother, will wait tables as expected of a hireling. You may speak to them as you wish, though Genevieve will eat from my hand alone. Please be aware that they are under my protection: If a hand is laid upon either of these women in any manner that could be considered untoward, I will consider it an affront upon my person." He let the words sink in. He made eye contact with a few people in the crowd; Lord Scriven, in particular, held his gaze for a few seconds before averting his eyes. Nicolas flexed his hands slightly. "But that is a dark topic, and one not fit for the night! Let us eat and drink - make yourselves at home in my hall."

The Duke smiled benevolently, leading the ladies to the table at the head of the hall as chatter began to arise. He unhooked the Lady Chatelain's leash, shoo'ing her away with a brisk flick of his fingers before turning to Genevieve.

"Now, my pet, we must play the game. I require two full glasses of wine and two mugs of water. I believe there is venison tonight; please return with a plate full of that, some bread, and some salad."

As he ordered, he looked her up and down again. It was difficult not to. She could feel the pressure of his gaze, Nicolas was sure of it, yet he couldn't keep from staring. "Don't stop for anybody else until I have everything I requested. I don't care who it is, nor what they want. Don't worry about what people say or think - the hall's full of powerful morons, controlled by whatever is entertaining. You'll be forgotten within a few months, a curiosity for me alone."

 

[Fairess]

Genevieve could still feel the warm press of his hand under her skirt well after he'd finished presenting her. The humiliating squeak she'd made was still fresh on her lips, too. He might have called her and her mother maids, but there was no doubt in anyone's minds that she'd been demoted well past the honor of being a servant and straight to being nothing more than the Duke's pet. That she should serve food was merely his whim, her barely clad body the court's entertainment.

It could be worse, she tried to tell herself. Instead of being tugged along to the Duke's seat at the table, she could have been marched straight to the gallows. The very real dread she'd faced every miserable day inside of the dungeon, not knowing if she'd ever live to see the light of day again — surely this was nothing by comparison.

Still, it stung when the duke spoke of her being forgotten, like she was a fad already past its prime. While she hadn't been quite so carried away with appearances and luxuries like her parents, she still had a noblewoman's pride. She was better than this, a capable, intelligent woman who once had a fiancé and dreams of running her own estate. Why, she'd been in the middle of renovations for shops within her father's township before everything had crumbled around her.

Now, she was bowing and flashing her scant panties to half the court as she acknowledged Nicolas with a terse, "Yes, Sir."

All eyes were on her and the playful bounce of ruffles lining her skirt as she stepped away from the table. Even the sound of her own heels clicking against the floor was unbearable, each footfall accentuated with the chime of those silvered bells around her neck. It didn't matter how gracefully she walked — the salacious whispers that followed her saw only a pretty pair of legs begging to be taken.

Thankfully, the Duke wasn't the only one providing guidance. The servants on hand knew of the entertainment for the evening, but that didn't mean they'd let two untrained women hold up the entirety of dinner for all the guests. A maid near the service entrance to the dining hall gestured for her to follow, and the chef himself plated what Genevieve relayed. While she watched him turn the slices of juicy venison into art, she thought she might actually die from the pleasure of the smell alone. The whole essence of the forest was on display with a glaze of honey, juniper, and black pepper.

God be good, and was that a pear salad? She saw freshly cut slices of fruit atop a bed of mixed greens, all of it garnished with dried cherries and candied chestnuts with a balsamic glaze. Even the bread looked incredible, a whole loaf meant to be cut and buttered on the spot.

"Pick your jaw up off the floor, girl. If you spill so much as a drop of that wine, your sorry arse is going to look ten times worse than your useless mother's." That awful, familiar voice of the head maid snapped her to attention at once. Genevieve had only moments to receive instruction on how she was to present and pour the wine, along with the proper etiquette for serving the food.

"Take the glasses and the bottle to His Grace and pour his wine. Your mother will handle the carafe of water." Again, the head maid barked her orders, and again Genevieve was obliged to meekly obey. She arrived fresh from the kitchen, struggling to keep her arm from trembling as she handled the tray. Set the glasses down first, tuck the tray under my arm, then pour the wine. Just focus on the wine. Genevieve kept her breath steady, careful not to look directly at the Duke while she poured his drink for him.

"Tsk, disrespectful girl! Bow lower when you're serving your master." Lady Goldburrow, a lady far too old and refined to worry about being fashionably polite, had far too much joy in her tone. One would think that she'd be the last person to take advantage of Genevieve's already near bursting cleavage, but when the 'maid' glanced to the woman's husband, it all made sense. That intense look, the way he licked his lips whilst watching Genevieve, only to turn and glance hungrily at his wife…

There are worse things! Genevieve had to remind herself once more, swallowing her pride to bend lower as she poured the Duke's second glass. With her elbows all but squeezing her pale breasts out from her frilly bodice, she tipped the bottle with both hands, the base of the cool glass flush against her chest. "Please, forgive my impertinence."

The older woman gave a sniff of approval. Genevieve was merely glad that she'd managed not to spill anything. She bowed and set the bottle down on the table, to be finished at the Duke's leisure. Then she ducked away, giving her mother room to fill the Duke's water glasses. Following that, the rest of the drinks would be poured, and she'd head back to the kitchen to fetch her master's plate so dinner could begin in earnest.

She didn't make it halfway to the kitchen before there was an outburst. This time, it was a man sitting within spitting distance of the Duke. "You clumsy, flimsy little whore!"

Genevieve turned and immediately felt her gut clench. There, in front of the Duke, his water glass had been overturned and barely saved from crashing onto the floor. Her mother must have poured the water too fast, or perhaps it had slipped, but now there was a trail of water dripping off the edge of the table and onto the Duke's leg.

In truth, it would have been exceptionally amusing if not for the direness of their situation. Her mother's ridiculous gagged face, eyes wide with fury at the insult, the Duke with wet trousers and the nobles in uproar — Genevieve had to press her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing.

 

[Jaycob]

Duke Nicolas was distracted by his guests. Their glances and whispers filled the hall, hushed gossip was spoken in the muted tones used when the topic of discussion was present in the room. He wasn't surprised - the two 'maids' were quite an addition to his household staff. The man watched as Genevieve walked away, admiring her long, lithe dancer's legs. She'd spoken to him a bit shortly, but he wasn't bothered. She was quite reduced in station, after all.

When she returned with his drinks and poured for him, he let his eyes linger on her breasts and knew, as she bowed, that others behind her were staring as well. He didn't try to hide it, either; the display of her body was wasted if he wasn't seen acknowledging it. It was supposed to be humiliating, not something to be taken in stride. Still, when she apologized for not bowing lowly enough - and the way the Lady Goldburrow and her husband mocked the girl did not go unnoticed - Nicolas was surprised.

"Don't make a habit of it," was the reply to her request for forgiveness. "I am a patient man, but if you disrespect me before my court..."

He left the threat unspoken. She hadn't even disrespected him, really, but it wouldn't harm his reputation if he was seen to be strict with her. She hadn't walked far before her mother came up with a carafe of water and, unused to her new footwear, stumbled hard. She managed to catch herself and preserve her ankles, which Nicolas hadn't considered until she almost fell, but it came at the cost of the water. It hit the table amidst a storm of profanity from those seated there; most of them got out of the way in time. The Duke did not. Water spilled onto his pants as he abandoned the idea of leaping up to try to avoid it. A fighter to his core, the man knew when he wasn't going to be able to evade something.

Nicolas sighed patiently. He supposed it's what he should have expected, bringing untrained staff in uncomfortable footwear to an unpleasant situation. Still, he had a role to play as well, and the Duke slowly stood. The crowd went silent, awaiting his response. He took his time, pondering potential reactions: outrage, mockery, insults, threats. Each would have their own appeal and drawbacks.

When he finally chose, he adopted a quiet, almost polite tone of voice. "Genevieve, please fetch a rag along with my dinner. Dry me off; your mother can bring more water. Carefully, this time, if you please. After that, she may eat."

He looked pointedly at the angry woman, eyes popping furiously at the insult. The Duke considered addressing it, but decided that it had not crossed any lines. His stomach growled slightly; the man was hungry. The crowd seemed slightly disappointed by his unwillingness to overreact, turning to each other and mumbling about it. He even heard the Lord Goldburrow comment about how the woman should be further humiliated, though Nicolas supposed that it had more to do with his personal appetites than with any actual love of discipline. He made note of it. The next time he would have to be harsher. A little thrill ran through him - he hoped it would be Genevieve who was the next to err.

 

[Fairess]

Genevieve was quickly growing accustomed to the excessive bowing — even if it did make the maids derisively snicker at the sight of her ass on full display. Her polite gesture was accompanied by a grateful, "Yes, Sir," and then she was off to the kitchen.

She should be glad her mother got off lightly, given how hungry the court seemed to be for, well, could it be called vengeance? There seemed to be an unspoken sort of understanding that her father had been a corrupt man unworthy of great attention, and his death to them was natural and boring. His humiliated wife and daughter, however, were an enticing display, an excuse to be openly lewd and cruel. Who didn't love to see the condescending countess gagged and stumbling about in heels? Who didn't want to see a promising rival in love like the count's daughter reduced to being a fallen woman whose only purpose was to play the slutty fool?

Slowly, however, Genevieve couldn't help but feel that something was starting to twist inside of her, too. The more she cooperated with her role as eye candy, the more a strange sort of excitement started to bubble up from inside her. Despite being barely dressed, she felt warm, her shy little nipples hard enough to poke up against her tight bodice. When her gaze met that of the Duke's, she swallowed nervously and couldn't help but remember the tug of his hand on her collar, forcing her to helplessly stumble into him.

More wickedly and secretly, however, she found herself enjoying her mother's humiliation. The woman's words had always been harsh and poisonous — filling her mouth made her more powerless than tying her hands or any other sort of physical restraint. She'd always relied on her status and beauty to carry her into the favor of others, lacking in charm and grace because she'd never needed either. How many times had she poked at Genevieve's looks, dress, and figure, always to point out a flaw or reassert how something had gone wrong because the Countess's daughter surely didn't equal her mother's perfection.

The differences between mother and daughter, however, were plain to everyone as one continued to whine whilst being shepherded by the maids and the other began the feast in earnest with the arrival of the Duke's dinner.

This time the tray was heavier, but not unbearably so. Genevieve walked as carefully and quickly as her 'dress' would allow, setting a still-steaming plate of venison before the Duke. It was followed up by his bread and salad, along with the extra servings he had asked for. And the moment he was properly served? The other servants stepped in like a flood of competence, delivering plates and wine while Genevieve's mother trembled through trying to pour another glass of water out for the next unfortunate soul.

Happy to be away from the view of the entire table for once, Genevieve knelt on the floor and tried to ignore her newly soaked stockings on the little puddle her mother had left behind. Still unaccustomed to handling the Duke, it felt awkward in the extreme to wring his pants out for him. She soaked up everything she could with the cloth as well before tucking the damp thing into an apron pocket.

Her duties complete for the moment, she took a deep breath and lifted her head to gaze up at the Duke. "I-I… did my best, Sir. I pray the meal is to your liking as well."

 

[Jaycob]

"Good girl."

The words were murmured, almost lost in the din of background conversation. Those nearest to the spectacle were watching it with lazy amusement - all except the man being served by Genevieve's mother, who seemed torn between concern about a potential fiasco and distraction by her revealingly clad body. Nicolas shifted under her ministrations; between her appearance, the lust of the crowd, and her touch, he grew hard. The Duke was unsure if she felt it, but he elected not to say anything.

"Your best is excellent, my pet. Please, stay there." The Duke paused, taking a moment to cut and then sample the venison that she'd brought him. He gave a subtle, sharp inhale. Distracted as he was by her, he'd failed to make the obvious connection that a plate full of steaming food might actually hold food that was hot enough to give off steam. It had cooled sufficiently to not take any skin, but the discomfort detracted slightly from the explosion of very pleasant flavor. He took a drink of water, then tried the pear salad. The dressing was mellow and accentuated the fruits well. A second bite of meat, more carefully eaten, was more to his liking than the first. Nicolas gave a slight nod of approval.

"Would you like to try the food, Miss Chatelain?" The words were gentle, though abrupt, and there was a hint of challenge in his tone. The people sitting near the man shifted slightly to watch what happened next, sure that there would be something worth seeing. Even the Lady Chatelain paused uncertainly, sensing the change in mood.

The truth was, Nicolas enjoyed baiting his new maid. He enjoyed her discomfiture when she felt embarrassed, enjoyed her bending to his whims. He liked exerting control over her and showing her off. He liked being the center of the envy of his court. There was a simple pleasure in tugging her along by a leash and displaying her to a crowd that knew only he could touch her.

And, what's more, he liked her. Her mother was a welter of emotion, shifting from outrage to despondence in seconds with no pause in between. Her pride was broken before he'd gotten to her, and now she was simply a wreck. Genevieve, however, was a picture of class and grace under pressure. She seemed intelligent and he was impressed by how well she handled herself in her new role, how well she'd adapted. He hadn't tested her to her limits yet, but she was a promising addition to his household.

So, when he'd asked his question, he was prepared for a multitude of answers. If nothing else, her reply would tell him more about her. Would she play the game with him and accept his offer? Would she defy him, even demurely, and decline? How might she do either - with pride, with hostility, with icy politeness? Her nonreaction to her mother's gaffe and gagging was enough to tell the Duke Artois that she was either an incredibly stoic person, that she was a great actress, or that she had no great love for her mother. He felt a slight thrill at the idea of unraveling her mystery.

 

[Fairess]

Would she like to try the food? Genevieve's gaze was full of wariness as she eyed her master's fork. He ate quite elegantly, but she'd be lying if she said it was his fingers and not his food that held her attention. The smell was almost overwhelming the longer she was forced to endure it, and she doubted it would be long before her stomach started to get noisy. To simply accept and beg for more, however — that was an excellent way to end up mocked and denied. Sure, he sat there with a whole other plate of food, but she suspected it was just there to torture her. A woman reduced to the status of a political slave did not deserve to eat from the Duke's table.

Naturally, she took the option that felt safest, which was neither acceptance or denial. "I would be honored, Sir, to taste all your generosity has to offer. But I am unworthy of such gifts." As she spoke, she actually dared to meet his gaze, a hint of anger in that look. Nearby, the nobles chortled with amusement, finding her elegant speech far too silly for her newly found station in life.

Her mother, meanwhile... well. The servants had finished serving dinner, and every worthy soul had a plate in front of them. Of course the only exception were the two "maids," and one of the serving staff made a point of setting a plate of salad on the floor before gesturing over to Genevieve's mother. The former Countess stared in horror as a new wave of laughter overtook the table. Even Genevieve was convinced her mother's hunger was far greater than her pride, but it wasn't as though the Duke had starved his prisoners. Tension filled the dining hall as every soul present wondered if the woman would be ungagged and left to condemn herself, or simply made into a joke by presenting her with food she couldn't eat.

 

[Jaycob]

Steel entered Genevieve's gaze and tone as she met his eyes, and a small smile flickered over the Duke's face before he composed himself. It wasn't a friendly smile, but more of the welcoming of a challenge, and it was there long enough to be noticed before Nicolas smoothed his features into a placid mask.

"As you wish." The man withdrew his hand, bringing the cut of meat to his mouth. "Should you change your mind, you have only to let me know."

He looked at his fingers, now smeared with the venison's juices, and sighed theatrically. Many people, but not all of them, were watching the exchange; the attention was split between the former Countess (who was presently being ungagged by a sympathetic member of the serving staff) and her daughter. Nicolas stood slowly, thinking on the lukewarm reaction to his decision to be mild regarding the water spill. People had seen her reject his offer; now he must be seen to respond. He extended his hand again, smiling thinly.

"Despite your insistence that you are unworthy of gifts from my table, I did dirty my hands with the offer. Come here, Miss Chatelain, and clean them." He paused slightly, looking out over the crowd before looking into her eyes with a challenge. "With your mouth."

The crowd jeered, mocking her as a common whore and a plaything. The Duke waited patiently, neither looking away nor saying a word. The only person in the room not consumed by the tableau was Genevieve's mother, who was taking advantage of the distraction to eat as much as she could before anybody looked her way. The tension surrounding her plight had broken as she was ungagged, though it was to the surprise of all that she hadn't immediately begun bleating angrily nor wailing inconsolably. It seemed that she was beginning to understand her place, or that she was slowly exhausting herself.

Nicolas flickered his eyes over the crowd. The Lord and Lady Goldburrow were watching intently; indeed, the Lord was fairly salivating. Baron Rivett and Lord Scriven tittered, passing salacious comments to each other from behind their hands. Others, such as the Lord Moore and his retainer, watched in open contempt of the girl on the ground. The atmosphere, recently lightened by the former Countess Chatelain's meek submission to the situation, grew heavy once more.

 

[Fairess]

Genevieve couldn't tell the difference between hunger pangs and the sickening sense of humiliation roiling in her stomach. No one watched his fingers more intently than she did, her mouth unable to keep from salivating. How long had she been eating nothing but gruel and water? Meat, blessed meat was right in front of her, and the Duke was more than happy to torment her with it. What she wouldn't give to be back home! She'd always hated dinner time at the house, what with how her mother and father were always prone to fighting while the servants nervously served the food. Looking back on it now made the ugly scene seem like a paradise, with a nice cutlet of steak and perhaps... a fluffy, buttered roll.

"Y-Yes... I am sorry to have sullied your hand, Your Grace." One of Genevieve's handscurled into a fist, knuckles grinding into the floor as she leaned forward on all fours to obey the Duke's command. She hardly heard the jeering this time, gaze trained no higher than the hand offered to her. He could have killed her. He had the chance to starve her. Perhaps, if she proved herself a good pet, he'd relent just long enough to let her taste actual food?

Her lips were so very careful as they touched the tips of his fingers. All the maids' efforts had rendered them soft as a rose's petals, and they parted nervously around the sensation of him. Strong. Unflinching. Gentle? Being close to him, without fail, seemed to bring her a sense of stability. He was mocking her, and yet she felt like he was also refraining from hurting her. Could she trust him, even as he put on such a scandalous show? Would all the suffering be worth it when he relented at last to let her eat and be satisfied?

Her tongue found the curve of his finger, the first real taste of venison touching her tastebuds. She shuddered, unable to keep from moaning. He wanted a show, right? She extended her tongue further, lapping at his fingers like a kitten set in front of a milk bowl. Turning her head this way and that, she left no part of his hand unclean, going so far as to slide his two fingers all the way into her mouth so she could suckle at them.

Once there could be no doubt that not a single lick of venison juice remained on his fingers, Genevieve pulled herself back. Her lips still brushed against his fingertips when he spoke, her voice little more than a weak croak. "I beg you, Sir, to ask anything of me that would make me worthy of sharing your plate."

 

[Jaycob]

Nicolas let out a soft groan of his own as her tongue flickered over his fingers. He imagined her under different circumstances, in private; even the thought was enough to stir him. He watched her intently, eyes widening slightly as she managed to take both fingers all the way into her mouth. When she finished, he blinked slightly, the spell broken.

"Good girl."

The words came out careless, but there was genuine warmth in the way that Nicolas lifted her chin slightly and brushed his thumb over her cheek. He patted her face lightly with his open hand, then leaned back in his chair. The tittering of the crowd got a little louder, and the man grinned out at the crowd, playing to the audience.

"Sit in my lap, girl." He said it mildly, but firmly enough that it was an order, not an invitation. He was interested to see how she would respond to being called 'girl' rather than by name or pet name. "I'll feed you and let you drink."

Nicolas knew, of course, that she'd feel his arousal if she sat on his lap. He also knew that she was unlikely to refuse a direct order or the chance to eat. She hadn't been openly defiant, as much as her body language had betrayed her distaste for the game they were playing - he'd have to take corrective action for that, later. He wasn't the only one in the room with sharp eyes.

Still, she didn't deserve to starve over it and he was confident that this meal would far surpass whatever they had been feeding her.

But there was a part of the situation that beneath even that, a dark foundation for this attempt at warmth and justified action. He enjoyed her submission, took pleasure in bending her to her will and meting out punishment and reward as he saw fit. He liked controlling her. Maneuvering her into his lap in the present situation felt almost like cheating at the game as, given their circumstances, she would be hard pressed to refuse - but making her stand up and climb atop him rather than simply placing her there by force added to the savor. That her mother was watching and would be appalled, that the audience was simultaneously contemptuous of her and jealous of him, that it would strike fear into his subordinates: he'd be a liar if he said all of these things didn't hold appeal of their own.

 

[Fairess]

She should have been afraid. No, Genevieve should have been terrified. The possibility of being harmed should she commit even the smallest slight, the horror of her inevitable despoilment — had all of this faded because she had come to embrace the slow, monotonous death she'd been sentenced to, or was there more to it? Surely, she couldn't call the renewal of her appetite and indecent curiosity hope. And yet there was pleasure in the rumble of the Duke's voice, how he stroked her like a favorite pet.

Her gaze was inevitably drawn up toward his face, his cruel delight plain on his lips. He might have spoken to her, but she felt he was addressing the room at large, focusing all the attention on him and his unfortunate prisoner.

There would be no argument as to why she couldn't accept his generosity this time. Genevieve straightened, lifting her little apron to dab the mess of her own drool off her mouth. "I am honored to be so attended to, Your Grace."

The words were spoken without any emotion as she leaned forward to kiss the back of his hand in 'gratitude.' Standing up was easy, but falling into his lap less so. There was a moment of hesitation as she glanced over him, certain there was no proper way to sit in a man's lap. Still, he'd proven to be gentle thus far, and she had to trust that if she gave herself to his grasp, he'd guide her to the right place.

That was how she ended up tucked into his lap, the small of her back pressed up against one arm of his chair while her thighs were draped over the other. The delicate curve of her rear came into contact with a certain… bump, and her cheeks once again flushed. The Duke was very much enjoying himself, no doubt about it.

For her part, she kept her hands and arms close, not daring to touch a thing she hadn't been ordered to. There was already too much of her body in contact with his, the firm shape of his thighs beneath him pressing up against her while the slightest dip of his head would drown her proffered cleavage in the warmth of his breath. The only thing keeping her steady was the sight of the grand dinner laid out before her — in that moment, she couldn't think of a thing she wouldn't do just to have a few forkfuls.

 

[Jaycob]

"Good girl." Despite the way the words were purred, the praise was genuine.

Nicolas shifted slightly as she took her place in his lap, enjoying the contact but not wanting to risk any pressure where it might prove to be uncomfortable. He placed one arm around her back, adding to the support provided by the arm of the chair, and used the other hand to spear a piece of meat. Juices ran from the punctures of the tongs; it was a marbled cut of meat, prepared with the skill of one of the best chefs in the land. He held it an inch or so from her lips.

"Eat it - you don't have to be hungry. You've done well." The words, while pitched for the audience, were intended for her - she had done her job admirably, acting as a catalyst to cow his detractors. Doubtless they'd still look at him with hate or with envy, there was no question that they'd continue to act against his interests, but at least they less determined would be shaken. At least, he mused, they'd have to reconsider their plots and perhaps it would buy him time. He lowered his voice, speaking, now, just for her ears. "You're not going to be hungry while you're in my employ, Miss Chatelain, and you have nothing to fear at this table. Relax a little. Drink, even."

The Duke had been looking down at her to speak; it would have been awkward to simply stare into nothingness while he addressed her. His gaze, unavoidably, landed on her extremely distracting bare skin - from the top of her cleavage to the legs that were so scantily clad. This close, there was nothing that he didn't notice: her neck, her jawline, her cheeks, her hair. The temptation to push his authority further stirred within him and, as it did, he tightened his arm around her possessively. Not enough to be aggressive nor even obvious to the casual observer, though she surely felt him hug her a little more closely.

 

[Fairess]

Genevieve couldn't quite look away from the dark, sultry promises Nicolas' eyes made. Curled up in his lap as she was, she felt utterly tiny, a mouse in a very large cage. He assured her not to be afraid, promised that she wouldn't go hungry, but was that merely for the crowd? Such words managed to be merciful and mocking at the same time, the unending echo of a fate 'kinder' than execution.

The nobles around them had an appetite for even more debauchery — it was plain in the hungry, mocking gazes and gossip. Whether it was the gallows or the Duke's lap, it didn't matter whether the punishment was fair as long as it was entertaining. The faces present had never treated her family with particular kindness, especially with the decline of her father's wealth, but there was one consistent source of decency. Nicolas, the same figurehead who had a reputation for being pleasant and charismatic at any variety of balls and parties, continued to reassure her.

It was more than just words. She could feel it in the rather protective scoop of his arm and the care with which he offered her the bite of venison, waiting patiently for her to have her share. Though it felt silly and childish, she leaned forward, scooping up the offering with as much grace as she could manage.

Good girl. The praise echoed in her head as the spiced meat near melted in her mouth. She'd never tasted anything so good — it didn't matter that was likely due to her wasting away in a dungeon for far too long. A moan as delicate as a kitten's mew escaped her lips, and she had to resist the urge to simply grab the plate and dig in with her own hands.

He could surely feel her thighs twitch, even her toes curling as she repressed the urge for more. If she was to stay at his table, she knew well enough she had to move along at his pace. Perhaps at a quieter table, if the mood was more playful, he'd have to fend her off from trying to steal his own forkfuls of dinner.

 

[Jaycob]

Nicolas blinked slightly at the strength of her reaction to the food. He felt an absurd pride in her enjoyment: not only did the opinion of a disgraced lady mean very little to the world at large, he hadn’t even cooked the food. Yet he was undeniably pleased that she had approved of the offering.

Her little twitch caused him to shift in his seat again. She was right atop him and had already felt his arousal; rushing into his head alongside pride and fondness was primal desire. Visions raced through his head, ranging from absolutely over the top indulgence of baser instincts to more measured displays of his power over her. There was time for each later, though, and a leader who surrendered to impulse did not remain a leader for long.

He cut another piece of venison from her, a slightly clumsy task due to the way his arms were arranged. There was some jostling, some of it even playful and deliberate. When he’d finally secured the meat, he held it up just in front of her mouth.

“After this next bite, try the wine. When you’re done, though, do be warned: it’ll be your turn to feed me.”

The Duke spoke lightly, even teasingly, but it was a naked display of challenge and trust. He would put a fork and, much more importantly, a knife into the hands of a woman who, for all her beauty and obedience, was a defeated foe. One who had already shown signs that she did not enjoy her new role, however well she played it. Ever confident, Nicolas was sure he could survive a murder attempt… But survive it unscathed? And what if he was wrong?

In truth, the question was barely considered. The man felt quite confident that Genevieve would obey him. Not only was she being cooperative, she must know that outright assassination would be met with a fatal degree of hostility from his household guard and supporters. Nobody would welcome her into their home after she had killed a sponsor, a host, even one that had shamed her. While she was physically well capable of the deed, it would be incredibly ill advised.

“Do you think you’re up for that, Genevieve?” It was one of the few times he’d used her name in direct conversation, and not accidentally. While, in other situations, he had wanted to reinforce her circumstance, Nicolas was not so foolish as to recognize that now may be a good time to establish a human connection between them.