Once he had sampled my kisses, his hands moved to the front of my bodice. Orléans had opened so many gowns that he knew precisely the mechanics of my attire. He understood how to unwrap me from its flat front, how the flaps crossed behind one another, held by disguised buttons within. He made no enquiries. He fumbled over nothing. He turned to my sash and untied it. I lifted my arms without resisting as if he were Lucy preparing me for bed. No words passed between us as he continued to perform the role of my maid: untying my skirts, and unlacing my stays. He bid me sit upon the edge of the bed so he might unbuckle my shoes before running his hands above my knees to untie my garters and remove my stockings. Only once this had been accomplished did he push me back against the cushions and begin to roll his lips across my flesh. His mouth was firm and his hands soft, flabby and moist. He sighed, exclaiming at the yielding creaminess of my skin, the roundness of my breasts and thighs before placing his hand upon the seat of Venus.

Like a man who enjoys the delights of the table, the Duke seemed intent on sampling every dish before gorging upon the roast. There was not a spot upon my person he did not stroke or kiss or examine, breathing praises for all of which he partook. He was most considerate in his explorations and keenly studied my expression, as if hoping to find some evidence of approval. Then, at long last, he heaved his mass upon me. Beneath his girth, I felt myself pressed like a flower amid a stack of books. I reached my arms backward to brace myself against the bed frame and shut my eyes tightly.

He was a big and heavy man and his thrusts came with force, pushing the air from my lungs in what sounded like grunting expressions of pleasure. When at last he came to completion, my fingers ached from their grip. He had produced a long braying exhalation before rolling from me on to his side. It was then that I opened my eyes and stared at the inside of the saffron hangings.

I would come to know the routine of this, I comforted myself. It would be just as it had been with the others. I would learn to predict his actions, the sounds he emitted, his warm spiced scent of amber and civet. It would soon grow familiar and consistent and therefore not as unpleasant.

Orléans sat up and smiled at me, before begging a kiss. I had expected he would depart, but he did not. Instead, he ambled to the corner of the room, poured two glasses of wine and removed a large orange from the porcelain bowl of fruit. From there he gestured to the bidet.