Kynaston made a dismissive gesture and returned his gaze out the carriage window. “You're far too serious about such matters, George. No one noticed anything extraordinary.” “Honestly, Ned, to imply such a thing in front of the king, no less, is just --” Kynaston cut off the diatribe with a wave. “A king who flaunts his very young, very vulgar, I might add, mistress, and is more foppish than I. D'you think she's really any good?” “Who?” “Maria.” Villiers groaned, head thumping the cushions. “Good Lord, not that again.” Kynaston turned a baleful eye towards his lover. “What'd you mean, not that again? Bloody woman's a threat to everything I've worked for my entire life. Women on stage. I mean, what's the point?” “Dunno who you're all in a lather about.” Villiers gave Kynaston a small smile. “You are nonpareil, m'dear. No one can match your grace and beauty on stage.” “You really think so?” Elegant, aristocratic fingers crept along Kynaston's thigh, earlier pique forgotten in the pursuit of more pleasurable activities. “How shall I prove your worth to your satisfaction?” Kynaston's answering smile was sinfully smug. “Here in the carriage?” he replied in a high falsetto voice. “Why, my Lord, I do believe you mean to take advantage of me.” Villiers' hand settled firmly on Kynaston's crotch as he bent his head to nibble on Kynaston's earlobe. “I do believe you're right,” he murmured, breath wafting across a vulnerable nape. Kynaston sighed, head tilting into the expert caress. “Ah well, suppose I'll have to let you.” The words came out as a low groan when Villiers' fingers sought under Kynaston's breeches and found straining flesh. “Well,” Villiers dragged out the word, stroking and petting every inch of willing skin, “you can hardly refuse. I am a Duke.”
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