“You’re going to bugger the b***h who screwed you, girl,” the Duke told Celia.
Although Roslyn knew that the man would get his way, she expected her loyal maid would raise some protest, at the very least recoil at the idea of abusing her mistress so violently. But there was no such response recorded on Celia’s face; she stood with engaged interest eyeing the woman she so respectfully referred to as ‘milady.’ Something about her eyes—a molten, earthy quality emerged from them, enough to make Roslyn fear that feral lust. Certainly, Celia trembled and was filled with fear, but behind that fear was a desiring want that made her aura one of savage exhilaration.
The Duke moved in on the maid, speaking in her ear, his tone barely above the whisper: “f**k her, girl—the way she f****d you.” Becau
