#The Horseshoe Tavern | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

forasecondtherewedwon · 6 months ago

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Pure Grey

Fandom: My Lady Jane Pairing: Guildford x Jane Rating: E Word Count: 4514

Summary: One day Guildford's pleasuring a strange girl with his mouth, the next he's watching her walk up the aisle at their wedding. When Jane doesn't seem quite as delighted to see him again as Guildford thinks she should be, he decides he won't make this ceremony easy for her. And the reception? Gods help her. ✨The sequel to "Bad Latin."✨

While his apparently delicate bride is examined by Dr. Butts, Guildford has time to think. He hates having time to think. He'll never say as much to her, this clever Grey girl his father has found to answer their horseshoe-shaped prayers, but he detests quiet contemplation. He needs people to talk to, things to do. Otherwise, life starts to seem a little hopeless. His nihilistic thoughts race inside an ever-shrinking pen.

At least she has given his thoughts a subject that is not his own sorry self: Jane Grey. Upstart flirt and dutiful eldest daughter in one. Guildford believed he was unique in his two very different ways of navigating the world. Not so. As in the tavern, Jane is apparently eager to outdo him. Well, as successful as she might have been at playing hard-to-get, harder-to-forget, she's been caught in the same net he has. Marriage. He feels a smug satisfaction over her sharing his sentence.

Knowing what he knows, of course, Guildford could bring this whole wedding down around his father's ears. He's aware of the reputation he has, and so are many of the attendees to this fine farce of an occasion. If this Affliction business doesn't work out for her, Jane can be the girl who cried "rake"—only he'll be able to turn it back around on her. Enjoyed it though, didn't you? Nobody wants a spoiled bride. Guildford? Guildford doesn't care a whit... but then, he's the one who spoiled her. Sort of. He's unclear what exactly the degree of spoilage is on what they did. In the eyes of the Church, of course, it's straight to hell for her and repentence for him (paid in cash). Fortunately, Guildford prefers a little nuance. He walks in shades of grey.

Inconveniently, he's a bit too curious to see where this goes to bother snitching about Jane's compromised virtue, though he's feeling slightly wounded and the prospect of getting back at her does appeal. She might have at least looked intrigued upon clapping eyes on him again. She said it, didn't she? "Maybe we can do it again sometime"? Not so keen now it'd be her wedding dress he ducked under, is she? Not so raring for a shag in the ol' marital bed. A mouthful of blood! Honestly. With his logical mind, Guildford knows Jane would have had to plan the blood beforehand (he's nearly positive it was fake), a revolt against the whole idea of marriage rather than him specifically, but his ego smarts. Something that is not his brain whispers that his bride would rather endure Butts's dubious doctoring than get to the other side of this ceremony and face him—all of him.

Insecurity he would typically drown with drink makes Guildford briefly wonder if he maybe wasn't very good. It's an insane thought, of course—didn't he have her thrashing against that tree?—but he hates that he never got to look her in the eye to see for himself. Sod being the bigger person. He wants to punish her for making him doubt himself. One doesn't achieve a reputation such as his without some skill. Oh, that Guildford Dudley, he can drink a tavern dry! Untrue, but he can hold his liquor better than the less-practiced. Guildford Dudley can best a man twice his size in a brawl! Certainly, if the man is blind drunk. Guildford Dudley has bedded every willing lass from here to Suffolk, and left them all wanting more! How would he possibly have the time? What he would assure anyone who asked him directly is that the quality of the encounters, however, is God's honest truth.

How he might get back at Jane doesn't come to him until the lady herself reenters the nave. This time, Guildford stands ready to receive her, not hiding behind his father and brother to pretend until the very last second that this isn't actually happening. Her gaze locks on his to communicate grim resolution. From that alone, he can tell it's her intention to endure this wedding stoically. What a martyr. The heart bleeds, truly. Probably expecting him to be praying for the same swift efficiency.

"From the vows, I suppose?" Guildford's father suggests to the bishop.

"The vows," the bishop agrees. "Yes. Lord Guildford, if you would..."

Yes, this is the moment when he will make all his promises to her again, not haltingly now, because the shock of seeing her has worn off and the words are familiar in his mouth. He'll fly right through them, quicker than reciting an oft-read poem. This is what Jane will be expecting.

"Actually," Guildford says, "d'you mind if I come up with my own? Change things up a little?"

The bishop and his father exchange a glance, so Guildford explains the impulse, trying not to laugh at the way Jane has stiffened next to him.

"My bride gave me such a fright with that spray of blood," he says, directing a tender look Jane's way (he sees her clench her jaw), "that I felt I should say something more. Something from the heart, you know, to acknowledge that precious occasions such as this one are so very fleeting."

"And yet this feels like an eternity," Jane mumbles under her breath.

"Hmm?" he inquires, cocking his head with malicious attentiveness.

Lucky for her, no one else hears. The bishop and Guildford's father are exchanging stuttered sentences about the irregularity of the request. Personalized vows? Between strangers? Does it make sense? Can it be permitted? It certainly isn't traditional. Only God could really say whether such a thing honours him or should be considered an earthly indulgence, and therefore absolutely not allowed.

Since they don't have God in the pews to ask him, the bishop turns to the next best choice: King Edward.

"Your Majesty?"

"Delightful!" Edward determines. "Nothing could be more pleasing to us than to hear Lord Guildford's words of devotion to our dear cousin Jane. Yes?"

The question is addressed to Jane, who smiles the tightest, most uncomfortable looking smile Guildford has possibly ever seen and repeats, "Delightful," clearly for the King's benefit.

"Proceed," Edward commands, and who is Guildford to disobey his king?

Guildford sighs as though overcome with the import of the moment. He takes Jane's unwilling hands in his, ignoring how she bites her nails into his fingers.

"Lady Grey," he begins, then corrects, "Jane," as though to take the first step in developing an intimacy they could not yet share. It's sort of true; he knew the name, and he knew (in a way) her, but he didn't know the name belonged to her until earlier this evening.

"Jane," Guildford says, "I vow to you all those things I said before, which I know you're dying to reciprocate—not literally!" This gets him a laugh from the assembly and a stare of molten fire from his bride. "I would only like to add how much I appreciate your presence here today.

"To pledge oneself to a total stranger is a daunting prospect. To meet for the first time inside a church is perhaps God's ideal, but so rarely achievable for us humans. In that way, you and I are so deeply fortunate that our paths never crossed sooner, that our union might be that much purer in His eyes. I almost want to get on my knees now, just thinking about it."

By now, Jane is displaying some blend of emotions he can't read with absolute confidence, but which seems to contain raw fury, alarm, and a violent promise of vengeance. He'll worry about that later. That knees bit also makes her blush, so it's not all bad.

"Anyway," Guildford concludes, "it is my great pleasure to do my part in uniting our family trees." He can't entirely fight his smile at the look in her eyes when he says "trees." "I sincerely look forward to sharing that pleasure with you."

After a knowing look at Jane, Guildford smiles blithely at the bishop to indicate he has finished.

"Jane?" prompts the bishop.

Jane lurches in Guildford's grip and he rolls his eyes. Surely she hasn't forgotten that she needs to make her vows to him as well.

"I think I'll just say the regular ones," Jane says.

It seems to Guildford that what follows her words is a sigh of disappointment from their witnesses. Guildford shrugs at the bishop to excuse his bride's lesser enthusiasm.

"She's tired, I expect. Took quite a turn."

"Do not speak for me," Jane hisses between her teeth.

"Go on then," he goads.

Jane speaks her vows with clarity and precision. No fake blood, no more tricks, just the words she must say. Guildford would like to sarcastically congratulate her on her elocution, but they're suddenly married. Right now, it isn't funny anymore.

They smile perfunctorily for their audience, then walk back up the aisle without looking at one another.

Jane does not take his arm.

—

"You're going to have to look at me," Guildford tells her later, the two of them seated for their wedding feast.

"Don't see why," Jane replies, staring steadfastly forward.

"You're going to have to kiss me too."

"Please refer to my last response."

"Jane."

At last, she whirls on him. "What?"

He grins at her. She sighs as though she is so fed up with him, which seems awfully soon. They just got married.

"Seriously," he says, not really being very serious at all, "I need to know how you're going to play our first kiss."

"What do you mean?" She sounds—despite herself—interested. Not necessarily interested in him (faker), but interested in not fucking this up. He can tell she likes to have a strategy.

"Will you be charmingly inexperienced, or will the divine rightness of our match make us so compatible at kissing it will almost look as though... dare I say it?" Guildford leans towards her and whispers, "...As though we've kissed before?"

"Ugh!" she exclaims. "I hate you!"

"Do not," he scoffs, reaching for his wine goblet.

"No, I do. I do. I do."

"Steady, Jane, we're already married." He takes a leisurely sip while she stares what he imagines she imagines are very pointy daggers at him.

"Oh, thank you. I had almost forgotten." Jane crosses her arms and slouches down in her chair with a huff.

"You know," Guildford observes after a space of time that is clearly not long enough for his wife, given how she glares at him when he speaks, "I really don't get what your problem is."

Jane laughs in disbelief.

"You're my problem. You!"

A bit exhausting, his wife. Hoping she won't make a scene by fleeing from him, Guildford gets up and scrapes his chair over to be closer to her. There are some cheers from guests who catch sight of his approach. Though Jane's eyes widen in alarm, she stays put. Likely moved into the you don't intimidate me phase, he suspects.

"We both know you don't hate me," he says softly.

"Don't tell me what I know."

"Fine," Guildford concedes. "I know I don't hate you. Even if you are ruining my wedding. Souring the mood." He has another drink.

"Forgive me for not celebrating the death of my freedom. Forgive me for not rejoicing in my shackles!"

"I knew I forgot something! Never packed the shackles."

"That isn't funny."

"That isn't funny, my lord," he corrects.

Jane immediately appears so incensed that Guildford's forced to hold up his hands to show he takes it back (he never meant it in the first place, but, Christ, it's fun to provoke her). She looks like she's going to storm away, and he can't have that. Here at the head table, they're visible but also ignored. They can speak openly to each other—quietly, but openly.

"We're attracted to one another," he says bluntly, gaze flitting around her features. She is a remarkably pretty scowler. "Why isn't that good news?"

"Because I don't want to be attracted to you!"

"You'd rather I was horrible?"

"Yes."

"Ugly? Rude?"

"You are rude," Jane contends.

"Rarely," Guildford says with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"Frequently," she counters, "in my experience."

"In your experience, which has been very brief."

"And yet, how very rude you've been!"

"So rude that I won't be permitted to tell you something?" he wonders.

Jane eyes him suspiciously. "What is it?"

For just a moment or two, Guildford unleashes it. He rakes his gaze over her—the loose twists of her hair that hang down over the back of her chair, the gauzy sleeves of her wedding gown that make her appear wrapped in a fog he longs to brush away, the heave of her bosom when she's cross with him and breathing hard—and he murmurs, "I want you."

This affects her; he can tell that it does. She gets all blink-y and blushes and shifts in her seat. She straightens the utensils that have been provided for the food she isn't eating.

"I thought you were going to say something-something useful," she stammers.

"Is what I said not useful?" Guildford twists in his chair and rests his arm across the back of Jane's so that he might speak to her with even greater privacy, closer closeness.

"Not particularly."

"Then let me tell you something else." He continues before she can interrupt. "In the intervening hours, my mind has barely strayed from thoughts of you pinned against that tree—"

"That is hardly surprising as it has not been many hours," Jane protests, stubbornly avoiding his eye. It doesn't matter. He can see what he does to her in the flush of her cheeks.

"It happened on the eve of my wedding, and still, my thoughts have been on you."

"Then you have been irresponsible."

"Crushing, coming from the most responsible girl I know," he teases.

Jane's eyes flash as she looks into his to remind him, "I am a lady."

"And I am your husband. What do you say to that?" Guildford challenges.

"That you will need to accustom yourself to a cold bed."

"How can you be so unfeeling?"

"When I promised in my vows to love you, do you mean?" Jane asks, wearing a taunting smile.

"When I swear to the gods I still have your taste upon my tongue." He's gripping the back of her chair desperately.

Jane looks down into her lap.

"I think we should speak in private."

Bollocks. He's gone too far. Far too far. Guildford knew not to slacken the restraint he's had on himself, but he had to, to look at her properly, and now he's gotten completely carried away. No matter what they did together before, Jane is correct: she's a lady. It isn't right for him to speak to her this way. This is her wedding day, this is their marriage. The very least he can give her is unadorned respect. When he saw in the church that she would not let them be familiar, then he should have resigned himself to a cool distance between them. It would not have been remarkable; arranged marriages are meant to happen between strangers. He could have tried harder, played the role expected of him, afforded her a despairing kind of peace that at least would have been hers. Instead, he insisted, intruded. He has been ungracious and catastrophically improper. He should apologize, immediately, and pray she—

Jane's hand is on his thigh. She squeezes.

"In private," she repeats. Her eyes flick up to his, and ask a question.

—

What's marvellous about his father switching out all the tapestries for new ones is that, while the walls hung bare, Guildford was reacquainted with everything the old tapestries concealed. Rather a lot of grimy grey stone, but some more interesting secrets too.

Guildford waits for Jane in the corridor outside the hall where their guests are feasting; it was necessary to leave separately, more discrete. When she appears, he turns, trusting her to follow. He guides her back through the estate, to the entrance hall, hefting the heavy edge of one of the new tapestries away from the wall. Jane gives him a funny look.

"There's a passage," he explains. She continues to look at him skeptically, so Guildford sighs and goes first.

He isn't lying: there's an archway set into the stone. He lets her catch up, step into the recess with him, then allows the tapestry to thump back into place over them. They both sneeze. Already, the thing has trapped an incredible amount of dust. It's black as pitch in here, the hall's warm candlelight effectively snuffed. In the dark, Guildford fumbles for Jane's hand, getting a fistful of her wedding dress with it, relieved when she doesn't snatch it back. He leads her up three steps and through a door. It is much less dusty once they've stepped through and closed it behind them, and slightly brighter; the passage leads past the kitchen, then up a staircase lined with windows.

"Where does this go?" Jane wonders, blinking as her eyes adjust.

Guildford is standing very close to her, inhaling the mingled scents of wine, smoke, sweat, and whatever she used to perfume her hair and body as she readied herself to go to the church and meet her husband. And now he is that husband. It's enough to make him hard, just that. He tilts his head and asks, "Does it really matter?"

Jane answers his question by gripping his hair and kissing him hungrily. His fingers trace her jawline and tip her face up to his liking. She has his back against the stones only as long as it takes for him to get his bearings and swap their places. Jane is panting. Guildford bites her bottom lip. He can hardly think. He presses his thumb on her chin to encourage her mouth wider, then licks across her tongue, making Jane whimper and scrabble at the long line of silver buttons on his velvet doublet. There are a hundred guests in the other room. They will laugh and talk and drink and eat and dance on, and the couple they'll forget they've come to fête will fuck in this passageway where no one can overhear.

His impatient hand fumbles the hem of her wedding dress higher and higher, and Jane abandons his doublet to open his breeches. He doesn't mean to stop kissing her, but suddenly, they're just breathing harshly into one another's mouths as his fingers skim up her soft inner thigh.

"Careful," she whispers. He halts immediately. But then there's a flicker of a smile from Jane. "You might find the touch of me on your fingers as indelible as the taste of me on your tongue."

"Gods," he groans, and brings his hand up to explore her, to caress her, to drag his fingers through the warmest, wettest part of her, rubbing and teasing until her head falls back against the wall. He buries his face in her hair and breathes deep.

Manhood straining as he presses himself against Jane's hip for the illusion of relief, he prods her entrance with a fingertip. He exercises so much control to go slowly, to prepare her without pain, that it makes his hand shake. One of hers closes around it, steadying him. They stare at one another with heavy-lidded eyes as he pushes inside her. Her mouth falls open as her body makes way.

"Just like this," he explains, he promises, pressed so, so close to her.

Jane's channel is tight around his finger—at first with resistance, but then with involuntary attempts to take him deeper. Guildford's groans rumble below Jane's high cries as he introduces a second finger. Slowly, gently, he curls them inside her. Her hips chase the movement of his hand, which gets smoother, slicker. She grips his hand harder and they fuck her together, pitching Guildford closer to madness.

Her cunt is seizing, and he could give her more like this—trying to tell her as much with the targeted pressure of his fingertips—but Jane says, "Now. Please now." And like that isn't enough, she wriggles her hand into his undershorts and boldly grasps his member.

"I was trying to—" He cuts himself off with a groan when Jane decides to investigate, gliding her hand up his shaft.

"My apologies," she says with a small smile. "Continue."

"I was try—"

Her fingertips slip deftly across the wetness gathered on the tip of his member. The touch is clearly no accident; it sends a tremor through him, and Jane's gaze darts around his face, studying the reaction in each of his features. Guildford snatches her wrist to still her hand. How is it, when he has her panting against a wall with two of his fingers inside her, that she can look at him like that? Like she is a hunting hound from the tapestry they pushed aside, and he the cornered rabbit?

"You have a curious wife," Jane breathes. That's no way to say sorry he's ever heard.

Guildford manages to smirk at her.

"Then my curious wife will find herself with a singularly focused husband."

Ever so slightly, her hand tenses around his manhood before letting go entirely, as though awaiting his move.

When he reacts, he doesn't know what the test was or which of them failed. He slips his fingers from her body and crouches slightly to hoist her by the back of her thighs. Her wedding dress is voluminous between them, but not enough to stop him bumping his hips against hers, or to stop her from reaching between them to align the relevant parts. He feels her legs lock around his back and gradually eases into her—a little forward, a little back until she's clutching all of him. He's breathing hard through his nose as he fights not to fill her this instant.

Jane does little more than cling to him as he begins with slow strokes. It's them in the passage, and the passage of him inside her. A space has never seemed so sacred, so unreachable, so impervious to the laws of men and nature that exist somewhere back on the other side of that door, the other side of that tapestry. Guildford sinks into his wife again and again and feels neither Ethian nor Verity, but a third thing it seems unimportant to try to explain. He bows his head to kiss the swell of her breasts above her bodice.

He adjusts his hold, leaning her differently against the wall, changing the angle of his hips. On his next thrust, Jane utters a distinct and forceful "Fuck." Guildford lifts his head to reposition his lips on her neck, then thrusts again. Again, "Fuck!"

He tries to be measured, he tries to show restraint, but Jane uses the legs she's wrapped around him for leverage to bear down harder each time he bucks upward. Their fucking becomes loud and hasty, fleshy and rough and uncompromising as they drive each other onward to what he's been craving since their eyes met in the tavern. Since she crossed the room without looking away. Since he thought he might risk a run-in with the Kingsland guards to tarry with her under the stairs. Since he went willingly to his knees in the woods. Guildford didn't expect it to be this long before he was able to share her pleasure (as he stated in his wedding vows), but he's grateful for how very pleasurable it is.

Grinding his hips into hers makes Jane jerk in his arms and pulse around his manhood. He gives her a tenderly disarming kiss, then repeats the motion of his hips mercilessly as her body tenses and strains. It's like she can't hold him tightly enough—her limbs as well as her cunt. It feels good. It feels so deeply good to be held. He moves one of his hands to support her backside. The embellished fabric of her wedding dress prickles his palm; his knuckles chafe against stone.

Tears born of a surplus of sensation roll down Jane's cheeks seconds before she begins bargaining for her pleasure, her plea a single word: his name. She has no need to beg; he witnesses her rise and rise and rise and crack like thunder through a rainstorm. Her frisson is his, and soon after she shudders with climax, Guildford has to scramble to withdraw and set his bride unsteadily on her feet. Turning away, he closes his fist over the wetness she's left on his member and frenziedly pulls himself off, spending himself against the stone wall. He groans, forearm bracing the wall above his head as he slumps forward in satisfaction. Ah well. This passage will likely remain disused until the next arranged-marriage-followed-by-newlywed-tryst. Though Guildford suspects he and Jane are blazing a new trail that few could hope to follow.

He tugs his garments back into place and turns to her.

Gods, she looks beautiful, mouth and nose rubbed pink by their furious kissing. She swipes tear tracks from her cheeks before righting her skirt and sleeves.

"Why'd you do that?" Jane asks bluntly, nodding to the spattered stones.

"I didn't want it running down your thighs while you danced."

"Thoughtful, but I'm not going to dance."

"Then I didn't want it ruining your wedding dress while you sat for the feast. Or maybe," Guildford adds, pushing off the wall and taking a step towards her, "I don't care about your discomfort at all, and I just didn't think I'd be able to control myself if I knew you were sitting right next to me with evidence of this fuck still inside you."

Jane looks leisurely from his mouth to his eyes. Wryly, she replies, "That does seem like the kind of selfish thought you'd have."

"Not entirely selfish."

They hide their subsequent smiles in a kiss. The spontaneous affection of it startles Guildford.

"We need to get back before they start to think you've run away," he says abruptly.

"I did consider it. Why do you think I asked where this passage leads?"

"Oh? You were going to hide from me in my own house?"

"Not from you, exactly," Jane confesses.

"Just the world then," Guildford interprets. His smirk is not without sympathy.

"But what we did instead was alright too," she's quick to add.

Of course, the girl who pretended to bleed from the mouth and collapsed to avoid a wedding is suddenly the queen of understatement. He watches her a moment, then agrees, "Yeah, it was alright."

"Maybe we can do it—"

"Don't you dare say that to me again."

Bickering over whether Guildford is allowed to tell Jane what to say, and what sort of flirtatious, post-fuck flippancy will and will not be tolerated, they backtrack through the passage and bat their way out from behind the smothering tapestry. They'll need to reenter the feast separately to protect the knowledge of this one private moment they shared between the ceremonial spectacles of wedding and bedding. But until then...

Guildford offers her his arm.

Jane takes it.

#my writing #My Lady Jane #MLJ #Jane Grey #Guildford Dudley #Jane x Guildford #My Lady Jane fic

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