Chapter 1
“Pretty as a picture,” said Edmund Wake, the Marquess of Montfort, as he gazed upon the newborn girl with the most darling of cheeks.
“Isn’t she,” said Adam Chevestrer, proudly cradling his first official child — after siring several aristocratic heirs for money. “Just like her mama.”
After a generous luncheon of her mama’s milk, Lauren Chevestrer looked at her papa with a dazed, cheerful expression. She’d squalled in the church during her christening, but a nap after the blessing and cessation of all activities involving water improved her mood considerably.
Lucy Chevestrer — née Makeblythe — was holding court before two duchesses and a viscountess, already a stunning social success despite starting life in an orphanage, then working as a lady’s maid.
“Mrs. Chevestrer seems to have taken to her new roles with aplomb,” observed Edmund, attempting to look away from the neckline that displayed how bountifully Lucy’s milk had come in. He needed a tup or he’d end up punched by the happy husband and father.
“Montfort,” said Laurence Balistarius, Duke of Astwell, as he joined them.
Edmund had never liked the man, but some recent activities had suggested there might be more to him than Edmund had assumed — or perhaps he’d turned over a new leaf with the help of the Forest, the townhouse that served as the meeting place of the Grand Bucks, a secret society of men who periodically gathered to wear stag masks and share a very willing woman.
“Astwell,” Edmund replied. “I couldn’t help but notice that the child’s given name is similar to yours.”
Astwell chuckled and exchanged a knowing glance with Chevestrer.
“One of Laurence’s waistcoats suffered some damage early in my wife’s confinement,” said Adam, skirting over some details that Edmund could fill in easily, being a somewhat new father himself. “Seemed only right to recognize his sacrifice.”
“It was a favorite of mine. I suggested ‘waistcoat’ as a suitable name for the child, but I was instead told I must serve as namesake,” said Astwell, clearly pleased.
“We had hoped to see Lady Montfort today,” said Lucy Chevestrer, joining them at last. “Not that we aren’t happy to see you, Lord Montfort.”
Edmund chuckled. Mrs. Chevestrer’s forthright talk bucked convention but served as a refreshing antidote to the stifling conversation one usually had when amongst the haute ton. In time, these new families and modes would rule society.
“I fear she resides in the country for the sake of her health. I will pass along your well wishes.”
***
On the way home from the baptism of Miss Lauren Chevestrer, Edmund couldn’t help but feel melancholy. His son, born last year to his then-mistress, bore his name — but only because she wished to ensure he would recognize the boy as his own. As if he’d let his only child live without support!
He had a son, a hale and hearty lad he collected weekly from his former mistress’s house, but Edmund would never be able to hold the babe proudly before his friends, as Adam had today.
Society did not accept illegitimate children, even beloved ones like Eddie.
Their mere existence might insult one’s wife and legitimate issue.
His wife, Ann — living these fourteen years in Shropshire, where he’d left her the day of their marriage — had not responded to the letter he’d sent apprising her of Eddie’s birth. He’d have hated for her to get wind of the news from some other source.
It was the first letter he’d dispatched in the course of their marriage.
They’d not consummated the union, and Edmund had not even visited the estate where she’d lived these many years since their wedding.
When one year passed after their nuptials with no report of a child or loss, Edmund assumed that he’d been soft at best with her father, tricked at worst.
And now he was 47 years old with a son he loved but no heir. A legal wife, but no helpmate.
These days, he didn’t even have a mistress.
His Adele had been a sweet woman who longed for bourgeois respectability, especially after Eddie’s birth had taken them both by surprise.
When a clerk had expressed an interest in her and proposed marriage, Edmund wished them well and sent a case of his best wine to the happy couple.
That man provided something he couldn’t: youth and the protection of legal marriage.
Edmund couldn’t have proposed, even if he’d wanted to; he was already married.
Finally, home in his study, Edmund removed the stopper from a decanter, then let it drop again with a clink.
He didn’t actually want French brandy or Madeira; he wanted his house to be less quiet and his arms to be more full.
Whether full of buxom curves again or the wiggling boy he loved, he didn’t know.
He’d be happy with either. With anything.
He should seek another mistress. That was the logical solution to this unsolvable problem.
In the meantime, he could take off this infernal morning suit and enjoy dinner in his dressing gown.
Men’s fashions were becoming far too restrictive, no matter that the tailoring made his form look elegant despite his hulking size.
It was when Edmund had removed his coat, waistcoat, braces, shirt, trousers, garters, socks, and drawers that he heard it: a noise from nearby.
At first, he thought it was a kitten. How pitiful he was! So lonely that he imagined the sound of a baby cat within his walls!
While pulling on his dressing gown, he heard it again. And it was coming from the Marchioness’s rooms next door.
Without bothering to pull on his robe, Edmund swung open the door, ready to rescue the poor beast. He was considering names for the cat he’d not yet met when he realized that something was amiss.
On the bed rightfully belonging to his wife — but never used by her given that she’d remained in Shropshire for the duration of their marriage — was a man.
A lean gent in his prime, his necktie loosened and boots off, but otherwise clothed in the first fashion.
With his trousers open and drawers partially down.
Edmund didn’t think he’d seen the young man before, which was good since his face was making ridiculous expressions while inexpertly plowing a woman stretched out on the blankets. His wife’s bed.
The lady lay on the mattress, auburn hair spread on the pillow, her expression betraying boredom as she endured his thrusts. Poor girl; getting out of her bustle and petticoats to reveal all that luscious skin only to receive the most rudimentary of rogerings.
He struggled to place her. Perhaps she was the new kitchen maid his housekeeper had mentioned. Pity. He could use a woman like that, those long legs wrapped around his back as he thrust so hard her pretty peach nipples would shake despite her modest breasts.
And that dusting of freckles over her delicate nose, then down her chest? He could let his tongue taste each one until she begged for him to lick her lower. Down to that flaming bush he would love to sink his cock into.
But if she was a maid in his household, she was strictly off-limits to Edmund, no matter how much he wanted to push her beau aside and take his place so she finally moaned instead of studying the molding on the ceiling. He really needed to find a suitable woman, and soon.
“Afraid that stroke won’t make your girl reach sexual paroxysm, my man,” said Edmund companionably from the doorway of his own apartments at last. He hadn’t bothered to cover up, reasoning that no party had more right than him to be nude in this house.
The young blade jerked at the sound of Edmund’s voice, but the lady seemed unsurprised by his presence.
“You seem to have a healthy enough instrument,” he continued, drawing closer. “But you’re jamming it in this poor girl like a stiletto to the kidneys. Have a thought for her internal parts, my boy.”
The man, understandably, looked upset, glancing between the woman taking his inexpert railing and Edmund’s naked form. To be fair, he presented a considerable lot to take in.
“Now, if you will not make your girl come, I should probably ask you to leave. Though she’s never seen this room, it rightfully belongs to my wife.”
The gent’s thrusts slowed, and he cast an accusing glance at the woman on the bed. “I thought you said—“
“Oh, you wish to blame this whole affair on the lady, do you?” asked Edmund, his voice rising. “Can’t blame your lack of technique on her, though. I know some gents that could teach you how to make the most of your piece, should you care to learn.”
He shouldn’t bait the poor man; he was struggling as it was to keep time with Edmund looking on and a woman clearly disinterested in him as he continued fucking her. Still, he’d gotten to stick his cock in that gorgeous redhead but failed to buck up manfully when caught in the act?
The gent was thrusting in time with eyebrow raises to that luscious maid on the bed.
Without cause, Edmund had decided she worked in the scullery, where a drab uniform hid those slight curves he longed to trace.
No doubt she was bent over a sink all day, just waiting for the master of the house to walk up behind her and lift her skirts.
Edmund took himself in hand, not the least bit shy about his response or size. If a view of the goods caused the woman to land in his own bed next time, he wouldn’t complain.
When her eyes shifted from studying the ceiling and locked on his own, Edmund should have known something was amiss.
But she held his gaze and let her delicate hand drift slowly past those elegant breasts, over her trim midsection, and finally delve into the auburn curls between her thighs that perfectly matched the thick hair on her head.
Her breathing quickened alongside his own, and her lids dipped as she ran her fingers over that place he wished to see and kiss.
She was showing him something private and profound, and he wanted to give her something of himself back. He shifted his hand on his club-like cock so she could see how hard he was for her.
“I bet that cunny is tight,” growled Edmund.
“Now, see here!” protested the gent.
“Wouldn’t anyone be on a piece like that?” the woman asked with an arched eyebrow.
Her hand worked faster now, petting that luscious seam as her other hand traced one of those nipples he wished to taste.
Edmund hadn’t had a woman in some time. Not since the last meeting of the Grand Bucks in the Forest. But the comradery with his brother Bucks and exuberant sharing of a beautiful woman couldn’t assuage the intimacy he craved.
The private, tender moments with one woman who could take all of his love and maybe even love him in return.
So when his auburn beauty arched her back, with her eyes locked on his, he wanted nothing more than to scoop her from the Marchioness’s bed and take her to his own. Even for one night of her in his arms, he’d risk an altercation with this mysterious suitor of hers.
He ached to touch her, to brush his lips over her. He imagined whispering something into her ear just to see if he could elicit some response that might change her placid expression.
It was unfair; she was lying in that bed that should have been his wife’s, empty now because of the dastardly decisions made by his brother, Crispin. A country seduction had wrought so much misery.
“Oh, Edmund,” the woman moaned, her eyes closed in pleasure as she took those inadequate thrusts.
Montfort jerked in his own hold. This lady was moaning his name without him even touching her. That boded well for the pleasures they might experience together.
But why did she know his given name? And moan it? And why had she and her lover selected this bed, of all the beds in the house? Or in London, for that matter.
The woman broke, shamelessly wailing on his wife’s bed. Her lover pulled from her clasp and at least had the sense to spend on her belly before collapsing next to her. As if he’d worked hard enough to deserve to rest on his wife’s blankets!
His wife’s bed. His wife’s blankets. Edmund felt as though the house was coming down on his head as he looked closer at the lady now spread and sated in front of him.
His cock flagged.
“Hello, husband,” she said.