Chapter 6
Frederick was having a most unproductive time at his club.
He had met Anthony Paschal-Lamb, Viscount Corbet, for tea — the man having sworn off spirits — but one Sir Francis Pinchpenny had interrupted their planned tête-à-tête. Sir Francis had barely opened his mouth to speak before Corbet had laid the man out with a haymaker worthy of the center ring.
“He hadn’t even said anything,” said Frederick, confused as he surveyed the sniveling man on the rug.
“Saved him from a worse punishment,” said Corbet, unapologetic as he used the toe of his boot to adjust Sir Francis’s face and see that he was still breathing. “Terribly sorry, chap, but I should get home to my wife. If she hears of this before I arrive, she’ll have my arse.”
Unexpectedly, Corbet didn’t seem upset at the thought of his wife having his arse. He raced off to collect his hat and coat all the same, clearly under the spell of newlywed bliss.
Newlywed bliss, thought Frederick to himself. As the most recently married of the old Grand Bucks, he should have been at home, slobbering over his young wife and troubling her at all hours of the day for conjugal relations.
And he wanted to. Oh, did he want to. The idea of her drifting about the house when she could be pinned by his cock seemed like the greatest tragedy.
Yet his shameful performance during their consummation mortified him. What must she think of her husband! He’d barely gotten his tip inside before he’d erupted from the sensation and reality of being within her at last.
Frederick sipped his drink. Was he cursed with having a way with all women — except his own wife? He decided on a training regimen for his overeager cock when he saw Matthew Bohun, Earl of Peverel, making his way towards the entrance.
“Peverel,” he said, “a word, if you don’t mind.”
Matt came up short, as if just realizing he was there. “FitzOsbern, I didn’t think we’d see you for a few weeks.”
They shook hands, though Frederick couldn’t help but notice that Matt’s eyes darted to the entrance.
“Expecting someone?”
Matt shook to attention. “Expect…oh, no, not expecting just yet.”
He rubbed the back of his hair embarrassedly. “It’s just that Sophia sent word that her photographic equipment has arrived.”
Frederick didn’t need Peverel to remind him that the Grand Bucks had recently ruined his wife — with the help of photographs.
Did this mean…they engaged in taking debauched photographs even now?
For their own pleasure? Frederick hadn’t imagined that aristocrats would do such a thing within a marriage.
It was lewd, pornographic, and oh so arousing now that he thought about it.
Peverel clasped him on the shoulder, his eyes containing no small measure of pity, as if he understood how his friend was struggling to make sense of this new information.
“She likes it,” he said in a low voice. “Likes it a lot.”
“You’re a fortunate man,” said Frederick with quiet dignity, hoping not to offend him. After all, he’d had his cock inside Sophia’s mouth not so long ago, when she was still Miss Stafford.
“We can all be lucky men, provided we allow our women into our inner lives and most private desires. Call on me should you ever need help.”
Frederick thought about his friend’s words well after the man had departed to cavort with his wife before the lens. If his friends — his raking, libertine, secret sex society friends had found love and acceptance with their wives, could the same be possible for him?
But could Marianne, who had more knowledge of what happened at the Forest than he wished, reconcile the idea of her loving husband with the dominant animal inside? The one he was trying to prevent her from seeing?
A poor showing on his wedding night was one sort of disaster, but roughly using his lady wife was a whole other nightmare. Why, if he mistreated her or shared information about the Bucks and his role, she’d even have grounds for divorce!
He couldn’t risk it. He’d treat her carefully and help her reach pleasure, all while doing his best to fill her with an heir that would make her unwilling to leave his side.
Resolved, Frederick set out for home — stepping over Sir Francis, still on the rug — and ignoring the churning in his guts as he tried to imagine how long he’d need to conceal his true self and desires from his wife.