Chapter 2
The party was indeed a crush; the fickle ton conveniently forgetting they had collectively flapped and squawked for months at the eminently eligible Marquess of Kyle marrying a maid, who was also the illegitimate daughter of a viscount, back in January.
In truth, since Lady Kyle and her sister-in-law Lady Jarrow had so warmly welcomed Frances to the hospital fundraising committee and proven to be loyal friends rather than sly gossips, Dalton made a point of attending their soirees and cutting those who spoke against them.
A kindness to his duchess was a favor to him; the ton well knew that a duke held far more power than simply lands and wealth.
Besides, he rather liked the young marchioness.
Her difficult upbringing had given her great courage and she didn’t tolerate nonsense.
Not to mention he actually envied Lord Kyle, for the way his wife gazed up at him like he was the sun, the moon, and the stars, was something to behold.
Apparently love matches could be found in real life and not just in the pages of novels.
Dalton clenched his jaw, annoyed at himself for even conjuring the unruly thought.
No doubt he was suffering the effects of too much pre-Christmastide cheer and not enough fucking.
The Kyles had spared no expense in the seasonal decorations and entertainment; their ballroom looked like a rustic country inn complete with roaring fireplaces, a makeshift pub serving ale and mulled wine, wreathes of holly and mistletoe, wassailers singing carols, and a refreshment table that included miniature plum puddings and gingerbread.
Also, instead of the usual string quartet, musicians dressed as old-fashioned jesters were skipping about playing violins and fiddles and flutes.
Even the most notorious sticklers were whooping and clapping and stomping their feet to raucous country dances.
“What do you think, Dashford?”
Dalton tapped his chin, as though carefully considering the young buck’s question and not feverishly trying to recall what the group of gentlemen were actually discussing.
He’d been far too distracted by the sight of a pink-cheeked and giggling Frances dancing a lively reel to truly pay attention, and if her partner continued to grip her waist like that, he would shortly lose a hand…
Napoleon’s life on Elba. That was it.
“I would be far more reassured were the Corsican imprisoned in the Tower rather than gadding about a delightful island off the coast of Tuscany, complete with his own small army and navy,” said Dalton, before taking a sip of excellent brandy.
“Hear hear,” said an elderly baronet. “Men like him take miles when given inches, that’s a fact.”
“You both worry overmuch,” said a blond dandy as he took a pinch of snuff.
“Not like the little emperor could just board a ship and sail away! Speaking of Tuscany, I know I’d rather be there right now.
London is so wretchedly gloomy this time of the year.
If it weren’t for the prospect of Warenne’s house party, I would be sour as curdled milk.
Will you attend, Dash? Or has the lion turned kitten now you’re leg-shackled, what? ”
At the blatant baiting, Dalton’s fingers clenched so firmly around his brandy glass it was a wonder it didn’t shatter. But under no circumstances would he create a scandal for Lord and Lady Kyle and rearrange the dandy’s nose.
Or admit how much he desperately missed such lusty entertainments.
The Warenne house party was an annual four-day event beginning December 25, and neither hid, nor made apologies for, being a splendidly fun Christmastide orgy.
It catered to men and women of the ton who enjoyed a wide variety of consensual erotic play, as well as the usual winter house party larks of sleigh rides, costume balls, and elaborate feasts.
As Lord Noah and Lady Juliette Warenne were two of his closest friends, he’d always been their special guest and had so many grand times conquering an eager, willing woman.
He missed that thrill intensely; of restraining a paramour and teasing her to the edge of endurance with tongue and fingers and toys, to hold her there until that heady moment when she utterly surrendered and pleaded for release.
For only then would he fuck his lover so rough and deep that her screams of pleasure could be heard throughout the sprawling manor.
It was frustrating in the extreme to still crave such sport when his bloody contrary mind didn’t want another woman.
Indeed, in his fevered dreams, it wasn’t a masked stranger kneeling before him but Frances with her wrists bound, cheeks pink and pussy glistening as she obediently received his cock down her throat.
It was Frances’ ragged gasps and guttural, beseeching moans as her pert backside clenched around an unyielding jade phallus or ginger stick…
God damn it. NO.
Dalton quirked a brow and studied the dandy. “You address me with such familiarity, sir, yet I am quite sure we are not related. Or friends. Even acquaintances. Perhaps you are my secretary, in need of a decision to send a reply?”
The younger man went crimson, his mouth opening and closing like a landed trout. “I…er…well—”
“Insolent young pups shouldn’t be allowed in society until they wholly understand the dangers of tweaking a tiger’s tail,” muttered a rotund, salt-and-pepper-haired earl as he impatiently clicked his shoe heels together. “Can you even hold a pistol, lad? Dashford’s a crack shot!”
All color leeched from the dandy’s face. “I just remembered I’m supposed to attend another gathering this evening. Excuse me.”
As the young man practically created sparks fleeing across the ballroom floor, Dalton couldn’t suppress a chuckle. “Poor form to tease a babe in the woods, my lord. As if I would waste a bullet on the likes of him.”
The earl laughed. “Allow me my small amusements, Your Grace…ah, Lord Kyle! Superb party, and your marchioness is looking lovely. How fares your wee girl?”
The marquess came to a halt beside Dalton, and his stern countenance softened. “Lady Cassandra is hale and hearty and entirely beloved, my lord. Daughters are delightful.”
“They are indeed. Have five of the scamps m’self and some granddaughters now. Every one has me wrapped around her little finger. Just you wait, Kyle, you’ll be admiring dolls and having your hair combed at nursery princess parties before you know it!”
Lord Kyle actually grinned. “’Tis an undisputed fact that Cassandra settles best on my shoulder. Only I rock her to sleep in precisely the correct manner.”
Princess parties? Noblemen in the nursery rocking a baby to sleep?
Dalton blinked, genuinely shocked at the notion of fathers setting one toenail inside that room let alone playing with children.
His late and thoroughly unlamented sire never had.
Nor his mother, for that matter. Before leaving for Eton, he’d always eaten alone then been dressed and brushed for his nightly audience—an awkward, chilly few minutes of conversation enjoyed by no one—after which his parents would hastily depart in separate carriages to attend whatever invitation they’d accepted.
But these two men adored their children and relished such occasions?
What would it even be like, to love and be loved like that?
Unnerved at yet another uncomfortable surge of envy, Dalton abruptly inclined his head. “Excuse me, my lords, I believe my duchess requires refreshments.”
Loose-lipped dandies weren’t the only ones fleeing conversations this evening.
* * *
As the frolicking musicians finished the latest reel with a dramatic flourish of flute and fiddle, Frances’ partner, a rather eligible red-haired viscount, bowed deeply.
Yet his lascivious gaze wasn’t on her face, but directly on her bodice, where her breasts were rising and falling as she gulped in breaths after the boisterous dance.
“That was an absolute pleasure, Your Grace,” he drawled. “What a fine stepper you are.”
A stepper? Like a thoroughbred on display?
Frances barely halted an unladylike snort.
Perhaps it had been foolish to down several glasses of mulled wine, but she had been unable to resist the air of untethered joy in the ballroom.
Besides, the more wine she consumed, the less her mind remained tangled in thoughts of her husband and that startling moment in the carriage.
“Thank you, my lord,” she demurred, dipping into a polite curtsy. “That was most enjoyable.”
Yet instead of moving away, the viscount lingered.
“Everyone thought you a most proper ice princess, Your Grace. But tonight you have shown what a lively lady you really are. Such an infectious laugh! And that most becoming bloom in your cheeks. I know many men are jealous that I have held you so close.”
Frances frowned in discomfort; both his words and the intentness of his brown eyes were too bold.
Why was he flirting with a married duchess?
Or was she just fluff-headed from the mulled wine and kicking up her heels and thinking too much upon it?
Everything was topsy-turvy tonight. “Er…thank you. It is certainly a wonderful soiree, Lord and Lady Kyle deserve fervent praise for creating such festivities. I think we all needed to let our hair down in a rustic country inn.”
Without warning, the young man grasped her gloved hand and lifted it to his lips, kissing her knuckles in a way that was entirely too familiar. Ugh.
“Should the lovely Fortunate Frances wish to let her hair down in all ways, might I suggest securing an invitation to Lord and Lady Warenne’s annual Christmastide house party? It is a decadent feast for the discerning senses—”
“Her Grace’s hair will remain as it is, refined and secure.”
Frances froze. The voice to their left was Dashford’s and yet…decidedly not. Usually, her husband used one of three tones: cool courtesy, languid amusement, or persuasive summary of facts. Yet those words had been nothing short of menacing fury.