Chapter 4
For about the thousandth time, Dalton paced the length of his bedchamber.
Normally, early afternoon was an ideal time to study ledgers or steward reports from his various estates, perhaps peruse some documents from the House of Lords in the warmth and comfort of his library…
but of course he couldn’t return to the scene of the crime.
Nor would his still-sensitive gut permit a visit to his club for brandy, cards and an excellent cheroot.
But he had to escape this gilded prison.
If he didn’t know better, he might wager all the senior staff were supremely annoyed at him.
Yes, they were following his instructions, but there was a certain coolness in the air that had nothing to do with the weather outside, and certainly hadn’t been apparent before he’d informed Gower of his intention to attend the Warenne house party.
It was quite ridiculous. What the bloody hell else was he supposed to do in his current circumstances?
When a wife was uninterested in or frightened by the kind of bedsport her husband enjoyed, he went discreetly elsewhere to meet that particular desire.
It was a sensible solution. Yet his valet, housekeeper, butler, and secretary were each giving him pursed lips and reproachful looks as though he’d stolen all the cakes in London and tossed them into the Thames.
Dalton clenched his jaw. He didn’t want to go to Noah and Juliette’s house party…
he needed to. For his own sanity. Once he’d reveled in uninhibited debauchery for several days with some eager, willing woman, the fever inside him would cool.
No longer would those dark desires attach themselves to poor Frances and he could return to kindly and courteously bedding her as a gentleman, solely for the purpose of an heir.
If his staff truly wanted an Earl of Keswick to coo over, they would enthusiastically assist in his quest, not grumble about it.
Christ, he had to get out of here.
Thoroughly irritated at the world, Dalton left his bedchamber and marched downstairs.
His unflappable butler, Thorpe, hurried over. “Ah, Your Grace! As Her Grace is out and about with the town carriage, may I call for your curricle? The phaeton? It is cold outside, but at least it’s not raining.”
“No thank you,” he replied, concentrating on keeping his tone calm and even, like he wasn’t currently unravelling. “I’m going to ride in Hyde Park. Not sure when I shall return.”
“Very good. Will you be dining with Her Grace this evening? I can advise the kitchens of your plans.”
The heavens hated him. Only that could explain why everyone wanted to push him toward his duchess right now. His beautiful, innocent, decorous duchess who also possessed the most delectable little breasts in England.
Dalton barely stifled a groan. Now his mind wasn’t addled by brandy, it kept helpfully recalling exactly how alluring Frances had looked splayed across his desk, her practical plait wound around his fist, her night rail bodice torn and pink nipples swollen from his frenzied sucking…
Pull yourself together, man! She didn’t want that. Now, behave like a duke for a moment, otherwise there will be an out-and-out rebellion.
“Yes,” he replied eventually. “Eight sharp. For dessert, ensure Cook serves us cinnamon cake with plenty of vanilla custard for Her Grace.”
Thorpe actually beamed. “Of course, sir. Enjoy your ride.”
A quarter hour later, Dalton was on his way.
It was far colder outside than he’d anticipated.
Thankfully, due to his leather riding gloves and heavy greatcoat, only his face was about to freeze and shatter on the occasionally treacherous paved streets.
His dark brown Thoroughbred, Jupiter, was obediently trotting, but the horse’s impatient head tosses and discreet straining against the reins showed how much he wanted to canter.
Fortunately for Dalton’s forearms, the south side of Hyde Park was only a few miles away, and the tall trees along Rotten Row would offer further protection from the icy breeze.
Hyde Park corner offered a happy surprise: unlike spring and autumn, when it seemed like every bloody Londoner and his friend paraded their horses or carriages along the stretch of sandy, gravelly soil, today the Row was nearly empty. Perfect.
“Come on, Jupes,” Dalton muttered. “Let’s see what you’re made of.”
In seconds they were racing at breakneck speed as Jupiter joyfully galloped down the nearly mile-long track. In a city like London it was difficult for a duke to be anonymous, but as his horse could attest, this feeling of being unleashed was nothing short of exhilarating.
As Serpentine Road rapidly approached, Dalton reluctantly eased back on the reins, coaxing Jupiter into a trot so they could safely turn.
“Ho there, Dash!”
At the hail, Dalton glanced over to another welcome sight: his longtime friend and fellow hedonist, Lord Noah Warenne. “Warenne! Just the man I needed to see.”
The unfailingly elegant blond earl brought his black stallion to a smooth halt, then quirked a pale brow. “Oh? Something to confess?”
Dalton snorted. “Nothing so virtuous. I’d like to beg a favor. An invitation to your house party.”
Noah blinked. “No need to ask, our invitation always stands. Jules will be delighted on two counts: another experienced gentleman for the swathe of new novices, and the chance to matchmake. You know it’s her second favorite pastime after fucking.
I wish you well…perhaps you’ll finally find the woman to quell that storm inside, eh? ”
The words were gentle, yet they still provoked a wince.
Noah and Juliette had the rarest of ton marriages: madly in love, and perfectly aligned in bed.
Few understood how an allegedly happy couple invited others to join them, but it specifically suited the Warennes for they sought each other for companionship and extra cocks and cunts just for play.
Christ, more people to envy. Not the multiple lovers, for he preferred one woman at a time to restrain and toy with, but finding an erotic kindred soul.
Someone to whom your desires and fevered fantasies weren’t strange or ridiculous or wrong, just…
acceptable. No, far better than acceptable.
Exciting. Arousing. Once upon a time he’d naively hoped to be as blessed in marriage as his closest friend. But that wasn’t to be.
“I hope so,” Dalton replied, grateful his face was too cold to flush. “Frances doesn’t want…that is, she must have what she agreed to. It is…unfair to desire more with her. After four days with a temporary lover, I shall be a much better husband to my duchess.”
Warenne’s brow furrowed. Then cleared. “I understand. Jules will select a saucy little submissive for you, and you’ll both have a grand time. But my wife’s French temper will explode if I return home an icicle, so I must carry on. Until Christmastide, my friend!”
And with that, the earl cantered away.
Dalton nodded slowly, his spirits already rising as he touched his heels to Jupiter’s flanks and they eased into a trot. Juliette was a good woman with an impressive history of matching lovers. She would do right by him.
Soon, so soon, all his worries would be over.
* * *
“Please wait here, Your Grace. I shall enquire if Lady Warenne is receiving callers. She has been busy; the household will shortly retire to the Kent estate for Christmastide.”
Frances smiled tentatively at the butler. The note of introduction from Celia had gotten her into the entrance hall, but Juliette Warenne certainly owed her nothing. “Thank you. I only need a few minutes, but it is an…urgent matter.”
The older man bowed and hurried away.
In a stunningly short time he returned, looking mildly surprised. “Her ladyship is currently with Lord Warenne, but will see you presently in the parlor. Do come this way.”
Frances gulped before following the butler down a hallway to a cozy yet stylish parlor boasting cream silk wallpaper, gilt-framed scenes of Paris, plump chaises and cerulean-blue drapes and cushions.
She’d cleared the first hurdle; the second, much higher one was to convince Lady Warenne to save a stranger’s marriage… at her orgy house party.
Oh God.
The urge to flee out the nearest window was intense. It had taken all her courage to come this far without Rachel and Celia to cling to, but significantly more would be required.
Perhaps five minutes later, Lady Warenne swept into the room. The Frenchwoman was exquisite even in a simple cherry-striped calico gown; tall and voluptuous with sun-kissed skin, shining ebony hair and thickly lashed brown eyes. But her gaze was coolly impatient: she would suffer no fools.
“Your Grace,” said the countess as she regally inclined her head, her musical accent caressing the words. “Welcome to my home. However, be aware: if you seek to prevent Dash from attending our house party, you will be wholly unsuccessful.”
Frances straightened her shoulders. This woman was indeed no-nonsense, and that helped her own words tumble forth. “Lady Warenne. I appreciate your time when you are so busy. You’ve been direct so I shall be also: it is not my desire to stop Dashford…but to attend the party as well.”
The countess raised both curved eyebrows. “You surprise me. Few do. Alas, there are not yet heirs in the Dashford nursery. I will not help you put a cuckoo in the nest.”
Good heavens! No. That path of thinking needed to be immediately halted.
Plowing on, Frances blurted: “Forgive me, I should have been clearer. It is my husband I wish to bed. In the, er…manner he enjoys. Because I think…I believe…I will enjoy it too. Dashford gave me a taste, but for some unknown reason, he stopped. I wish he had not, for it was delicious. So very thrilling. He does not need another woman—I can be his mistress. I want to be his mistress. But I don’t know how. ”
A tiny smile lifted Lady Warenne’s lips. “Then perhaps I may be of service after all. Please sit down, Your Grace.”