Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

Golden Square, London, August 1817

I t was an objective fact that Lord Neville Carlisle had an exceptional backside. Whether encased in trousers, breeches, or buckskins, both the ton—and scandal sheets—agreed that never had a firmer, more elegant arse graced society's halls, clubs, and drawing rooms.

Nev's backside looked even better naked. However, when that creamy canvas was reddened and crisscrossed from the stinging kiss of a riding crop and stuffed full with a dildo from their ever-growing collection, it ascended to genuine work of art.

Sighing in contentment, Lady Arabella Carlisle resettled herself against the pile of pillows on their bed and drank in the lascivious display. While disciplining her husband left her soaking wet with arousal, it was his joyful, tender gratitude afterward, the blissful pleasure-pain haze in his heavenly chocolate-brown eyes, that she loved best. Neville craved this and needed it regularly. They both did. Fortunately, ten years prior, he had demonstrated impeccable wisdom in proposing to a no-nonsense woman who not only encouraged his sexual submission…but reveled in it.

"Tell me, my darling," she said, reaching over to smooth his rumpled, silver-touched blond hair as it glinted in the cool morning light. "Did I select an appropriate anniversary gift?"

Neville blinked and offered a sleepy yet mischievous grin. "You spoil me, Ara. I'll be sore all day. Every step a reminder of my wife's perfectly stern hand."

"Good," Arabella said crisply.

He moaned, a tentative, unspoken reminder that she had not yet permitted him an orgasm. And she wouldn't. Not until this evening's special surprise. "You look like the cat with an entire bucket of cream, madam. Dare I assume you remain content with your purchase?"

She laughed. "Naughty man. You know full well that content doesn't begin to describe my feelings. Each year I think I could not be happier…and each year I am proved wrong. What we have is so very rare. A truly excellent marriage."

Neville rubbed his cheek against her hand, then turned his head and pressed a kiss to it. "I know I say this every year, but perhaps eventually I'll understand why you chose a near-impoverished, politically radical baron fifteen years your senior to wed. It is no exaggeration to say every titled bachelor from London to Edinburgh was pursuing you. Including a few minor royals."

That was true. At twenty she had been the toast of the town, praised as an incomparable, a diamond of the first water, the very epitome of womanhood and other such blathering nonsense. Ha. The men offering such lavish, empty words scarcely looked at her face and never engaged her mind. They saw her plump figure as a promise of fertility, and her enormous dowry as a swift way to rebuild their estates, fill their stables, and fund their peccadillos. As a textile merchant's daughter without a drop of blue blood, she hadn't been a person to them. Just a womb with a mountain of guineas…someone to fleece, impregnate and ignore.

Unbeknownst to all these suitors, though, Miss Arabella Ferndale had one winning card in hand: her father. While a ruthlessly successful businessman, Papa had always been affectionate and indulgent toward her. His one stipulation for her future husband was a title…but which title was entirely her choice. She'd then proceeded to shock society speechless by strolling past the lines of dukes and marquesses and earls vying for her hand…for a baron who tried very hard to dissuade her.

"The others were pursuing my dowry. You saw me ," Arabella said simply. "No one else asked questions or demonstrated any curiosity about my hopes and dreams and desires. And they assumed I wanted children when I simply do not."

"True."

"Also, you were an open book about yourself. The others wanted me shackled in matrimony before they would even hint at the truth of their finances or politics or sexual preferences. I abhor deceit. And men who believe I'm too beautiful to think."

Neville grinned. "It would certainly behoove me to be discreet about my politics. Alas, I have that terrible habit of climbing on any stage available and bellowing about abolishing slavery and extending the vote. The Piccadilly Market stallholders and Cheapside shopkeepers both love and hate me; I gather the crowds, but also nobles armed with rotten vegetables."

"Ah yes, the men of Polite Society ," said Arabella, rolling her eyes.

"Now, my love, if they didn't demonstrate rampant hypocrisy, how would we know who the truly powerful were? Besides, my tongue is nimblest under a hail of jeers and tomato pulp."

"I must respectfully disagree," she purred. "I think it is nimblest when inside me. Speaking of which…"

Neville moaned again, much louder this time, and carefully maneuvered himself into position between her legs. These days, her husband was so deliciously adept at pleasuring her that he required little guidance. However, Arabella gained particular enjoyment in tangling her fingers in his silky hair, of tugging roughly until he panted with need, of wrapping her sturdy thighs about his head and forcing his face into her pussy as she ground against his mouth. God, the way his nose nuzzled her thick black bush and his tongue lapped at her swollen clitoris so frantically!

"Yes," Arabella praised as the familiar throbbing, tingling rush to orgasm built and built inside her, as her senses swam in the heady musky scent of her juices. "That's the way. Worship your owner."

He opened his mouth a little wider, his upper lip rubbing her clitoris as his eager tongue plunged deep in the slick channel his cock rarely went. Nev didn't want children either, and it was so much easier—and empowering—knowing their play wouldn't risk this.

"Tell me," mumbled Neville, as his tongue flicked and danced, hurling her closer and closer to ecstasy. " Tell me ."

"I adore you!" she gasped, a wild cry tearing from her throat as she flew to the stars on the wings of pure bliss.

Eventually, Arabella released her husband from her tight grip and he stared up at her, his gaze beseeching, his breath short, sharp pants. "May I come? My cock is going to explode."

"No," she said firmly. "Not until tonight."

For a moment, affronted shock flared in his gaze, and she almost spanked him for the impudence. Then understanding dawned, and the excitement on his face warmed her to the soul. "You've made an appointment at Sanctuary."

"I have," Arabella replied. "We'll choose a playfellow at the club, then romp to our hearts' content in the diamond chamber."

Neville beamed. "My favorite treat. I love you so much, Ara."

Then show me, don't tell me .

Arabella immediately suppressed the unwanted, wayward thought. Talking was Nev's talent. His gift from the gods. The speeches he made raised funds, opened hearts and changed lives. And he spoke the truth, although playfellows were a treat for them both. Being worshiped by her husband was wonderful enough, but there was something truly divine in directing two men to pleasure her—and each other. Before they'd wed, Nev thought being attracted to both women and men was sufficiently grave to halt her interest. Especially alongside the age difference, him not wanting children, and desiring submission and correction in the bedchamber. Such silliness! That had only confirmed he was precisely the right choice.

Of course, there were strict, unbreakable rules when it came to playfellows.

She and Neville only ever indulged at Sanctuary, the luxurious, expensive haven for those who insisted upon complete discretion and wide variety in their sexual experiences: threesomes, instruction in discipline, restraints, and use of accessories, a kind and professional first time for virgins, or merely to be matched with another client of similar tastes. Every member was over twenty-one, vouched for by another, and endured a very probing interview regarding their likes, dislikes and wishes to ensure they received exactly what they wanted. They also wore demi masks and hair coverings for extra privacy.

Perhaps more importantly, and in respect of their marriage, Arabella restricted this treat to just a few times a year…and they never had the same playfellow twice. This wasn't about love or companionship or forming a permanent trio like the Townsend- Grants or the Hunter-Whitmores had. This was one night of limitless pleasure, then a cordial farewell.

Arabella smiled and cupped Neville's cheek. Then she went up onto her knees and shuffled down the bed to gently remove the dildo from his backside and carefully apply ointment to his welted flesh. Her husband made a guttural sound; he was so primed for tonight's activities. "Now, my darling," she said. "I'll order two trays for breakfast and hot water for bathing. After that you must attend to your errands in town while I balance the ledgers and read letters. We'll meet again for supper, then go to Sanctuary."

Neville snorted. "Arabella, you light up at balancing ledgers the same way other ladies light up at a new necklace."

She raised a haughty eyebrow. "I am my father's daughter. And it means you have ample time to stand on crates and be pelted with scraps, does it not?"

"Touché," he replied, blowing her a kiss. "Thousands are in your debt, including me. Now please, I beg you, madam…won't you feed your precious pet? I cannot campaign for reform on an empty stomach."

Arabella's lips twitched as she reached for the bellpull and tugged it firmly. Her baron was particularly adorable when he begged. "One hearty breakfast, on its way."

Yet even now, eager anticipation fluttered in her belly. Ledgers exercised her mind, but a new lover to tease and torment at Sanctuary? Sheer perfection.

Stanforth House, St. James's Square

"Father? Father!"

Oh Christ.

Edmund Vane, Duke of Stanforth, contemplated diving under the carved oak library desk, but his hellion daughter would find him. Cressida always found him. Given a chance, the chit would be an expert Bow Street Runner; except then she would take over the city and London had endured sufficient tyrants in its history.

"Do cease your unseemly shouting," he replied, as she burst into the room without knocking. Truly, if anyone in the House of Lords knew how blithely, how disrespectfully Lady Cressida Vane treated the almighty Duke of Stanforth, they would swoon.

Cressida poked out her tongue, then delicately settled herself on an embroidered chaise and smoothed her pale blue skirts. While everyone agreed she favored her sire—they were both tall with brown hair and hazel eyes—occasionally Cressida displayed a fussy mannerism so entirely her late mother Lydia that it was damned unnerving. "Good afternoon to you, too."

Edmund sent her a stern look. "I hope you have an excellent reason for invading my library."

She smiled sunnily. "I do! Well, two reasons. The first is that I received a letter from Harry—"

"Your brother's name is Lord Denby. He's an earl, even if he is ten."

Cressida rolled her eyes. "Harrison Edmund Vane, Earl of Denby, writes that Eton is cold and damp, the food is terrible, and the masters are…hmmm… bug-eyed madmen who smell bad. However, he also says he's met a terrific boy called Toby, they are already the best of chums, and both are looking forward to the start of their first term."

Edmund almost snorted. Little had changed at Eton since his attendance, then. He'd agonized over sending his heir away at such a young age, but Denby had pleaded, and he never pleaded for anything. Unlike Cressida, the boy was quiet and reserved. Always watching with his solemn, reproachful Lydia eyes, not openly blaming Edmund for the fever that snatched her away, but a far harsher emotion: disappointment. For what use was an immensely wealthy and powerful duke if he couldn't save his duchess's life?

He winced at the reminder of his greatest failure, although his estrangement from Denby was a close second. Cressida had always acted as an intermediary between them. Why did it so often feel like the austere Vane methods to shape and mold a son as his father and grandfather had demonstrated…were just plain wrong?

Edmund cleared his throat. "I'll have my secretary send extra funds. The Eton kitchens might be a slophouse, but there are plenty of enterprising pie sellers nearby in the village. Now, what is the second reason you are here?"

Cressida's eyes took on a certain gleam, her chin jutting out with a determination he knew all too well.

Oh Christ .

"I've decided to marry Sir Kenneth Lochore, the member of parliament from Yorkshire. But quite ridiculously, because I've not yet reached my majority, I require your permission. So, please arrange it at once."

Inwardly, Edmund made a wheezing sound. Or perhaps not so inwardly, for Cressida's eyes widened in alarm. "Beg pardon?" he choked out. "A betrothal ? You're far too young."

"Father," she said, very patiently, "Eighteen is an entirely unexceptional age to wed, especially for a duke's daughter. I've been out two seasons; next year society will start hurling phrases like ‘long in the tooth' and ‘on the shelf'. I won't stand for it."

Edmund scowled at her impeccable logic. Society would do exactly that. "Why Lochore? And why the haste? Wait a moment. He hasn't…if he has, I will ensure in future that bloody Yorkshireman cannot even be elected collector of rat excrement in Seven Dials."

Cressida sighed. "Before you start frothing at the mouth, Sir Kenneth has done nothing improper except be deliciously handsome, intelligent, kind, and worthy. He has his own funds. And excellent prospects. Some are saying he might be Home Secretary or even Prime Minister one day!"

"And what of…tender feelings?" Edmund asked awkwardly, still frantically trying to gather his scattered thoughts. "Does Lochore care for you?"

For perhaps the first time in her life, Cressida blushed. "He said he does. And I'm already in love with him. Why? I didn't think that would matter to you ."

Because a loveless marriage is a hell I wouldn't wish on anyone.

"I want you to be happy," he said abruptly. "Wed to someone you can talk to about anything. To have children if and when you want. To have choices ."

His daughter nodded sagely. "Everything you didn't have."

Edmund's jaw dropped. "Excuse me?"

"Oh, please," said Cressida tartly. "I have eyes and ears. And I can count. Yours was a forced union; you and Mother were shockingly mismatched and thoroughly miserable. And it only got worse when Harry took so long to arrive."

He made that wheezing sound again, flailing for solid ground when Cressida had so neatly shredded him with the truth about himself and his late wife. One raucous country Michaelmas festival had changed the entire course of his existence. He'd been celebrating reaching his majority, Lady Lydia Harrison was a rebellious young woman seeking adventure, and after sharing far too much apple wine, they'd briefly coupled in a stable antechamber. It shouldn't have decided anything and it was certainly no foundation for marriage, yet she'd become pregnant and he'd been a husband and father at the tender age of twenty-two.

Neither he nor Lydia touched apple wine again. But understanding their vast differences, they'd vowed to do their duty then amicably live separate lives. Unfortunately, after conceiving Cressida so effortlessly, they'd waited a further eight long years for Denby.

Knowing they were both able, it had been a nightmarish cycle of bishop blessings, taking the waters at Cheltenham or Bath, and trips to Paris and Geneva to consult with expert physicians. Trying this bed, that position, a certain day or time. Drinking disgusting herbal tonics and eating bland food. While he and Lydia had never enjoyed a passionate marriage, it became a tortuous chore where they could scarcely look at each other. Not man and wife, but seed producer and womb. Yet finally the heavens showed mercy and Lydia triumphantly birthed the ducal heir. Alas, her victory was short lived compared to her efforts; she'd passed of a fever when Denby was four.

Edmund had not considered remarriage and he certainly didn't want more children. In truth, even the thought of a mistress repelled him because once again it would be a loveless transaction, or someone vying for coin or coronet. Nobody saw Edmund the man. Just Stanforth the duke. But while his fate was an existence bereft of pleasure or genuine affection, of being alone…Cressida could have so much more.

"Do not speak of things you know nothing about," Edmund muttered eventually.

"If the past is taboo, then I claim the future. You'll make enquiries about Sir Kenneth?" asked Cressida, fixing him with a gimlet stare.

"If I consider it, you'll leave my library immediately?"

His daughter beamed. "Yes. On one condition: you do the thing."

Edmund sighed. "Surely you jest."

"Never!" she hissed, marching over to haul him from his chair. Next, she escorted him to the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf ladder and climbed up onto the second step. "Be sure to say the words. Unless you've forgotten them?"

Edmund raised a brow. An actual impossibility—he'd said them thousands of times. After bracing his hands on the ladder's sturdy wooden frame, he called, "Onward, Pirate Princess!" and gave it a hard shove.

Cressida shrieked with delight as the ladder sailed on well-oiled hinges down the length of the bookshelf, until it bounced against the soft leather cushion at the end and came to a shuddering halt. Then she stepped off, shook out her skirts, and curtsied. "Until next we meet on the high seas," she called, before hurrying from the room.

He shook his head. Not even on the rack would he confess his dread of the day Cressida shunned Pirate Princess, her favorite game for over a decade. But it was fast approaching. His firstborn was ready to marry .

Returning to his desk, Edmund stared blankly at the document pile. But not even picking up his quill helped.

Cressida wanted to marry Sir Kenneth Lochore. A Whig politician !

Preposterous.

Obviously he needed to discover everything about the knight. What lay beneath the man-of-the-people mask? Sure, Lochore might have conducted himself honorably at Waterloo, and was a gifted orator, but that meant nothing when it came to the future of Lady Cressida Vane. Did the man drink heavily? Wager unreasonably? Have mistresses? Possess a sharp tongue and sharper temper?

Someone would know.

Edmund tapped his chin as he pondered all ton men with a reformist bent. After discarding several known for indiscretion, he wrote down one name.

Lord Neville Carlisle.

His stomach fluttered. There was something altogether unnerving about the outspoken baron. Carlisle was assured, confident, and somehow grew more handsome as he aged. Even stranger among the ton: he openly adored his beautiful young wife, she openly adored him in return, and they completely ignored rebukes over their lack of children. Rumor said they even refused separate rooms—not for convenience, but because they enjoyed sleeping together!

What would that be like? Did they begin their day with sweet kisses and rough fucking? No doubt Carlisle made use of that agile tongue; his baroness would probably suffocate him with her magnificent breasts if he failed to pleasure her…

Edmund sucked in an unsteady breath at the shockingly erotic thought. Even his dormant cock had stirred. But he didn't have time to imagine the Carlisles' bedchamber antics, not when he needed information on Sir Kenneth Lochore.

He glanced down at his ornate pocket watch. Three-thirty. If he recalled correctly, there was a tea house near Whitehall where reformers often met.

It was time to find himself a baron.

As he stirred two sugar cubes into his cup of steaming hot tea, Neville sighed and stared out the shop window at the rain-soaked street.

Everyone had called 1816 the year without a summer, but 1817 was no better. Just endless bloody rain, which was exceedingly unhelpful for a man trying to change hearts and minds. When people were suffering and exhausted, they narrowed their thoughts to basic survival. Food. Shelter. Clothing. Hope tended to fall by the wayside, and without hope, it was difficult to see a better tomorrow…or take steps toward it.

Thank God for Arabella. Because of his beloved wife's unwavering support and funds , he'd made countless speeches all over Greater London, started petitions, and organized meetings. More importantly, he'd been able to donate money to several parish schools. Education was key. Education was power . The boys and girls of today who could read and write and count, who were given the opportunity to explore the world through nature and art, inventions and languages, could join together and be the leaders of tomorrow. Hopefully, leaders who could vote and vastly improve a system currently designed to hold them down, not raise them up.

Neville sighed again and took a gulp of his beverage, almost moaning as it warmed his insides. Although in fairness, tea would never replace his favorite heat: that created when riding crop or palm firmly met his arse. Arabella had disciplined him thoroughly this morning, and even now the form fit of his trousers gently tormented his flesh, enough that he'd chosen not to sit at one of the many tables in the busy tea house. Instead, he was leaning on the elbow-height wooden bench that stretched the entire length of the shop front window, surrounded by piles of liberal newspapers, pamphlets, and books.

Yet every so often he moved his hips, just for the delicious reminder of his wife's enduring affections. Ten years! Ten glorious years he had belonged body and soul to Ara, and he'd probably been humming tunes all day at the prospect of tonight's outing. In mere hours, he would be sucking cock. Perhaps fucking arse. Even being sucked and fucked himself as his wife commanded.

God, he loved her, even if perhaps she wasn't as forthcoming with return words of love as he might wish. Ara instead tried to shower him with gifts, which he certainly didn't deserve and attempted to dissuade her from. But overall, Arabella was his one true mate: a beautiful dominant woman who shared his values, also had no desire whatsoever for children, and reveled in their sexual play. They were living their dream life. Even if it did rain relentlessly.

"Lord Carlisle? Might I have a word?"

Startled at the clipped, cold, yet vaguely familiar voice behind him, Neville slowly turned around.

Bloody hell.

The Duke of Stanforth? In a tea house for reformers?

He was actually shocked. As were the other patrons; everyone around them was staring at the duke with the kind of wild, bulging eyes usually reserved for nudity in Hyde Park.

"Your Grace," Neville managed at last, delving deep for the effortless charm he allegedly possessed. "Forgive me, I wasn't expecting to see you here. How may I assist? As the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse aren't galloping past, I'm presuming you're not joining the cause."

Wait. Had the duke's lips twitched? Had he almost smiled ?

Good God. Perhaps the Horsemen were on their way. Every Duke of Stanforth had been exceedingly high in the instep, but this one's glacial manner and rigid adherence to tradition and protocol made him rather frightening. Which was a damned shame because he was gloriously attractive. Thick brown hair with a little silver at the temples, intriguing hazel eyes with gold flecks, tall, broad-shouldered, and the thighs of an expert rider. On more than a few occasions when Stanforth had addressed the House in his relentlessly cool, calm tone, Neville had imagined hiding under the lectern, opening the duke's trouser fall, and sucking his cock. Would that tone change? Even a little?

"Alas not. We have different beliefs," said Stanforth, his gaze darting around assessingly, as though confirming all possible exits. Could the duke actually be unsettled?

An imp of mischief overtook Neville. "Really? Are you pro-slavery?"

"Of course not," snapped the duke. "It's abhorrent."

"Then you think workers are disposable? They should be dismissed without cause or not paid?"

Stanforth glared at him. "It is my experience that people who are properly compensated and treated fairly are loyal, discreet, and industrious. An easy decision."

"Ah," said Neville mock-solemnly. "So you believe that only the ideas and policies of wealthy noblemen matter, as they are the cleverest and most just."

"Obviously that isn't true. Plenty of exceptional and interesting minds aren't nobility. Humphry Davy. Edward Jenner. Charles Babbage. Coleridge and Wordsworth. John Soane. The late Miss Austen. Mrs. Fry."

Neville grinned at the reprimand. "Your Grace, I say this with all due respect…but you may, in fact, be a reformer."

Stanforth drew back, a comical expression of horror on his face. "I beg your pardon?" he said icily.

"There, there," said Neville, unable to suppress a hearty laugh. "Your dirty secret is safe with me."

Even more unexpectedly, something flashed in the duke's hazel eyes that appeared a lot like yearning. A deep, aching desire completely unrelated to politics. But how could that be? Stanforth had it all. When he spoke, everyone listened. And no one threw rotten fruit.

Utterly intrigued at a possible hidden contradiction, Neville deliberately eased the oddly erotic tension by taking a sip of tea. "Forgive me, Stanforth, I'm in a merry mood today. I shan't tease you further."

"Merry about what?" asked the duke abruptly, tilting his head.

"Ten years of wedded bliss to my beloved baroness," Neville replied.

"Then the rumors are correct. You truly are happy," said Stanforth, looking both baffled and… envious ?

"Quite," said Neville, his mind whirling at yet another astonishing contradiction. How could a man like Stanforth be lonely? "Your Grace, are you well? For I'm quite certain you didn't invade a reformer tea house just to offer congratulations."

The duke closed his eyes briefly as though gathering strength. Then he took a deep breath. "I wondered if you were free to discuss a delicate matter. My daughter, Lady Cressida, has approached me about a betrothal to someone of your sort, and I need to know everything about him."

Now bemused, Neville quirked a brow. "My sort ? I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific. That covers a multitude of sins, does it not?"

Stanforth actually flushed, and Neville felt a moment of pure alarm. The end of the world could not happen today.

"That was poorly phrased," the duke gritted out. "I mean no offense. To be blunt, Cressida's heart is set on Sir Kenneth Lochore. If you had the time and inclination to discuss his character, I would be in your debt."

Neville blinked. Although he knew Stanforth had two children, no one had ever declared him a doting papa. Yet he was actually willing to entertain a love match for his daughter? To someone well outside his lofty circle? How very interesting. It seemed this man possessed many, many layers. "Of course. Although not today, I'm afraid. Lady Carlisle is expecting me home for an early supper, then we have evening plans at Sanctuary."

The duke frowned. "Sanctuary? That name is vaguely familiar. Is it a theater? A restaurant? Somewhere for wagering, perhaps?"

Surely it was the devil himself that made Neville lean closer. Stanforth smelled so good, like shaving soap and fresh herbs and warm skin. Inhaling until his head swam, he blurted rashly, "It's a private pleasure club on the corner of George and Manchester Streets, Your Grace. For those who have, hmmm, less conservative tastes and enjoy indulging in wicked play with others. You know. Discipline. Use of accessories and costumes. Voyeurism. Exhibitionism. Threesomes."

Stanforth rocked on his heels, his cheeks now bright red. And yet once again pure yearning flashed in his eyes, like someone with empty pockets peering in the window of a sweet shop. Well, well, well. Which of those sexual acts did the duke deny himself? What part of his true nature did he always suppress?

Reaching into his waistcoat pocket, Neville retrieved one of his engraved calling cards. "Here," he said cautiously, holding it out. "Sanctuary is exceedingly discreet, all members are documented and thoroughly interrogated before gaining their club mask. However, if you present my card to the owner, Madam Venus, and say I vouch for you, you'll gain entrance for one evening. See if the club is something you might enjoy. Oh, and all members are over twenty-one and consent to their choices. At Sanctuary, everyone gets exactly what they want."

"I…er…ah…" mumbled Stanforth, but he actually took the card and stuffed it into his waistcoat pocket. "I won't delay you further. My secretary will send a note regarding a time to discuss Lochore."

"Very well—"

"Good day, Carlisle," said the duke, his tone curt again, as though their entire conversation had not taken place. Then he turned and strode out of the tea house.

Neville shook his head and pushed aside his now-cold beverage, but he couldn't help watching Stanforth climb into his luxurious town carriage. Perhaps one day the duke would make use of the calling card. He'd been tempted; Neville would wager every penny of Ara's fortune on that. Especially as Stanforth gave a passing fair imitation of a man who hadn't orgasmed in a while. Speaking of which…

Neville smiled as he picked up his hat and walking cane, offered a jaunty wave to the other tea house patrons, then sauntered out into the misty rain.

Madam Arabella and a playfellow at Sanctuary beckoned.