Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

F or two full days, Edmund had remained in his bedchamber claiming illness. Unfortunately, such uncharacteristic behavior provoked his longtime and exceedingly loyal valet, Rivers, to summon a physician. After a comprehensive examination, the experienced physician had phrased his words carefully about mystery fevers coming and going just as swiftly, but they both knew there had been no such malaise. No doubt the man believed his ducal patient had weaved a tale to disguise the effects of too much brandy or perhaps even a brawl, and would play along for continued favor.

The truth was far more humiliating.

The almighty Duke of Stanforth—like his father and grandfather before him, the very portrait of decorum, authority and rigid control—had unraveled. How could he ever reconcile this figure with the reckless, greedy chameleon who not only sexually submitted to a woman but had also been intimate with a man? Far worse, he was at the mercy of a couple who could at any time hurl him to the wolves printing scandal rags in the bowels of Fleet Street, or extort him privately for favors. While he was confident money wouldn't sway the Carlisles—they had far more than most—position and introductions and public support was another matter entirely. They moved in very different circles. He had a great deal of influence, the Carlisles did not.

But quite aside from a crisis of character and very real blackmail fear, had come the utterly unwanted awakening of his sexually neglected body. A night at Sanctuary had changed everything. Instead of quiet slumber he dreamed of Madam Arabella: her ruthlessly skilled hands draining his cock, him sucking pineapple ice from her taut nipples, learning the exquisite taste of her pussy. Equally, he dreamed of Carlisle. The other man calling him "love" the way it felt to have his mouth filled by a large cock, to swallow seed.

Now Edmund was hard all the damned time, his cock refusing to be ignored or cold-bathed again. Although he'd silently, miserably handled himself twice to obtain relief, it wasn't working. His body cared not a whit about the significant risks and foibles of bedding a married couple; it yearned for another night of being the Carlisles' playfellow. To go even further and learn of sexual discipline and riding crops. Anything to hear Madam Arabella's governess tone, and yes, be crushed between her thighs as he drowned in the succulent haven of her feminine core. Anything to once again enter that wonderfully serene place where his only responsibility was sucking Carlisle's cock.

But he couldn't. Madam Arabella's rule had been quite clear: one night only. And after the debacle of his undignified exit, he couldn't return to Sanctuary or go, hat in hand, to the Carlisle townhouse to plead his case. That would be far too mortifying, not to mention the gossip that would start. Trying to be free and enjoy himself at the age of twenty-one had nearly disgraced the hallowed Vane name. He simply couldn't do so again.

"Your Grace?"

Edmund blinked and rubbed a hand across his jaw. The silver-haired physician was now studying him like a jar of unruly tropical insects as he repacked his brown leather satchel. "Yes?"

"I believe your bodily functions to be entirely restored, but perhaps there is something else amiss? Something troubling your mind? If so, there are many tonics available. Or I might suggest a short sojourn to Bath or Brighton? Melancholy is easily defeated by good sea air and a dose of the waters."

Somehow, Edmund didn't recoil. Or hurl a breakable object from his bedchamber desk. He'd already consumed a lifetime's worth of tonics and water and sea air and this was certainly not an issue where such remedies would assist. "I'm already feeling much better. But thank you for attending me. My secretary, Mr. Yates, will settle your bill."

The physician bowed. "Very good, Your Grace. But do not hesitate to call upon me again should you need to."

As soon as he departed, Rivers slunk in looking a little sheepish. "Yes, I may have panicked. But you never take to your bed, sir. Not even back when…well, you know."

When Lydia had passed.

Edmund sighed, firmly suppressing his irritation. His valet meant well and had no idea what had happened at Sanctuary. In truth, Rivers would probably swoon if he knew his usually immaculately-presented employer had strolled about a crowded pleasure club in a short green satin tunic…or sprinted down a hallway in a quilted robe. "Let's put this behind us and get me ready, shall we?"

Rivers hesitated, his large ears twitching against the sides of his bald head. The man looked like a retired pugilist but was perhaps the loftiest valet in London, the kind who attended kings or princes, and when they were scarce, reluctantly lowered himself to a duke. "About that…"

"It is best if you confess immediately."

"I may also have sent a message to Lady Lovell. She is downstairs in the parlor in a prayer vigil with the bishop and Lady Cressida."

Oh Christ .

Sylvia Lovell was Lydia's younger sister, an uncomfortably strange woman who firmly believed he remained a widower because he pined for his dead true love. Cressida tolerated her aunt for ten minutes at most; any longer and there would be pistols at dawn. "Rivers, you don't possess sufficient cat-lives to behave so carelessly. Lady Lovell? Really?"

The valet lifted his chin. "If you dislike such drastic measures, Your Grace, might I suggest not alarming the household like you did? The crumpled state of your clothing when you returned from that political meeting was bad enough. But then not coming down to breakfast or even touching the jam tarts Cook sent up! They are the best in England. She was beside herself! You remained in this chamber, wearing your robe . You declined to attend the theater and canceled an appointment with your steward. I believe Lady Cressida was about to take a battering ram to your chamber door. Or construct a sheet rope to kick in a window."

Edmund winced. Listed like that, it was understandable why his valet had lost his wits and not only sent for a physician, but also bloody Sylvia. "Calm down, old man. No further interventions are required. And you're still the best valet in London, no matter what everyone says about Lord Whitmore's Mr. Hunter."

"Such acclaim is impossible when you dare to strut about in crumpled clothing," grumbled Rivers. "Hunter would never allow his lordship to commit such a travesty. If the other valets knew, I would be shunned ."

"I'll not do that again," said Edmund solemnly. The battle for supremacy among London's top valets was no laughing matter, and he had let his man down.

Rivers harrumphed. "Well then. Speaking of the Whitmores, you will be attending their Summer's End soiree tonight? Everyone is going—it would be best for all concerned if you were seen perfectly attired and in good spirits."

Edmund hesitated, almost declining. The earl and countess had caused quite the stir last summer, publicly announcing themselves as a household of three with the earl's valet. But since the young countess had presented her husband with an heir his exact miniature, society seemed to have forgotten they were scandalous. Or were at least ignoring it in exchange for charitable patronage and elegant parties. The ton were fickle friends, but also fickle foes.

"Yes," he said eventually. "I did promise to escort Cressida."

"Very good, sir," said Rivers, looking excessively relieved.

Thirty minutes later, Edmund was bathed, shaved, dressed, and strolling downstairs to the parlor his sister-in-law had seized control of. The moment he walked through the door, Cressida yelped and actually ran to him, throwing her arms about his shoulders and clinging like a barnacle to a ship.

"Father," she whispered. "Send Aunt Lovell away at once or I'll make her walk the plank into shark-infested waters. The bishop as well."

Somehow, Edmund suppressed his amusement, then made a show of firmly extracting himself. "How unseemly, Cressida. Clearly you need time in your room to calm your sensibilities before attending the Whitmore soiree with me this evening…no, no argument young lady, you are going."

Cressida's eyes lit up with excitement, but she hung her head as though chastened. "Yes, Father."

Once she'd darted from the parlor like a prisoner fleeing Newgate, Edmund reluctantly approached the two visitors holding court in his domain. "Sylvia. Bishop."

His blond sister-in-law rose to her feet, shook out her plain gray gown, then dabbed at her dry eyes with a lace handkerchief. "My dear Stanforth. We've been so worried. I know it is difficult to gaze upon an exact replica of your lost love, but we simply couldn't ignore your valet's desperate plea."

Edmund grimaced. Sylvia scarcely resembled Lydia at all but behaved as though they'd been identical twins. Before his wife passed, he'd often had the uncomfortable feeling that Sylvia wished to exchange lives with her sister. "I regret any distress, but as you can see I am quite well. Bishop, thank you for the vigil, but you must have far more important duties. And Sylvia, I'm sure Lord Lovell is eagerly awaiting your return home."

Momentarily she glared at him before offering a simpering smile. "How stoic you are, like every Stanforth before you. Such restraint and self-control are altogether admirable. That is why we're so close."

Am I stoic and restrained and controlled, though? Or am I really the naked free spirit sucking nipples and cock at a pleasure club?

Edmund swallowed hard as once again the question crashed through his mind.

Damnation. How could he settle this and regain some sort of inner peace once more?

Neville stared out the bedchamber window into Golden Square, envious of the warmly dressed riders and amblers, even the small circle of hardy-souled painters with their canvas and easels. Fresh air might actually clear his head, yet for the first time, he didn't want to be around people.

Never had he experienced such a chaotic tangle of emotions after a night at Sanctuary. Usually he felt good, yet for two full days he'd been crushed by disappointment and worry and confusion since Stanforth had fled the club in clear distress at his actions.

Arabella was devastated, blaming herself for encouraging Stanforth to suck Neville's cock before he was ready for such intimacy. In truth it was entirely Neville's fault. He'd given Stanforth the calling card entry. He'd clearly pushed a novice far past his limits, roughly using the duke's mouth instead of being gentle. It had been Stanforth's first time with a man—of course he would be anxious and unsure! Madam Venus had literally warned them that the novice was as skittish as a mistreated colt.

Most frustrating of all, they were bound by Sanctuary's strict rules in respecting Stanforth's privacy, of not approaching him outside the confines of the club. But how did a lowly reformer baron approach a powerful, proper duke and apologize for fucking his mouth too roughly anyway?

It was a mess. A terrible, wretched mess.

Neville sighed glumly and crossed the room to collapse onto the well-loved leather couch in front of the blazing fireplace. Yet even such a cozy arrangement didn't improve his mood. Or halt his unshakable belief that he and Ara were meant to be with Stanforth. Never in a thousand years would he disrespect his wife or their marriage by approaching the duke alone, but he simply couldn't forget how well, how easily they'd worked together to pleasure their madam. Or Stanforth's serene greed as he'd sucked Neville's fingers, then his cock…

"Stop it," said Arabella sharply as she stormed into the room carrying an armload of parcels.

"Stop what?" he replied, but his flushed cheeks certainly weren't from the fireplace.

"You're thinking of him when you should not. The matter is over. I was a damned fool at Sanctuary, but nothing can be done and that is that."

"So you're not thinking of him?" Neville asked softly.

Arabella gave him a ferocious glare as she dropped all the parcels onto their bed. "That is irrelevant, Nev. Breaking rules only results in mayhem, so I will not be so indulgent again. Playfellows are for one night only. We must go forward, not dwell in the past."

"But—"

"No," she said, her tone kinder but firm. "Let us instead concentrate on this task: a care parcel for Toby. I'm sure your mother and sister have sent along everything he needs for Eton, but it is the sworn duty of Aunt Arabella and Uncle Nev to provide everything he wants . The more frivolous, the better. No boy of ten can successfully trade with woolen stockings or a comb. He must have items his schoolmates wish for. Toy soldiers and marbles. Bags of sweets, carved sailing ships, and terrifying tales of headless ghosts."

Neville smiled at the wisdom of a true merchant's daughter even as he inwardly debated his next move. While they certainly did need to put together Toby's parcel, a celebration of his nephew and heir's first term away at Eton, Arabella was plainly using this task to avoid an uncomfortable and emotional conversation. His wife prided herself on being practical and no-nonsense, but he knew in his bones that she'd been hurt by the duke's abrupt departure.

"Ara, my love," he said coaxingly, patting the couch arm. "Won't you come and sit?"

Arabella's gaze narrowed. "You wouldn't be attempting to distract or coddle me, would you?"

"I wouldn't dare," he replied cheerfully. "Consider this a husband's plea for cosseting."

Her lips twitched, but she strolled over and sat beside him on the couch before wrapping her arms around him. "How do I have the fussiest, neediest pet in England?"

"Just fortunate, I guess," said Neville as he rearranged himself so his head rested on her ample lap, his equal favorite pillow with her ample bosom. Arabella was just so perfectly soft and plump, he actually had to restrain himself from draping around her like a damned housecat whenever she sat down. Pet was indeed the word.

Soon he sighed in utter contentment as she began smoothing his hair and massaging his scalp. Being bedded and disciplined by Ara was actual heaven, but he also craved her casual affection. Unlike his rigid and disapproving upbringing, she had received hugs and praise. At the start of their marriage Ara hadn't truly understood how starved of comforting touch most aristocrats were, but she'd soon put that to rights. "God, I love you."

"I know," said Arabella, her tone amused. "But now that I'm neatly trapped—you know full well you're irresistible when practically purring—you'd best say what's on your mind."

Neville plunged into the fray. "Stanforth missed out on this . And I strongly suspect he needs cosseting more than any man in England."

Her hand stilled. "The duke chose to leave," she snapped. "No, chose to flee instead of receiving the care he'd earned through his obedience. I would have…I would have treated him so tenderly…"

Ara was terribly hurt.

"You are the queen of madams. So loving and generous. No submissive in the world could wish for better," said Neville carefully. "But Stanforth didn't know what came next. He doesn't know us . That he could trust Arabella and Neville Carlisle to ensure many orgasms and a peaceful soul. The duke merely succumbed to fear, which is not uncommon in a novice exploring his true self for the very first time. It must be a hell of a shock for a man forever in control, forever in command, to find such ecstasy in ceding both."

Arabella sighed and resumed stroking his hair. "All that makes sense. And yes, my pride is bruised at rejection. Yet also…that play feels so damned unfinished. Incomplete."

"Because it is unfinished, Ara. But…"

"But what?" she said impatiently.

Slowly, Neville sat up and took her hands in his, his mind scrambling for the correct words. It was an exceedingly important speech, and he believed in the rightness of it with every fiber of his being. But Arabella followed her head, not her heart, so he had to make a case. "I know we have rules for playfellows and I respect them utterly. However we both feel robbed. Incomplete. Does the story have to end where it did, or could we, together with Stanforth, rewrite it?"

Arabella frowned. "You mean one more night?"

No. The first of many more. With the other man you claimed.

"Yes," said Neville. "One more night where the duke gets to explore his submissive side, receive a taste of discipline, come until he's wrung dry…and experience Madam's cosseting as he should have done the first time. I also want to make amends if I pushed him too far, too fast. Or, if Stanforth wishes to engage in a different scene where I submit to him at your command…I'm willing to do so. However, if this is not something you want for us, I'll never mention it again. I love you far too much to ever risk our marriage."

She moved restlessly on the couch; he could practically feel her inner war. Arabella truly wanted this but had been burned in breaking her rules. And what he proposed was indeed risky, something she abhorred. His wife's brilliant mind weighed everything for risk and return, the sole reason he now lived so comfortably. But this wasn't an investment. Cold numbers. It was a man, someone who had already behaved erratically. And yet this man appeared to be the key to their future: living as a trio rather than a pair.

Now they'd opened the door, they needed to walk through it.

"I've never been so torn," said Arabella slowly. "While no one could ever replace you in my affections…something felt different with Stanforth."

"I agree," Neville replied, nodding.

She exhaled unsteadily. "Perhaps we should try again, although I'm not entirely sure how. You know him better than I. Do you have a suggestion? Is this something that could be tacked on when the two of you discuss the politician courting Stanforth's daughter?"

Neville rubbed his thumbs across Ara's knuckles as he pondered ideas and just as quickly discarded them. This would be the most delicate undertaking of their lives. And perilous to boot. "I think we keep that separate. We, and Sir Kenneth by extension, are the possibilities of the future, when the duke will want to regain his feet by returning to the familiarity of his ducal cage. He needs to be gently but firmly coaxed out again, and not by the man whose cock he sucked, for that was his great risk. It must be in a neutral environment. Definitely not his home. Or Sanctuary."

Arabella nodded thoughtfully. "Katherine Whitmore is hosting a soiree tonight—she sent a note inviting us. Nothing like two ladies discovering their husbands are both adorable, older submissives to bond a friendship. Do you think Stanforth might attend? I could brazenly ask him to dance."

He sat up straighter, his spirits rising. "Perfect! During a waltz you could speak to him privately, offer our apology or reassurance, and put the question of another night to him. Ara, you're a genius."

His wife arched one imperious brow. "Quite. Now, on your feet, Nev. Not only must we put together Toby's parcel, I'll not have my pet looking shabby next to Lord Whitmore or Stanforth. We have much work to do!"

As their carriage waited in the line to pull up in front of the Earl and Countess of Whitmore's Grosvenor Square townhouse, Arabella smoothed her ruby satin evening gown for perhaps the fortieth time.

It was only about a mile between her and Nev's home in Golden Square and this exceedingly fashionable address, but about a world away in terms of social position. Golden Square was reasonably respectable and home to several minor nobles, but the three-bay red-brick townhouses were also a haven for artists and clerks. Grosvenor Square was pure blue-blooded ostentation. The houses were enormous, mostly five to seven bays, with a cellar, an attic, a mews behind, and columns on either side of the front door like a damned museum. The area outside the houses was neatly cobblestoned and the square's central garden with its vast emerald lawn, symmetrical shrubbery, elm trees, and footpaths, could only be accessed by residents with a key.

Yes, her father might be far richer than these families, but most residents would look down on her.

"Don't think about them. You look absolutely exquisite," said Neville as he lounged against the carriage's brown leather squabs, looking rather exquisite himself in black jacket and trousers, a sapphire-blue waistcoat, and simple cravat.

Arabella snorted, but his compliment did help her nerves. "They live in a square shaped like an oval. It makes no damned sense, yet anyone who points that out gets the word ‘peasant' stamped on their forehead."

He laughed. "I'll get a stamp as well. I'm just the third Baron Carlisle; my title won't be acceptable for at least another two hundred years. Only for the Whitmores would I venture into this stronghold of stuffiness. Are we moving? Thank God, I think we are. I can see their townhouse now."

A quarter hour later, they were finally through the door and in the receiving line. As usual for a Whitmore soiree, the decorations were superb; this evening a confection of bows, banners and flowers in gold and orange and brown to farewell summer and welcome autumn. Neville went first, shaking hands and talking briefly to both Katherine and her bespectacled earl Michael, yet Arabella frowned. Where was their third?

"Katie!" she said, kissing the pretty blond countess on both cheeks. "You look radiant. But where is Hunter? He's done a marvelous job with the decor."

Katherine Whitmore leaned closer. "Gerard is upstairs in the nursery with Miles. Our adorable wee tyrant wails like a banshee until one of his papas rocks him to sleep. But rest assured that Gerard will be down later to dance with me. I have been positively itching to do so, but it is a risky endeavor. I've lined my stays with cabbage leaves to halt leakage. Good grief!"

Arabella winced in sympathy. Women endured many indignities with their health, but thankfully this was one she would never personally experience. "Poor dear. But your household of three is well otherwise? Those men are offering lots of love and support?"

The countess smiled. "They are. I never dreamed that happiness like this was possible. Two husbands are a handful, of course, but the rewards are infinite. I know I blather on, but have you and Carlisle ever considered a permanent trio rather than playfellows?"

"Until recently, no," said Arabella.

Katherine gasped. "Arabella! We must have tea. Soon ."

Arabella winked and turned to Michael Whitmore. "Good evening, my lord. How do you make spectacles look so charming? And that cravat. Annoyingly perfect."

The shy earl beamed at her. "Welcome, my lady. We are thrilled you and Carlisle came. It's been far too long, and you make every soiree sparkle. Gerry toiled almost as long with my cravat as the decorations, but he succeeded in the end. Once our son is asleep, Gerry will be down to oversee proceedings. I prefer it when he's close by."

She patted his hand. In some ways Michael reminded her of Nev; submissive men were just the sweetest.

Is there a chance I could have two rather than one?

At the mind-jolting thought, Arabella almost stumbled. But somehow she regathered her composure. "Completely understandable, my lord. Now, Nev and I are going to sample your beverage collection. We'll speak later."

She took Neville's arm and they strolled into the ballroom. It was barely nine o'clock, but the cavernous space was already three-quarters full; the ton loved a Whitmore party. Most guests were milling around chatting and sipping drinks; some were dancing a quadrille to music provided by a talented quartet, and others had retreated to the antechamber to play whist.

After making their way to the trestle tables near-groaning with bottles and glasses, a footman poured brandy for Neville and champagne for Arabella. Then they moved across to one of the ballroom pillars, an excellent central point to study the crush of people.

Abruptly, Neville leaned down. "Lady Cressida Vane just came out of the powder room. She only attends gatherings where her father is present or she's chaperoned by the mother of a friend. No grandmothers, and I don't think she is close with her aunt. So it is certainly possible that Stanforth is here."

Arabella took a sip of champagne, her stomach twisting in anticipation as she gazed about the ballroom, hoping to see the duke's tall, broad-shouldered figure. After several minutes of fruitless searching her spirits drooped…until a small group parted and the man himself marched through, seemingly toward the refreshment area.

"Go and occupy yourself, my darling," she muttered to Neville, gulping her remaining champagne and setting the empty glass on a passing footman's tray. "Our mission to rescue Stanforth from himself is about to begin."

"Godspeed," said Nev before disappearing into the crowd.

Arabella smoothed her gown, then strolled back toward the refreshment area. While Stanforth looked resplendent in his black jacket, muted silver waistcoat, elaborate cravat and old-fashioned gray breeches, she would always prefer him in a short green satin tunic. No, completely naked and on his knees.

"Good evening, Your Grace," she said huskily.

The duke froze, a vast swathe of emotions crossing his face. Fear. Defeat. Faint hope. Then he rallied and glared at her, his expression colder than a Siberian winter. "Lady Carlisle. Are you well? Your husband mentioned the other day that it was your tenth anniversary. Congratulations."

Arabella almost shivered at his frigid tone. This was the utterly unapproachable and exceedingly lofty Duke of Stanforth the world knew, the absolute opposite of the man from Sanctuary. And yet he wasn't immune to her, not at all. Despite his best efforts to be formal and remote, his gaze kept returning to her bosom and lingering. Like Nev, the duke was enraptured with her breasts, which were displayed to perfection in the low-cut, puff-sleeved ruby gown with tiny shimmering crystals at the bodice and hem. "Thank you, that is very kind. It sounds like the quartet are preparing to play a waltz. Would you care to dance?"

Stanforth shook his head. "I don't usually partake."

Arabella moved closer and rested her gloved hand on his sleeve, neatly trapping him. "Please. There is much to discuss, don't you agree?"

Somehow, his gaze grew even chillier. "Very well, my lady."

Wordlessly, he escorted her to the dance floor before taking her hand in his and settling his other hand at her waist, warm and sure. Once the music began, Stanforth finally deigned to look at her as they turned and stepped. "Your terms, madam?"

Arabella frowned. "Terms? Oh good heavens. You think this is about blackmail ?"

"Isn't it?" he bit out. "You and your husband have the power to absolutely ruin me."

"We don't want to ruin you," she replied calmly. "We want to fuck you."

The duke actually stumbled, and she swiftly exerted pressure on his shoulder to guide him further over toward the wall, far away from any listening ears.

"Beg pardon?" Stanforth choked out.

"Oh, you heard me well enough, Your Grace," said Arabella. "And I wonder if even now that magnificent cock is stirring. Have you thought about that night? How I marked your arse? How you came so hard in my hands? How you sucked pineapple ice from my nipple? Do you remember how good my pussy tasted?"

"Yes," he whispered at last.

"Yes, ma'am ," said Arabella ruthlessly as they continued to waltz.

Stanforth moaned softly. "Yes, ma'am."

"I understand how overwhelming it can be, discovering and exploring your true desires for the first time. However, it was very poor form to flee after such beautiful obedience. I'm afraid you'll have to atone for that."

The duke closed his eyes briefly but managed to keep dancing as the music commenced its final flourish. "Discipline?" he murmured.

Arabella nodded. "A stern spanking. Tomorrow, you'll surrender yourself for punishment at the location of your choice. I can arrange Sanctuary membership if you wish. However, as before, there'll be no masks in the room. And you will belong to me."

"Yes," said Stanforth, surprisingly firmly. "Eight o'clock? Would that suit?"

She smiled approvingly, subtly caressing his shoulder. "It would. Until then, Your Grace. Thank you for the dance."

The duke bowed. After sinking into a curtsy, Arabella swept away, grander than an empress. She found Neville waiting impatiently beside the buffet table, nibbling at an apple tart.

"Well?" he asked, visibly swallowing.

"Stanforth's atonement shall commence tomorrow night at eight. He requested Sanctuary," Arabella replied airily.

"Success! Oh God. It's happening. How can I wait that long?"

"You must, my darling. As I'm feeling feisty, I may well tease you until then," she growled, discreetly cupping his backside. "Now, hand me one of those apple tarts. They look awfully good."

For the rest of the evening, Arabella watched Stanforth like a hawk. While the duke sent a few furtive glances their way, he kept his distance.

She grinned. He probably wouldn't sleep tonight. Then again, neither would she and Nev.

Tomorrow would change everything .