Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

F or an entire week Arabella had kept herself relentlessly busy each day: hours on her precious ledgers, settling accounts, deciding menus and recipes with the housekeeper, approving purchases, visiting family, and overseeing the delivery of supplies to three parish schools Nev supported.

Anything to distract her from two clear facts: she had completely abandoned her longstanding unbreakable rules around playfellows…and was enjoying some of the best sexual experiences of her life. Now, she and Nev had spent four exquisite nights with Edmund at Sanctuary, teaching and pleasuring and disciplining him, because rather than sating her appetite for the duke, each occasion only whetted it further.

Which was bloody terrifying.

Many men claimed to be submissive, but there always came a time when they wished to take control and center their own pleasure. Whether through certain words, a slowness to obey, or a bitter petulance when she wouldn't reverse roles, she could easily spot a charlatan. Edmund, however, had leaped into sexual submission as though born for it. It continued to be an honor to initiate him with Nev's assistance, and knowing that under that icy, proper ducal shell was such a vulnerable, sweet soul was the cherry on top of the syllabub.

But she and Nev were a whole pair, not two thirds searching for that missing piece.

Weren't they?

Arabella stalked down the narrow hallway, the click-clack of her heels hurting even her ears. Most days she could tolerate the small townhouse, even the lack of a garden. But today it was a prison. And she couldn't even discuss it with Nev, for he was giving a speech on abolishing plantation slavery at a merchant's gathering organized by her father at Ferndale Shipping. That would certainly be contentious; a lot of men and a great many aristocrats made huge sums from the revolting practice that continued in the island colonies. She would have loved to witness him speak—Nev's passion for reform was truly inspiring. But even her indulgent father had banned her from attending, saying it was strictly gentlemen only. Bah.

"I've got to get out of here," she muttered.

"Beg pardon, my lady?"

Arabella glanced up to see their endlessly patient and dignified butler, Oakley, who was standing in an alcove studiously polishing silver plate. To the man's great credit, he had never even twitched an eyebrow at taking all instructions from the baroness rather than the baron. "I am planning an escape, Oakley."

"Do you require weapons, madam? An alibi? Or just the town carriage?" asked the butler.

She grinned. "Just the town carriage. If his lordship returns early, tell him I've gone to call on the Countess of Whitmore."

Oakley bowed. "Very good, my lady."

In no time at all, Arabella's carriage was approaching Grosvenor Square. The other residents could squeal all they wanted, but only Katherine could assist with this particular delicate issue.

As soon as they pulled up in front of the sprawling Whitmore townhouse, Arabella near-tumbled out of the carriage, not even waiting for a footman to lower the step. Then she marched up to the front door and rapped the brass knocker.

The door opened to reveal the butler, Kenney.

"Yes?" he began, before offering a warm smile. "Oh, good morning, Lady Carlisle! How may I assist?"

Arabella inclined her head. "Good morning, Kenney. Is Lady Whitmore at home to callers?"

"Do come in, madam. I shall go and enquire."

While she waited, Arabella glanced around enviously. This townhouse always felt so damned cozy because of Gerard Hunter's impeccable taste. Although in fairness, while she admired the way he put together carpets and drapes and furniture and paintings to create a home, he had so much space to work with. After her father's vast Blackfriars estate, moving to the cramped baronial townhouse in Golden Square had required a stark mind adjustment; scarcely a day went by when she didn't curse the narrow stairs, small rooms, and thin walls. Unfortunately, Nev was reluctant to leave his childhood home.

"Lady Carlisle, please follow me to the parlor," said Kenney as he returned. "Lady Whitmore will be down presently. She is just getting her hair trimmed."

Arabella hesitated. "I could return another day."

The butler shook his head. "Madam, her direct words were ‘ do not move one inch from the parlor' . I believe her ladyship is, er, very eager to take tea with you."

In minutes, Arabella was perched on a comfortable chaise, a full tea tray in front of her. The Whitmore's cook had generously provided heavy fruitcake and sugar-dusted cinnamon wafers, and she was unable to resist the lure of two wafers. Not long after that, Katherine dashed in, her pale blue gown swirling about her ankles.

"Aha!" said the blond countess as she slumped onto the chaise opposite and poured herself a cup of tea. "My cunning wafer trap was successful. They have a secret ingredient that compels a body to confess all."

"Cunning indeed," said Arabella, laughing. "Your hair looks wonderful, by the way. Where are the rest of the family?"

"Here, Lady C," said a Scots brogue from the doorway, and she turned to wave at tall, auburn-haired Gerard Hunter, who was cradling a warmly wrapped infant against his shoulder and holding Lord Whitmore's hand. "We're taking this wee rascal for a stroll in the park. Surely he cannae stay awake all week."

"God willing," said Katherine, blowing them both a kiss.

Once the men departed, Arabella raised a brow. "Not sleeping?"

Katherine sighed. "Miles hates to miss a moment. No doubt in the park he'll nap like an angelic cherub. But please. I'm desperate to discuss anything other than babies. I haven't even had time to read a book, so it is your duty as a friend to entertain me. Do proceed."

Arabella rallied herself. "I need your counsel on something that only you or perhaps Viola Townsend-Grant could answer."

The countess lit up. "You're considering a permanent threesome arrangement?"

"Yes. No. I don't know," said Arabella. Unable to remain seated, she stood and began pacing the parlor. "I mean, we haven't even discussed such an arrangement with the gentleman. He's a novice in every sense of the word. To pleasure. To submission. To intimacy with another man. But the way he's embracing it so swiftly…it's actually beautiful to observe. And so, so arousing."

"You like him," said Katherine slowly. "I mean really like him."

Arabella nodded helplessly. "I didn't think I could ever have romantic feelings for a man other than Nev. My husband is everything to me, and I certainly don't love him any less. What the bloody hell is going on? No other playfellow made me feel like this. I've broken all my rules and you know how I feel about rules."

The countess laughed. "Arabella, this was me a year ago. I did not understand how I could have feelings for two men. Especially two so very different men. But sometimes the heart expands. I could not choose between Michael and Gerard, and thank God I do not have to. The best way forward is speaking to His Grace. See what his hopes or wishes are."

"Excuse me?" said Arabella, freezing. "Who?"

Katherine rolled her eyes. "Please. I saw you two dancing and talking at our soiree. It went from chilly to scorching, then you watched each other all night. But I won't say a word to anyone. This is your story."

Heat swept across Arabella's cheekbones. So much for discretion. And naturally, talking to Edmund was the correct way forward. But that sounded far too easy. It was too easy. Men and women had a knack for complicating everything because of fear or worry or a previous bad experience. For heaven's sake, even she and Nev had met terrible playfellows; the reason why they restricted threesome activities to the safety of Sanctuary.

But if they did move forward as a trio, Edmund wouldn't be the only novice.

This would be new for all of them.

"Well, it's bloody unnerving," said Arabella irritably. "I'm a merchant's daughter to the bone, lowest risk for highest return. But this couldn't be riskier. And it's not just my heart on the line, it's Nev's heart, too. And our marriage. What if Edmund doesn't want a future with us? He sits at the pinnacle of society and has two children to consider. Damn it…"

Her vision blurred.

Katherine gasped, then jumped up to curl an arm around her shoulder. "Wait. Don't withdraw from the race before it has even begun! Yes, the duke is at the top of the tree, but it must be awfully lonely up there by himself. And hard for him to trust, when nearly everyone covets his title and money. Give him time, and yes, grace for mistakes. Give yourself grace. Unfortunately, there is no helpful title at Hatchards like A Lady's Guide to Households of Three . Perhaps I should write it."

Arabella sighed. "Yes, you should. But such rational advice is lost on me today, I fear."

Katherine patted her shoulder. "There, there. However, I cannot emphasize enough the importance of patience and plain speaking in a trio. Michael and Gerard and I each have our quirks and virtues…and we've learned to express ourselves much better. Some like to show their love. Others prefer to speak of it. I need to do both, for my men understand love differently. I know you are the most generous woman alive, but don't forget words of affection are just as powerful. Let them see your tender, vulnerable side."

"I understand," Arabella replied, nodding, even as butterflies unleashed in her stomach.

She and Nev had quite a perilous path ahead. And no guaranteed reward.

Edmund finished the last bite of his late breakfast, a decadent combination of coddled eggs, ham, fried potato, herbed tomatoes, buttered toast with marmalade, and hot tea, and sat back in his chair with a contented sigh. Over the past week, like a true rake, he'd not returned home from Sanctuary until three in the morning each time, then stayed abed until eleven.

Even with some of Nev's soothing ointment, his arse remained tender from all the spanking and dildo-fucking…but he felt astonishingly light of spirit. In truth, leaving the warm and cozy diamond chamber bed with Madam Arabella and Nev wrapped around him was always wrenching. How were those hours the soundest sleep he'd ever experienced? Here at Stanforth House he possessed the best four-poster bed and the finest linen that money could buy. Yet he rarely enjoyed a good night's rest.

Now, for perhaps the first time in decades, he felt…good.

"So, Father, I am wondering…when are you going to confess?"

Edmund jerked upright and raised an imperious brow at his daughter, who was currently standing at the sideboard and piling a plate of food higher than his. "Confess?"

Cressida sighed audibly and walked to the table before setting her plate down beside him. "I heard you humming from the hallway. Humming . Like a demented bumblebee. On several occasions you've stayed out until three, slept late, and eaten like you've been plowing fields since dawn. So I ask you once again: when are you going to confess?"

Christ. This must be what it felt like to be interrogated in a court of justice. No, that would probably be easier, for no man had Cressida's smiling assassin tenacity. "Another father might point out that precisely none of those things are your business."

His daughter scooped up several forkfuls of ham and eggs, delicately sipped her tea, then fixed him with a look. "A woeful attempt at distraction. Hmmm. I suspect you have a lover."

Edmund spluttered. Something he was doing entirely too often with her lately. "Beg pardon?"

"My dearest sire, I will remind you once again that I am eighteen . I read widely, from textbooks to scandal sheets. I also have married friends and widowed acquaintances, so I hear gossip in powder rooms that would turn your ears purple. But also…I'm not sure why you assume my disapproval if you did have a lover? You've been alone a very long time. Even before Mother passed."

He blinked at both the calm tone and the reprimand. "I apologize," Edmund said abruptly. "In sailing cadence…I am in uncharted waters and navigating on a moonless night with a blindfold. I don't even know if this has a future."

Cressida nodded thoughtfully, then ate several more bites of food. "But you want a future?"

"Yes," said Edmund, before he could halt the word. "Er, I mean—"

"Do not dissemble, it doesn't become you."

"I dissemble because I don't know ," he replied, irritable as a bear with a burr in its paw. "Rules have already been broken. Several times. I can have no expectations."

This time it was Cressida blinking. "Oh. My. Word. The humming. The defensiveness. The uncharted waters. Ahoy! Father is experiencing tender feelings !"

Edmund drew back. The chit was indeed terrifying. "I most certainly am not."

"You are!" she said gleefully, actually thumping her fist on the dining table. "Poor thing. Forty years old and love is hitting you like a runaway cart. Never mind, I know the perfect distraction. Shopping! You may buy me a new bonnet."

"Wait, what?"

Cressida beamed as she leaped to her feet, almost knocking her chair over. "I'll go change my gown and brush my hair. You have another cup of tea. Then we can have some quality father-daughter time. Back soon!"

As she dashed out the door, Edmund's lips twitched. His protest had been token; after such a wonderful week he'd been planning to suggest an outing to town together. If his daughter was set on marrying the bloody reformer politician, then he needed to collect as many moments as possible before his Pirate Princess sailed away for good.

A half hour later, Cressida was escorting—some might say dragging—him into her favorite Mayfair milliner. The number of young ladies perusing the selection, eagerly followed by attendants, was rather overwhelming. As were the towering displays of ready-made bonnets, and the glass-topped cabinets full of trims like satin ribbon, cards of lace, dyed feathers, carved wooden miniature fruit, and dried flowers.

Fortunately, the smiling proprietor took pity on Edmund, guiding him to a chaise beside the front window so he could watch the world outside while waiting. It was abundantly clear from Cressida's bright eyes and the fawning attention from two attendants that this would take a while.

He'd only been people-watching a short time when the uncomfortable realization hit that he was seeking out plump ebony-haired women and tall blond men. Gah. Wasn't it enough that his dreams were consumed by Arabella and Nev, that he continually recalled the way it felt to orgasm like an erupting volcano? That his body wanted more discipline, more fucking, more being held and kissed and stroked?

Edmund exhaled slowly.

Buck up, man. Now that you know what you like, you can ask Madam Venus at Sanctuary to find you a new lover. Arabella and Nev will simply carry on as the happily married couple they are.

The thought only made him more irritable. Moving restlessly on the chaise, Edmund abruptly froze as a familiar figure strolled past. Sir Kenneth Lochore! He and Nev still hadn't discussed the politician, being quite distracted by other far more personal matters.

Before he could even question the action, Edmund bolted from the milliner out onto the street and called his name.

Sir Kenneth halted and turned, then bowed deeply, looking rather stunned. "Your Grace. What an unexpected surprise. Are you out for a stroll as well?"

"Cressida is trying on bonnets," Edmund replied, assessing the man in front of him like he was making a possible purchase at Tattersalls. The knight wasn't overly tall, perhaps a head shorter than himself, but had the kind of wide shoulders and broad chest that many ton men attempted to create with padding. His neatly brushed hair was dark auburn, his eyes a vivid blue, and his clothing fairly typical for a man on the rise: well made without being ostentatious, a brown jacket, gray trousers, crisp cravat, and polished black shoes.

The politician beamed. "I'm sure she'll find something marvelous—the lady has impeccable taste."

Edmund folded his arms and glared. "Indeed. But if I gave you five minutes, no notes, no time to practice, to persuade me on the merit of your suit for her...what would you say?"

The young man's eyes bulged, then he lifted his chin. "Five minutes is not nearly long enough to speak on Lady Cressida's virtues, Your Grace."

"We have time. Tell me…tell me your favorite things about her."

"Her boldness. Her quick wit. Her blunt speech," said Sir Kenneth, his gaze softening. "I do not seek a wife who says yes sir, no sir, three bags full sir, but someone who challenges me. If a man remains resolutely in his own circle, he thinks the entire world agrees with him. And that is simply not so. I am also enamored of Lady Cressida's kind heart. The way she champions the less fortunate. The way she rocks on her heels when she laughs. I believe she will be a wonderful mother—"

"Oh?" Edmund scowled, about to launch a tirade, but he was temporarily thwarted as an older couple walked past. This really wasn't a conversation for a public footpath, but such a prime opportunity to learn the true character of the man who dared to pursue Lady Cressida Vane could not be ignored. "So you seek to cage her? Leave a vibrant young lady trapped in the country birthing baby after baby while you rake about town?"

"No!" said Sir Kenneth, looking genuinely horrified. Then his expression smoothed into thoughtfulness. "I think I might understand why early motherhood concerns you, so allow me to ease your mind. At twenty-five years old, I don't feel ready to be a father, and I certainly wouldn't pressure my wife either. I love wading in the political mud to fight for change. To help others. But I also love to travel, to see what is possible. I hope my wife shares in this adventurous spirit. At the right time, we would grow our family to an agreed number, bringing them into a loving, caring home. I won't be an absent or cold father like mine was, but one who toasts bread and cheese, plays games, and tells stories…oh dear, I am rambling on. Hazard of the job, I fear."

Edmund nodded slowly. "I note you didn't mention Cressida's looks. Or her dowry."

Sir Kenneth's cheeks turned pink. "She is lovely. So very lovely. And I understand her dowry is substantial. However, I have my own funds, enough for a comfortable home, so dowry size is of no matter. And a pretty face is one thing, but I wish to discuss matters with my wife. Seek her counsel. So I value Lady Cressida's clever mind far more than her beauty. Well, there you have it, Your Grace. Are my hopes ruined?"

Edmund sighed, his heart aching at the impending change. But this steady soul would be an excellent match for hellion Cressida, even if he was a reformer politician. "Make an appointment with my secretary at your convenience and we'll settle terms for the betrothal documents."

Sir Kenneth gasped. "I may propose?"

"You may propose. Now, carry on before my daughter spies us."

"Thank you, Your Grace!" exclaimed the other man fervently, his eyes sparkling. "You'll never regret this. I'll make Cressy…er, Lady Cressida so happy."

Feeling ancient, yet strangely relieved, Edmund waved the politician away, then returned to the milliner. Cressida looked up from examining a bolt of emerald satin and frowned at him. "Where have you been? Discussing the business of old men?"

Edmund nodded solemnly. She would find out soon enough. "Something like that."

As the long line of men departed Ferndale Shipping's largest warehouse, Neville couldn't help breathing a long sigh of relief. Like every speech he gave, he'd received a very mixed reception: some cheering and applauding, some staring grimly, and others heckling him or even tossing spoiled fruit. Today it had been blackberries, which seemed rather a waste when there were so many empty jam pots crying out for preserves.

But, as always, two questions haunted him: how much longer would such speeches be necessary? And could he bear the heavy burden of continued failure?

A full ten years had passed since Grenville's An Act for the Abolition of the Slave Trade had passed in parliament. Ten years! They had been so joyful in 1807, believing with all their hearts that this stain on human history would be no more. But although the Act had effectively banned the transportation of slaves, it made no provision for the emancipation of those already enslaved. Even now, British subjects who owned slaves were under no obligation to free them.

Unfortunately, rich men still ruled the world, and while they occasionally conceded a change, it would take Hercules himself to prise their fingers from the gavels of power.

"Here now, Carlisle," said his rotund, silver-haired father-in-law Hector Ferndale as he ambled toward him. "Don't look so downhearted! I'm sure you've brought more souls to the side of the just, and there will come a time when the numbers are enough."

Neville sighed again. Arabella's father was a shark in the merchant trade, but he was more honorable than most, for he transported fabrics rather than human cargo or the sugar that came from West Indian cane plantations. Unfortunately, not nearly enough of his fellow merchants followed suit. Moral arguments didn't tend to hold much sway against large profits and aristocrats were equally as greedy; plenty of estates had been refurbished or rebuilt and stables replenished with dividends coming entirely from slave enterprises.

"I never expected reform to move so damned slowly," Neville replied in pure frustration. "We all thought the Act a magnificent starting point from which all rivers would flow, but they simply haven't. Parliament progresses with the haste of cold treacle while people suffer."

Hector patted him on the shoulder. "Well, you know what I think."

Neville smiled reluctantly. "I cannot bribe the entire House of Lords."

"Why not? They're as mercenary as anyone. Perhaps more so. Costs a lot of money to fund horses and mistresses. Lords do love to ride."

"Hector, you are a bad man," said Neville, laughing now. "I am very fortunate you—and your darling daughter—are with me, not against me."

His father-in-law beamed. "Well, should your scruples loosen, plenty of money in the vault. Don't tell Hell's Belle, though. She gets feisty about bribery. And about a body being late for supper. Best you go on home, my lord, have a bath and get those clothes laundered. Not sure if you'll save that cravat, though. Blackberry juice is a beast to remove."

Neville nodded. "As is tomato pulp. At least it's not horseshit, though. I had to burn some clothing after one Piccadilly Market speech. It was fresh."

Hector's eyes widened. "I'm called a bad man; I always wonder if they've met Polite Society. Anyway, must be off. Mrs. Ferndale is as feisty as her daughter about tardiness. Give our love to Belle."

Shortly afterward, Neville settled in a hackney for the four-mile return to Golden Square. There was always so much to see: the eerie Tower of London, bustling Cheapside shops, and the imposing dome of St. Paul's Cathedral. It wasn't always a pleasantly scented journey, especially with the Thames at low tide, which exposed more thick pungent river mud and rotting wood. Fortunately, once they passed Charing Cross, there wasn't far to go.

The only drawback to riding in a hackney: it gave him sufficient time to brood. Certainly on the lack of reform progress and his own shortcomings…but also how he felt each time Edmund departed their Sanctuary threesome bed.

Bloody bereft, in truth. After play the three of them lay together for hours, talking and kissing and touching. And they slept so damned peacefully, like being wrapped in some sort of love cocoon. When he and Arabella returned home from Sanctuary, they never spoke much, just climbed into bed and held each other. Breakfast was becoming increasingly subdued; in all honesty, if it had been anything other than an important opportunity at his most generous supporter's office, he wouldn't have left the house.

Damn it. Damn it!

Neville huffed out a breath. He was being ridiculous. They'd had their second night, their third and their fourth, and yes, each occasion had been everything he ever dreamed of in a threesome, however, they were living on borrowed time. Edmund could decide at any moment he was ready to find a mistress rather than continue a secret affair with a married couple. But where would that leave Neville and Arabella Carlisle when so much had changed?

The moment the hackney pulled up in front of their townhouse, Neville climbed out and hurried to the front door. It immediately swung open to reveal Oakley.

"My lord," said the butler, wincing at the blackberry stains. "I shall order a bath at once. I believe her ladyship is in your bedchamber, er, cleaning out a chest of drawers."

Oh God .

Ara only did that when wrestling with troublesome thoughts.

"Thank you, Oakley," Neville replied. "I shall go straight up, and yes, I would appreciate a bath before I turn into jam."

After crossing the small entrance hall to the narrow wooden stairs, Neville took them two at a time to reach the upper floor faster. Then he near-sprinted to the master bedchamber and burst through the door. "My love?"

"In here," called Ara, before walking out of the antechamber where her clothes were stored. "Oh good grief, Nev. What did they do to you?"

"Blackberries," he replied ruefully. "Smuggled in under a waistcoat. Your father was very displeased—he thought he'd secured all potential weapons at the warehouse door."

His wife frowned. "You know I believe in the cause with everything I have, but I do worry for your safety. What if one day it's something more than rotten fruit or vegetables?"

Neville grimaced. The thought often crossed his mind, but he refused to dwell on it. Living in fear only drove a man to madness. "I cannot stop fighting because there might be a lunatic with a dagger or pistol lurking. It is only when support becomes too loud and overwhelming to ignore that change comes about. That was how we got the slave trade abolished, that is how we'll get emancipation as well. Now, Ara, why are you cleaning out drawers?"

Arabella flushed, but before she could reply, footmen arrived to fill the permanent copper tub in the corner with buckets of hot water. Just as quickly, they were gone.

"Let's get you scrubbed clean," she said, bustling about for a towel, sponge and soap.

Obediently, Neville began removing his berry-ruined clothing, but once again, his wife was attempting a distraction. "What happened today?"

"I'm annoyed at myself. I still haven't sent that box of treats to Eton for Toby. He is the heir and deserves much better."

Her response was startling. The Michaelmas term, Toby's first, would begin on September 1. The box wasn't late. Was this about his mother's awful comments? "Ara—"

"Also, today I called on Katie Whitmore and asked her counsel on permanent threesome arrangements," said Arabella in a rush. "My mind is mud right now. Get into the tub so I can occupy my hands."

Somehow his limbs moved, easing him into the delightfully hot water. But his own mind was spinning . What was Ara considering? Was this about Edmund, or another, future possibility? "Even if they are muddied, I think you need to tell me all your thoughts. Before you scrub the skin from my bones."

Arabella sat back on her heels and exhaled slowly. "The past week has been very special. Hasn't it?"

"Yes," he agreed cautiously.

"We've enjoyed many playfellows over the years, but it has always been easy to bid them farewell. That is not the case with Edmund at all."

Neville closed his eyes briefly, then covered her hand with his. "He could not be more different. This week, for the first time, I wanted to be part of an actual threesome. To submit alongside Edmund, yet assist you as well. I enjoyed spanking him. Fucking him. Watching you restrain and tease him. But we've barely scratched the surface and that is both exciting and alarming. Because it would stab me to the core if you thought I wanted Edmund instead of you. Or more than you. You're the air I breathe, Ara. I simply could not imagine a world where I didn't kneel to serve you."

Arabella lifted his hand and kissed it. "Then, my darling, I think it's time we went to Edmund and made our thoughts known. To find out his. Agreed?"

"Agreed," he replied, grinning. "May I also humbly suggest that to ease your mind over Toby, we travel to Eton tomorrow and deliver the box personally? I know he would be thrilled to see his favorite person in the world, and he'll have the box in time for term commencement."

His wife harrumphed, but she was pink-cheeked and smiling. "Very well. Then we'll visit Edmund. But first, I am going to wash your hair, Baron Blackberry. It smells like an old wine barrel."

Neville nodded, abruptly more hopeful than he'd ever been.

Could this be their new beginning?