Charles leaned forward and fixed his gaze on John. Then the valet leaned back, a flicker of fear in his eyes.
I am trusting you not to breathe one word of this to her. Betray that trust and I’ll not only have you dismissed but will ensure that you never find employment elsewhere. Do you understand?
“I understand the consequences of betraying your trust, sir. But I don’t understand why you won’t tell her. If you’re buying her gratitude, you’ll only succeed if she knows of it.”
I have no wish to buy her gratitude.
“Then what, sir?”
Charles hesitated, then moved his hands.I wish to earn her trust.
And her love.
More than anything, he wanted her to come to him willingly—not out of a sense of duty, or a wish to fulfil the terms of the marriage contract to satisfy her brother’s sensibilities…but because she wanted him as much as he wanted her.
Charles reached inside his pocket and fingered the item he kept there—the ribbon he’d appropriated from his wife the day he removed her torn stocking.
They continued the journey in silence, the carriage rocking gently, punctuated by the occasional jerk as a wheels hit a rut, which grew more frequent the further they rode from Mayfair. Charles closed his eyes, but he could not dispel the image of his wife’s tear-stained face, nor the memory of the small grunt of pain she’d tried so hard to disguise as he’d taken her.
Weren’t women supposed to enjoy the act? The whores he’d visited might have uttered false cries of pleasure to secure an extra coin, but most men boasted enough about their prowess, about how it was measured not only by the number of women they’d bedded but by how frequently those women came to pleasure. Twice a night was, if the sordid tales were to be believed, sufficient to secure a man’s place on the roll of fame at White’s. If the same rumors were to be given any credence, the record was twelve times a night, held by the Duke ofFoxton, the most prolific rake in London.
It was no wonder why Charles preferred to avoid Society when in Town. Men were nothing more than spotty adolescents who compared the size, and reach, of their cocks in the privies at Eton. And he was long done with pissing contests.
But what if hecouldgive pleasure to his wife—to see her mouth open, not in a cry of pain, but a scream of ecstasy? Not, of course, to determine his own prowess, but for the simple joy of being the one to give her pleasure?
Perhaps he should have taken more notice of the tales his schoolfellows shared of the women they’d bedded—of how they made them writhe with pleasure until they were mad with want. But he could hardly petition the gentlemen of thetonto instruct him.
Then perhaps…
He glanced at John to see the valet staring at him, the corner of his mouth quirked in a smile.
His cheeks warming with shame, Charles gestured with his hands, his movements stilted. John’s grin widened and he cocked his head to one side.
“You want to know if I’m well versed in pleasuring a woman?”
Hush!Charles gestured sharply, and John glanced at the window.
“The coachman can’t hear.” He grinned again. “Had he heard, he’d have fallen off his perch!”
Desist. It’s no laughing matter.
John stared at Charles’s hands. “Are you saying that you’re in need of a few pointers in the art of bedding a woman?”
Charles nodded.
“I know my way around a woman, if that’s what you’re asking,” John continued, “but I wouldn’t call myself a proficient—at least not enough to teach another. I take it you wish to enhance your technique as much as possible, to please your wife?”
Fuck.Did the man have to be so blunt about it?
John grinned. “No need to reply. Of course, we both know who’s best placed to instruct a man on how to thoroughly pleasure a woman.”
Do we?
“I can make discreet inquiries with the best tutor in London.”
Surely you don’t mean Foxton? Or—God forbid—Whitcombe?
John threw back his head and laughed.Curse him!
