PartOne
One
September, 1819.
Mmmmm. Phineas Edge, the Earl of Burchester, was content. More than content, he was wholly gratified. If he were a cat, he would purr.
He was warm, well-fed, slightly tipsy, and naked in a most comfortable bed.
He inhaled through his nose. The sheets were fresh-smelling and very soft. The mattress had the perfect amount of firmness. The pillows were abundant and—what was the word?—pillowy.
He was going to have a very good night’s sleep.
It was hard to believe he had been friends for so long with Edmund Haskett, Earl of Longridge and heir apparent to the Marquess of Sudbury, and yet Phineas had never been invited before to Sudbury Manor. Of course, it was really the residence of Edmund’s father, the current marquess. But if Phineas had known how welcoming the country house was, he would have begged to come years ago.
Everything so far had been perfectly arranged. He was ensconced in this delightful room, complete with this marvel of a bed. The oil paintings dotting the walls of the bedchamber were all seascapes, his favorite type of picture. He gave full marks to the perfectly banked fire, the soft carpet underfoot, the thick velvet drapes keeping out the very small amount of chill in the September night air.
And before he had retired, he had passed a most agreeable evening. Edmund had a sister, but she was indisposed. It had been all men at the table and, therefore, they had felt free to indulge in the most masculine of conversations. The elderly and tall marquess, the even taller Edmund, and three other friends who had all come down from London with Phineas and Edmund: Lord Danforth, Lord Dagenham, and Sir Matthew Elliot. At dinner, the men had toasted the absent Jack MacNaughton, the Duke of Dunmore. He had absconded to Scotland last month and married a savage Scottish countess behind everyone’s back.
Despite the sister’s absence, the appetizing and well-chosen menu at dinner had shown the sure-handed management of the mistress of the house. Good claret with dinner. Excellent port after dinner. Even better whisky in the library after the old marquess had gone to bed, when the men had taken the opportunity to exchange some truly filthy stories the white-haired gentleman might have frowned upon.
Well, William Dagenham and Edmund and Phineas had exchanged the filthy stories. Sir Matthew Elliot had pinched his lips together in that priggish way he had, making it clear he had no stories of his own to share and he entirely disapproved of the recounted escapades. Good God, did the man have no sexual appetite whatsoever? He was an enigma. A virginal, blond enigma.
And George Danforth had moped, just as he had for the last two months, still heartbroken over that sweet morsel, Lady Phoebe Finch. George was more despondent than ever. Phineas would really have to find a way to bolster the young man’s spirits. This evening, George hadn’t even been able to summon an interest in discussing the Danforth Method, his own special concoction of seduction that he claimed had ensnared all his previous mistresses.
One of whom Phineas had stolen away from George to add to his own harem of playthings. The young Dowager Viscountess Starling. Ah, Horatia. A handful of a woman with a body made up of many tempting mouthfuls. A voluptuous vixen of vicissitude and violent tempers. It was so very pleasant to have shed her temporarily on this trip.
But no more thoughts about Lady Starling right now. Phineas wouldn’t let her ruin his perfect evening.
Yes, it had been a perfect country evening, with all the benefits of a lady in the house but none of the burden of listening to her prattle or censoring one’s speech.
And the promise of good shooting and sport tomorrow. What could be better?
Now, to slumber. His valet had fussed as usual when Phineas had come up to bed. Dashwood had made the earl use the tooth powder and then he had neatly tucked the dinner clothes into the clothes press, clucking at the whisky spill on the waistcoat.
Phineas slept naked but the rather prudish young Dashwood disapproved, so Phineas had kept his shirt on until Dashwood had left the room. Then he had stripped it off, lowered the wick on the lamp on the bedside table until it went out, and climbed into the bed.
This heavenly bed. Mmmmmm. Snug and lovely. He was adrift in a sea of comfort. He had almost floated away when he heard a door open.
“Who’s there?”
There was no answer. Phineas didn’t like that. His peace was shattered. He sat up and lit the lamp next to the bed, fumbling with the tinderbox and the match.
“Dashwood? Blast, say something.”
A tall, white figure came toward him. He saw long, dark hair. A woman in a shift came right next to the bed and stood in the pool of light from the lamp he had lit.
He looked up into a pair of green eyes and instantly relaxed.
“Why, hello.” He grinned. “I think you’ve wandered into the wrong room, miss.”
She looked down at him. She did not smile back. She crossed her arms in front of her. Her hands grasped the sides of her shift, and it went up and over her head and fell to the floor. She stood in front of him, naked.
He drank in a long expanse of perfect skin and a sable thatch of maidenhair right at his eye level. His cock, perhaps a little sluggish from the whisky, stirred to life at the sight of that dark triangle and the promise it hid, and he felt the familiar throb.
He realized now what had been missing from his perfect country evening. Country matters. Or a vigorous bout of rutting with a country wench.
True, if he had his preference, he liked a more generously proportioned woman. Softer, rounder. But coupling could still be satisfactory even if the girl was like this one here by the bed. On the lean side. And on the tall side. He wasn’t too fussy. He liked all sorts of women. And more often than not, they liked him.
