Chapter One
June 17, 1830
Malcolm Brown, theeldest of the late Alexander Salisbury’s bastard children, awoke from his dream with a moan.
It wasnota moan of surprise.
The dream was the same as usual.
This dream, in fact, was always almost exactly the same.
In the dream, he, Malcolm Brown, had his cock buried deep inside a woman—always the same woman, although he did not know who she was.Her sweet scent overpowered him.He had one hand on her bare breast and the other on her ample arse.He pumped into her from behind, so he couldn’t see her face, but she was nevertheless close enough that he had his lips at her neck.And in the dream, he knew he loved the woman, the one he was brazenly tupping.In the dream, joining with her, in this way, was his peace on earth.
Most often, he woke up from this dream, panting, his cock hard.Exasperated, he would nevertheless palm himself and quickly dispatch of this strange visitation of arousal.The memory of the dream woman would fade with the pleasure of his orgasm—until she returned again some other evening and the process would repeat itself.
Now, however, as sometimes happened when he had recently been particularly abstemious in his self-pleasure, he found climaxashe came into consciousness.
“Christ.”He swore when he realized what had happened.
He was now very awake and very much coated in the sticky results of his own spend, as was the sheet that had been wrapped around his waist.
Perhaps the mess was partly his fault.His punishment for sleeping completely bare.
In fact, Malcolm Brown always slept nude.It was improper, of course, but he was an improper man.As said eldest bastard of Alexander Salisbury, Malcolm’s very existence was itself improper.While his younger half brother, George, was the young master of Parkhorne Hall, Malcolm ran the farm, so he spent all day in the sun, with his hands in the dirt or on a plow and conversing in none too civil language with his fellow laborers.His father had been a gentleman, yes, but Malcolm wasn’t.He was a gentleman farmer, at best.
Thus, he could commit such sins against propriety.
After all, no one expected him to ever do more than manage the farm at Parkhorne.He was not meant for society.His younger brothers, even the ones who were also illegitimate, had made their way into that world.But he never would.
As a testament to that fact, his rooms were set a half mile off from the main house in what was once a hunting lodge.
And under normal circumstances, no one else occupied the place.Its three other bedrooms stood empty.
No one was likely to see what nightclothes he wore—or, in his case, didn’t wear—to bed.
Malcolm stood, crossed to the basin, and cleaned himself.
A glance through the curtains confirmed what he didn’t want to accept.
It was already morning.
He groaned.
And this time there was no pleasure in it.
He must dress.He must hasten to the hall and eat breakfast with his siblings, instead of heading out to the fields as he usually did.
Because today was not a normal day.
Today was the first day of the house party.
A month-long house party in which prospective brides—and their mamas—would descend upon Parkhorne Hall.
The young ladies were coming for his brother, George, five-and-twenty years of age, master of Parkhorne Hall, and, according to himself, ready to marry.
George’s mother, Mrs.Salisbury, wanted to make sure that her son made the right choice.She had devised the house party as a way to ensure that the girl who became the next Mrs.Salisbury was well-suited for both George and Parkhorne.Malcolm understood why she cared so much about her son’s marriage.His union had consequences for everyone who cared about the estate.A foolish match by George could harm Parkhorne irrevocably—and a good one, well, it could secure prosperity for a generation, at least.
And because Malcolm cared very much about Parkhorne, he had to care about the house party.
