Page 16 of A Lady, Her Lord, & Their Duke

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?”