Page 17 of A Lady, Her Lord, & Their Duke

No. The first of many more. With the other man you claimed.

“Yes,” said Neville. “One more night where the duke gets to explore his submissive side, receive a taste of discipline, come until he’s wrung dry…and experience Madam’s cosseting as he should have done the first time. I also want to make amends if I pushed him too far, too fast. Or, if Stanforth wishes to engage in a different scene where I submit to him at your command…I’m willing to do so. However, if this is not something you want for us, I’ll never mention it again. I love you far too much to ever risk our marriage.”

She moved restlessly on the couch; he could practically feel her inner war. Arabella truly wanted this but had been burned in breaking her rules. And what he proposed was indeed risky, something she abhorred. His wife’s brilliant mind weighed everything for risk and return, the sole reason he now lived so comfortably. But this wasn’t an investment. Cold numbers. It was a man, someone who had already behaved erratically. And yet this man appeared to be the key to their future: living as a trio rather than a pair.

Now they’d opened the door, they needed to walk through it.

“I’ve never been so torn,” said Arabella slowly. “While no one could ever replace you in my affections…something felt different with Stanforth.”

“I agree,” Neville replied, nodding.

She exhaled unsteadily. “Perhaps we should try again, although I’m not entirely sure how. You know him better than I. Do you have a suggestion? Is this something that could be tacked on when the two of you discuss the politician courting Stanforth’s daughter?”

Neville rubbed his thumbs across Ara’s knuckles as he pondered ideas and just as quickly discarded them. This would be the most delicate undertaking of their lives. And perilous to boot. “I think we keep that separate. We, and Sir Kenneth by extension, are the possibilities of the future, when the duke will want to regain his feet by returning to the familiarity of his ducal cage. He needs to be gently but firmly coaxed out again, and not by the man whose cock he sucked, for that was his great risk. It must be in a neutral environment. Definitely not his home. Or Sanctuary.”

Arabella nodded thoughtfully. “Katherine Whitmore is hosting a soiree tonight—she sent a note inviting us. Nothing like two ladies discovering their husbands are both adorable, older submissives to bond a friendship. Do you think Stanforth might attend? I could brazenly ask him to dance.”

He sat up straighter, his spirits rising. “Perfect! During a waltz you could speak to him privately, offer our apology or reassurance, and put the question of another night to him. Ara, you’re a genius.”

His wife arched one imperious brow. “Quite. Now, on your feet, Nev. Not only must we put together Toby’s parcel, I’ll not have my pet looking shabby next to Lord Whitmore or Stanforth. We have much work to do!”

As their carriage waited in the line to pull up in front of the Earl and Countess of Whitmore’s Grosvenor Square townhouse, Arabella smoothed her ruby satin evening gown for perhaps the fortieth time.

It was only about a mile between her and Nev’s home in Golden Square and this exceedingly fashionable address, but about a world away in terms of social position. Golden Square was reasonably respectable and home to several minor nobles, but the three-bay red-brick townhouses were also a haven for artists and clerks. Grosvenor Square was pure blue-blooded ostentation. The houses were enormous, mostly five to seven bays, with a cellar, an attic, a mews behind, and columns on either side of the front door like a damned museum. The area outside the houses was neatly cobblestoned and the square’s central garden with its vast emerald lawn, symmetrical shrubbery, elm trees, and footpaths, could only be accessed by residents with a key.

Yes, her father might be far richer than these families, but most residents would look down on her.

“Don’t think about them. You look absolutely exquisite,” said Neville as he lounged against the carriage’s brown leather squabs, looking rather exquisite himself in black jacket and trousers, a sapphire-blue waistcoat, and simple cravat.

Arabella snorted, but his compliment did help her nerves. “They live in a square shaped like an oval. It makes no damned sense, yet anyone who points that out gets the word ‘peasant’ stamped on their forehead.”

He laughed. “I’ll get a stamp as well. I’m just the third Baron Carlisle; my title won’t be acceptable for at least another two hundred years. Only for the Whitmores would I venture into this stronghold of stuffiness. Are we moving? Thank God, I think we are. I can see their townhouse now.”

A quarter hour later, they were finally through the door and in the receiving line. As usual for a Whitmore soiree, the decorations were superb; this evening a confection of bows, banners and flowers in gold and orange and brown to farewell summer and welcome autumn. Neville went first, shaking hands and talking briefly to both Katherine and her bespectacled earl Michael, yet Arabella frowned. Where was their third?

“Katie!” she said, kissing the pretty blond countess on both cheeks. “You look radiant. But where is Hunter? He’s done a marvelous job with the decor.”

Katherine Whitmore leaned closer. “Gerard is upstairs in the nursery with Miles. Our adorable wee tyrant wails like a banshee until one of his papas rocks him to sleep. But rest assured that Gerard will be down later to dance with me. I have been positively itching to do so, but it is a risky endeavor. I’ve lined my stays with cabbage leaves to halt leakage. Good grief!”

Arabella winced in sympathy. Women endured many indignities with their health, but thankfully this was one she would never personally experience. “Poor dear. But your household of three is well otherwise? Those men are offering lots of love and support?”

The countess smiled. “They are. I never dreamed that happiness like this was possible. Two husbands are a handful, of course, but the rewards are infinite. I know I blather on, but have you and Carlisle ever considered a permanent trio rather than playfellows?”

“Until recently, no,” said Arabella.

Katherine gasped. “Arabella! We must have tea. Soon.”

Arabella winked and turned to Michael Whitmore. “Good evening, my lord. How do you make spectacles look so charming? And that cravat. Annoyingly perfect.”

The shy earl beamed at her. “Welcome, my lady. We are thrilled you and Carlisle came. It’s been far too long, and you make every soiree sparkle. Gerry toiled almost as long with my cravat as the decorations, but he succeeded in the end. Once our son is asleep, Gerry will be down to oversee proceedings. I prefer it when he’s close by.”

She patted his hand. In some ways Michael reminded her of Nev; submissive men were just the sweetest.

Is there a chance I could have two rather than one?

At the mind-jolting thought, Arabella almost stumbled. But somehow she regathered her composure. “Completely understandable, my lord. Now, Nev and I are going to sample your beverage collection. We’ll speak later.”

She took Neville’s arm and they strolled into the ballroom. It was barely nine o’clock, but the cavernous space was already three-quarters full; the ton loved a Whitmore party. Most guests were milling around chatting and sipping drinks; some were dancing a quadrille to music provided by a talented quartet, and others had retreated to the antechamber to play whist.