Page 2 of A Lady, Her Lord, & Their Duke

Then show me, don’t tell me.

Arabella immediately suppressed the unwanted, wayward thought. Talking was Nev’s talent. His gift from the gods. The speeches he made raised funds, opened hearts and changed lives. And he spoke the truth, although playfellows were a treat for them both. Being worshiped by her husband was wonderful enough, but there was something truly divine in directing two men to pleasure her—and each other. Before they’d wed, Nev thought being attracted to both women and men was sufficiently grave to halt her interest. Especially alongside the age difference, him not wanting children, and desiring submission and correction in the bedchamber. Such silliness! That had only confirmed he was precisely the right choice.

Of course, there were strict, unbreakable rules when it came to playfellows.

She and Neville only ever indulged at Sanctuary, the luxurious, expensive haven for those who insisted upon complete discretion and wide variety in their sexual experiences: threesomes, instruction in discipline, restraints, and use of accessories, a kind and professional first time for virgins, or merely to be matched with another client of similar tastes. Every member was over twenty-one, vouched for by another, and endured a very probing interview regarding their likes, dislikes and wishes to ensure they received exactly what they wanted. They also wore demi masks and hair coverings for extra privacy.

Perhaps more importantly, and in respect of their marriage, Arabella restricted this treat to just a few times a year…and they never had the same playfellow twice. This wasn’t about love or companionship or forming a permanent trio like the Townsend-Grants or the Hunter-Whitmores had. This was one night of limitless pleasure, then a cordial farewell.

Arabella smiled and cupped Neville’s cheek. Then she went up onto her knees and shuffled down the bed to gently remove the dildo from his backside and carefully apply ointment to his welted flesh. Her husband made a guttural sound; he was so primed for tonight’s activities. “Now, my darling,” she said. “I’ll order two trays for breakfast and hot water for bathing. After that you must attend to your errands in town while I balance the ledgers and read letters. We’ll meet again for supper, then go to Sanctuary.”

Neville snorted. “Arabella, you light up at balancing ledgers the same way other ladies light up at a new necklace.”

She raised a haughty eyebrow. “I am my father’s daughter. And it means you have ample time to stand on crates and be pelted with scraps, does it not?”

“Touché,” he replied, blowing her a kiss. “Thousands are in your debt, including me. Now please, I beg you, madam…won’t you feed your precious pet? I cannot campaign for reform on an empty stomach.”

Arabella’s lips twitched as she reached for the bellpull and tugged it firmly. Her baron was particularly adorable when he begged. “One hearty breakfast, on its way.”

Yet even now, eager anticipation fluttered in her belly. Ledgers exercised her mind, but a new lover to tease and torment at Sanctuary? Sheer perfection.

Stanforth House, St. James’s Square

“Father? Father!”

Oh Christ.

Edmund Vane, Duke of Stanforth, contemplated diving under the carved oak library desk, but his hellion daughter would find him. Cressida always found him. Given a chance, the chit would be an expert Bow Street Runner; except then she would take over the city and London had endured sufficient tyrants in its history.

“Do cease your unseemly shouting,” he replied, as she burst into the room without knocking. Truly, if anyone in the House of Lords knew how blithely, how disrespectfully Lady Cressida Vane treated the almighty Duke of Stanforth, they would swoon.

Cressida poked out her tongue, then delicately settled herself on an embroidered chaise and smoothed her pale blue skirts. While everyone agreed she favored her sire—they were both tall with brown hair and hazel eyes—occasionally Cressida displayed a fussy mannerism so entirely her late mother Lydia that it was damned unnerving. “Good afternoon to you, too.”

Edmund sent her a stern look. “I hope you have an excellent reason for invading my library.”

She smiled sunnily. “I do! Well, two reasons. The first is that I received a letter from Harry—”

“Your brother’s name is Lord Denby. He’s an earl, even if he is ten.”

Cressida rolled her eyes. “Harrison Edmund Vane, Earl of Denby, writes that Eton is cold and damp, the food is terrible, and the masters are…hmmm…bug-eyed madmen who smell bad. However, he also says he’s met a terrific boy called Toby, they are already the best of chums, and both are looking forward to the start of their first term.”

Edmund almost snorted. Little had changed at Eton since his attendance, then. He’d agonized over sending his heir away at such a young age, but Denby had pleaded, and he never pleaded for anything. Unlike Cressida, the boy was quiet and reserved. Always watching with his solemn, reproachful Lydia eyes, not openly blaming Edmund for the fever that snatched her away, but a far harsher emotion: disappointment. For what use was an immensely wealthy and powerful duke if he couldn’t save his duchess’s life?

He winced at the reminder of his greatest failure, although his estrangement from Denby was a close second. Cressida had always acted as an intermediary between them. Why did it so often feel like the austere Vane methods to shape and mold a son as his father and grandfather had demonstrated…were just plain wrong?

Edmund cleared his throat. “I’ll have my secretary send extra funds. The Eton kitchens might be a slophouse, but there are plenty of enterprising pie sellers nearby in the village. Now, what is the second reason you are here?”

Cressida’s eyes took on a certain gleam, her chin jutting out with a determination he knew all too well.

Oh Christ.

“I’ve decided to marry Sir Kenneth Lochore, the member of parliament from Yorkshire. But quite ridiculously, because I’ve not yet reached my majority, I require your permission. So, please arrange it at once.”

Inwardly, Edmund made a wheezing sound. Or perhaps not so inwardly, for Cressida’s eyes widened in alarm. “Beg pardon?” he choked out. “A betrothal? You’re far too young.”

“Father,” she said, very patiently, “Eighteen is an entirely unexceptional age to wed, especially for a duke’s daughter. I’ve been out two seasons; next year society will start hurling phrases like ‘long in the tooth’ and ‘on the shelf’. I won’t stand for it.”

Edmund scowled at her impeccable logic. Society would do exactly that. “Why Lochore? And why the haste? Wait a moment. He hasn’t…if he has, I will ensure in future that bloody Yorkshireman cannot even be elected collector of rat excrement in Seven Dials.”