Page 27 of A Lady, Her Lord, & Their Duke

Edmund nodded slowly. “I note you didn’t mention Cressida’s looks. Or her dowry.”

Sir Kenneth’s cheeks turned pink. “She is lovely. So very lovely. And I understand her dowry is substantial. However, I have my own funds, enough for a comfortable home, so dowry size is of no matter. And a pretty face is one thing, but I wish to discuss matters with my wife. Seek her counsel. So I value Lady Cressida’s clever mind far more than her beauty. Well, there you have it, Your Grace. Are my hopes ruined?”

Edmund sighed, his heart aching at the impending change. But this steady soul would be an excellent match for hellion Cressida, even if he was a reformer politician. “Make an appointment with my secretary at your convenience and we’ll settle terms for the betrothal documents.”

Sir Kenneth gasped. “I may propose?”

“You may propose. Now, carry on before my daughter spies us.”

“Thank you, Your Grace!” exclaimed the other man fervently, his eyes sparkling. “You’ll never regret this. I’ll make Cressy…er, Lady Cressida so happy.”

Feeling ancient, yet strangely relieved, Edmund waved the politician away, then returned to the milliner. Cressida looked up from examining a bolt of emerald satin and frowned at him. “Where have you been? Discussing the business of old men?”

Edmund nodded solemnly. She would find out soon enough. “Something like that.”

As the long line of men departed Ferndale Shipping’s largest warehouse, Neville couldn’t help breathing a long sigh of relief. Like every speech he gave, he’d received a very mixed reception: some cheering and applauding, some staring grimly, and others heckling him or even tossing spoiled fruit. Today it had been blackberries, which seemed rather a waste when there were so many empty jam pots crying out for preserves.

But, as always, two questions haunted him: how much longer would such speeches be necessary? And could he bear the heavy burden of continued failure?

A full ten years had passed since Grenville’s An Act for the Abolition of the Slave Trade had passed in parliament. Ten years! They had been so joyful in 1807, believing with all their hearts that this stain on human history would be no more. But although the Act had effectively banned the transportation of slaves, it made no provision for the emancipation of those already enslaved. Even now, British subjects who owned slaves were under no obligation to free them.

Unfortunately, rich men still ruled the world, and while they occasionally conceded a change, it would take Hercules himself to prise their fingers from the gavels of power.

“Here now, Carlisle,” said his rotund, silver-haired father-in-law Hector Ferndale as he ambled toward him. “Don’t look so downhearted! I’m sure you’ve brought more souls to the side of the just, and there will come a time when the numbers are enough.”

Neville sighed again. Arabella’s father was a shark in the merchant trade, but he was more honorable than most, for he transported fabrics rather than human cargo or the sugar that came from West Indian cane plantations. Unfortunately, not nearly enough of his fellow merchants followed suit. Moral arguments didn’t tend to hold much sway against large profits and aristocrats were equally as greedy; plenty of estates had been refurbished or rebuilt and stables replenished with dividends coming entirely from slave enterprises.

“I never expected reform to move so damned slowly,” Neville replied in pure frustration. “We all thought the Act a magnificent starting point from which all rivers would flow, but they simply haven’t. Parliament progresses with the haste of cold treacle while people suffer.”

Hector patted him on the shoulder. “Well, you know what I think.”

Neville smiled reluctantly. “I cannot bribe the entire House of Lords.”

“Why not? They’re as mercenary as anyone. Perhaps more so. Costs a lot of money to fund horses and mistresses. Lords do love to ride.”

“Hector, you are a bad man,” said Neville, laughing now. “I am very fortunate you—and your darling daughter—are with me, not against me.”

His father-in-law beamed. “Well, should your scruples loosen, plenty of money in the vault. Don’t tell Hell’s Belle, though. She gets feisty about bribery. And about a body being late for supper. Best you go on home, my lord, have a bath and get those clothes laundered. Not sure if you’ll save that cravat, though. Blackberry juice is a beast to remove.”

Neville nodded. “As is tomato pulp. At least it’s not horseshit, though. I had to burn some clothing after one Piccadilly Market speech. It was fresh.”

Hector’s eyes widened. “I’m called a bad man; I always wonder if they’ve met Polite Society. Anyway, must be off. Mrs. Ferndale is as feisty as her daughter about tardiness. Give our love to Belle.”

Shortly afterward, Neville settled in a hackney for the four-mile return to Golden Square. There was always so much to see: the eerie Tower of London, bustling Cheapside shops, and the imposing dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral. It wasn’t always a pleasantly scented journey, especially with the Thames at low tide, which exposed more thick pungent river mud and rotting wood. Fortunately, once they passed Charing Cross, there wasn’t far to go.

The only drawback to riding in a hackney: it gave him sufficient time to brood. Certainly on the lack of reform progress and his own shortcomings…but also how he felt each time Edmund departed their Sanctuary threesome bed.

Bloody bereft, in truth. After play the three of them lay together for hours, talking and kissing and touching. And they slept so damned peacefully, like being wrapped in some sort of love cocoon. When he and Arabella returned home from Sanctuary, they never spoke much, just climbed into bed and held each other. Breakfast was becoming increasingly subdued; in all honesty, if it had been anything other than an important opportunity at his most generous supporter’s office, he wouldn’t have left the house.

Damn it. Damn it!

Neville huffed out a breath. He was being ridiculous. They’d had their second night, their third and their fourth, and yes, each occasion had been everything he ever dreamed of in a threesome, however, they were living on borrowed time. Edmund could decide at any moment he was ready to find a mistress rather than continue a secret affair with a married couple. But where would that leave Neville and Arabella Carlisle when so much had changed?

The moment the hackney pulled up in front of their townhouse, Neville climbed out and hurried to the front door. It immediately swung open to reveal Oakley.

“My lord,” said the butler, wincing at the blackberry stains. “I shall order a bath at once. I believe her ladyship is in your bedchamber, er, cleaning out a chest of drawers.”

Oh God.