Page 4 of A Lady, Her Lord, & Their Duke

Edmund sucked in an unsteady breath at the shockingly erotic thought. Even his dormant cock had stirred. But he didn’t have time to imagine the Carlisles’ bedchamber antics, not when he needed information on Sir Kenneth Lochore.

He glanced down at his ornate pocket watch. Three-thirty. If he recalled correctly, there was a tea house near Whitehall where reformers often met.

It was time to find himself a baron.

As he stirred two sugar cubes into his cup of steaming hot tea, Neville sighed and stared out the shop window at the rain-soaked street.

Everyone had called 1816 the year without a summer, but 1817 was no better. Just endless bloody rain, which was exceedingly unhelpful for a man trying to change hearts and minds. When people were suffering and exhausted, they narrowed their thoughts to basic survival. Food. Shelter. Clothing. Hope tended to fall by the wayside, and without hope, it was difficult to see a better tomorrow…or take steps toward it.

Thank God for Arabella. Because of his beloved wife’s unwavering support and funds, he’d made countless speeches all over Greater London, started petitions, and organized meetings. More importantly, he’d been able to donate money to several parish schools. Education was key. Education was power. The boys and girls of today who could read and write and count, who were given the opportunity to explore the world through nature and art, inventions and languages, could join together and be the leaders of tomorrow. Hopefully, leaders who could vote and vastly improve a system currently designed to hold them down, not raise them up.

Neville sighed again and took a gulp of his beverage, almost moaning as it warmed his insides. Although in fairness, tea would never replace his favorite heat: that created when riding crop or palm firmly met his arse. Arabella had disciplined him thoroughly this morning, and even now the form fit of his trousers gently tormented his flesh, enough that he’d chosen not to sit at one of the many tables in the busy tea house. Instead, he was leaning on the elbow-height wooden bench that stretched the entire length of the shop front window, surrounded by piles of liberal newspapers, pamphlets, and books.

Yet every so often he moved his hips, just for the delicious reminder of his wife’s enduring affections. Ten years! Ten glorious years he had belonged body and soul to Ara, and he’d probably been humming tunes all day at the prospect of tonight’s outing. In mere hours, he would be sucking cock. Perhaps fucking arse. Even being sucked and fucked himself as his wife commanded.

God, he loved her, even if perhaps she wasn’t as forthcoming with return words of love as he might wish. Ara instead tried to shower him with gifts, which he certainly didn’t deserve and attempted to dissuade her from. But overall, Arabella was his one true mate: a beautiful dominant woman who shared his values, also had no desire whatsoever for children, and reveled in their sexual play. They were living their dream life. Even if it did rain relentlessly.

“Lord Carlisle? Might I have a word?”

Startled at the clipped, cold, yet vaguely familiar voice behind him, Neville slowly turned around.

Bloody hell.

The Duke of Stanforth? In a tea house for reformers?

He was actually shocked. As were the other patrons; everyone around them was staring at the duke with the kind of wild, bulging eyes usually reserved for nudity in Hyde Park.

“Your Grace,” Neville managed at last, delving deep for the effortless charm he allegedly possessed. “Forgive me, I wasn’t expecting to see you here. How may I assist? As the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse aren’t galloping past, I’m presuming you’re not joining the cause.”

Wait. Had the duke’s lips twitched? Had he almost smiled?

Good God. Perhaps the Horsemen were on their way. Every Duke of Stanforth had been exceedingly high in the instep, but this one’s glacial manner and rigid adherence to tradition and protocol made him rather frightening. Which was a damned shame because he was gloriously attractive. Thick brown hair with a little silver at the temples, intriguing hazel eyes with gold flecks, tall, broad-shouldered, and the thighs of an expert rider. On more than a few occasions when Stanforth had addressed the House in his relentlessly cool, calm tone, Neville had imagined hiding under the lectern, opening the duke’s trouser fall, and sucking his cock. Would that tone change? Even a little?

“Alas not. We have different beliefs,” said Stanforth, his gaze darting around assessingly, as though confirming all possible exits. Could the duke actually be unsettled?

An imp of mischief overtook Neville. “Really? Are you pro-slavery?”

“Of course not,” snapped the duke. “It’s abhorrent.”

“Then you think workers are disposable? They should be dismissed without cause or not paid?”

Stanforth glared at him. “It is my experience that people who are properly compensated and treated fairly are loyal, discreet, and industrious. An easy decision.”

“Ah,” said Neville mock-solemnly. “So you believe that only the ideas and policies of wealthy noblemen matter, as they are the cleverest and most just.”

“Obviously that isn’t true. Plenty of exceptional and interesting minds aren’t nobility. Humphry Davy. Edward Jenner. Charles Babbage. Coleridge and Wordsworth. John Soane. The late Miss Austen. Mrs. Fry.”

Neville grinned at the reprimand. “Your Grace, I say this with all due respect…but you may, in fact, be a reformer.”

Stanforth drew back, a comical expression of horror on his face. “I beg your pardon?” he said icily.

“There, there,” said Neville, unable to suppress a hearty laugh. “Your dirty secret is safe with me.”

Even more unexpectedly, something flashed in the duke’s hazel eyes that appeared a lot like yearning. A deep, aching desire completely unrelated to politics. But how could that be? Stanforth had it all. When he spoke, everyone listened. And no one threw rotten fruit.

Utterly intrigued at a possible hidden contradiction, Neville deliberately eased the oddly erotic tension by taking a sip of tea. “Forgive me, Stanforth, I’m in a merry mood today. I shan’t tease you further.”

“Merry about what?” asked the duke abruptly, tilting his head.