When Good Earls Go Bad: A Victorian Valentine's Day Novella (14 page)

Not that she’d be taken, except by him; she said as much, and at certain times she begged him to take her, and at those times he was only too happy to oblige.

This was only a temporary position, she assured him, since she knew it would be seen as odd, very odd, for a countess to continue working, but then he’d pointed out that she would be a Scottish countess, and somehow that made it all right, at least in her eyes.

And, he said with a dark promise in his eyes, she’d soon enough be having little Scottish children with him.

Which required lots and lots of lovemaking.

T
hey were back in London, having returned from Scotland where he’d introduced her to his family. His sisters, naturally enough, adored her, and his mother melted when Annabelle insisted on making her tea just the way she liked.

She had just brought him tea as well, putting it down on the desk he was working on. He hoped he could lure her to bed soon, his favorite spot to be with her. Even more than the library, although that had proved diverting.

“What are you doing?” She slid her arms around his neck and bent down to kiss his ear.

“Thinking about you.” He could tell her that now, now that he’d told her he loved her. It felt marvelous to feel, to be able to share with her just what he was thinking. Especially when he was thinking about having her.

“What specifically are you thinking about?” she continued, sliding her mouth down his neck to his collarbone, licking him just there as her hands slid down his chest.

He reached up and folded his arms over hers, leaning his head back so she could reach more of him.

“Nothing specific,” he said, closing his eyes as her hands ran their way over his chest, down his sides, and then lower still.

His wife was a vixen, that was for sure.

“Perhaps you could ponder what you might want to name a little girl or boy, then,” she said, her voice muffled as she licked his neck.

He felt his eyes widen, and his hands tightened on her arms.

“Do you mean . . .?”

“Mm-hm,” she said. “We’re going to have a baby. Or rather, I am going to have a baby,” his ever literal wife added. “You helped make the baby, of course, but all the rest of the work is up to me.” He knew, without seeing her face, that she was wrinkling her nose. “Although why that is fair, I don’t know. It is pleasurable to make the baby, and I can’t imagine it will be nearly as much fun to actually have the baby. If there were a way . . . ”

But she had to stop speaking then, because he stood up and wrapped her in his arms and kissed her until she was breathless.

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An Excerpt from

P
UT
U
P
Y
OUR
D
UKE

1842, London, the Gentleman’s Pleasure House, Second Private Chamber on the Right

“A
nd then what will you do to me?” Nicholas didn’t care so much for the particulars of the response—he knew the woman currently sitting on his lap would do what he wanted her to, and he would be gentlemanly enough to ensure she found enjoyment as well.

He was a very egalitarian lover.

“What do you want me to do to you?” she countered.

Clearly, she did not know that when he asked a question, he wanted an answer, not another question. He suppressed the feeling of irritation, and yes, boredom, and concentrated instead on placing a strawberry onto her breast, then lowering his mouth to capture the succulent fruit. Of the strawberry, not her breast. That appetizing treat would be for later.

He put his mouth to her ear and spoke so that neither of the two ladies, one on either side of him, could hear. “I want to keep your mouth busy so you can’t speak. And when you are able to speak, you’ll be screaming my name.”

She wriggled on his lap, her plush arse riding his cock, which had already jerked to attention. She leaned her head back on his shoulder. “I’ve heard about you, m’lord, and I am very eager to find out if what they say is true.”

Nicholas wrapped his hands around her waist and slid his thumbs up so they were in the soft crease under her breasts.

This was his favorite part of being with a woman—the anticipation, wondering what her face would look like as she came apart, wondering how her body would feel under his hands, how she’d want him to take her. The actual doing of it, well, that was pleasurable as well, but he hadn’t found any of the women he’d been with had lived up to his expectations.

But each time, with each new woman, he hoped this would be the one. This female would be able to send him to a new height of ecstasy, of wanting, of being able to lose himself, forget thinking just for a few moments of bliss, who would be equal to him in bed, in conversation, in life.

Not that he thought he’d find that kind of woman here, in a house of ill repute, no matter how well it catered to men of his class. But he wasn’t particularly interested in courting a young lady of his own class only to find, once he was married, that she was no true companion to him in bed or in conversation but that he was now married to her for life.

He’d considered it very seriously when he’d met a lady a year or so ago, but she’d entered into another engagement before he could figure out if he actually wanted to or not. So he remained single, and singly determined not to be wed, at least not unless he was absolutely certain about the wife in question.

But he wasn’t going to eschew the pleasures of the bed just because he was pessimistic about his chances for long-term happiness. Short-term happiness, for now, would suit him just fine.

It seemed that other gentlemen in London felt the same way; the house was stocked with lovely women, rather like a well-tended fishpond, and it was as easy to catch one as baiting a hook. A hook made of money and a few well-chosen words. He had both in abundance, which was why he currently had three women surrounding him.

He was in one of the more opulent chambers, not on the enormous bed that dominated the room but instead seated on a long, low sofa upholstered in a dark purple hue. The furniture was also dark, and there were candles placed on several of the surfaces, and their light cast a warm, sensuous glow in the room. As though Nicholas and three willing ladies were not sensuous enough.

“M’lord?” The woman had turned in his lap so she faced him, while the other two women, women he’d had before, both of whom were quite skilled and enthusiastic, ruffled his hair and ran their fingers down his chest and murmured soft words, mostly involving him and them and what they were all going to do together later.

He was quite looking forward to it.

So he was not so happy when he heard his brother Griffith calling his name.

Griff wasn’t bad, as brothers went; in fact, Nicholas quite liked him. But Griff, unlike his older brother, did not habituate houses of ill repute—or even houses of good repute—instead usually staying in the library to spend more time reading.

“Excuse me, ladies,” Nicholas said, removing the woman from his lap and placing her gently beside him on the sofa. He did up the buttons of his shirt and ran a hand through his hair, which he knew was entirely disheveled, thanks to the sensual stroking and playing that had been done to it.

“In here, Griff,” he shouted, getting to his feet. He was just tucking his shirt back into his trousers when Griffith entered, his brother’s eyes widening as he saw what must have appeared to be absolute and total debauchery in the room.

Or, as Nicholas liked to call it, Tuesday.

“What is it?” he asked, since Griff’s mouth was opening and closing like a chiming cuckoo clock.

“Here.” Griff thrust a piece of paper at him. “I don’t think you’d believe me if I just told you.”

Nicholas unfolded the paper, heavy parchment that already gave whatever was written on it more weight than he wanted. He scanned the lines, filled with legal jargon, and then raised his head to stare at his brother. “This says . . . this makes me—”

Griff nodded. “The Duke of Gage.”

Nicholas looked back at the paper, as though it would explain it all. Well, it did, actually, but he couldn’t comprehend all the “whereases,” “in testimony,” and “further reviews.”

“This can’t . . . but how?” He looked at his brother, as though he could explain it.

“It seems that there was a dispute of lineage in a different branch of our family, quite remote, but the end result is that the current Duke of Gage isn’t really, because a few generations up there was some bigamy.” His brother could explain it. Excellent.

Only now—

“And the dukedom or whatever it is called goes to me? What about all the other relatives who were next in line?”

Griff shook his head. “That bigamous marriage affected many of the offspring. It’s just like the War of the Roses, which began because John of Gaunt made his mistress his wife, and then that made their children not bastards, only—”

Nicholas punched his brother on the shoulder, not hard, just enough to make him stop talking. “I don’t need a history lesson, and I sure as hell hope this doesn’t result in a war.”

“Right. Of course.” Griff grinned and rubbed his shoulder. “Better you than me, I have to say.”

Nicholas raised an eyebrow. “Well, if it were you, it would mean I was dead, so yes, I’m very glad it was me. So what do I do now?”

Griff shrugged. “The current duke is contesting the finding, of course, but it seems as though the legality of it is on your side. Or the illegality, rather.”

Nicholas frowned. “And how is it that you know about this first, rather than me?”

Now his brother looked embarrassed. “Well, the solicitor came to the house, only you weren’t there. And I thought you’d want to know right away.”

Right. Because he was here, while his brother was at their shared abode, no doubt doing something worthy with his life rather than keeping company with no fewer than three loose women at a time. Unless that really was a worthy endeavor, and everyone in the world was wrong about suitable pursuits.

Not for the first time, Nicholas wondered just how it came to be that he and his brother were so different, yet so close. Griffith was happiest when his nose was buried in a book, while Nicholas was happiest when his nose was buried in a breast, preferably two.

His older sisters, both of whom were married, were entirely respectable as well, but they were only his half-sisters, so they didn’t count as much.

He turned to the women, who were busy with each other. He had a pang as he saw just what one of them was doing to the other one, while the third watched, her eyes heavy with desire.

“It seems, my fair companions, that I have some urgent business that requires my attention.”

All three of them paused to look at him, disappointment creeping over their expressions. The one in the middle, he thought her name was Sally, said in a pouting tone, “Are you sure? Your friend there could join us, just for a little while.”

Nicholas glanced at Griff, whose face had turned an alarming shade of red. If it got any darker, he would match the sofa, in fact.

“I wish we could stay, ladies, but we have to go.” He didn’t want Griff to explode in some sort of embarrassed lust conflagration. That would be difficult to explain to their relatives.

He didn’t wait for any response, just took Griff’s arm and led him out the door, dropping a few coins into the hands of the woman who ran the establishment.

“So early?” she remarked, tucking the coins into her pocket. “We’ll see you soon, my lord?”

Nicholas shook his head. “I regret to say I doubt I will be returning, at least not for some time. It appears I have a dukedom to inherit.”

And with that, he pushed the door open and stepped out into the foggy night, his brother right behind.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

MEGAN FRAMPTON
writes historical romance under her own name and romantic women’s fiction as Megan Caldwell. She likes the color black, gin, dark-haired British men, and huge earrings, not in that order. She lives in Brooklyn, New York, with her husband and son. You can visit her website at www.meganframpton.com. She tweets as @meganf and is at Facebook at facebook.com/meganframptonbooks.

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