Anne reached for another. “Randall particularly likes this one, especially after he’s been drinking. For some reason, he’s always a bit more flexible then.” Anne laughed as she lowered the statuette.
“So you think the vows don’t matter? That we are doomed to lonesomeness and frustration until death us do part?”
“Neither of us went into our marriage blind. Right now we have what the other wants. Right now that’s enough. Come. Don’t let’s talk about such foolishness. Today is about you and what we are going to do for Clarissa and Michael.”
“And what’s that?”
“We are going to tempt that awful man into fucking his wife.”
* * * * *
Michael Dunnaway glared across the dance floor where his wife remained entwined with Randall VanLandingham, Marquess of Foxley. Some might call the waltz a dance. To him it was a scandal waiting to happen, unless of course, the woman in the man’s arms was his wife.
Foxley couldn’t be more than thirty, the impudent pup.
Men like Foxley were the very reason he’d so assiduously accompanied his wife to the Season’s entertainments. He didn’t want his wife to become one of the entertainments.
When he’d heard the marchioness had carted Clarissa off to some art display, he’d almost pursued. That woman was a bad influence on his wife. He turned on his heel and headed for the card room.
The marchioness intercepted him. “Michael, I’ve been meaning to talk with you.”
Using his given name, displaying her bold Cleopatra smile and her nearly bare rounded breasts, she wrapped her arms in his and deftly maneuvered him into a semi-private alcove. She was known for her lack of propriety. Even though it didn’t surprise him, it did irritate him.
“Did Clarissa tell you about our afternoon?” she asked.
“As much as I yearned to hear of it, no.”
Michael grew suspicious of Anne’s behavior as she ran her ivory fan across his sleeve while peering up at him through her lashes. Foxley could play the fool, panting after his seductress of a wife. Michael was not interested.
Her gloved hand plucked at one of his buttons. “I wondered if you might be willing to meet me… Well, Randall and me some evening. I think the two of you have a lot in common.”
Her feline smile made him believe she’d eat him alive, given the chance.
“Oh, and what might that be?”
Michael had heard the woman was a voracious lover and it had taken a younger man like the marquess to catch and keep her. Looked as if she was ready to jump the fence. He squinted, peering at her while trying to discern her motives.
Her breasts were plumped from her tight corset. He couldn’t help but notice the nipple rouge peeping at him from her bodice. She looked and smelled of sex and his body reacted to the offering. He gritted his teeth. He was not fucking Anne VanLandingham, in spite of his body’s hurried response.
“I thought you might enjoy…” Her hand slipped lower and gripped his embarrassingly strong erection. “An evening with me and Randall. Mostly me,” she said, laughter in her voice.
He rolled his eyes. If he was interested in Anne, it wouldn’t be at the expense of his wife.
“Lady Foxley, as delightful as that sounds…” Michael thought about the rude words he’d rather have said—
I’d much rather fuck my sheep, than wonder what I might catch lying down with you
—instead he forced a smile. “I must pass on such an exquisite offer. Now if you’ll excuse me.” He pried her hand away. “If you’ll excuse me and my cock, I’ve better things to do with my time this evening.”
“Michael, if you’d rather have Randall, I’d be happy to watch him bugger you,” she whispered.
He bowed out of habit, not that the ill-mannered creature deserved respect, as she had, once again, shown her common roots. Gossip came and went regarding most people in town. With Anne VanLandingham, the constant whispered speculation was near legendary, especially amongst the men. One had to wonder what was actually true.
He’d speak with Clarissa at their first private moment about the company she kept. His wife’s reputation was above reproach. He’d not tolerate anyone besmirching her character.
Michael watched Anne trounce across the ballroom floor to retrieve her husband at the completion of the dance.
He clenched his teeth as Clarissa turned her gaze to him. Her smile dazzled. Everything about her drew him, except he could do nothing about it when,
with her
, his rod was as useless as an unstarched cravat.
Mesmerized, he stared as she crossed the room to him. Her warm gaze cut into his heart, reflecting his deceit and exposing the wicked desires that branded him a fool.
He pulled her into his arms. “You’re the most beautiful woman here.”
“You say that every night.”
“Every night it’s true.”
Michael danced with his wife, waltzing her across the floor underneath the thousand candles of Stella Emery’s seasonal crush. Lord Emery had taken to drinking a week ago in anticipation of both the inconvenience and the cost of the annual extravagance.
Clarissa clung to him, her silky green skirts wrapping around his legs as they turned, her lower body touching and teasing. He held back a curse.
Nothing.
He purposefully imagined waltzing her on to the stone balcony, backing her into a corner, lifting her skirts and tucking his prick inside her luscious, hot cunt.
He’d dreamt of her smoky brown eyes. Her lids were half-masted in satiation as she moaned in final release. Then her eyes would close, a soft smile on her lips and finally his name. “Michael, oh Michael.” He wanted it back.
He had no doubt that she was the most enchanting woman in the room. She pretended happiness, but he could tell she still carried the afternoon conversation in her head and in her heart.
She’d never understand.
Now that their sons were off to boarding school, he had her all to himself and he didn’t know what to do with her. She was still the fresh, vibrant socialite. Still desirable. Still all that he wanted.
Only his body no longer worked for her. It had happened overnight. One day he was the laughing, happy earl who enjoyed hunting and riding and fucking his wife several times a week.
Now?
Well, now he had a limp cock, thinning hair and such acute jealousy that he could barely stand to see his wife walk out their door without him. Ridiculous whores like Anne VanLandingham could rouse his prick with ease. Around Clarissa, he felt every inch the failure.
Just holding her in his arms was torture. It was as if he could feel her slipping away and he could do nothing about it. When he said he loved her, he meant every word.
Only words of love couldn’t satisfy a woman like Clarissa. She was the type of woman who needed actions to go along with those words. Daily he feared she would seek a lover because of his inadequacies. He didn’t blame her.
“Clarissa, perhaps you should reconsider your acquaintance with the marchioness. She married into the nobility while retaining all the crudity of her class.”
Clarissa laughed as Michael swept her into a turn. “Don’t judge so harshly. She’s a good friend. She’ll be a duchess someday.”
Michael considered another disparaging remark, but already he tread on unstable ground.
“Darling, it’s so warm in here. Why don’t we stroll in the garden?” she asked.
He turned, and in a few rotations, they came to a halt in front of the double doors leading to the balcony and the gardens below.
“It’s a lovely night,” she said.
“Indeed.” He entwined her delicate arm with his and placed his hand over hers, steering her down the crushed-stone pathway. Glass-encased candles lit the way into the darker reaches beyond.
“It’s a lovely ball, don’t you think?” she asked, tilting her face up to look at him.
“Yes.”
“Do you remember our first kiss? It was a garden much like this.”
“Yes. It was lovely.”
What an idiot.
Unable to converse with his own wife. As they moved into the darker recesses of the garden, they approached a covered gazebo. A gurgling foundation stood nearby. Clarissa’s mood seemed amenable to a kiss. He pulled her into his arms. She wrapped hers about his neck.
His lips touched hers, much like they had the first time. Clarissa met him eagerly, opening her mouth as he pushed his tongue inside. She stepped back without breaking the kiss, urging him into the gazebo.
Clarissa shoved him against the wall, her hands working at the fall of his trousers. Her mouth trailed kisses below his ear and down his neck, stopped only by his cravat.
“Clarissa, this isn’t a good idea.” He gripped her shoulders. She slid away, going down in front of him, her skirts billowing out around her. In an instant, cool night air caressed his exposed manhood.
He jerked, air rushing from his lungs. Her mouth covered his pliant prick. Her fingers toyed with his balls.
He gritted his teeth. “Clarissa!” He hadn’t let her get close enough to realize his problem. She wasn’t going to find out tonight.
Wet and hot, her mouth suckled him. And soft as he was, she had every inch of him nestled inside, her tongue sliding along the sensitive skin. Every nerve in his body screamed for satisfaction. Relief. Sweet release.
He slipped a finger inside her mouth, breaking the suction. “My God, Clarissa, anyone could come along.” He grabbed her upper arms and hoisted her up. He then bent to the task of straightening his trousers.
“I’m sorry. You’ve always enjoyed it before.” Her eyes filled with tears. She turned away without another word and hurried up the path.
“Clarissa,” he said, his words spilling softly into the night air.
He leaned against the wall, trying to catch his breath. Still nothing. His wife, on her knees in front of him, his cock in her mouth, and the betraying manhood hadn’t responded. “Shit.”
He palmed his cock through his trousers and rubbed a few times, considered masturbating right there in the dark, but then thought better of it. He’d take Clarissa home and then go to Madame DuPuis’ where he could relax and drink and at least recline while he climaxed. All the while thinking of Clarissa’s sweet mouth and tongue licking the cum from the end of his cock.
Chapter Two
Michael rushed up the stairs into the darkened bordello, anxious for relief. Madame DuPuis’ establishment was private and the girls were clean. Not only that, but she was particular about which gentlemen were allowed into her brothel. Certain men did have reputations that could be harmful to her girls. And he’d heard Madame DuPuis kept pristine records in black ledgers.
Not that he cared about the girls. They all looked the same to him and he had no plans to fuck one of them. He was getting very good at lying to himself, hiding the guilt by pretending he had yet to cross the line into adultery.
Alice DuPuis circulated in the garishly decorated lower floors where other men of his station sat with their purchased goods prior to retiring to the private chambers above.
“Dunnaway, I thought you weren’t coming back?” Alice had a big heart, a keen business intellect and an unerring accuracy in determining what a man wanted. Her question hinted of intimate knowledge. She’d known he would walk through the doors again. She’d had no doubt.
He smiled at her. “The best laid plans and all that.”
“The usual?” At his nod, she snapped her fingers and one of the girls moved quickly from the room.
Michael dropped payment into Alice’s open hand and followed her up the stairs, not that he couldn’t have found his own way. He’d been coming for six months, but he was no better.
And he thought he might even be worse.
Alice opened the door and waved her hand, inviting him in. She closed the door behind him and left him alone. He jerked at his cravat and then discarded his jacket before strolling to the cart of fine and varied alcoholic drinks the whorehouse so generously provided. He swallowed back two quick drams of Scottish whiskey to ease the guilt. Once he had his shirt off, he sank into the chair that faced the bed, setting aside a third drink. He yanked back the flaps of his trousers and pulled out his untrustworthy prick, already thickening in anticipation.
He didn’t have to wait long. The couple entered the room from another door and shed the robes they wore. They were both masked. He had no desire to know who these people were. They were just a means to a sexually satisfying end.
Worse than being here, he knew that soon he’d give in to the temptation at hand. His resolve weakened every time he walked through the door. He wanted to fuck. If he couldn’t do it with his wife, he knew he’d eventually do the deed with someone else.
For several long minutes, they cavorted and rolled on the bed, kissing mostly, paying him no attention whatsoever. He supposed that Madame DuPuis had clients who enjoyed being watched and she made money on that side of the transaction as well.
He stroked his cock slowly, anticipating the buildup toward release. He was in no hurry.
Dark hair spilled over the woman’s shoulders. He had no trouble imaging Clarissa.
The man tied the woman’s arms to the bedposts. He gave her no room for movement as her arms were spread wide. Her large breasts heaved as her chest moved up and down.