Surrey, England, September 1814

“Maddy, you are gazing at that dildo display with far too much covetousness. Must we frisk your reticule on the way out of the parlor?”

Madeline, the widowed Lady Upcott, rolled her eyes at her friend and fellow member of the Surrey Sexual Freedom Society, Mr. Clayton Irving. “Of course I am coveting them, Clay. Look at the size and the luster of the Florentine leather. I must say, the Italians know what’s what when it comes to quality and creativity.”

“True. Michelangelo, da Vinci, both beyond compare. While I am happy for the sake of the world that they bestowed their gift of artistry on us all, I do wish they’d spent at least a few days turning their genius minds to pleasure toys. Imagine what we might have had.”

“I know,” she replied with a sigh, taking another sip of their hostess and Society chairwoman Lady Portia Butler’s excellent wine.

Clay frowned, but not even that could mar his golden good looks. “What on earth is wrong? That was the sound of an unhappy lady, and I don’t think it is entirely related to the swarm of obnoxious relatives descending on you tomorrow.”

Madeline sighed again and glanced over at tall, dark-haired Beatrice Irving, Clay’s second cousin, who was deep in conversation with her blonde and voluptuous lover, Amelia Tilton. The two Society members were so sweet and warm-hearted, one couldn’t help but adore that a lady’s maid-companion and her former countess had found true love together. Yet, on the other hand…it was difficult. Very, very difficult, seeing other people’s joy when her own life felt increasingly empty.

As soon as her official year of mourning had ended, she had reveled in a widow’s freedoms and indulged in delightful sexual romps with several handsome bachelors. But now she was eight and twenty and found herself wanting so much more. The hot, wild fucking and the sweet tenderness. A man of the right age who would enjoy her mind as much as her body. To have a few children, not for the cold duty of heir requirements, but because they simply wanted to. These ungovernable cravings were gaining strength by the day. And knowing her wretched family—and her ghastly late husband’s for that matter—were arriving tomorrow to try and coerce her into a second loveless, passionless marriage to some cretin with more wealth and a loftier title, only increased her misery. Especially because the money and title weren’t for her benefit. No, it had been decided years ago by her family, the Smyths, that gainful employment was for fools who didn’t have a daughter to sell to the highest bidder, and then wheedle funds from each quarter.

Madeline shot Clayton a rueful smile. “I’m envious of what Bea and Amelia have. Terrible, I know. But I want love and lust this time, not another empty marriage with a rancid old goat who believes I must endure because that is the way of the world.”

He snorted. “You aren’t terrible, unlike your leech relatives—”

“Don’t say that,” she protested halfheartedly, although these days the objection was definitely habit rather than genuine sentiment.

“I’ll stop when you cease to carry their weight on your shoulders. But in regards to finding true love, at least your quest is only to find a perfect man. Try searching for a perfect man and a perfect woman. One or the other, perhaps. But both? Who want to live in sin as a trio where I am in charge? Impossible.”

Wincing, she reached out and squeezed his hand. “I don’t know what to say other than it will be truly wonderful when you do find them.”

“I know, I know…oh, look. Afternoon tea! I swear I don’t need to eat for days after our meetings. Rather splendid when I want to immerse myself in oils and canvas. Or ignore messengers from my damned fool father imploring me to return to my divinity studies at Cambridge. He refuses to comprehend I am a third son who will never be a clergyman. If it weren’t for Lady Portia…”

“I know. She’s been a blessing for us all.”

They gazed with great affection at the elegant older woman. She was directing servants, and her chief bodyguard Captain Randall Denham, in laying out platters of sweets, sliced fruit, pastries, freshly baked bread, ham and rare beef, alongside the brandy, wine, and lemonade. Lady Portia was the spinster sister of a marquess, petite and slender with dark brown hair always worn in a severe chignon, but had such spirit and backbone she always seemed seven feet tall. It was fortunate nothing fazed the raven-haired, broad-shouldered Captain Denham. Well, nothing except discussions about sexual accessories, or anything related to his private life. Apparently, the retired soldier had fallen head over feet for some unknown woman but refused to talk about her.

“Have you ever wondered,” Madeline whispered hesitantly, “whether Denham’s affection settled closer to home than anyone imagined?”

Clayton laughed. “Darling, you’re addled from hunger. The only couple in the room is Bea and Amelia. Come and fortify yourself with wine and food, then we can interrogate Amelia further. I wager we might get in at least a few outrageously brazen questions to our newest member before Bea slaps us both and we are shooed from Lady Portia’s home.”

“Lead on, then,” Madeline replied with forced cheer, repressing a shudder at the thought of being banished from this sanctuary of acceptance and free thought.

The longer she could stay in the beautiful gold parlor, the better. Returning to her home, knowing that it would soon be overrun by a passel of loathsome people who would attempt to guilt, shame, trick, browbeat, and manipulate her until she married a man they deemed appropriate, quite turned her stomach. It might be for different reasons—the Smyths for money, the Upcotts to preserve their hallowed name—but they all feverishly wanted the same result.

The only unknown was the new head of her late husband Sir Josiah’s family, Viscount Dare. His lordship’s note had claimed a simple desire to discuss matters regarding her jointure property, but she highly doubted it. Sir Josiah had been a sour-breathed, lecture-loving skunk. She could only imagine how much worse this Lord Dare would be, all wizened and beady-eyed, spitting bile and possessing a cock the size of a thimble. Well. He could glare and posture alongside the others all he wanted, but she would remarry when she found the right man.

This time would be for love, or not at all.