Grayson, is that you again?” A jovial voice interrupted Lord Grayson’s solitude on the veranda of Burberry Park, the home of the Duke of Wellington, in the Mayfair district of London.

Lord Grayson turned and greeted his old friend, Lord Caldwell. “Yes, I am afraid it is.” Grayson pulled a flask from his pocket, unscrewed the cap and took a hearty swig.

His companion did the same and the two men stood in the darkness collecting their thoughts and getting some fresh air, as they buoyed their spirits with the contents of their flasks.

“You seem to be taking this marriage thing quite seriously now that you have inherited your father's title, Grayson,” Lord Caldwell observed with a hint of a smirk.

“I am not opposed to having a wife. I have no particular need of a dowry or female companionship, but an heir, as you well know, is of utmost importance.”

“And a willing partner who does not object to the activities necessary to produce an heir would make things all that much better, would it not, my friend?” Lord Caldwell said with a chuckle. Grayson studied Caldwell. They had been companions at school and even in those often dour circumstances, Caldwell had always kept a cheerful countenance. Grayson may not have understood the jocularity then or now, and he had often wondered at what he considered an unrealistic point of view, but this evening Lord Grayson set all of that aside and was simply grateful for a bit of conversation with a man who was not intent on marrying him off to his sister or daughter.

“It is true,” Lord Grayson said. “And what of you, Caldwell? Have you had any luck here in the marriage market?”

“I find,” Lord Caldwell said, “that though all of the young ladies are accomplished and attractive and would be most suitable wives, there is something missing in each of them that does not quite suit me. I am not sure precisely what it is I am looking for, but it seems that each of these ladies is just a tad bit too independent for my liking. I suppose it is the modern way of things, but I cannot help but wish for a time when young ladies were a bit more shall we say…pliable and submissive?”

Lord Grayson had been ruminating upon the same question for several days now, though at this juncture his thoughts also included fond, and sometimes disturbing, memories of his brief conversation with Miss Heathrow at Talcott House. Though he had been charmed by the sweet young lady, he was not convinced, though his father had been, that a young lady could be made into a proper wife for an earl simply by means of education and training. There still remained in his mind the belief that certain characteristics were inborn and could not, regardless of good intentions and hard work, be imbued upon a person who was born to a lower rank.

Yet one question still troubled him. Why had he told Miss Heathrow his bride awaited him in London? In theory, the statement was truthful if he believed he would marry an as yet unknown young lady whom he expected to meet during his time in London. But, Grayson knew himself well enough to admit he was not a man who spoke in hyperbole. Had he lied to Miss Heathrow in order to protect his pride once he learned she was betrothed to another? If he believed she was inferior due to her lack of family or connections, why would he lower himself to deceit in order to save face in front of someone he was unlikely to ever encounter again?

Well, he told himself, since I have stated my bride awaits me in London, I ought to find her and thus eliminate my lie. And hopefully eradicate all thoughts of Miss Heathrow from his brain.

With renewed determination, he capped his flask and returned it to a pocket on the inside of his waistcoat. Out of habit, he reached for his watch, and again, cursed the fact that the watch had come up missing. It was his prized possession and he found it difficult to believe he had misplaced it. But he found it equally implausible that he had allowed someone to get close enough to lift it from his pocket, particularly since it was kept so close upon his person. Regardless, it was gone and there was no point in allowing himself too much pique over it at this time. As he had signed his name to the dance cards of a number of eligible young ladies, no doubt they, or their mothers, would make sure he kept apace of the evening’s activities.

“Shall we return to the festivities?” he said to his companion and the two men left the fresh air and clear evening sky to resume their social obligations.

Lord Grayson quickly found his next partner, an attractive young woman by the name of Lady Cordelia Granville. They were to dance a quadrille together and Grayson forced himself to believe he would enjoy it.

“It is a lovely evening for a dance, is it not, Lady Granville?” he asked.

“Oh, I suppose so,” she replied. “I do wish they would close the windows as there is a draft in here and I find all of that night air disturbing.”

“You don’t say?” Lord Grayson remarked, taking her gloved hand in his as they performed the steps of the dance. “You are not fond of evening air?”

“No, I admit I am not,” was all she said on the topic, though Grayson found it an odd sentiment. How could someone object to a cool, fresh breeze on a stuffy evening? Apparently Lady Granville could.

“Then you are a fan of getting air in the morning?”

“No, not particularly. A young woman ought not to spend too much time in the out of doors. The sun plays havoc with youthful skin, you know. I take great pride in the care of my complexion.” She thereupon described to him in minute detail the creams, lotions and ointments which were involved in her regimen.

Lord Grayson attempted to focus on his dance partner but his mind wandered to a vision of himself, a few years hence, seated across from Lady Cordelia at the breakfast table where nothing but silence—and stale air—filled the room. A brief shudder ran through him at the thought. Just as quickly, the image of the dour breakfast scene was replaced by one of Miss Heathrow laughing and playing with her friends in the warm afternoon, carefree and joyful.

“When was the last time you ran?” The question escaped his lips before he even knew he had formed it and based on the shocked expression on Lady Cordelia’s face, it would have been preferred if he had kept it to himself.

“I beg your pardon,” she said. “Are you asking me when I last ran?” She paused and shook her head as if in disbelief at the question. “I have not done such an unladylike activity since I stopped wearing my hair in ribbons. At least eight years, if not longer. Why would you ask such a thing?”

“I am simply curious,” he replied. “I recently observed a group of young ladies playing together, running and laughing, and it appeared to be great fun. I wondered if you had indulged in such an activity of late.”

Lady Cordelia sniffed. “I am sure the people you observed might have been young and female, but what you describe is not the behavior of a lady. A lady is always composed and would never show such a lack of restraint.”

Mercifully, the dance came to an end and Grayson returned Lady Cordelia to her mother, who proceeded to fawn over him in a most intrusive and unappealing manner. “Lord Grayson, you do our family great honor to show such favor for my daughter.”

Lord Grayson found himself staring into the expectant gaze of Lady Granville, the mother of Lady Cordelia. He had shown her daughter no more favor than he had any of the other young ladies with whom he had danced this evening, or any of the preceding seven, for that matter. He had no desire to give the impression of favoritism to any young lady, and most particularly not the stale air loving, Lady Cordelia. Not wishing to be overtly rude to Lady Granville, though he believed her presumptuousness warranted it, he simply bowed to the two ladies, bid them good evening and went in search of his next dance partner.

The participants in the next dance were taking their places as Lord Grayson made his way across the ballroom to his next partner, Miss Adaline Venture. In truth, he had been looking forward to partnering with her all night. Though not the daughter of a lord, Miss Venture still came from a family of distinction and had the added benefit of uncommon beauty. Golden curls surrounded her face, having escaped from the elaborate style into which her tresses had been forced. Her eyes, a lovely shade of blue, met his as he approached and a shy smile touched her lips. Whatever lingering thoughts of Lady Cordelia, if indeed there were any at all, disappeared as he took the hand of Miss Adaline.

Several people turned to gaze upon them as they moved together and Grayson overheard a whispered, “What a handsome couple they make.”

Perhaps his search was finally over. Her fingers felt warm in his, even through the gloves they both wore. A pink flush moved up her cheeks when he smiled at her. The dance began and his hopes soared with the notes of the music.

They did not speak for the first few moments of the dance. No doubt she waited for Grayson to begin the conversation and he searched his mind for just the right conversational gambit to woo the lovely Miss Adaline.

“Have you ever heard of a street gang called The Weasels?” he asked.

Miss Adaline gasped and withdrew her hand from his. He gaped at her, shocked by his own words. Had he lost his mind? What had ever provoked him to say such a thing? Not to mention his firm belief that Miss Heathrow had fabricated the entire tale of her life as a member of a street gang.

“My lord,” Miss Adaline said when she managed to gather her wits about her, “I am sure I have never heard such a shocking and offensive question in my entire life. A street gang? What reason would you have to believe I am aware of criminal activities?”

With each word her voice rose higher and the pitch of it became more shrill. She stopped dancing and another couple nearly collided with them. Her face flushed crimson and she bolted from the dance floor, causing no small amount of unwanted attention to be directed at them as he followed her.

Her mother—was there any young lady in attendance without a mother hovering nearby— stepped forward to meet her as Miss Adaline and Grayson approached. “Mama,” Miss Adaline said, “he asked me the most inappropriate question.”

Thereupon Mrs. Venture was joined by Mr. Venture, a formidable man who no doubt took a protective interest in his daughter’s welfare. “What is the meaning of this, Grayson? What have you done to upset my daughter?”

Although the people standing near were too well-behaved to stare, Grayson was certain that if they could have swiveled their ears upon their heads in order to pick up more of the conversation, they surely would have.

“Please, allow me to explain,” Grayson said, his mind reeling from his own foolishness.

“Be quick about it.” Mr. Venture, though not a young man, had the posture of one who would not hesitate to use his fists to defend his daughter’s honor. “Just because you were born with a title and my Adaline was not does not mean you may speak to her in an offensive manner.”

“No sir, absolutely not.” Grayson’s throat had gone dry and when he opened his mouth to explain himself his mind went blank, except for the sweet smile and laughter of Miss Heathrow of Talcott House.

“I-I have no excuse for what I did and I offer my sincerest apologies to you and your wife and daughter,” Lord Grayson finally managed to say.

Not waiting for a reply, he exited the building as quickly as possible. He had commitments to at least three more dance partners, but he simply could not stomach it, though the social slight was nearly inexcusable for a gentleman. Waving to his coachman, his conveyance was brought to the front of the building and Lord Grayson escaped into the night.

Once inside the carriage, he retrieved his flask and downed the remainder of its contents.

* * *

Cynny clutched the newly arrived letter from Cammie and gasped at its provocative contents, then covered her mouth and peered down in disbelief at her friend’s familiar handwriting.

Surely Cammie must be playing a trick on her.

The description provided by her best friend that told of what happened between married people sounded too fantastical to believe. Even worse, Cynny didn’t understand much of it. What in the world was a cock, also, according to her dear friend, known as a penis?

And her kitty…it was also called a cunny or a quim? Honestly, Cynny was shocked to her very core. She thought about her time on the streets and wondered if Mary hadn’t shielded her from the crudeness of some of the gang members, would she know more about what happened between husbands and wives?

In the outbuilding behind the tavern, Mary and Cynny had been lucky enough to have their own little room in a corner. Most of the gang members were children, and the few older members would often spend time in the tavern or gallivanting about town during the nighttime hours, not returning to their beds until they were so inebriated they could hardly walk.

She recalled overhearing some of the young men, in their drunken states, brag about kissing a certain woman and then taking a turn in bushy park, whatever that meant, but as soon as such conversation began, Mary would cover Cynny’s ears. Though she could never quite confirm it, she had suspected the young men were speaking of something similar to what happened between husbands and wives, but it had always confused her. Whenever she’d asked Mary to explain, the older girl had shushed her.

She tucked Cammie’s letter into her pocket, next to the gold watch, and sank down on her bed. Miss Wickersham had confirmed that Lord Kensington was still coming to marry her. Her heart pounded. The wedding was imminent—tomorrow morning, in fact—and she still didn’t understand what happened between husbands and wives. To think that husbands had something big between their legs called a cock that got hard when they took their wives to bed…well, it simply sounded ridiculous. Especially the part about the hard cock going inside the wife’s kitty. Or cunny.

Oh dear. Perhaps Cynny should have been patient and waited for Lord Kensington to teach her all she needed to know. He would be her papa soon, after all, and it was a papa’s job to care for and guide his little girl in all things.

Another thought struck her. What if Cammie’s new papa, Lord Cavendish, was some sort of scoundrel and was subjecting her to serious improprieties that weren’t the norm in polite society? Cynny sighed and put her face in her hands, trying to decide what she should do. She’d already asked Daisy and Rosie if they had any idea what happened between married people, and both of them had pleaded innocence.

Cynny swallowed hard and looked over at her finished wedding gown spread out on a large trunk at the foot of her bed. It was a beautiful cream colored dress trimmed with lace, a bit girlish in style but still quite lovely. Her heart commenced pounding and the strange pulsing she’d been experiencing more and more lately between her thighs started up again. She pressed her legs together, reveling in the slight relief this gave her, and began squirming on the bed.

Mm. This feels nice.

For a reason she couldn’t fathom, Lord Grayson’s face suddenly flashed in her mind, but she didn’t cease her gyrating motion upon the mattress. In fact, she moved faster and faster, as the delicious throbbing in her privates deepened.

She flushed and stared at the closed door, fearing someone—particularly Miss Wickersham—would walk in on her at any moment. She wanted to lift up her skirts and touch her kitty, but she hesitated.

No. Be a good girl. Be a good girl so you can still marry Lord Kensington.

She took a deep breath and pulled out Cammie’s letter again. Perhaps if she read it over and over, it might start to make more sense. But no matter how many times she reread the missive, she didn’t quite understand. Nor did she understand the dampness that was now rubbing between her thighs as she resumed squirming around on the bed, pressing her thighs together even tighter. She also didn’t comprehend why the aching increased whenever she thought of the handsome yet frustrating Lord Grayson. She folded the confusing letter up again and returned it to her pocket, but didn’t cease her unladylike movements upon the bed.

The mattress gave a loud squeak, and it was at that moment the door was flung open.

Cynny froze. Miss Wickersham stood in the doorway, eyeing her with suspicion.

“What are you doing in here all by yourself? You are supposed to be helping Cook.”

“I finished helping Cook early,” she said, trying her best to look innocent, as if she hadn’t just been wiggling around on her mattress in an effort to make her kitty feel oh so good.

“I heard noises. You weren’t jumping on your bed, were you?” Miss Wickersham crossed her arms, appearing quite stern.

Cynny’s tummy clenched, along with her bottom cheeks. Her last punishment at the headmistress’s hands remained fresh in her mind. “I just sat down very quickly and the mattress gave a squeak. I swear I wasn’t jumping.” She folded her hands in her lap, attempting to look prim and proper, ever aware that the stolen watch was in the pocket of her dress, along with Cammie’s odd letter. Talk about contraband. If Miss Wickersham decided to question her longer, or search her—which happened occasionally when things went missing around Talcott House—Cynny was doomed beyond all measure.

“Miss Wickersham! Miss Wickersham!” Garland rushed up to the headmistress. “You must come quick! Daisy said a naughty word, and when I tried to escort her to your study, she ran off into the gardens and now I can’t find her.”

“What word did she say?”

Garland whispered something in Miss Wickersham’s ear that had the older woman’s eyes bugging out of her head. Cynny wasn’t surprised, as the few naughty words she knew, she had learned from Daisy. But she was smart enough not to repeat them in the presence of Garland or any of the other caretakers in Talcott House.

Both women rushed off, leaving Cynny alone.

Poor Daisy. Cynny hoped Miss Wickersham wasn’t too strict with her, though she supposed hiding from a caretaker in the gardens was a bit more mischievous than simply uttering a naughty word. A sympathetic quiver raced across Cynny’s bottom as she imagined the kind of trouble her friend had landed herself in, but she couldn’t help but feel a bit smug that she wasn’t the one headed to Miss Wickersham’s study for a change. She also felt grateful to her friend for unknowingly saving her from further questioning by Miss Wickersham.

Cynny stuck her hand in her pocket, caressing the letter and the pocket watch.

No more squirming and no more thinking about touching her kitty, she resolved. She would endeavor to be pure in thought and deed until her wedding tomorrow. And then she would finally have a papa and she would henceforth be known as Lady Kensington.

It seemed almost too good to be true.