“But how does one conduct such a liaison without starting talk?” Grey asked. “My last venture into an intimate arrangement had unintended consequences, not the least of which was years of gossip.”

Tresham was trying to teach a very large dog to roll over. The beast—Comus by name—was trying to teach Tresham to surrender bits of cheese for no more effort than a raised paw or thump of the tail.

Grey’s money—if he’d had any to spare—would have been on the dog.

“What sort of consequences?” Tresham asked, making a gesture with his hand. “Sit, Comus.”

Comus woofed encouragingly.

“The sort of consequences that go off to finishing school and then make a quiet come out without being presented at court.”

Tabitha was approaching adulthood at the speed of a galloping horse, or Grey might never have gone fortune hunting. One of his sisters, Jacaranda, had married well enough to assist with Tabitha’s introduction to Society, but Jacaranda had her hands full with her own family.

More to the point, she hadn’t offered to help and she bided in London less and less.

“You have a by-blow?” Tresham asked. “Sit, Comus.”

“I have a daughter born outside of wedlock. The term by-blow sits ill with me. At the time, I intended to marry her mother and live happily ever after.” The words of a naïve and randy youth.

“What did her mother intend?”

“To live happily on a lifetime of lordly largesse, kicking her heels with whichever local lads caught her fancy, apparently. She ran off with a tinker before Tabitha could walk. I’ve been sending her parents a quarterly sum to compensate them for the loss of their daughter’s labor at the posting inn, but that’s hardly restitution for the mischief I caused.”

Comus was enjoying himself thoroughly, from all appearances, swishing a plumy tail and propping on his back legs.

“Casriel, do you honestly think a tavern wench several years your senior took you for her first lover?”

Grey moved a small porcelain figure taken from Botticelli’s Venus Anadyomene, complete with clamshell. He set her on the mantel out of tail-swishing range, and though she was pretty enough, Lady Canmore had more generous breasts, sturdier shoulders, and altogether lovelier eyes.

Her ladyship also had a fine sense of the absurd and wasn’t shy about letting a man know he was desired.

“Whether Tabitha’s mother chose me as her first or her fortieth is hardly a relevant or gentlemanly inquiry. I chose her, and my choice had consequences.”

“A liaison could have consequences. This is the most dunderheaded canine ever to chase a rabbit.”

The notion of a child with Lady Canmore troubled Grey, not because more progeny would be inconvenient and expensive—all family was inconvenient and expensive, also dear—but because Beatitude would be a wonderful mother. He would never try to entrap her into marriage, nonetheless…

A man could still dream, apparently, all practicalities to the contrary. “If you have no useful advice to impart, I’ll be on my way. Please don’t forget to give Mrs. Tresham her parasol.”

“I have advice,” Tresham said. “Don’t marry for money, or not only for money. Marry for friendship, attraction, and joy.”

“None of which will rebuild my dower house, pay for my daughter’s come out, or put new roofs on my tenant cottages, all of which are pressing. How is Sycamore managing at The Coventry Club?”

Tresham shoved the dog’s hindquarters to the carpet. “Sit, damn you.”

“Woof.” Pant-pant-pant, while the dog resumed capering about.

“Why don’t you ask your baby brother, if you’re curious about his fledgling efforts to manage a club?”

“A gaming hell, you mean. I don’t ask because Sycamore’s pride is delicate, and one doesn’t want to pry.” One feared to pry, because Sycamore might view a casual question as an opening to ask for a “small loan.” When made to Cam, those loans never, ever seemed to be repaid.

And yet, Grey recalled too well the years of being a young fellow without means, one who was expected to comport himself about Town as a well-dressed, sociable sprig.

“I don’t pry either,” Tresham said, waving a piece of cheese before the dog’s nose. “Sycamore must run the club as he sees fit, without unsolicited meddling from me.”

The dog’s great head wagged back and forth, attention fixed on the cheese like Sycamore fixed on a pretty woman.

“So you have no idea how he’s doing? You still own The Coventry, don’t you?”

“I own the property and fixtures, but my posture is that of landlord. I’ve asked the staff not to involve me beyond that role, and they have respected my wishes. Theodosia has set notions about gambling establishments, and I have set notions about keeping my wife happy.”

“I wish you better success with that endeavor than you’re having as a trainer of dogs.”

Grey’s brother Willow was a trainer of dogs, and a damned good one. Will had imparted enough knowledge that Grey had to take pity on the poor dog, who was being patient beyond anything Tresham deserved.

Grey plucked the cheese from Tresham’s grasp. “Comus, sit.”

Comus cocked his head, then sat.

“Good boy,” Grey said, hunkering to put the cheese at carpet level. “Down, Comus.”

Comus went down on all fours. Now came the delicate part. Grey moved his hand as if about to rub the beast’s belly, and Comus obligingly rolled to his back. A slight temptation with the cheese and the roll continued to complete a side-to-side half circle of very large dog.

“You rolled over.” He gave the dog the cheese and a pat on the head. “Excellent work, Comus. Good boy for rolling over.”

Tresham scowled thunderously, while Comus adopted the hopeful look of patient dogs the world over.

“If you conduct a liaison,” Tresham said, “with as much confidence and dispatch you show when handling that mastiff, the object of your affections is a very lucky woman indeed.”

“I’m rather hoping she will go about the business with confidence and dispatch, while I do the tail wagging and panting. I’ll see myself out.”

Tresham resumed being trained by the dog, while Grey counted the visit a general waste of time. He’d returned Mrs. Tresham’s parasol, learned nothing of Sycamore’s financial situation, and gleaned even less about—

He stopped on the landing of Tresham’s stairs, for a lady had come to call and was removing her bonnet.

“Lady Canmore, good day.”

She beamed at him, and his heart sped up. Stupid, stupid, stupid, but there it was. If he’d had a tail, it would have been wagging hard enough to topple furniture.

“My lord, this is a pleasure. I had intended to call upon Mrs. Tresham.”

He descended step by step when he wanted to leap the distance or slide down the bannister. “I believe Mrs. Tresham is from home. Might I escort you to your next destination?”

The butler remained discreetly silent, holding her ladyship’s bonnet. Perhaps Mrs. Tresham was out. More likely, a ducal butler had more sense than Grey’s servants.

Which was a problem when a discreet liaison sat at the top of a man’s list of immediate priorities.

Her ladyship took the bonnet back from the butler. “Thank you, my lord. Today is half day for my servants, and I’m sure my footman would rather while away the afternoon with a pint at the pub than indulge my social schedule.”

That was for the benefit of the butler, surely. Grey accepted his hat and cane, escorted Lady Canmore to the walkway, and waited while she dismissed a sizable fellow in livery. The footman gave Grey a dubious look, bowed, and marched off as ordered.

“Is it half day at your abode?” Grey asked, when he should have been inquiring about the lady’s health or the weather or some damned pleasantry.

God, she smelled lovely. All flowery and wonderful, like Papa’s scent garden on a still summer day.

“Today is half day for all but one kitchen maid, my lord, and she does not move about above stairs unless specifically summoned.”

Grey offered his arm. “Beatitude?”

She sauntered along, her arm entwined with his. “Perhaps you’d like to come in for a cup of tea, or share a plate of sandwiches?”

“Most kind of you. As it happens, my schedule allows me that pleasure.”

She slanted a glance at him under the brim of her bonnet, and Grey sent up a prayer that he could escort her to her doorstep without breaking into a dead run.

“We should tell Grey.” Ash Dorning tossed a pencil onto the blotter and stared at the stack of calculations before him. Neither he, Oak, Valerian, or Hawthorne had taken the seat behind the desk. At Dorning Hall, they gathered in the earl’s study out of habit. They yielded Papa’s chair to Grey out of an instinct for self-preservation.

He who occupied the earl’s chair carried many burdens.

“Maybe Sycamore will have the needed funds,” Oak ventured. “He’s good with figures and works his skinny arse off when he’s motivated.” Oak was the natural administrator of the group, able to see how a project ought to go, step by step. He didn’t begin an endeavor until that path was clear before him. He painted in the same fashion, staring into space for hours or days before embarking on the simplest landscape, which invariably turned out to have details and subtleties that revealed themselves only upon careful study.

“Sycamore larks the day and night away when he’s not motivated,” Valerian replied from a worn chair before the desk. “He was last motivated months ago, when the issue was leaving university for the blandishments of Town.”

“Cam is new to managing The Coventry,” Ash said. “He won’t have the sum needed.”

“That leaves us.” Hawthorne was the only one of them taller than Grey and more muscular. He was their plowman, the voice of truth amid a lot of banter and horseplay. Thorne had always been a bit apart, just as Sycamore was always in the thick of things.

“How bad is it?” Oak asked.

“Merely terrible,” Ash replied. “I had hoped we could rebuild on the remaining foundation for the southern wing. The engineer’s report says that wing experienced the worst subsidence of the whole lot. If we rebuild the dower house anywhere, it shouldn’t be on the existing foundation, and that means more expense.”

Dorset was wonderful sheep country, but in places it was also riddled with caves, bogs, and other features that made building large edifices merry hell when those edifices were expected to stand for centuries.

“Doesn’t seem fair,” Valerian remarked, propping his boots on a corner of the desk. Valerian always had the newest boots, though even his were showing a want of polish today. “We have a bloody big pile of bricks, stones, and even timbers, and no place to put up a proper dower house. I had plans for that dower house.”

They were all eager to leave Dorning Hall, all hopeful that soon they’d be able to make their own way in the world rather than linger here. The polite fiction was that they assisted with running the estate. The truth was Grey had scrimped and saved to give his brothers a gentleman’s education, and the lot of them—save Will and now Sycamore—were little more than poor relations making work for the maids.

“We should write to Will,” Oak said, not for the first time. “Will’s sensible, and he’s earning some blunt with his dogs.”

Will had married an earl’s daughter, and her settlements were likely all that stood between him and poverty. Raising and training working dogs, training aristocrats in the management of their kennels, and otherwise working from dawn to midnight was in Will’s nature, provided the work involved canines.

“Will must contemplate supporting a family,” Ash said, taking another turn pacing a hole in the already threadbare carpet. “We can’t expect him to keep doing our thinking for us.”

“We have the cottage,” Thorne pointed out. “Complaisance Cottage has a spectacular view of the valley and the sea, and the roof is mostly sound.”

Ash was learning to hate roofs, foundations, bearing walls, and pipes. He truly hated pipes. “I refuse to pester Grey with all of this when he’s supposed to be courting a bride.”

“Grey won’t thank us for hiding bad news,” Valerian said. “He’s the earl. Is he supposed to bring his bride home to a smoldering ruin for a dower house, leaking cottages, and tenants in revolt?”

“The rain put out the last of the fire.” The rain had also necessitated putting off the haymaking, which meant the crop would not be as nutritious when made.

At least they’d have a crop. Some years…

“How does he do it?” Oak muttered, going to the window. “How does Casriel persist in the face of unending setbacks?”

“Setbacks must become normal after a time,” Valerian said, tipping his chair onto two legs. “I hope Casriel’s having better luck with his courting.”

Thorne shoved away from the bookshelf where he’d been leaning. “We are not dashing off to London to meddle in his courting. Any proper lady will take one look at us and marry the nearest cit rather than give Casriel a chance to pay his addresses.”

“We’re not that bad,” Oak said. “I could take up work as a drawing master. I’ve been meaning to send out inquiries.”

He’d been meaning to send out inquiries for years. Oak was shy, and drawing masters were supposed to be charming rather than talented.

Valerian could have been a tutor, not that he was particularly academic, but after Grey, Valerian was the closest they had to a well-bred gentleman. He had charm, small talk, subtle graces on the dance floor, excellent command of foreign languages, and all manner of talents a young man going up to university needed to know.

Valerian could spot a card cheat, knew the Code Duello by heart, and sensed how to diffuse awkward moments so that a pair of loaded Mantons were never needed. He was a dead shot, an excellent horseman, and knowledgeable about men’s and ladies’ fashions.

Dorset society had no need for a male finishing governess, though, or even a female one.

Thorne was slipping into the role of over-steward, supervising the house and land stewards, which had been mostly Will’s responsibility.

While Ash’s job—keeping Sycamore alive and out of jail—had become less pressing now that Sycamore was playing at managing a gaming hell.

“We might have to visit London,” Ash said. “Only Grey can make some of these decisions. The land and fixtures are his, and he’ll be the one left to clean up the messes we make.”

As usual. The words remained unspoken, even by Thorne.

“We should write to Will and let him know what we’re up against,” Oak said. “Not to beg money from him, but to ask for suggestions. He knows all the tenancies, knows every field and fen we own, every brindle cow and one-eyed cat. He might have some ideas.”

“Then we write to Sycamore as well,” Thorne said. “At the club, not at the town house where Grey will see the letter and possibly open it. We write to keep him informed, not to beg money. Sycamore is a wily devil, and he listens at the damnedest keyholes.”

Because we taught him that. “I’ll go over the figures again,” Ash said. “But the rain is not only reducing the quality of our hay, it’s affecting the corn crops. We’re not looking at a failed harvest, but we’re not looking at bumper crops either.”

“The growing season is still early,” Thorne said, heading for the door. “Write to Will and Cam, tell Grey all is proceeding as usual here and best of luck with his courting.”

Oak shuffled out after Thorne, leaving Valerian scowling at the empty hearth and Ash scowling at his calculations. All that brick, all that timber and rubble, and nowhere stable to rebuild the dower house? Perhaps that was for the best when there was no money to pay an architect, much less a builder.

“How is the book coming?” Ash asked, because that’s what one asked Valerian. He was compiling an etiquette manual for young gentlemen, which was ironic. Of all the Dorning brothers, Grey alone was fit to write such a volume. Valerian had the manners, turn of phrase, and fashion sense. Grey had the soul of a gentleman.

“The manuscript is coming along nicely.” Valerian’s standard answer.

“I pray to God that Grey’s courting is coming along better than nicely,” Ash said. “I pray he’s sitting at this very minute with a tea cup balanced on his lordly knee, a wealthy heiress simpering at him from every compass point.”

“And their doting mamas beaming at him from across the room. We live in hope.”

They lived in fear. What if Grey could not marry well? What if lightning struck Dorning Hall itself? What if the rain resumed?

“I know something I did not know before,” Ash said.

Valerian peered at him. “Never say you’re considering holy orders. Matters aren’t that dire, are they?”

They hadn’t been before the fire, before the rain, before the subsiding foundation, before leaking roofs…

“I could never, ever be the earl,” Ash said. “I used to wonder… I’m in line behind Will and Grey, but under no circumstances ever, at all, to any degree, do I want the title. I’d go barking mad in a week.”

“Three days,” Valerian said, rising. “If I’d last even that long. Thorne could endure possibly a fortnight. Oak wouldn’t manage a day.”

“We need Grey to find that heiress, the sooner the better. I don’t care if she’s a harpy with horns and a tail, if her money can spare Grey this lot of tribulation, I will be her most devoted servant and say nice things about her too.”

“I’ll dedicate my book to her in a sonnet worthy of the Bard. Is there any brandy left?”

A fine suggestion. “Sycamore’s not here to steal it all. Pour me a tot as well, and we’ll drink to our next countess.”

Now that the moment to embark on the intimate part of this liaison was upon Addy, she was torn between eagerness and something else.

Not caution. As a young bride, she’d benefited from Roger’s experience and learned that lovemaking was supposed to be pleasurable. For a time, it had been. Then Roger had become preoccupied with siring an heir, and Addy had frequently found herself against a wall, sprawled on a desk, or hauled into the servants’ stair. For a time, that too had at least been novel.

“I am telling you the plain truth,” Casriel replied, “when I say that a cup of tea or a plate of sandwiches would be enjoyable.” His lordship was apparently content to stroll along, a gentleman matching his steps to a lady’s stride.

“You are hungry? I can see you fed.”

“My appetite is for your company, my lady. We need not begin our time together in the bedroom.”

At first, Addy thought he meant they should climb to the hayloft in the stables, or avail themselves of the settee in the library, but Casriel wasn’t being sly or naughty.

He was being considerate.

“Is there a discussion that comes before the bedroom part?” she asked. “Something about rules, duration, days of the week?” Something tawdry but practical, perhaps?

“I am unaware of any such requirement, though I am honestly happy to discuss any topic you wish. I also contemplate—with utmost joy—shedding every article of clothing from my person and divesting you of your own habillement. From there… I thought we did rather well with the kissing part. Perhaps you have some ideas for what comes next?”

Addy’s belly did a little somersault that landed in an ache. “You would like to kiss me when I’m unclothed?”

“When we are unclothed. If modesty on your part renders that prospect uncomfortable, then I’d like to kiss you when you’re wearing nothing but your shift, so only a thin layer of cotton comes between my touch and your tender flesh. I want to learn your curves and contours with my eyes closed, and I want your hands on me everywhere.”

Addy tried for several steadying breaths. A pair of dowagers toddled past, and Casriel politely touched his hat to them.

“Everywhere, my lord?”

He waited with her at a street corner while a hackney rattled by. “Everywhere. I particularly enjoy how you pull my hair and clutch my bum. A man appreciates a good, ferocious bum-clutching, under the right circumstances—in case you were wondering.”

Addy was wondering how she’d last the next two streets to her own door. “And how does a man feel about having a lady’s mouth on various parts of his person?”

Casriel patted her fingers where they were curled about his arm, a friendly gesture to any passersby.

“When considering such a pleasure, this man is tempted to hoist the lady over his shoulder and sprint for the nearest bed. That option being unavailable, I can assure you that such a notion will render him speechless with delight.”

“Not appalled?” She’d been married for six months before Roger’s coaxing and teasing had finally overcome her reluctance regarding this intimacy.

“Would you be appalled to know that I long to pleasure you in a similar fashion? I want your thighs over my shoulders. I want the taste and scent of you filling my being while my cock fills your sex. I want you, Beatitude. All of you. Body, mind, fears, and frolics. This is to be an intimate liaison, is it not?”

That blunt speech rendered in such cultured, conversational tones had an impact that similar words whispered behind a locked door would lack.

Then there was Casriel’s question about intimacy. His inquiry pointed to a shortcoming in Addy’s marriage that she hadn’t found words for. Roger had been forever strutting around without his clothes. He’d been an enthusiastic and inventive lover. He’d shown Addy a side of life few proper ladies, and very few vicar’s daughters, ever saw, all without jeopardizing her social standing.

But at some point, the erotic joinings had stopped being intimate. The whole marriage had stopped being intimate, if it ever had been.

Intimacy—the intimacy Casriel described—took courage, and in some regard, Roger had been a coward. That insight nearly had Addy stopping in the middle of the street.

“My lady? Have I offended?”

“You have inspired. If this is your version of conversation with a lover in broad daylight, I eagerly anticipate further discourse with you in private.”

His marvelous gentian eyes danced, though his pace remained decorous. “Eagerness must be in the air today, for I am similarly afflicted.”

Addy was ready to toss him over her shoulder, or simply start the clutching and kissing on the walkway, but oh, the glee, the sheer, adult delight of knowing that anticipation was a mutual torment. Roger had been the type to look up from his noon meal, send the footman at the sideboard a dismissing glance, and then lock the door before Addy had taken the first bite of her raspberry fool.

That Casriel would use the length of four streets to tease and flirt was a degree of loverly expertise Addy had yet to encounter. She’d probably never find its like again, and that thought—a little sad, a lot honest—helped her identify the feeling that walked arm in arm with her eagerness.

She was determined—that was the word, determined—to indulge in this affair to the fullest. Casriel had turned her head, which was bad, because he wasn’t meant for her. But nobody else had gained her notice to the extent he had, and Addy would sample his charms thoroughly before commending him to the company of his heiress.

For once, she would think of herself, and to blazes with everything else.

Her house came into view, and it was her house, not a dower property. Roger had done that much for her, or one of his late aunts had.

“If you were in earnest about the tea and sandwiches,” Addy said, “now is your last chance to make that clear. Once I get you behind my door, you will be clutched within an inch of your lordly life.”

He tipped his hat to an elderly couple doddering along.

“I live in hope, and I am desperately earnest, my lady—not about the sandwiches.”

Grey was about to make love with a woman not his wife for the first time in… He could not make his mind function. His last tryst—a tipsy mutual groping at some house party—had been an appalling several years ago. Before foot rot had followed his flooded water meadows, after the failed harvest.

He had no idea of the when or who, and not much idea about the why. Lust and stupidity explained a seventeen-year-old’s idiocy, but a titled man with scores of dependents could not be a slave to lust or even its occasional bond servant.

He could, though, find a lady’s company exceedingly agreeable. Lady Canmore—Grey liked thinking of her in polite terms almost as much as he enjoyed using her given name—sashayed along at his side, enjoying a pleasant spring day, not a care in the world.

To appearances. Meanwhile, she spoke of intimate pleasures that ambushed his reason and made him ache. He hadn’t planned this assignation, but half day was half day, and what was there to plan, really? Nature mapped out the whole business, but for the details.

They approached her ladyship’s town house, a solid, elegant structure in a solid, elegant neighborhood.

“I can leave you at your door if you’d rather,” Grey said. “We did not intend to encounter each other today.” She had fallen silent, else he would not have made the offer. A lady could have second thoughts.

“I would not rather. Would you? Rather leave me at my door?”

A gratifying hint of a grumble accompanied that question, though Grey could answer with only qualified honesty. He’d rather this was not a moment stolen from impending obligations. He’d rather this was a step in a courtship.

“What I would rather,” he said, leading her ladyship up the porch steps, “had best be discussed behind a closed and locked door from this point forward, or all who behold me will know exactly what I’m thinking.”

She darted a glance downward to the vicinity of his falls. “Oh.” Another glance, now that they were under the awning of her porch. “I see. Good tailoring leaves a man little privacy.”

“You see. I ache.”

“Delighted to hear it.” Her ladyship stepped back, allowing Grey to open the door for her.

She took off her bonnet. He kept his hat and walking stick, lest some caller dare to stop by. “Shall we to a guest room?” Grey asked.

“No guest room,” she said, peeling out of her spencer.

Grey assisted, mostly for the pleasure of brushing his hands over her shoulders. The sight of her ladyship’s nape lifted erotic stirrings to outright desire, and had she not preceded him up the steps—foolish, foolish rule that said a woman should go first up a stairway—he would have commenced kissing her in the foyer.

Instead, he trailed her onto the higher floor, arousal creating a pleasant yearning to go with… What, exactly, did he feel about this encounter?

Joy, of course. What man didn’t joyfully anticipate gratification of his animal spirits?

A touch of shame, perhaps, to be sneaking around on the servants’ half day, departing from the path of strict propriety?

But no, not shame, exactly. He owed no woman fidelity—yet—and the highest stickling hostess wouldn’t hesitate to seat him at her right hand, even if an affair with the countess became an open secret. The same hostess would receive Lady Canmore graciously, or become an object of gossip herself.

Still…

The thought trailed away as Beatitude led him into a sitting room done up in blue, white, and gold. Elegant, like her, but a bouquet of fragrant pink sweet peas sat on the windowsill where Grey would have expected roses. An embroidery hoop had been left on the sofa, with the side of the fabric exposed that showed all the knots and loose threads.

A book lay open on a low table, and a pair of worn slippers sat one across the other beside the sofa.

“Your personal sitting room?”

“The very one,” she said, closing and locking the door. “Through that door is my personal bedroom. I am not at home to callers on half day, so we are as alone as two people can be in the middle of Mayfair.”

And yet, she wasn’t grabbing his bum, or any other part of him. He set his hat and cane on the sideboard. “Would you think me very forward if I asked to kiss you, Beatitude?”

“Addy,” she said. “My closest friends call me Addy. All, save Theodosia, who calls me Bea.”

“I am Grey.”

They’d had that discussion, and yet, this time the exchange had the lady smiling. Grey held open his arms, and she crossed the room, straight into his embrace.

“I am at heart still a vicar’s daughter,” she said. “Roger despaired of me.”

“Orgies were beyond you? I’ve always found them rather tedious myself.”

The comment was meant to be humorous, a means of reducing awkwardness, but Addy ducked her face against his chest. “Something like that. He was not merely a hedonist. He thrived on novelty and adventure. If we’d seen to the succession, he might well have been one of those explorers who disappears into the wilderness and grows a beard while subsisting on bear meat and poetry.”

From what Grey understood of the New World trappers, they generally had more than one family, and their hygiene departed from gentlemanly standards by the distance of half a continent, which was probably intended to prevent bears from snacking on them.

“I do not thrive on novelty,” Grey said, stealing a kiss to the lady’s cheek. “I thrive on order and hard work, with the occasional leavening of good company and bodily pleasure. The only adventure I seek now is the adventure to be had in your bed.”

She sighed against his neck. “You truly don’t care if I’m wicked or boring, as long as I’m willing?”

Roger had doubtless been young and spoiled, so Grey withheld a more plainspoken reply. “If you are willing and our dealings are boring, then I, as the only gentleman participating in the proceedings, must hold myself accountable for your disappointment.”

The dialogue should have progressed along a predictable script from there: Shall I unlace you, my dear? A bit of kissing. A rampant cockstand. Smiles and touches, the lady disappearing behind the privacy screen, the gentleman wrestling off his boots and thinking happy, naughty thoughts while glancing at the clock.

Grey remained in the middle of the parlor, his arms around Addy, breathing in her gardenia scent. He would forever associate that fragrance with joy and a sense of sanctuary from life’s demands.

“I did not thrive on novelty either,” Addy said. “I learned to tolerate it for my husband’s sake, up to a point. These are not trysting thoughts.”

“Here’s a trysting thought.” Grey kissed her gently, without hurry. They had all afternoon, and probably other afternoons besides. Gradually, Addy became more enthusiastic, tasting him, getting a hold of his hair. Her participation struck him not as flirtatious so much as determined.

“My hooks,” she whispered, drawing close enough that his arousal had to be apparent to her. “If you please.”

He reached behind her and unhooked her dress while she stood with her arms around him. “Your laces?”

“I’m not wearing any. I wear two chemises and seldom go out without a spencer. My modiste knows I don’t like to be trussed up and reinforces my bodices accordingly. For evening occasions, of course, I must bow to convention, but during the day…”

He rubbed her back, and she wiggled, like a cat enjoying a caress.

“That feels good,” she said.

“Indeed, it does.”

Ah, there. A soft, stroking pat to his backside. Her mood was improving.

“Come to bed, Grey,” she said, leading him by the hand into the bedroom. The appointments here were unremarkable. Blue bed hangings over a large expanse of blue counterpane, an Axminster carpet in blue and cream with touches of pink. A comfortable reading chair by the window, a vanity and privacy screen along the wall opposite the windows. A rocking chair near the hearth, which was unusual outside of a nursery.

This space had less of her about it, and that troubled him. No flowers, no books, no workbasket or forgotten tea cup. Perhaps the room wanted happy memories, and maybe he could give those to her. “Shall I take down your hair?” he asked.

Blond brows rose, then knit. “I can manage,” she said, moving to the privacy screen. “Do you need help with your boots?”

He was to undress, then. “I’m not that fashionable. My boots are comfortably made and allow me to retire without bothering a valet. Shall I turn down the bed?”

“Please.”

Addy disappeared behind the privacy screen, her manner puzzling. A tryst should be lighthearted, friendly, a shared delight. Her mood was becoming serious, and that troubled him too.

Grey sat and took off his boots, then stood to remove his coat and waistcoat. He’d put his handkerchief on the bedside table and was down to his breeches and bare feet when a sound escaped the privacy screen.

“Beatitude?”

“I cannot believe this.”

“Addy?”

“My body hates me. I am a woman cursed. I cannot…”

She emerged from the privacy screen wearing only a shift, her hair a thick golden rope over one shoulder. She was holding a white linen cloth, staring at it incredulously.

Grey approached, at a complete loss. “I certainly do not hate your body. I am rather taken with it, along with your many other fine attributes. What has upset you?”

She bunched up the cloth. “I thought I was nervous, a bit unsure. I thought perhaps my nerves… My courses are about to arrive, two days early.”

Her… courses. The great indisposition about which Grey’s sisters were too blunt, the symptom a woman endured when she was not expecting a child.

“Bloody bad luck,” he muttered, then realized what he’d said. Not even when all but naked in the bedroom should a gentleman use that language before a lady.

“Well, yes, to be shockingly vulgar about it.” Addy was smiling. A rueful smile, true, but genuine. “I do apologize.”

“What can you possibly have to apologize for? Nature does what she pleases with all of us. Here I stand, ready and randy, for example, though we’ve barely kissed.”

Not merely randy, hard and aching.

“We are not off to a very passionate start, are we?” Addy said, tossing the cloth over her shoulder. She stepped close and wrapped her arms around Grey. “I am sorry.”

She felt good in his embrace, warm and lithe, real. “I am not put off by a little reproductive biology, Addy. If you’re interested, I’m still… I have an idea.”

She did not like novelty, she’d said. Based on her expression, novelty had served her several bad turns. “What sort of idea?”

“May I finish disrobing?”

She stepped back and flipped down the bedcovers. “I was rather hoping you would. I’m not a mess, not untidy—yet.”

But she was unhappy to be denied her intimate interlude. Disappointed. Grey could work with that. He peeled out of his breeches and let the lady have a look.

“You do enjoy physical activity, don’t you?” She drew a single fingertip up the length of his cock, which was angled in the direction of true north.

“I thrive on hard work,” he said. “Strenuous physical labor being one sort of hard work. You can clutch and pinch and pull on me all you like, and I’ll like that too. Come be with me, Addy.”

He climbed onto the mattress and lay flat on his back.

She stood on the step beside the bed. “Where does one…?”’

“Here,” he said, patting his cock. “You can ride me without taking me into your body. I’ll show you.”

Lord Roger, Earl of Adventure, had apparently overlooked a few of the pleasurable measures a couple could take to avoid conception. Grey knew them all, though none equaled actual coitus for satisfaction.

“Straddle me,” he said, lifting the lady over him. “Tuck in close and prepare to enjoy yourself.”

She looked uncertain, a songbird ready to take flight, so he leaned up and kissed her, assaying a glancing caress to her breasts at the same time.

“I like that,” she murmured against his mouth.

“This?” He cupped her breasts.

“Mmmmm.”

That, accompanied by Addy arching her back, was a yes. Her shift did not unbutton all the way down, so Grey stroked, teased, and fondled with the aid of the thin cotton to enhance the sensation. By degrees, Addy settled herself over his cock.

He was not inside her. He was instead at heaven’s door, while she ran her slick flesh along his length. The sensation was exquisite torture, and she was barely getting started.

“Ride me,” he said, urging her down. “Ride me as long and as hard as you please, and we’ll find pleasure along the way.”

Pleasure, not quite consummation.

Addy was a fast learner and a dedicated equestrian. She soon found a rhythm and pressure that tried Grey’s restraint to the utmost and set the bed to rocking gently.

“This is…” she panted against his neck, “interesting.”

Interesting was a balm to Grey’s soul, for he was not an interesting man. He was polite, he was dutiful, he was a good farmer, a loyal brother, and a conscientious landlord. Nobody had ever described him or his ideas as interesting.

And with her, he was barely getting started. “Don’t think, Addy. Feel.” He raised his hips, meeting her on her next undulation, anchoring her with an arm at the small of her back.

She moved more quickly and more firmly, until he knew she was close—he was close—but the moment wanted… He brushed her shift aside, got his mouth on her nipple, and bit gently.

“Yes.” A soft groan, a hard push from her hips, and he could feel the pleasure coursing through her. “Like that,” she murmured. “Oh ye gods, exactly like that.”

He held back. He held back as a gentleman must when pleasuring a lover, though the effort nearly cost him his back teeth, and then Addy was a panting bundle of feminine repletion on his chest, her braid tickling his shoulder.

“You have the knack now?” he asked, stroking her hair.

“I have the knack. It’s a lovely knack, Grey, though I can’t grab your bum this way.”

Give me strength. “Perhaps another time we’ll include that on the agenda. Fortunately, I can grab yours.” He obliged, firmly, not too firmly. “Ready to go again?”

She peered at him. Her braid was a bit frazzled, her cheeks pink. “Again?”

“Of course again. By the grace of God and a typical Englishman’s unrelenting self-discipline, I haven’t spent.”

She raised up enough to peer down at his member, which was joyfully ruddy, glistening, and hard as a Dorset fence post.

Also aching like thunder.

“Thanks be for an Englishman’s unrelenting self-discipline,” she said, kissing him soundly.

Grey lasted, somehow, through her next gallop, then rolled with her to spend on her belly. When he could move again and had used his handkerchief on the resulting mess, he shifted to his back and pulled a warm, limp Addy over him, then used his foot to get the extra quilt within grabbing range.

Addy dozed on Grey’s chest as the bed curtains shifted gently in an afternoon breeze, and he wallowed in the happy relaxation that followed a good bout of lovemaking.

She burrowed closer, and he wrapped her in his arms, kissing the top of her head.

Addy was precious and dear, and those were not sentiments born of a mere afternoon romp. They were the tip of a complicated iceberg drifting closer to a rocky shore Grey could not at the moment bring himself to examine. He knew this, though: He and Addy were not yet lovers in the technical sense, and that occasioned a puzzling but unmistakable sense of relief.