Page 13 of An Earl, His Valet, & Their Wife

How exactly did one apologize for being terrible in bed?

With Gerry it had been so easy, mostly because his valet had immediately taken command. Gerry issued instructions—all Michael had to do was obey, and it was wonderfully soothing compared to the rest of his life. His chamber was the one place he could free the darker, secret part of himself that reveled in being taken.

Katherine expected him to lead the way in bed. Unless…he could find some discreet reading material that encouraged feminine boldness? Surely there were shops in London selling such literature. One could find everything else but probably not in Hatchard’s, more’s the pity.

From Cheapside it was only two and a half miles to the heart of Piccadilly, and soon his carriage pulled up in front of the iconic bookstore. Directly across from the Royal Academy, Hatchards was a five-story, gray-stone building, with large glass windows displaying all manner of books. Inside it resembled a fashionable library, with dark wood paneling, a curved staircase in the middle, creaky wooden floors, and several fireplaces to keep everyone toasty warm while they browsed. He’d spent many happy hours here.

When he strolled up to the wooden counter, a senior clerk rushed over. “Lord Whitmore! It’s been too long. How may I assist?”

He grinned. “Indeed it has, much to my dismay. But I’m here to open an account for my wife.”

“Your wife?” replied the clerk, his jaw visibly dropping. “Forgive me, my lord, I had not heard that you’d wed. My heartiest congratulations.”

“Thank you. It is a very recent occurrence.”

“May I ask who the fortunate young lady is?”

“I daresay you know of her. The former Lady Katherine Kirk.”

The clerk beamed as he hefted up a large black leather-bound ledger from a drawer behind the counter. “A love of books match! How marvelous. And you wish to open a new account rather than adding her ladyship to your own?”

“Yes. With no restrictions. Lady Whitmore may purchase as many books as she wishes, on the topics of her choice.”

“How very generous, Cousin,” interrupted a familiar chilly voice. “But rather misguided, if I might be so bold. Wives require strict supervision in their reading matter. And in daily life, as the Scripture tells us.”

Nero.

Michael groaned inwardly. As if he didn’t have enough to contemplate.

He forced himself to nod politely at his cousin. As usual, rail-thin Nero Ellis was clad entirely in black with only a plain white cravat offering any relief. His brown hair was military-short, his face in its perpetual expression of just-sucked-lemon. Nero had been born sour; there was no joy he couldn’t douse, no fun he couldn’t ruin, and he thought himself above everyone. His wife was an equally sour woman named Horatia. Thankfully, their two young daughters were raised solely by nursery maids.

“Cousin,” Michael replied. “You and yours are well?”

“We persevere with the meager resources provided. But no unlimited accounts anywhere, unlike a certain lucky countess!”

Michael gritted his teeth. He paid for Nero and Horatia’s townhouse and servants, their carriage, and a quarterly allowance. Hardly meager resources. Of course, Nero could supplement their income, but he refused, saying employment was far beneath him.

Wisely, the clerk ignored the interloper. Moments later, he set down his quill and bowed at Michael. “All done, my lord. We look forward to assisting her ladyship.”

“Thank you,” said Michael. “I must be off, now. Cousin,” he said shortly, as the bookstore abruptly seemed far too small. Fresh air was needed immediately and he almost stumbled to the door.

Naturally, Nero clung to his side like treacle to hair.

“I must chide you, my lord, for not inviting Horatia and myself to your wedding,” said Nero as they stepped out onto the footpath. “We were shocked to receive Aunt Barbara’s note. Why so hasty? I cannot believe it necessary. You barely glance at young ladies, let alone compromise them.”

Christ, I despise this man.

“I owe you no explanation, Nero, least of all on my marriage,” Michael replied, trying to keep his tone even as his heart began thumping erratically. Why was his medicinal brandy so far away in the carriage?

Oddly, his cousin’s expression grew sly. “Oh, of course not! It’s just that…any heir would be concerned when a man up and marries in secret, then gifts his wife unlimited spending. Gossips might wonder if the head of the family had all his faculties intact.”

Michael froze at the not-so-veiled threat. Marriages could indeed be annulled if one party was deemed incompetent, and Nero did have everything to lose if Katherine birthed a son. Nonsense like this must be crushed immediately. And publicly.

“I fell in love, cousin,” he replied slowly. “And felt no need to wait. All the witnesses shared our joy and respected our desire for a small, private ceremony. But my countess and I will shortly be hosting, er…a ball. Yes. You and Horatia shall receive an invitation. Good day.”

And with that, he near leaped into his carriage and banged the roof to leave Nero behind. Damn it. He hated balls. No doubt Katherine did as well—something else for her to be displeased by.

But what choice did he have?