Page 25 of An Earl, His Valet, & Their Wife

“I hope the books bring ye great enjoyment,” Gerard replied woodenly, as formal as any Sassenach, while frustration burned within him. Why did Katie have to be the one woman he couldn’t stop thinking about? Dreaming about?

No, not Katie. Lady Whitmore.

“Gerard…” she said quietly, reaching out then stopping herself, her fingers hovering an inch above his sleeve.

“Probably best if ye call me Hunter,” Gerard replied, the words like ashes in his mouth, the punishment of no longer hearing his given name already a burden he couldn’t possibly bear. “My lady.”

Her eyes flashed emerald fire. “Excuse me? The man who offered sexual tutoring, has seen me entirely naked and held my hand as I orgasmed now decides to turn puritan? I think not, Gerard.”

“I cannae do it, Katie,” he snarled, as his last remaining thread of control frayed. “Not when I want ye so badly. It consumes me. The need tae touch and pleasure ye. Be inside ye. Mere instruction will never again be enough, but ye belong tae his lordship. And I wouldnae hurt him for the world. So I must step back. Put a wall between us. For my own fucking sanity.”

She blinked owlishly. “Oh. I…I…see. Yes. But…what if things were different?”

Gerard glanced over his shoulder, about ready to break the habits of a lifetime and pray for divine intervention. Naturally, Molly remained stubbornly absent. And where the hell was Michael? He should be home from visiting his mother. Anything to halt a conversation that might outline a dream come true. He’d already experienced far more miracles than a lowly apprentice and sometime thief from the slums of Glasgow deserved; the thought of Michael and Katie in his bed was too glorious to even contemplate.

“They aren’t different,” he replied brusquely. “Dinnae think o’ me. Of us. Ye have one task, my lady. Birthing a healthy son. Concentrate only on that and we’ll all be content.”

“I’d rather be happy,” she whispered.

So would I.

Gerard closed his eyes briefly, then inclined his head. “Good afternoon, Lady Whitmore.”

Then he turned and fled the bedchamber as though chased by the hounds of hell.

God damn it.

What was he supposed to do now?

* * *

The men in this household would surely drive her to madness.

Leaning down, Katherine picked up the precious copy of Glenarvon and placed it on her desk, ready to read later, once her mind stopped whirling.

Gerard wanted her.

Gerard wanted her but wasn’t going to do a blasted thing about it.

Gerard wanted her, wasn’t going to do a blasted thing about it, and naturally hadn’t answered her question: what if things were different?

Well, what if they were?

Michael and Gerard were very close. That had been obvious even before the valet joined them in her bedchamber to offer instruction. And her husband didn’t seem to suffer from jealousy or bitter possessiveness; he wasn’t some gothic villain ready to whip out a dagger or shove someone from the ramparts for a perceived slight. So why couldn’t they have a conversation at least?

Katherine Whitmore, are you even listening to yourself? Two men? You truly want a husband and a lover in your bed?

She groaned, shifting uncomfortably as her pussy began pulsing once more. After that incredible bedding in here, she’d eagerly awaited the next. But two whole nights had passed, and Michael hadn’t returned, despite being so attentive at breakfast and supper, ensuring her favorite treats were always available, asking thoughtful questions about her day. What did a wife have to do to be regularly pleasured? Wear a sign saying Plunder At Will?

Katherine glared at her desk. She’d been so, so close to begging Gerard to seduce her. In those heady moments when his enormous, rock-hard cock had pressed against her, she’d daydreamed of the valet spreading her across a desk and licking her pussy while he whispered more delicious, filthy things. Or ordering her to touch his cock.

But despite her hip-circling invitation, Gerard had behaved like a proper gentleman. Unlike her. The Harlot. And she couldn’t even march into her husband’s library or chamber and attempt a marital pouncing, for Michael was still visiting his mother.

“I shouldn’t have asked for a bookshop account,” she said glumly. “A pleasure toy account would be infinitely more useful. My kingdom for a phallus.”

“What’s that, Lady Whitmore?”

Katherine nearly jumped a foot in the air as her maid bustled back into the room with an armful of neatly pressed and mended gowns. “Ah…nothing, Molly. Just talking to myself. How are my gowns?”