Page 12 of Mistletoe Minx

But what if she did go? What if she showed her husband that Frances Dashford could be both proper wife in public and naughty mistress in the bedchamber? That he did not need other women?

“How…” Frances swallowed hard. “How would I secure an invitation?”

Celia beamed. “I am acquainted with Juliette Warenne. I’ll write a note of introduction, but you must go to her today and plead your case, as they’ll be leaving for Kent shortly. The countess is French and has little time for British society, but always donates generously to our hospital and widow funds. And she is certainly broadminded…well, one must be when hosting orgies.”

“Orgies?” squeaked Frances, covering her cheeks with her hands. “The house party was described to me as a decadent feast for the discerning senses.”

“How refined,” giggled Rachel. “I’ve heard it is wild. Public tupping, three in a bed, spanking benches, enough pleasure toys to arm several regiments...I’ll admit a little curiosity, but Arran prefers to discipline me in private. And I am most content. So I shall just wait to hear your extremely detailed story.”

“As will I,” said Celia, patting Frances’ hand. “This is your chance, poppet. Don’t think, just leap.”

Frances nodded slowly. This was her chance.

Now she just needed to gather the courage to take it.

CHAPTER 4

For about the thousandth time, Dalton paced the length of his bedchamber. Normally, early afternoon was an ideal time to study ledgers or steward reports from his various estates, perhaps peruse some documents from the House of Lords in the warmth and comfort of his library…but of course he couldn’t return to the scene of the crime. Nor would his still-sensitive gut permit a visit to his club for brandy, cards and an excellent cheroot.

But he had to escape this gilded prison. If he didn’t know better, he might wager all the senior staff were supremely annoyed at him. Yes, they were following his instructions, but there was a certain coolness in the air that had nothing to do with the weather outside, and certainly hadn’t been apparent before he’d informed Gower of his intention to attend the Warenne house party.

It was quite ridiculous. What the bloody hell else was he supposed to do in his current circumstances?

When a wife was uninterested in or frightened by the kind of bedsport her husband enjoyed, he went discreetly elsewhere to meet that particular desire. It was a sensible solution. Yet his valet, housekeeper, butler, and secretary were each giving him pursed lips and reproachful looks as though he’d stolen all the cakes in London and tossed them into the Thames.

Dalton clenched his jaw. He didn’t want to go to Noah and Juliette’s house party…he needed to. For his own sanity. Once he’d reveled in uninhibited debauchery for several days with some eager, willing woman, the fever inside him would cool. No longer would those dark desires attach themselves to poor Frances and he could return to kindly and courteously bedding her as a gentleman, solely for the purpose of an heir. If his staff truly wanted an Earl of Keswick to coo over, they would enthusiastically assist in his quest, not grumble about it.

Christ, he had to get out of here.

Thoroughly irritated at the world, Dalton left his bedchamber and marched downstairs.

His unflappable butler, Thorpe, hurried over. “Ah, Your Grace! As Her Grace is out and about with the town carriage, may I call for your curricle? The phaeton? It is cold outside, but at least it’s not raining.”

“No thank you,” he replied, concentrating on keeping his tone calm and even, like he wasn’t currently unravelling. “I’m going to ride in Hyde Park. Not sure when I shall return.”

“Very good. Will you be dining with Her Grace this evening? I can advise the kitchens of your plans.”

The heavens hated him. Only that could explain why everyone wanted to push him toward his duchess right now. His beautiful, innocent, decorous duchess who also possessed the most delectable little breasts in England.

Dalton barely stifled a groan. Now his mind wasn’t addled by brandy, it kept helpfully recalling exactly how alluring Frances had looked splayed across his desk, her practical plait wound around his fist, her night rail bodice torn and pink nipples swollen from his frenzied sucking…

Pull yourself together, man! She didn’t want that. Now, behave like a duke for a moment, otherwise there will be an out-and-out rebellion.

“Yes,” he replied eventually. “Eight sharp. For dessert, ensure Cook serves us cinnamon cake with plenty of vanilla custard for Her Grace.”

Thorpe actually beamed. “Of course, sir. Enjoy your ride.”

A quarter hour later, Dalton was on his way.

It was far colder outside than he’d anticipated. Thankfully, due to his leather riding gloves and heavy greatcoat, only his face was about to freeze and shatter on the occasionally treacherous paved streets. His dark brown Thoroughbred, Jupiter, was obediently trotting, but the horse’s impatient head tosses and discreet straining against the reins showed how much he wanted to canter. Fortunately for Dalton’s forearms, the south side of Hyde Park was only a few miles away, and the tall trees along Rotten Row would offer further protection from the icy breeze.

Hyde Park corner offered a happy surprise: unlike spring and autumn, when it seemed like every bloody Londoner and his friend paraded their horses or carriages along the stretch of sandy, gravelly soil, today the Row was nearly empty. Perfect.

“Come on, Jupes,” Dalton muttered. “Let’s see what you’re made of.”

In seconds they were racing at breakneck speed as Jupiter joyfully galloped down the nearly mile-long track. In a city like London it was difficult for a duke to be anonymous, but as his horse could attest, this feeling of being unleashed was nothing short of exhilarating.

As Serpentine Road rapidly approached, Dalton reluctantly eased back on the reins, coaxing Jupiter into a trot so they could safely turn.