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Chapter One
May 5, 1819
London, England
Percival Hughes, the 12th Earl of Laughton, lifted his glass when one of his cronies suggested a toast. They’d arrived at Laughton House two hours prior and were well into various bottles of spirits. He’d attended the opera with his mistress and had met up with his two best friends. Instead of retiring after the social commitment at the house he maintained for Nia like he usually did, he brought her back to his residence, for he meant to get well into his cups with his friends. They’d been out of pocket recently and he wished to catch up.
So, Lavinia had retired to his suite abovestairs, for he would most assuredly bed her later. She wouldn’t mind, for she would collect her coin regardless of where she serviced him.
Lord Randolph hefted a half-empty bottle of brandy into the air. The candlelight turned his blond hair to molten gold. “To the man of the hour. May your impending nuptials prove not your undoing and neither an impediment to further scandal.”
“Hear, hear!” his other best friend called. Lord Saintfort’s slight form leaned alarmingly to one side of the sofa where he’d positioned himself. The man certainly couldn’t hold his liquor and would be snoring before too long. “And may your fiancée look the other way when you visit the incomparable Lavinia.”
“Indeed!” Percival quickly downed the contents of his glass, wincing from the burn of the alcohol in his throat. He was rapidly reaching his tolerance and if he went over that, he’d slip into a stupor shortly after Saintfort. He’d already had a few glasses of wine while at the opera, so that didn’t help matters, but he had a fine excuse. “One doesn’t often get himself hitched, does he?”
And damn if he didn’t wish to be in that state.
“No, he does not,” Lord Randolph added with a wicked grin. He took a healthy swig from his bottle. “Lady Eleanor is quite the catch though.”
“Agreed.” She was the daughter of the Duke of Bradbury, and though the beauty of two Seasons past, she was much younger than his eight and thirty years. “God knows I can use that fat dowry.” Some of the tenant cottages on his country estate needed repairs, to say nothing of turning his attention to more of the same with the manor itself. Over the years, he’d been a rather absent landlord, but now that he was getting on in years, he wanted to change things. One did need retirement income, after all.
Lord Saintfort tossed his glass toward the low table in front of him. It missed the mark and instead crashed into that piece of furniture, breaking into a few pieces. Glass littered the Aubusson rug, winking in the low light. “She’s a looker well enough—not to my tastes, of course—but what skills has she in the bedroom?”
Percival snorted. His friend’s tastes ran to other men, and he made no secret of the fact he vastly preferred to be buggared than bed a woman. Yet soon he’d have to marry in order to keep up appearances and beget an heir. Poor bastard. “I wouldn’t know. Her father wishes her to remain an innocent for her wedding day.”
“And you know this why?” Lord Randolph took another drink from his bottle.
“I’ve tried four times to bed the chit. She rebuffed me at every turn.” He shook his head. “It’s a wonder I’ve been allowed to kiss her.”
“Does she know how to do even that with conviction?” Saintfort wanted to know as he buffed his fingernails upon his evening breeches.
“Unfortunately, she does not.” At the last second, Percival stopped himself from shuddering. “This is why I have refused to tarry with virgins up until this point. They require too much work, and I’m quite selfish.”
“Too many hysterics for me. I’d rather not have a woman scared spitless when I’m attempting to woo her.” Lord Randolph laughed. He passed the bottle to Lord Saintfort. “You could always train her, Laughton. Haven’t you been lauded the king of kissing a time or two during your tenure as a rogue?”
“Bah.” Percival shook his head while he poured another measure of brandy into his glass. “Who has the time? The chit hasn’t acted as if she enjoys the kisses I’ve bestowed upon her.” He shrugged. “For all her beauty, she’s rather like a cold fish.”
Both of his friends chuckled.
“Perhaps she doesn’t have feelings for you,” Lord Randolph suggested.
“That is possible, for it was her father who encouraged the match. He wished to have Eleanor off his hands, for he has three daughters, and I desired her money.” It didn’t reflect well on him, of course, but that was life for a titled peer in the ton. “Besides, I have a mistress who tends to my needs and doesn’t require instruction.” He drained the contents of his glass as his thoughts drifted to Nia.
He’d been her protector for just over a year and she was the first woman he’d felt any sort of attraction to after the death of his wife three years ago. Though she had an impressive pedigree, she’d been born on the wrong side of the blanket and therefore would never be accepted within the haute ton. She’d become one of the most skilled members of the demimonde, and she’d been in high demand before he’d claimed her.
“From all the tales you’ve told us about Lavinia, it’s no wonder she has suitors and protectors lining up for the moment she becomes free.” Lord Randolph waggled his eyebrows. “Might I have her when you’re finished? I always did think she had more substance than most whores.”
He narrowed his eyes on his friend. Nia was much more than that. There were times when he’d visit that they wouldn’t indulge in carnal delights at all and had, instead, ended up talking the night away, falling asleep beside each other until he left her house at dawn. “Who says I’m giving her up? Marriage changes nothing.”
Lord Saintfort passed the bottle back to the other man. “You’ll have to for a while, Laughton. At least until you have that heir and the spare. Need to save your seed for the proper woman, wouldn’t you say?”
“I’d rather not further this conversation.”
“A little late for regret, man,” Lord Randolph shot off. “It’s nearly a done deal.”
“Give the man some grace, Randolph,” Lord Saintfort said. “He has this last night as a free man. Let him enjoy it as he sees fit.” He snickered. “If it were me, I wouldn’t linger down here talking to the likes of us. I’d be fucking my mistress as much as I could for the reminder that my life isn’t quite over.”
“Not that you’ll ever prove loyal to only one person,” Percival said.
