Author’s Note on Historical Accuracy
In June of 1885, a petition signed by 208 women—including doctors, countesses, and viscountesses amongst them—was addressed to each member of the House of Lords to support the bill then before the Upper House, which would have extended the right to vote in Parliamentary elections to women. I’ve used that real historical event as the model for the Lady’s Suffrage Society petition drafted by Jo and the other ladies in this book. It would take many more years of petitioning, bills being presented, campaigning, fighting, and raging against the status quo for women to finally win the right to vote in the twentieth century.
The Victorian era tends to have a modern reputation of being a conservative period ruled by prudish mores. However, that simply isn’t the full picture. During the Victorian era, erotic and pornographic art, photography, and literature flourished. In many cases, because of existing decency laws, erotic art and literature were privately produced rather than publicly mass-produced. Specifically in the case of erotic literature, many books or story collections were published in limited runs and distributed only to club or subscription members. I have done my best to accurately portray Decker’s erotic collections based on similar collections of the time period, including the set of naughty alphabet lithographs.
Finally, although I often mention language in my author’s notes, I feel it is worth mentioning again here that all the sexual acts in this book and the language—including curses—were actively in use in 1885 and well before that. That’s right, even the word fuck. And all the other fun stuff, too. Now, do read on for those excerpts I promised!
Lady Reckless
Notorious Ladies of London Book Three
By
Scarlett Scott
Lady Helena Davenport is desperate to avoid the odious betrothal her father is forcing upon her. The only way out is to orchestrate her own ruination. Everything is unfolding according to plan, her escape finally within her grasp. But there is just one problem when the moment of scandal arrives: the rake she selected for an assignation is nowhere to be found. In his place? The man she secretly loves.
Gabriel, the notoriously proper Earl of Huntingdon, is outraged when he discovers his best friend’s innocent sister, Lady Helena, has decided to give herself to a scoundrel. His impeccable sense of honor will not allow such a travesty to occur. When Gabe confronts her, the last thing he expects is to find himself tempted to commit wickedness.
Fortunately, Gabe is strong enough to resist. After all, he already has a betrothed of his own. However, he is now tasked with the unhappy duty of following about Lady Helena to keep her from committing further folly. And the more time he spends with the infuriating minx, the more impossible it is to resist her.
Helena is running out of time to save herself from an unhappy marriage. With the Earl of Huntingdon haunting her every move to keep her from ruining herself, her hope is dwindling. Until she settles upon the one certain means of securing her freedom, even if it means she risks making Huntingdon hate her forever…
Chapter One
1885
She was not going to go through with it.
Huntingdon checked his pocket watch for at least the tenth time since his arrival, relief sliding through him. One quarter hour late for the appointed assignation. Lady Helena must have seen the error of her reckless decision.
Thank merciful heavens.
His heart, which had been pounding with pained expectation ever since his arrival at the nondescript rooms where she had arranged to meet—and lose her virtue—to Lord Algernon Forsyte, eased to a normal rhythm at last. The notion of the innocent sister of his best friend so sullying herself had been appalling. Horrifying, in fact. He had scarcely been able to believe it when Lord Algernon had revealed the plan to him the night before.
Over a game of cards.
The swine had been laughing.
And then he had dared to include Lady Helena’s maidenhead in his wager. As if she were a trollop so accustomed to being ill-used that anyone’s prick would do. Huntingdon had been disgusted and outraged. He had also made certain he had won the game and that Lord Algernon would never again bandy about Lady Helena’s name without fear of losing his teeth.
Huntingdon’s sense of honor had prevented him from going directly to Lady Helena’s father. The Marquess of Northampton was an unforgiving, draconian clod, and the repercussions for Lady Helena would have been drastic, he had no doubt. It had been his cursed compassion, along with his decade-long friendship with Lady Helena’s brother, which had brought him here this morning to save her from ruin himself.
Huntingdon paced the stained carpets, trying to tamp down his impatience. He would wait for a full half hour just to make certain she had not been somehow waylaid. As distasteful as he found it to be cloistered in Lord Algernon’s appallingly unkempt rooms, he had only—he checked his timepiece once more—ten minutes remaining until he could flee and forget all about this dreadful imposition upon his day.
A sudden noise drew him to a halt.
Surely it was not a knock?
He listened, and there it was again. A hesitant report. Once, twice, thrice.
His heart began to pound once more and the heavy weight of dread sank in his gut.
She had come after all.
He stalked to the door and hauled it open. There, on the threshold, stood a lady, her face obscured by a veil. There could be no doubt as to her identity. Huntingdon grasped her forearm and pulled her into the room before anyone happened upon them. The fewer witnesses to her folly, the better.
She gasped at the suddenness of his actions, stumbling forward and tripping over the hem of her skirts. There was nowhere for her to go but into his arms. Huntingdon was scarcely able to throw the door closed at her back before he had warm, feminine curves pressed against him.
The scent of bergamot and lemon oil, undeniably welcome in these shabby rooms badly in wont of cleaning and dusting, washed over him. Her hat fell from her head as she was jostled into him, revealing her face. He found himself looking down into the astonished emerald eyes of Lady Helena Davenport.
He had a moment to note her breasts were ample and full, crushed again his chest, and her lips were wider than he remembered. She had the most entrancing dusting of freckles on the bridge of her nose, her pale-blonde hair coming free of her coiffure in silken wisps.
She looked like a Renaissance Madonna.
But she had come to this cesspit to be thoroughly ruined.
The part of him which could never be entirely governed by reason, propriety, and honor suddenly rose to rude prominence in his trousers. He was seized by a crushing urge to taste her lips. To slam his mouth on hers and give her a punishing kiss.
Would she kiss him back?
Would she be scandalized?
He inhaled sharply, shocked at himself, at the cursed weakness for the flesh he could never seem to overcome no matter how hard he tried. This is wrong. He exhaled. Think of Lady Beatrice. Inhaled again. A mistake, as it turned out. All he could smell was her.
She clutched at his shoulders as if he were a lifeline. “Huntingdon! What are you doing here?”
He settled her on her feet and released her, stepping back, recalling his outrage. This was his friend’s sister. Shelbourne would be devastated if he knew what she was about. And as Shelbourne’s friend, he was duty-bound to act as another brother to her.
“I am saving you from the greatest mistake of your life, my lady,” he told her grimly, trying to forget the way her body had molded to his. “What in heaven’s name were you thinking, arranging an assignation with a disgusting scoundrel like Lord Algernon Forsyte?”
“I was thinking I would be ruined,” she snapped, irritation edging her voice now that she had regained her balance.
She was angry with him, he realized, astounded. She ought to have been awash in gratitude, thanking him for his generosity of spirit. Instead, her lips had thinned, and her jaw was clenched. Her brilliant gre
en eyes glittered with irritation.
He blinked. “You wanted to be ruined?”
Surely he could not have heard her correctly. He had expected her to say Lord Algernon had wooed her with pretty words of love and coerced her into meeting him here. He had imagined she would tearfully thank him and then promise to never again do anything so rash and dangerous.
“Of course. Why else do you suppose I would have arranged to meet him at his private rooms?” she asked.
What the devil?
Huntingdon struggled to make sense of this bloody mire. “You do not fancy yourself in love with him, then.”
“No.”
“You know a man such as he will never marry you,” he pressed.
“I would not marry him either.”
He frowned at her. “Then I fail to understand the meaning of this horrible folly, Lady Helena.”
“The meaning is freedom,” Lady Helena said, tipping her chin up in defiance. “Mine.”
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Her Virtuous Viscount
Wicked Husbands Book Six
By
Scarlett Scott
Jilted by the woman he loved, Tom, Viscount Sidmouth, has decided he will happily remain a bachelor for the rest of his life. He wants nothing to do with affairs of the heart. And he most certainly wants nothing to do with the wild widow next door.
After spending years trapped in a loveless marriage, Hyacinth has returned to London on a mission to experience everything she missed. Balls, parties, flirtations, and assignations—she wants it all. She isn’t about to allow her disapproving neighbor to spoil her fun. She’s living her life one raucous celebration at a time.
Until she inadvertently winds up in the viscount’s garden late one night and he kisses her senseless. There’s something about the handsome, forbidding lord that makes her want to abandon her rules.
And Tom? He’s beginning to think that perhaps the only way to forget about his broken heart is to lose himself in a fling. Why not with the wicked woman who drives him to distraction? It’s not as if he is going to fall in love…
Chapter One
London, 1879
Hyacinth was on her second bottle of champagne. At least, she thought she was, when she realized her beloved puppy was no longer at her side.
“Has anyone seen Adelaide?” she asked the drawing room at large.
No one seemed to notice she had spoken.
Lady Esterly was kissing a…footman? Lord Villiers had dipped his head to Lady Covington’s throat. Someone—she could not make out the gentleman’s face—was playing a violin, and quite beautifully, too. Had she hired musicians this evening?
Dear me, I do not recall.
Her vision was beginning to get fuzzy about the edges. She probably required spectacles even when she had not indulged herself to the point of Bacchanalian bliss. Now that she was thoroughly in her cups, the latent deficiency was proving more pronounced. However, the room was also beginning to swirl, which was a clear indicator she had overindulged.
Southwick had never allowed her to consume even a drop of wine with her dinner. Spirits—like everything she had thrown herself into following her arrival in London—were new to Hyacinth. A joy and a curse, in the true way of life.
Freedom. Why would it be any different than captivity had been?
But none of her ponderous musings helped her to locate her beloved pug. Adelaide was the one pleasure Southwick had allowed her, and her sole comfort in five years of misery.
“Adelaide,” she called above the din of the violin and Lady Downe chortling over a sally Mr. Buchanan had told her. “Lady?”
There was no answering scamper of paws. No big brown eyes staring up at her from an adorably rounded face, no tongue lolling. Guilt struck her, for Adelaide was notorious for wandering. Indeed, it had been one of Hyacinth’s primary concerns in moving to London from the country. So many servants, so many doors, a busy road filled with carriages, parties laden with revelers—all of them, opportunities for Adelaide to fancy herself going on an adventure and wind up forever lost.
But Adelaide could not be lost!
Adelaide—Lady—was all Hyacinth had left, aside from her friendships with Alice and Charlotte. And even those had been strained by necessity from the time she had spent shackled to Southwick. Neither woman had been the sort with whom Hyacinth had been permitted to convene. The result was a stilted friendship, even if Alice had obligingly introduced Hyacinth to most of the men and women in attendance this evening.
There was no telling where her friend had disappeared to now, or with whom. Alice was a widow just like Hyacinth, and her set was rather…wild. As was Alice. Hyacinth’s old bosom bow had changed quite a bit since the days of their mutual comeout.
But none of these thoughts solved the mystery of where Lady was.
“Adelaide,” she called again, attempting to drown out the dratted violin. “Lady! Had anyone seen my pug?”
No one answered her. No one so much as glanced in her direction. At least, she thought none of them did.
Spectacles. Or less champagne. One of the two…
Hyacinth left the drawing room. Down the main hall she went, passing a couple in a desperately passionate embrace that left her feeling flushed and envious all at once. Ah, to experience such tenderness—a man who did not take pleasure in cruelty and control.
Not yet, she reminded herself. Her wounds were still too fresh, even with Southwick gone. For now, she was living her life as she wished, directly flouting every one of his edicts.
Still lonely as ever.
She spied the housekeeper as she neared the end of the hall, the small salon which exited to the gardens, adjacent to the servants’ stair.
“Mrs. Combes,” she said, relieved, for the woman seemed to always have the answer just as surely as she carried the keys rattling about her august personage. “Have you seen Adelaide? I cannot seem to find her.”
“I am sorry, Lady Southwick,” Mrs. Combes said, “but I have not seen her since I last noted her trotting toward the rear of the house. It is possible one of the chamber maids thought she needed to take a turn in the gardens.”
Hyacinth tempered the urge to embrace Mrs. Combes, who had followed her from the country—another one of her few comforts. Mrs. Combes knew how to run a household. And she also knew Hyacinth quite well. Perhaps too well.
“Thank you, Mrs. Combes,” she said. “I shall have a look about in the gardens.”
A sudden onset of weariness hit her then. Perhaps it was because she had stopped consuming champagne. Perhaps it was because she was so aggrieved with herself for becoming so sotted, she failed to notice what had happened to her beloved Lady. Whatever the reason, Hyacinth found herself dearly longing for quiet. For no more revelers.
She paused. “Mrs. Combes, do you think you could convey to my guests that I have sought my private chambers for the evening and that they ought to move their revelries elsewhere?”
The housekeeper nodded. “Of course, my lady. I would be pleased to tell your guests as much.”
Hyacinth had no doubt she would. Mrs. Combes disapproved of the fast set with whom Hyacinth rubbed elbows since her arrival in London. But the dear woman would never utter a word to suggest as much.
“Thank you, Mrs. Combes,” she said. “I am off to the gardens to find Lady.”
Still feeling somewhat dizzy—fine, inebriated—Hyacinth made her way to the gardens. Part of her still expected Southwick to appear from some darkened corner, demanding to know where she was going. Icy, iron fingers, disapproving frown, inescapable rage. But she shook herself free of those memories.
He could not haunt her from the grave.
She refused to allow it.
She was free.
Or something like it.
Her fingers fumbled with the handle on the doors leading to the garden, within a small, cozy chamber she had turned into her private salon from its former, robustly masculine study. I
t had been all bleak mahogany and the carpets smelled of tobacco smoke. Likely down to the previous occupant, but it had reminded her so dreadfully of Southwick that she had ordered the rugs replaced on her first day here.
After she finally had the latch undone, she found herself enrobed in inky summer darkness. London at night was not nearly as noisy as London during the height of the day was. Excepting the cacophony emerging from her own open windows, that was. A wonder the neighbors did not loathe her.
Then again, perhaps they did?
She had spied a glimpse of the lord next door—a golden Goliath who had hastily disappeared behind a shiny black door with its lion’s head brass knocker. But that was all she knew of her neighbors thus far. How strange it all seemed. After so many years of rustication, Hyacinth was still growing accustomed to the peculiarities of Town life.
Still the quiet and darkness of the gardens this evening pleased her. A cool breeze bathed her cheeks as she slipped down the gravel path. Odd, that. She had not realized she had been overheated until now.
“Lady,” she called, expecting her darling to come rushing to her. “Adelaide! Come to Mama, you naughty little puss. Where are you?”
What Hyacinth was decidedly not expecting was the disapproving masculine drawl which emerged from the murkiness at her left.
“If you are searching for the pup that was abandoned to suffer a dreadful fate in the rosebushes, you may cease your caterwauling, madam.”
She jumped, pressing a hand to her thumping heart. And she swore she would not have been more shocked if the devil himself had appeared in the gardens of her leased London townhome.
Hyacinth’s eyes frantically searched through the darkness, attempting to discern the speaker. Where was he? Who was he?
More importantly, why was he holding Adelaide hostage?
“What in heaven’s name are you doing in my gardens, sirrah?” she demanded.
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