My Lord, Lady, and Gentleman (Surrey SFS Book 3)

by Nicola Davidson

  My Lord, Lady, and Gentleman

  Surrey SFS #3

  Nicola Davidson

  Nicola Davidson

  MY LORD, LADY, AND GENTLEMAN is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.

  MY LORD, LADY, AND GENTLEMAN ©

  Nicola Davidson

  First Edition: July 2018

  Edited by: AuthorsDesigns

  Cover design by: Dusean Nelson at AuthorsDesigns

  Stock art: Period Images

  Formatted by: Tamara Gill

  Contents

  MY LORD, LADY, AND GENTLEMAN

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Epilogue

  Also by Nicola Davidson

  Standalones

  About the Author

  MY LORD, LADY, AND GENTLEMAN

  Estranged from his aristocratic family for choosing art over a third son’s proper path, Mr. Clayton Irving lives in wretched circumstances. His only joys are his friends and an extraordinary talent for sensual portraits, until the perfect opportunity arises: paint ton empress Lady Susanna Fenton. All his financial woes gone…if he can hide his fierce craving for her—and even more forbidden—her husband Lord Joseph Fenton.

  In the eyes of the world the Fentons have it all: staggering wealth, position, and a caring union. Yet their smiles hide a marriage broken by secrets and pretense. The wicked portrait is a last effort to save it, and Susanna and Joseph soon discover that sinfully handsome Clayton is key to a passionate and happy new start for them all. But secrets always reveal themselves, and those who break the rules are punished. Can an unconventional ménage truly defy all for love?

  Dedication

  To all those out, curious, or still deciding their path…much love.

  Prologue

  Guildford, Surrey, October 1814

  It is often said: when you live your truth, all things fall into place.

  The Honorable Clayton Irving paused in the middle of his hostess Lady Portia Butler’s lavish gold parlor and scowled. If he could find the bacon-brain who had spouted such horseshit, he’d ensure they enjoyed a courtesy bath in the Thames. Wearing a full suit of armor.

  In his experience, living your truth led to nothing but frustration and misery.

  Like when he’d taken a stand against his viscount father and informed him in no uncertain measures that his third son would not be a vicar. The evidence was plain to see; he’d been tossed out of Cambridge’s school of divinity studies three times, and his favorite activities were fucking, drinking, and gambling. Instead, he would be an artist, utilizing an uncanny skill for sensual portraits that had even been compared to the great Holbein. His father had responded by cutting off his allowance until he ‘came to his senses’. Ha. While society might romanticize the starving painter and claim the art would be created in its purest form, untainted by the mercenary…there was nothing romantic about living in cramped bachelor’s quarters on the fourth floor of a rickety building, complete with suspiciously rustling walls, the stench of damp and cooking, and a beady-eyed landlord.

  Or the frustration and misery of finally accepting that he was attracted to both women and men and wanted to live and love as a ménage, no matter how much the church and society rejected it…only to fall head over heels for the couple least likely to return his feelings: Lord Joseph and Lady Susanna Fenton. The recently elevated young baron and baroness were obscenely wealthy merchants, favorites of Prinny and his cronies for their exquisite fabrics and lace, and perhaps the most reserved and proper people in England. And yet he couldn’t suppress the equal parts admiration and lust he felt. The Fentons were whip-smart, yet honest in business and possessed a determination and work ethic that had taken them from the Wapping docks to a warm welcome at Carlton House. They had an eye for colors and textures that as an artist he could only applaud. And both husband and wife were sinfully good looking; Joseph with his black-Irish dark hair and eyes, hard thighs and broad shoulders, and Susanna a petite, blue-eyed brunette with slender curves and a lush backside.

  Exactly created to tempt and torment in equal measure.

  Indeed, there was no worse advice than to live your truth. If it weren’t for the Surrey Sexual Freedom Society, a close-knit group comprising of his six closest friends, Lady Portia Butler, Captain Randall Denham, Lady Madeline Dare, Lord Ethan Dare, Miss Amelia Tilton and Clayton’s second cousin Miss Beatrice Irving, he didn’t know where he’d be. The gloriously fun, entirely non-judgmental, and thoroughly scandalous monthly meetings on all matters erotic, had been his salvation and joy for a long time now.

  “I’m wondering what that potted plant has done to deserve such a scowl, Irving.”

  Startled from his musings, Clayton turned to Denham, the retired soldier who acted as Lady Portia’s personal bodyguard, and forced a grin. “Lost at cards and owes me money. Next time it’s going to lose a stalk.”

  Denham nodded solemnly as he stacked another carved wooden chair. “You can only give shrubbery so many warnings.”

  “Precisely. I also note the plant is failing to help you move the furniture back, so thought I would assist.”

  “Good of you. Lady Portia does like it all just so.”

  Clayton’s grin became genuine. He cherished their Society chairwoman like a beloved older sister, but Lady Portia was a five-feet-four-inch tempest who lived by her own rules and had terrorized Polite Society for all her thirty-eight years. If he’d been her bodyguard, he probably would have lost his mind in hours, but the calm and stoic captain seemed to take it all in his stride. “That she does. One of the many reasons we love her.”

  Denham snorted, yet the older man’s gaze softened as he looked over to where Lady Portia stood talking to Ethan, Maddy, Amelia, and Bea. “Interesting talk today. Dare is quite a scholar.”

  “Indeed he is,” said Clayton, helping to lift an embroidered chaise that appeared fragile and weighed a bloody ton. “I mean, you hear tales about the Ancient Egyptians, but they were a great deal more fun when it came to fucking than I gave them credit for. So innovative. Lucky for Maddy that her new husband studies a topic so fascinating. Imagine if he examined tree bark, or chronicled the mating habits of sea slugs.”

  Denham’s lips twitched. “Reckon she’d still have wed him. Nothing to be done once the heart has settled on its mate. Miss Beatrice was the same, was she not, with Miss Amelia?”

  “Quite,” he said fondly. Bea was the only Irving he kept in close contact with—his own family were awful—and the fact his cousin was equally unconventional in her love for another woman, only made him adore her more. “Despite the fuss. That’s how you know, I think.”

  “And now I think you’ve found your mates. However there are issues. Obstacles.”

  Clayton’s gaze flew to the older man’s in surprise. Then his shoulders slumped. “Alas, you are correct.”

  “What is Denham correct about?” asked Lady Portia, as she arrived in a flurry of ruby-red skirts, her sharply intelligent gaze inquisitive.

  “Irving found his couple,” said the captain, folding
his brawny arms. “And now resides in limbo hell.”

  “Good gracious. Did you give our fallen angel some advice, given you have twenty years more experience in the world?”

  “No,” said Denham, surprisingly curt. “Not when I’m a resident of limbo hell myself. Excuse me. I’m going to move the baroque chairs.”

  Lady Portia glared at the captain’s retreating back. “That man. I’ve offered to intercede on his behalf with the mystery lady on countless occasions, but he always refuses. Just snaps like a bear woken from hibernation.”

  Clayton laughed. “Perhaps the lady is you.”

  “Hardly,” said his hostess, even as faint color washed across her cheekbones. “I’m a salty spinster and far too set in my ways. Besides. You know my thoughts on the lackluster and male-benefitting institution of marriage.”

  “The lady doth protest too much, methinks,” Clayton teased.

  Lady Portia arched one imperious eyebrow. “Fustian. Now, far more importantly, are you ready for the meeting in London with Lady Fenton tomorrow? That will be a most lucrative and beneficial commission if you can agree to terms, because the rest of the ton will then fall at your feet. Susanna is the current darling; they all madly covet her fabrics and laces, and her husband is devilishly clever, from what I gather he has improved the business finances from an already healthy position. I quite like them both. Generous and charitable, even if they are far too stuffy.”

  His heart sank. He certainly didn’t need reminding that Susanna and Joseph would never be his. No matter how many invitations he’d accepted in London, just for a glimpse of them. No matter how many times he’d woken up in the night, hard and aching after wickedly explicit dreams of fucking them both. No matter how many gushing newspaper articles he’d pored over, or inadequate sketches of their eyes and lips he’d thrown into the fire.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

  Chapter 1

  St. James’s Square, London

  Today. Today is the day for change. For I cannot bear another moment of this loveless, passionless marriage.

  Pasting a bright smile on her face, Lady Susanna Fenton swept into the lavishly furnished dining room of their townhouse. “Good morning, Joseph.”

  Lord Joseph Fenton, her startlingly handsome husband, looked up from his newspaper and gave her a tight smile. “Good morning.”

  Oh bother. She’d done it again. Called him Joseph, when he wanted her to say ‘my lord’ or ‘Fenton’ like the well-bred ton ladies did.

  For about the thousandth time she inwardly cursed the Prince Regent for his so-called gift of a barony which had turned her husband into a cold and too-proper stranger and forced her into the unwanted role of aristocratic wife. Mr. Joseph Fenton had laughed, charmed with a beautiful Irish brogue, and called her Susie. Lord Fenton’s face was unreadable, his tone determinedly English-clipped, and he only referred to her as Susanna or Lady Fenton. Sure, their marriage hadn’t ever been perfect; friendship and like minds hadn’t translated to passion in the bedchamber. But now…it was a shadow of what it had once been. What it should be.

  “How is your breakfast, my lord?” she continued, as a peace offering, and his smile warmed a little.

  “Most adequate. You should try some of Cook’s blackberry preserve. By the by, you are looking fetching this morning. That shade of green always looks superb on you.”

  Susanna barely suppressed a wince at the ton breakfast conversation, impersonal and insubstantial. All it needed was a comment on the weather, bleak, cold and gray as October in London tended to be. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said, returning to the ironed broadsheet. “We have another shipment of lace coming in this evening. I’ll supervise the unloading at Wapping, some of those deckhands can be clumsy.”

  “Very well,” she replied, gritting her teeth as she turned to the sideboard of warmed dishes, and filled her plate with coddled eggs, thinly sliced ham, and buttered toast.

  It was either that or hurl the plate at the wall.

  While she’d long suspected Joseph had married her mostly for her father’s very successful importing empire, the reminders hurt like relentless needle pricks. Once upon a time, she’d thought he cared. Perhaps even loved her. But their marriage was nothing like her parents had been; a world of interesting conversation, saucy banter, clasped hands and tender smiles. And so very passionate. How often had Mama and Papa told her to go and enjoy cake in the kitchens with Cook, then returned later with suspiciously pink cheeks, bright eyes, and fresh clothing?

  That was the kind of marriage she wanted. What she had was a polite, distant husband who saw her as a walking, talking display for fabric and accessories, a proper lady to occasionally visit at night, take swiftly and gently, and abandon. Susanna Fenton might have wealth, position, and a blasted title, but she also had a heartbreakingly empty nursery, for Joseph wouldn’t spill inside her…and a desperate craving for the orgasms he didn’t provide.

  She just knew there was so much more to lust. At the docks, one couldn’t help but see all sorts of jaw-dropping sights. And a curious miss who had found a small window overlooking a secluded alley saw and heard more than most. Good heavens. The rough carnality of it all had been truly startling…and so very arousing. Couples engaged in frenzied rutting against the stone wall, women having their swollen nipples suckled, and hard cocks thrusting into eager mouths. Men on their knees, their tongues and fingers working busily between spread thighs. Blunt, crude words, moans of pleasure, and most wicked of all, occasionally more than two people. That she still went to that window to watch and yearn after two years of marriage was her own secret shame, for it definitely wasn’t the behavior of a perfect baroness.

  Yet it wasn’t that Joseph lacked passion. At times she could almost feel the raw, brooding Dubliner simmering under the controlled surface. He just had to be coaxed out of his aristocratic shell. So she had devised a plan. A very naughty plan to provoke his ire, and ensure he saw her not as a prim society wife, but as a bold, alluring, sensual woman who needed love and erotic pleasure.

  Taking a deep breath to calm her frazzled nerves, Susanna took her plate to the oak dining table and sat at Joseph’s right, rather than in her usual place at the opposite end with miles of polished wood and oversized floral arrangements between them.

  Her husband raised his head from the newspaper again and gave her a quizzical look. “Is something wrong with your chair?”

  “N-no,” she mumbled, tongue-tied. Gracious, he smelled delicious. Sandalwood soap and some sort of herbal concoction his valet splashed on his jaw after shaving. “I wanted to tell you something. Something, ah, private.”

  “Oh?”

  “Now we are home from Venice, I am planning on commissioning a portrait.”

  Joseph smiled politely. “What an excellent idea, the gallery is rather sparse. Or perhaps in the drawing room. A gilt-framed painting will look just so.”

  “It’s not, ah, that kind of portrait,” Susanna continued, a blush scorching across her cheeks. “The painter is…Clayton Irving.”

  Her husband froze. “Beg pardon?”

  “Clayton Irving. He’s—”

  “I’ve heard of him,” said Joseph, his jaw rigid.

  She paused, even as her heart soared with hope. A reaction! Now, to push him a little further. “Of course you have. Mr. Irving is divinely handsome, ever so popular, and an exceedingly talented artist who is making a name for himself painting ladies of the ton…without clothing. He is traveling here from Guildford and should arrive this afternoon to discuss terms and show me his portfolio. I did initially invite him a few days ago, but he had some meeting he couldn’t miss with Lady Portia Butler.”

  Joseph folded his newspaper precisely in half and set it beside his empty breakfast plate. “I understand. One does not renege on an arrangement with Lady Portia. I can only imagine the storm that hellion would unleash,” he finished, actually smiling.

  He admired Lady Portia? Aggravating
, but unsurprising, perhaps. The older woman was beautiful and accomplished, wellborn and impeccably connected. Yet she was so forceful, a lady who not only commanded and sent most of the ton scurrying for cover when she approached, but seemingly quite content to remain a childless spinster.

  Everything I’m not.

  Perhaps they were lovers. Perhaps all those days and nights Joseph claimed he was at the docks, or his club, or meeting with lawyers or bankers, he was bedding Pistol Portia, as so many of society called her. Damn them.

  “Quite,” said Susanna, taking a bracing breath. “Do you wish me to cancel the meeting? I can, of course, send Mr. Irving away. Erotic portraits are unconventional and rather scandalous. But Lady Portia did recommend him so highly…”

  “That would be impolite,” replied Joseph at last. “However I think I should remain here for the afternoon to greet him also. Let me know when he arrives. Until then, Susanna.”

  And with that, her husband got to his feet, bowed, and retreated from the room.

  Heart racing with anticipation, Susanna stared at her untouched plate of rapidly cooling food. Joseph never changed his schedule. And now he’d decided to stay home and receive London’s most infamous painter. Perhaps all wasn’t lost.

  Mr. Clayton Irving might not know it, but he would be the catalyst for change in the Fenton marriage.

  One way or another.

  Oh, how the wealthy lived.

  Stepping out of the traveling carriage kindly loaned to him for the journey by Lady Portia, Clayton glanced uneasily around St. James’s Square. Everything about the place screamed luxury and exclusivity, from the circular expanse of emerald lawn in the middle with a statue of King William III on horseback, to the sense of enclosure, a haven from the rest of London. The square was close to Carlton House, and the various branches of the military and government, clearly why the loftiest of people chose to make their home here. Lord Castlereagh, the Foreign Secretary, lived at number 18. At number 31, the sprawling red brick grandeur of Norfolk House was entirely fit for a duke. In the past there had been a plethora of dukes and earls, even a prime minister.