My Lord, Lady, and Gentleman

by Nicola Davidson

“My goodness,” said Susanna, her cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling like midnight stars. “You’ve quite covered me.”

  “We have,” said Clayton, meeting Joseph’s avid gaze as he leaned up on one elbow to drag a finger through the silken mess and paint her taut nipples with it, then her pouty lips. “Taste us.”

  Her eyes grew heavy-lidded, and she darted out her little pink tongue to lick her lips clean. “Hmmm. Almost…salty. A bit earthy. I quite like it. More, please. In my mouth.”

  Swiftly, he obliged the carnal little minx, trying not to groan as she sucked the blended seed from his finger, and unable to stop himself caressing her cheek. “Plenty more where that came from, darling. I will need a few minutes though.”

  Joseph laughed. “The legend is true.”

  “But of course. Moderation is well and good for everything except art, dessert, and fucking.”

  “If you stayed, we could have all three,” said Susanna hesitantly.

  If you stayed.

  Clayton stilled as a yearning surged through him, even more powerful than his climax. Of course she didn’t mean forever, but he couldn’t help creating the fantasy in his mind. No more lackluster weeks of lonely nights interspersed with meaningless affairs. Forever would mean this bright, airy room to paint in, and create whatever art they liked. Shared meals and conversation as they told him about their day’s successes and annoyances. Words of love and affection from them both.

  Indeed, he wanted it all.

  But an affair was one thing. Living as a trio under one roof was something else entirely. They would need to be discreet; while the late Duke of Devonshire had lived with both his duchess Georgiana and lover Lady Elizabeth Foster, he didn’t think they had been a ménage. And two men rather than two women was a significant difference. Far more likely, once the painting was completed, he would have to return to Guildford. Even with his lovely purse of guineas it would still be a grim reality, and once again, his only joy being the Society meetings.

  So, for now, he had to decide whether it was better to gorge himself with their company and collect blissful memories, or somehow protect his heart by staying away.

  Ha. It wasn’t even a decision. When had he ever been prudent?

  Pressing a kiss to Susanna’s bare shoulder, while stealing a lingering glance at Joseph’s rapidly recovering cock, Clayton took a deep breath and pasted a smile on his face.

  “A buffet of dessert and fucking sounds entirely too decadent, madam. So I’ll reply an emphatic yes.”

  He could worry about his heart later.

  The Theater Royal in Drury Lane was one of her favorite places in London. But tonight’s visit to watch the great Edmund Kean himself was even more special, for it wasn’t just Joseph that accompanied her, but Clayton as well.

  Susanna paused on the staircase and allowed herself a moment to take in the elegant, spacious splendor. Impossibly high carved ceiling, an enormous stage, orchestra pit, and four levels of generous-sized boxes arranged in a semi-circle, so all had an excellent view. Each box was separated by a stone column, and from each column hung a small chandelier, ensuring the place was remarkably well lit. The less expensive seats were directly in front of the stage, and even now she could hear the raucous sounds of hundreds of men and women talking and laughing as they waited for the play to begin.

  Joseph patted her gloved hand where it rested on his sleeve. “Quite a place, isn’t it?”

  She grinned. “Not bad, I suppose.”

  Clayton burst out laughing beside her. “So hard to please, madam! I must say, they did a fine job with the fourth rebuild back in 1812. Imagine losing a theater not once but twice to fire. Management must reach for their hartshorn every time someone lights a lantern. Where are we sitting?”

  Closing her eyes briefly, Susanna forced her free hand to remain at her side and not reach up to curl around Clayton’s arm so all three of them were linked as they walked. Just because they had the most heavenly bond in the temporary painting studio, had enjoyed several meals together in the past week, and Clayton had accepted an invitation entirely unrelated to his commission, didn’t necessarily mean he wanted a shared future. She had to remember that. And accept it. No matter how much her heart broke at the thought.

  No matter how shockingly natural it felt to be part of a trio rather than a couple.

  “Our hired box is on the third floor,” she replied.

  “We should probably take our seats,” said Joseph, and they continued up the wide staircase to the private box. It was about three-quarters of the way along the hallway, and the entrance was blocked by a heavy crimson velvet curtain. Her husband held it to one side to allow her and Clayton to pass through, then he followed them inside.

  “Lady Fenton! Oh, what a treat to see you here. Come and tell me everything!”

  Susanna groaned inwardly at the sight of the statuesque Countess Onslow in the box next to theirs. The lady was a fellow member of the hospital fundraising committee but had yet to contribute a single guinea to the cause. She much preferred to gossip, and was probably responsible for at least ninety percent of London’s inaccurate information flow.

  “Good evening, Lady Onslow,” she replied, reluctantly moving to the side of the box so they could speak over the partition.

  “Hello, dear, looking divine as usual. Is that Irish lace on your gown? Oh, I must have some. The conversation behind me is ever so dull, do distract me. Onslow is talking about tenant troubles or some such ghastly thing. The low born are always complaining. Not nearly enough gratitude toward their betters.”

  “I am low born,” said Susanna, resisting the urge to strangle the woman with her diamond necklace.

  The countess guffawed. “Don’t be silly! You have all that lovely money. And Prinny fixed your common past with a title, so you are one of us now. How is Lord Fenton? And…my word, is that Clayton Irving? I didn’t realize you were acquainted with him. Far too bold for my taste, and estranged from his family, you know. It must be his fault, for Lord and Lady Irving are just well-bred perfection. As are his two older brothers.”

  Fury surged at the trite, ridiculous words. It was something Susanna would never understand or accept about most ton women, the insistence that bloodlines and titles meant more than hard work and compassion for others. As for Lady Onslow’s opinion of Clayton, well, she could go roll in manure. The Irving family could also, if they didn’t love their youngest son. A person would have to be a complete twit to not see how wonderful he was.

  Susanna tilted her head. “I must respectfully disagree. Mr. Irving is a special friend, and I quite adore his company. He is extraordinarily talented, amusing, generous and handsome. Do you know he is painting my portrait? Everyone will want one soon, and his work will be worth an absolute fortune. I said to Fenton it must be done now, and my dear husband indulged my whim. He is also an ardent admirer.”

  Lady Onslow swayed on her feet. “An immoral portrait? Special friends, you say?”

  Recklessly, she winked. “Not a stitch of clothing. And yes. Very special.”

  “Oh dear. Oh my. Ah…it seems Onslow is calling me back.”

  “What a shame,” lied Susanna. “Good evening, my lady.”

  And with that, she turned on her heel and made her way to the row of velvet-upholstered chairs. Joseph and Clayton were seated and laughing about something, but had left a space for her between them.

  Both glanced up as she approached. Oddly, her husband wore a faintly guilty expression. Why would she mind them sharing a joke?

  Clayton grinned as she sat down. “That was a remarkably short conversation. I thought you’d be trapped for at least an hour.”

  “Lady Onslow said some disagreeable things. I’m afraid I was not a good baroness in my response.”

  “Naughty Susie. What’s to be done with you,” said Joseph, shaking his head even as his lips twitched.

  Gracious. What a difference a Clayton made. To think her husband used to frown at her for calling him Joseph
. Now he had accepted pleasure lessons, relaxed his false English accent, called her Susie on several occasions, and tolerated her behaving pertly in public.

  “I can think of a few possibilities,” she replied with a sultry smile. “What about you, Clayton?”

  Her lover, for that was how she thought of him privately now, groaned. “Don’t ask me that, you little minx. Not in the middle of a bloody theater, wearing formfitting trousers.”

  Joseph cleared his throat. “I must concur. But what were the disagreeable things?”

  “A complaint I hear all too often from ton ladies,” said Susanna, grimacing. “How the so-called lowborn are ungrateful. Imagine daring to want a fair wage, and adequate housing, and an education for their children. But Lady Onslow also spouted some nonsense about Clayton being estranged from his family and it being his fault because they are paragons.”

  To her right, the man in question went rigid. “Oh?”

  Susanna tossed her head. “Indeed. I wouldn’t hear of it, though. Told her you were an artist of extraordinary talent who was painting my portrait. Not to mention amusing and generous and handsome. That I quite adore your company…”

  She trailed off in embarrassment. Oh no. She had definitely said too much. And yet rather than scolding her or tensing, Joseph began stroking the back of her neck. “Quite so, my dear.”

  “You said that?” said Clayton, in an unusually hoarse tone, his emerald gaze searching.

  “Yes,” she replied softly. And as bold as she dared in a public place with so many eyes watching, she took his hand and squeezed it. Only to barely swallow a cry of joy when his thumb caressed her knuckles, and he smiled at her with soul-stirring tenderness.

  Sweet heaven. Could it be true?

  He had feelings for her in return?

  A trumpet blast from the stage below startled her into dropping his hand, and Susanna quickly turned her head to the stage to watch the play begin.

  Not that she would be able to concentrate when her mind was whirling and stomach churning at what this might mean for them. And her marriage. A woman couldn’t have two men. That was impossible. And while Joseph might be willing to take lessons from Clayton, the novelty would pass no matter how wickedly good their interludes were. He certainly wouldn’t accept him as her lover in future. What husband would? It was ridiculously unfair to ask that of him when she’d made vows to love and cherish him. To forsake all others.

  What on earth was she to do?

  Chapter 4

  Everything he needed to create a portrait was at his fingertips. And yet he couldn’t make himself begin.

  Clayton scowled at the large rectangle of blank canvas mocking him with its pristine whiteness. He had no excuses; a wide array of oils, his collection of paintbrushes, and all the sketches he’d done rested nearby. Even though he’d finished the sketching part of the process, Susanna and Joseph had kindly allowed him use of the still-empty music room to paint in. So he had a light, airy space. One smiling maid had brought in a tray with brandy and lemonade, another a plate of buttered bread, thinly sliced ham, an apple, and two berry tarts.

  He literally had everything he needed. Yet an hour after he’d arrived, the canvas remained blank.

  And he knew precisely why.

  Joseph’s actions in this very room had been promising enough, but after the delightful shared meals, the wonderful evening at the theater, Susanna’s defense of him to the vile Lady Onslow, and the way she’d taken his hand in public…he needed to take charge of the situation without delay. They had to be plain with one another. No more hesitancy or unfulfilled yearning, but the truth of their hopes and wants, and a path for the future as a trio.

  The time was now. Once he started painting, the fever would grip him, and he would work until his fingers cramped, his back ached, his eyes were reddened, and his neck had a semi-permanent indentation from where he tilted it to judge his lines and tones and shading, and lose the precious momentum.

  Fuck, he wanted to stay. Apart from Lady Portia’s gold parlor where they held the Society meetings, no place had ever felt like home until this townhouse. Not his father’s impersonal, old-fashioned estate, the sparsely-furnished Eton dorm he’d shared with so many other boys, his cold and unwanted room at Cambridge, or the grimy bachelor lodgings in Guildford. But here, in stiff-rumped St. James’s Square of all places, he’d found real acceptance of his art and creative quirks. Passion and laughter and tender care. At last, somewhere to belong.

  A knock at the music room door jolted him from his thoughts, and he looked across to see one of the Fenton footmen.

  “Beg pardon, sir,” said the young man apologetically, “I know you are at work and don’t wish to be disturbed…but, ah…your family is here.”

  Clayton brightened. Bea and Amelia had come to visit? It would be wonderful to see them, and his second cousin could give him tips on how to declare oneself without making a complete mess of it. “Not a bother, lad. Send them in.”

  The footman bowed and disappeared, and Clayton relaxed and gazed out the window to the walled garden as he waited for the two ladies. No one would understand quite like them; they defied rules and propriety every day living together as lovers in their picturesque little cottage.

  “Clayton.”

  He froze at the horribly familiar masculine tone. Oh no. Hell no.

  Never had he turned more slowly or reluctantly. But there his father Lord Irving stood, and worse, his mother and two older brothers Ewan and Fergus also. A fucking bland and joyless wall of blond-haired, soberly-dressed, sour-faced disapproval. Four people who had made his life miserable for as long as he could remember.

  “Father. Mother. Brothers,” he said coldly. “You found me.”

  “Only thanks to dear Lady Onslow,” said his mother. “She saw you at the theater and told us you might be found in the company of these…these merchants. We’ve come to fetch you away from this place of lowborn vice and return you to Cambridge where you belong.”

  Clayton’s jaw clenched. “Can’t, I’m afraid. Too busy with a commission for Lord and Lady Fenton. A well-paid one, I might add.”

  “Tainted money. Accepting it makes you no better than a merchant yourself.”

  “So be it,” he replied tightly. “This is my occupation. And may I remind you, Mother, I’m twenty-four years old, not a child, and I don’t want your funds with chains attached.”

  Lord Irving glared at him. “Such insolence. Splattering paint about is not an occupation, it’s a damned hobby. Preaching sermons and tending to his congregation, now that is a worthy way for a man to spend his days.”

  “I’ve already told you I’m not returning to Cambridge. In that they’ve thrown me out three times already for breaking nearly all their rules, I can’t see them wanting me back, either.”

  “That is where you are wrong, boy. I can donate again. They will accept you. The Irving name can be restored if you will just forget this art nonsense and behave like a wellborn gentleman for once.”

  “No,” snapped Clayton.

  “Do not speak to Father like that,” said Ewan, his brow furrowing.

  “Or what, brother? You’ll send me to my room without supper?”

  Fergus snapped his heels together. “Time in the military is what you need. Discipline. That would break you of your bad habits soon enough. The drinking. The gambling. The women.”

  Clayton bared his teeth in a parody of a smile. “Don’t forget the men.”

  Lady Irving gasped. “No! You were cured of that nasty affliction. All those treatments…”

  “On the contrary, ma’am. As it turns out, the purification process of being beaten, starved and doused in icy water didn’t do the trick. Can’t think why.”

  “You are an abomination,” bit out his father. “Unworthy of the family in every way. I thought perhaps you could be reasoned with one last time, but you are clearly too far gone down the path to purgatory. You are no longer my son.”

  “Then by all means
go,” Clayton replied, so rigid with angry tension it felt like he might snap in half.

  “An excellent idea,” said a voice from the doorway, and he winced in embarrassment to see Joseph standing there, an expression of such fury on his swarthy face that it made him look even more fearsome than usual. “My footmen will escort you out. And remind you to never again darken this doorstep.”

  “No need, Fenton,” said Lord Irving. “We will gladly leave this scum behind. All of it.”

  And with that, his family, or at least those closely related to him by blood, departed the room.

  Clayton stalked to the window overlooking the garden and braced his hands on the cool wooden sill. Bloody hell, he needed to punch something. Tear it in two. Crush it under his heel. Every fucking audience he had with them was so similar it was as if they were actors reading from a script. They would mock his art then put pressure on him to become a vicar, as third sons

  were supposed to. After that came the threats and insults. As dear Bea also knew, if you were an Irving who did not conform, you were tormented and cast out into the night. Considered worthless. By now he should be immune to the hurt and rage his relatives provoked, and yet he was not.

  It still clawed him to the soul, remembering those hideous times they had taken advice from the local vicar and tried to break him of his attraction to men. Was it any wonder he wanted no part of the church? Between that and his parents’ utter dismissal and rejection of his beloved art…fuck.

  “They’re gone, Clayton.”

  He didn’t turn at Joseph’s soft-spoken words, surprisingly close behind him. “Humblest apologies, my lord. I didn’t invite them. I never would. Lady Onslow must have rushed on winged feet to tell them about our trip to the theater. The Irvings and I don’t get along, as you saw.”

  “Because they are small-minded and afraid. They couldn’t even dream of talent like yours, so they want to strip it from you and mold you into the milk and water they understand. I’m sure they hate you earning an income from painting because then they can’t bend you to their will with money. Your brilliance is defeating them, and they can’t stand it.”