by Megan Mulry
The days were foolish enough—the four of them attending at-home visits about town or taking rides in the open carriage through Hyde Park—what with all that proximity. But the nights were far worse. After midnight each night, Pia slipped unnoticed from her guest room into Sebastian and Anna’s bed in the adjoining suite. The three of them enjoyed a tender and consuming passion, and also the simple comfort of being exactly where each of them wanted to be. At home in one another’s arms.
Sometimes Anna was the center of attention, bossing Sebastian around and pulling Pia’s lips to hers. Other times Pia was spread wide, wrists and ankles fastened to the four posts of the tester bed, while Anna and Sebastian licked and sucked and rubbed and cupped and tormented her body until she was begging and begging and crying out. Anna had taken to gagging her with a strip of leather Sebastian had commissioned for precisely that purpose. It seemed they were not alone in their proclivities, Sebastian having discovered a rather accommodating leather smith who was quite adept at making all sorts of anatomically correct toys out of the softest hides, polished wood, and finely honed metals.
And of course, there was Sebastian, that delectable creature who wanted nothing more than to please Anna and, by proxy, to ensure that Pia and Anna were left utterly satisfied whenever it was within his power to make it so.
Pia was not a greedy person. Or at least she’d never fancied herself greedy before now. She was ever grateful. She knew full well she had more love and physical satisfaction than most people ever dreamt possible—much less experienced!—in the course of a life spent battling hard, cold reality.
Still.
Lurking in the back of her mind—and, she suspected, in the front of Sebastian’s and somewhere around the perimeter of Anna’s—was the idea of Farleigh. The idea of Farleigh in the same house in his own large bed, quite alone, while the three of them were finding solace and joy in each other, was beginning to nip at Pia’s conscience. It seemed a shame.
He was probably only a few yards away, if one were to remove the walls.
Pia had undertaken the demolition project in her mind many days ago. When Anna licked her or Sebastian toyed with her breasts, Pia shut her eyes and pictured Farleigh there. Sometimes he was across the room, casually holding a glass of whiskey in his strong fingers as he did in the drawing room, exuding all that blasé confidence. Other times he was standing closer, near the edge of the bed, tracing her mouth or the curve of her ear while the other two made her body arch and crack open with pleasure. Farleigh always observed her.
And something about that seemingly clinical act of studied observation had become so exquisitely erotic that the thought of it sent Pia into a weakened state of longing, right there in the ballroom.
“You’ve thought of it, I see,” he said in a low, complicit, throaty voice.
Oh, that voice of his. So prim and filthy all at once. “I have not . . .” She cleared her throat, not wanting to lie. Because not only had she thought of it but she had contemplated every fantastical permutation. She swallowed. “I have not merely thought of it, Farleigh. I’ve pictured it in exquisite, lifelike detail.”
He barked that arrogant laugh again, apparently not caring who heard or whose wrath he incurred. In fact, his inappropriately forward behavior with the mysterious Spanish lady was more apt to bolster his reputation than ruin it. “I applaud your honesty, Pia. I believe I shall convince you to marry me after all.”
She exhaled again and held her tongue. Anna was finally finished dancing; she and Wellesley were making their way toward them. The ballroom was crowded, and it would still be many minutes before they were all reunited.
Sebastian had been snared in a gaggle of women consisting of the Duchess of Abbyville and three of her six eligible daughters. Farleigh smiled and raised his glass in a tiny salute. Sebastian widened his eyes in a desperate plea to be rescued from the ever-tightening circle. Pia had learned that, even though he was married, most mamas saw Sebastian as a potential bridge to the eligible Duke of Mandeville. The fact that Farleigh was notorious for preferring the company of men—in and out of his bedroom—was of no concern to ambitious mothers in the marriage mart. He was titled and terribly rich. Sexual inclinations were the least of their worries.
“I’ve told him repeatedly he must learn to be more standoffish,” Farleigh said, looking at Sebastian in his pickle.
“It’s not in his nature to be rude. I know it’s difficult for you to understand when someone actually enjoys being pleasant.”
Farleigh swung his head to face her. “That is quite a terrible thing to say to your future husband.”
“Oh, do stop with that.” Pia wasn’t able to hold her stern expression for long, especially when his lips curved into his most conspiratorial, intimate smile.
“I like sparring with you, Pia. It’s almost like talking to a man.”
Pia almost spit out her sip of the overly sweet liqueur. “You know, I think you actually meant that as a compliment.” Her eyes were slightly moist from her enjoyment.
“The highest.” He nodded and returned his attention to Sebastian, who was finally extricating himself—with the help of Farleigh’s mother—from the cluster of desperate women. “Ah, good. Here he comes.”
Sebastian couldn’t have been more grateful to Farleigh’s mother than he was at that moment. She had proved quite helpful in so many regards, but in social extraction she was on par with a military maneuverer. Pia, Sebastian, and Anna had been presented to Farleigh’s mother, the Duchess of Mandeville, at her grand home on Piccadilly the day after arriving in London. The formidable old woman had been more than willing to help implement their plan to get Wellesley to redirect his efforts back to Portugal rather than join forces with de Miranda in the New World. Not that she knew anything about the particulars—she had merely been given the task of introducing the Spaniards into high society, and it was a task to which she was perfectly suited.
While many other matrons had curled their lips at Farleigh’s animated behavior, the Duchess adored her son and chose to turn a blind eye to his flamboyance whenever other people commented on it. On more than one occasion, Sebastian had observed her skillful conversational deflections. One older man had recently implied that the duchess should take a firmer hand in disciplining her son and show more concern about putting a stop to the rumors that he was engaging in illicit acts.
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to disappoint you,” she replied without pausing.
“Disappoint me?” the monocled prig asked.
“Yes, I would hate to rob you of such a pleasant pastime.”
He was beginning to see where she was headed and shifted uncomfortably. “Pastime?”
“Obviously disciplining my son is something you have spent much time contemplating. I shan’t take away such a treat.” She smiled benignly, and the man’s wide eyes and falling monocle were his only response. He tried to sputter a reply, but the duchess merely shook her head slightly. “That is all.”
The man had walked away, and once again, Farleigh’s mother had prevailed. Even so, Sebastian could see it was wearing on her.
Sebastian suspected she didn’t much care what her son did on his own time, in his own bed, but she had a tender heart and was very outspoken in her desire for grandchildren. Sebastian felt the older woman soften, and he looked up to see the direction of her gaze: Farleigh was laughing boldly and was briefly touching Pia’s gloved forearm.
“Am I wrong to hope?” the duchess asked.
Sebastian smiled kindly. “I believe one is never wrong to hope.”
“I knew I liked you.” She looked at Sebastian for a few seconds longer, assessing him.
It occurred to him that this delicate old woman saw right through his social mask to his pounding heart. What had started as a bit of protracted flirtation—spending time with Farleigh to see Anna’s keen anticipation of some debauched sexual culmination between the two men—had escalated into full-blown madness. Sebastian was falling in love with Farleigh.
Anna was a genius, he had to confess, by encouraging him to flirt and jostle with Farleigh as much as possible, while never letting them get any closer than a manly pat on the back or that one fabulous swat on his bum. At first, gamboling around Farleigh had been a sweet torture; now Sebastian was at the end of his tether. He reminded himself he was escorting the man’s mother across a crowded ballroom and tried to temper his enthusiasm.
“Are you becoming tired, Your Grace?” Sebastian asked the duchess while they weaved through the crush of people who’d formed now that the music had ceased.
“I am. But you young people should carry on. I see your wife has Wellesley sitting in her pocket. Perhaps you should stay for the elegant refreshments Lady Chienjour usually serves.”
Sebastian watched Anna, rosy from her time on the dance floor, laughing amber eyes sparkling up at Arthur Wellesley. Sebastian’s hand was resting on the duchess’s, over where she’d placed hers on his forearm. He must have pressed her hand against his without realizing it.
“There, there, Sebastian. Don’t fret, you sweet man. She sees nothing in him.”
He breathed through the unfamiliar emotion. Welcoming Pia, or even Farleigh if it came to that, into his relationship with Anna felt like something delicious and sensual and ambitious. Seeing Anna snap and spark while she parried with the likes of Arthur Wellesley felt like something, if not sordid and cheap, at best vapid.
If Anna started experimenting with men and women all over Europe, Sebastian wasn’t sure he could remain cavalier. “Oh, I don’t fret. Anna sees much in many people,” Sebastian replied, trying to sound vague and noncommittal. In a perfect example of ill-timed coincidence, at that very moment Anna happened to look at Pia, and a flash of raw hunger passed between them. It was gone in a moment, but Sebastian could tell that the duchess had seen it.
“Ah. So she does. But it’s not the same, is it?”
Sebastian gave up trying to force his way through the packed sea of humanity and led the older woman to a slightly less crowded area near a column at the side of the room.
He and the duchess stood quietly for a few moments. “She is quite animated, that’s all,” the duchess finally said. “Let her have her fun. She’s been holed up in that convent all her life. Let her play a little.”
“I’m not sure I’m as much of a libertine as I thought I was.”
The duchess thought that was splendid, tipping her head back and laughing with the all-consuming glee that was so much like her son’s reaction when he was similarly delighted.
“Oh, Sebastian, I see why he loves you.”
Sebastian’s head flew to face her. “I beg your pardon?”
“Oh.” She opened her fan and slowly, without a hint of unease, began to swish it back and forth in front of her chest and neck. “No one suspects.”
Sebastian couldn’t repress a smile—Farleigh’s sexual antics were legendary.
The duchess smiled back. “I meant no one suspects you in particular. Farleigh made such a commotion about that actor last year; the gossip mill really hasn’t stopped turning since.”
“You are an unusual woman, Duchess.”
“Sometimes if you make a few concessions to propriety, you can live a very fulfilling and rewarding life within its supposed confines.”
“And you would know?”
“Yes, I would, young man.” She slapped her fan shut and used it to gesture toward her wrinkled neck and face. “I wasn’t always this prunish, you know. I was quite splendid, really.” Her voice was soft with memory, as if that splendid creature had been someone else entirely.
“You are still quite splendid, I think,” he complimented, letting his voice take on a slightly flirtatious quality.
She snapped open the fan and smiled, but her voice was haughty when she said, “I almost believe you, but that’s no way to be talking to the mother of your . . . very dear friend.”
In that moment, Sebastian felt an unspoken benediction: this woman believed in her son’s right to his own happiness, whatever path he chose in its pursuit. They looked at one another for a few moments, and she nodded once, barely noticeable, and Sebastian felt all of her kindness.
“There you are!” Anna cried dramatically as she pushed her way past the final row of crowded guests that separated them. Sebastian watched, amused, as Lieutenant General Wellesley was relegated to serving as her adjutant, pulling up the rear as he apologized to everyone she’d cut in her wake. Farleigh and Pia were close behind. “We were all desperate to find you,” Anna said breathlessly, looking up into Sebastian’s face. Her shining eyes bound him to her as much as any rope or leather.
He bent down slowly and kissed the inside of her wrist. “I was desperate to find you, too,” he said softly, so only she could hear, then more clearly. “Did you enjoy your dance with my wife, Wellesley?”
“Very much, indeed. She is quite something.”
Sebastian nodded, not liking the satisfied way Arthur Wellesley looked at Anna. “She is,” Sebastian said shortly. “Quite.”
“She tells me you have news from Javier in Badajoz,” Wellesley said as he reluctantly looked away from Anna’s flushed cheeks.
Sebastian straightened. It was easier to set aside what amounted to nothing more than petty jealousy when he remembered the fate of the Spanish nation rested in relaying the information to Wellesley. “Yes, sir. Are you available to discuss the particulars tomorrow?”
“I’d rather discuss them now.”
Sebastian was unsure whether to respect or disdain this man’s arrogant abruptness. Marco and Javi had assured him Wellesley was to be trusted, but Sebastian had his doubts. He set them aside. If Wellesley was able to redirect his troops to Portugal instead of the colonies, he could perhaps defeat the French bastards quickly and thoroughly.
“Very well,” Sebastian said slowly. “You wish to speak in front of the ladies?”
Wellesley looked at Anna and Pia, then his glance slipped to the duchess. He bowed slightly in a show of respect. “Your Grace.”
“Arthur,” she said with familiar ease. She had known him since he was quite young.
“Speak, man,” Wellesley demanded quietly.
“Very well,” Sebastian began, lowering his voice. “By the middle of August, Delaborde will be near Roliça . . .” He continued recounting the specific details—locations, numbers of troops, the name of a traitor in the Portuguese army—weaving all the particulars together in a subdued, confident voice that was unintelligible to passersby. Meanwhile, Anna, Pia, Farleigh, and the duchess spoke gaily about nothing of any importance, in order to further obscure the nature of Sebastian’s report.
Wellesley rarely spoke, merely nodding amiably as if Sebastian were sharing a not particularly engaging tale. When Sebastian was finished, Wellesley nodded once more but gave no other indication he’d registered a single word.
A few days later, Wellesley and nine thousand troops, who’d been preparing for a transatlantic voyage to assist Francisco de Miranda in South America, changed their ship’s manifest and headed to Gibraltar to reconnoiter with five thousand more soldiers and then continued on to Portugal to defeat the French. For the time being.
“It’s July and the Season is over,” Farleigh declared a few mornings later while he pretended to read the paper. “Wellesley has agreed to change course. Your obligations in London have been met. Isn’t that right, Sebastian?”
Sebastian hummed his agreement as he chewed on a bite of ham and eggs.
“Very well, then.” Farleigh folded the paper and tried to sound blasé, but Anna could tell he was a cauldron about to boil over. “I suggest we all retire to the country for the rest of the summer.”
The four of them were sitting at one end of the long table in the formal dining room in Mayfair, enjoying breakfast. Or at least Anna was enjoying herself. She reached her hand into Pia’s lap and said, “Oh, Farleigh, that would be wonderful. Wouldn’t it, darlings?” Anna turned to Pia and then across the table to catch Sebastia
n’s eye.
She knew she had become quite careless in her flagrant attention to both her husband and her lover, no longer caring if Farleigh’s servants suspected they shared a rather modern arrangement. Anna had also realized that the more seemingly outrageous she was with Pia in public, the less people suspected.
When she and Pia had attended a show of paintings last week, for example, it was quite fine for them to hold hands or link arms—almost expected. They were the best of friends, Anna would say, the closest of intimates. When Pia would blush at the double entendre that only she understood, Anna would taunt her further, pointing out how lovely Pia was to anyone who would listen. Of course, the society matrons—and ambitious bucks who were attracted to Pia for both her dark beauty and the large purse with which Sebastian had provided her—would all politely agree and compliment Anna on what a kind friend she was, to be so generous in her praise of another woman.
But at home, here at Farleigh’s, she had another motive. By taking all her liberties so openly, so casually, she was heightening the tension between Farleigh and Sebastian in the most delightfully cruel fashion.
“We all three adore the outdoors,” she said, finally pulling her gaze away from Sebastian and facing Farleigh. “Don’t you?”
“Yes, Anna. I adore the outdoors.” His peevishness was obvious, but she pretended not to notice it.
“It’s so freeing,” Anna continued, looking out the window with a dreamy expression. “No confines of society. All that lush grass to lie upon and cool lake water sluicing across one’s skin.”
Sebastian took a sip of his coffee and exhaled through his nose, obviously picturing all of that lush and sluice.
Farleigh merely growled.
Anna smiled sweetly.
Pia sighed.
If he didn’t murder Anna first, Farleigh was going to thank her profusely for the desperate, pliant lover she would present to him when she finally gave Sebastian permission to put himself in the man’s power. When they arrived in the country, she had decided, the time would be right. Anna wanted the two men to have complete freedom, and there were simply too many inquisitive servants around the London town house. There was nowhere to escape notice.
