Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
“Reward him how?” asked Elizabeth. “What incentives do gentlemen enjoy receiving from their wives?”
Her friends started to giggle, glancing at one another.
“That’s something to discover once you’re married,” said Hazel. “For it rather depends on the husband to let you know what he likes. But you’ll work it out quickly, sister, for you’re the very crack at reading people.”
Elizabeth was normally good at reading people, but her fiancé presented a challenge. She put down her plate of sweets, having lost all appetite. She hoped someday she would be as happy as her married friends, but if not, perhaps she could utilize these rewards and incentives they talked about to soften her husband’s feelings toward her. She would discover what he liked and give him that, and happiness would follow.
She pushed down misgivings and doubts. The wedding was too close to change anything now.
*
August made a poor showing at the card table, losing a great pile of money to his friends. That wasn’t a worry, for he had more money than he knew what to do with. His reputation as a skilled card player, however… That had gone the way of his reputation as a teacher. Downward, and fast.
He shrugged off the disappointments of the evening and made his way across Lisburne’s neatly manicured gardens to the chapel. With space at a premium in the manor, he and his valet had been assigned to an ancient, unused friar’s residence in the chapel’s east wing. It did well enough for him. Why, it meant he’d have to walk mere steps to the wedding he’d traveled so far to attend.
When he entered the room, he saw his man had unpacked his luggage and turned down the counterpane. The room wasn’t large but was pleasantly warm from a skillfully built fire. He did not require his valet to attend him when he kept late nights, so the man had already retired to his adjoining room, his deep snores assuring August that his accommodations were also comfortable.
“The best lodgings in the house,” he said quietly to the fire’s glow. “Or out of the house, as it were. Secluded, peaceful, and if I should wish to say a prayer for my soul…”
His bed was small but comfortable, and the linens fresh. A stack of blankets sat atop the chest of drawers, should the thick down counterpane not be enough to ward off the Welsh winter’s chill. As soon as his head hit the pillow he fell into a dreamless sleep.
He awakened to thin morning light filtering through the high-set window. It was warm beneath the covers, and his cock was hard. Had he dreamed of erotic things? He palmed his length, wishing he could remember them.
The cozy bed and quiet peace of his parson’s chamber fueled his masturbatory impulses. He averted his gaze from the large crucifix mounted on the opposite wall and stroked himself, fantasizing about naughty, pleading women bent over his lap. He envisioned scarlet arses and billowy breasts until his cock grew exquisitely sensitized. Then his fantasies turned to a phantom woman, one he’d never met, one that might not exist, a perfectly yielding, enticing siren who would take his outsized cock without complaint, letting him thrust hard in her mouth, her pussy, her arsehole—
He stroked harder, faster, groaning as he reached satisfaction. It wasn’t as good as the real thing, but it was all he had for now, especially since he’d dismissed his mistress. His mind flitted, momentarily, to his responsibility to marry, but he shut down that line of thought as quickly as it came to him, for which virginal, blushing debutante in London’s high society would be willing to fulfill his unconventional desires?
He roused himself long enough to clean up the mess he’d made, then crawled back into bed. What time was it? How long might a wedding guest politely laze about?
His valet knocked on his door a half hour later, shaved him, and set out attire for a day in the country. After a late, convivial breakfast, a great party of guests took to Cairwyn’s woods to collect pine boughs and holly to decorate the manor’s chapel for the upcoming wedding.
Hardy old Lord Lisburne led the group, guiding them proudly into his thick woodlands. They did as much socializing as searching for greenery, as if they hadn’t all just attended an assembly the night before. While stoic servants wheeled wagons full of rough-cut branches, Townsend and Wescott made much of finding some mistletoe to dangle over their wives’ heads. Marlow, the wild spirit, declared he needed no mistletoe and kissed Rosalind passionately beside a picturesque snowdrift. Townsend shook his head, pretending to be scandalized.
“Don’t grimace, Townsey,” August chided. “You must be happy for your sister, blissfully married to one of your best friends.”
“Can’t be happy for her,” he replied, laughing. “The poor thing ended up with him, while Felicity married a prince.”