“I had a carriage sent for her earlier. I know how lonely she gets when you’re working.”
“You’re looking as regal as ever,” Camilla said lovingly to her cat, who gave her a once-over, then sat and began washing her long, beautiful fur.
“Anyway,” Kitty said, “back to the matter at hand. Why not Vexley? He’s from good stock.”
“He is the disgraced son and a notorious scoundrel. Satire sheets have now dubbed him ‘the Golden-Tongued Deviant,’ for heaven’s sake, Kitty. Did you not see that last caricature of him? Lewd would be too mild a term for it. It was so explicit I heard that three carriages collided outside the storefront where the illustration was displayed last week.”
“And I heard that seven new lovers visited his bedchamber because of that very satire sheet,” Katherine volleyed back. “I also have it on good authority that the moniker is quite fitting. And it has nothing to do with his scintillating conversational skills or lack thereof.”
Outside, the light rain that had begun earlier turned into a menacing storm, the howling winds now whipping tree branches against the windows like great demonic beasts as the two women cozied up to the fire with their glasses of sherry.
Like clockwork, after dinner Lord Edwards had gone off to his gentlemen’s club, affording the women time to drink and laugh like they used to before he and Katherine married three Seasons prior. Rumor had it that he went often to stave off frustrations over not yet producing an heir.
It was a subject Kitty didn’t like to speak about, though Camilla knew why and kept her secret, just as Kitty had kept so many of Camilla’s.
“I cannot even fathom Vexley seriously considering marriage,” Camilla mused. “Seven new lovers in as many nights is appalling, even for Vexley.”
“Now, darling, I never said seven nights. Rumor has it he took part in his very own bacchanal and not one lady went away disappointed.”
“Of course.” Camilla exhaled loudly. “A gentleman ought to only indulge in vice when purchasing art—as to spend copious amounts of coin on it, most especially in my gallery—and then be virtuous in his marriage. On that principle alone I’d never marry Vexley.”
Her friend snorted. “Oh, darling, no. There’s a reason people say reformed rakes make the very best husbands. You want a wicked man in the bedroom. The wickeder the better, in fact. If anything, you ought to thank Vexley for his recent escapades. At least you know he’s well seasoned and has stamina.”
“‘Well seasoned,’” Camilla repeated with a smile and a slight shake of her head. “It’s hard to tell whether you’re describing a man or the perfect cut of meat.”
“Some would argue that that’s precisely what rakes are. If you’re lucky, you’ll find yourself a prime piece of filet to sink your teeth into.”
Katherine pretended to take a big bite.
“Kitty!” Camilla laughed. “That’s horrid.”
“Teasing aside, if you recall, William had quite the reputation before we wed, and I have no complaints.”
She sipped her sherry, eyeing Camilla over the glass.
Camilla stayed mulishly silent.
“Vexley might be crass and vulgar, but I know several women who’ve complained that their husbands are selfish lovers, never concerned with ensuring that their wives are equally satisfied. Is that not a virtue?”
“Katherine,” Camilla sighed. “Be serious. Virtue and Vexley are as compatible as oil and water.”
“You just need to find yourself a virile man with questionable morals and bed him whenever the mood strikes you.”
As if anything could be that simple for a woman in this world.
“Since Vexley is clearly not to your liking,” Katherine finally continued, “have you come across any other potential prospects for a loyal companion?”
Camilla cringed. A loyal companion was what Kitty insisted upon calling the object of her search for a discreet lover for Camilla, an endeavor Camilla heartily disapproved of.
Aside from a few heated kisses, some heavy petting, and a clandestine meeting with an infamous hunter that introduced her to her first orgasm, Camilla had little real-world experience, living off the details told to her by her married friend. After seeing the pain of her father’s heartbreak when her mother left, Camilla rejected the idea of marriage.
She’d never seriously considered Kitty’s idea, though she still desired a man’s touch. Katherine not only knew this but often tried to play matchmaker, much to Camilla’s amusement and horror. Once her mind was set, Katherine wouldn’t be deterred.
Had Katherine been in the gallery tonight, she would have thought Lord Synton would do just fine for Camilla’s loyal companion, thanks to the sheer dominance that seemed to radiate in the space around him. He was a man who knew what he wanted and went after it.
Synton had walked in and practically laid claim to the gallery with just one arrogant glance, owning everything, including Camilla’s good sense.
Irksome though that trait might have been during the day, Katherine would claim it was a desirable attribute at night in the bedchamber, especially if he’d made it his mission to own Camilla’s body with that same level of authority.
“Your silence leads me to believe you have found someone interesting.”
“No,” Camilla lied. “Not at all.”
Unbidden, and not for the first time that evening, her thoughts turned to a mesmerizing pair of emerald eyes and a sensual mouth that had boasted a very devilish grin earlier.
On the carriage ride to her friend’s house, while the rain lazily drummed its fingers over the roof, Camilla had rested her head against the cushioned wall, closed her eyes, and somehow found herself imagining Lord Synton sitting next to her on the bench, slowly tugging her close, his fingers drifting along her arms, exploring the tiny swath of skin exposed where her gloves and gown diverged as if it held the answer to each mystery in the universe.
He’d lock those emerald eyes on her, watching as he leaned in slowly, affording her time to stop his pursuit, before gently running his lips along the sensitive skin of her neck in a whisper-soft kiss. When her breath hitched from the sensation, he’d work his way along the curve of her shoulder, then down along her décolletage.
His mouth becoming bolder as each expert flicking of his tongue or gentle scrape of his teeth caused a bolt of heat to sear through her.
When she was practically panting, only then would his singular focus fix on her bodice, as he carefully pulled at each lace, undoing them with maddening precision. And then he’d discover one of the most scandalous secrets for a spinster: her love for lingerie, garments that made her feel beautiful, pieces that she acquired quietly from the modiste that were delicate and soft and feminine as they hugged her curves.
Camilla had trailed her own fingers from the bench to her lap, drawing her skirts up, the rustle of the silk its own forbidden music against the rumble of the carriage’s wheels. Slowly she’d begun stroking the sensitive skin above her lace-edged stocking, inching ever closer to the growing heat between her legs.
She had touched herself in the carriage while envisioning his fingers between her thighs, working her body until the coachman rapped at the door, startling her back to her senses and—frustratingly enough—preventing her from achieving her release.