Glancing over at the sitting area, she remarked, “Oh, dear. Our supper. It has gone to waste.”
“I can ring for breakfast,” he murmured as he lay sprawled upon his back.
She rose from the bed and found a robe to slip into. “There is no need. Not everything will have spoiled.”
“I will ring for breakfast,” he restated. “I shall want coffee.”
“Oh, yes, coffee would be nice.”
As they waited for breakfast, Philippa picked at some bread from supper. She still felt the glow of her congress, but she had a task of greater importance to tend to.
Arthur had collected his clothes and began dressing. She decided to serve as his valet and help him.
“If you could choose any man for Miss Hartshorn, what sort of qualities would you wish for her husband?” she asked. “Aside from his standing and breeding.”
“I should wish for a man who cherished her and treated her well without spoiling her.”
“I must admit that my George might not have as firm a hand. Miss Hartshorn has quite the influence over him.”
“I suppose it were better he care too much than too little,” he said after pulling on his trousers. She watched him button his fall and slip the braces over his shoulders, then handed him his waistcoat.
“Would integrity matter to you?” she asked.
“Of course. As well as constancy or loyalty.”
“And what if a man were not of high character but had blood bluer than the sea?”
“I should not approve.”
“Then it would seem character trumps breeding.”
“If there were but two sorts of men, but Adeline is not limited in her choices.”
“Nor are the prospects for my son limited. Any woman would be lucky to be his wife.”
Arthur smiled at her. “So says his mother.”
She assisted him his collar and then his cravat.
“The chances of meeting someone who is possessed of all the qualities you wish for and with whom you find a rapport are not as great as you would think.”
He watched as she folded and tucked his neckcloth. “Was it not so with you and your husband?”
“It was, though my father was not overjoyed with my choice, given that Francis was near penniless at the time. But I saw promise in Francis. I knew his devotion would imbue him with perseverance and determination. George is no different.”
“But why should Adeline not have the best from the very beginning? She need not wait as you had.”
“It was a sacrifice I was willing to make to marry the man I loved. Believe me, I have seen many marriages of far superior situations be nothing but a source of misery for both parties.”
“Adeline is accustomed to certain privileges. Pin money, even. She may not come to terms with receiving less, and that would put strife upon their wedded bliss.”
“At present there is more at risk than…”
She blanched for she had been about to say more than she ought. She kept her gaze on his cravat, hoping that his lordship had not noticed her slip of the tongue.
Chapter 11
“More at risk?” Arthur echoed, sensing concern in Philippa’s demeanor.
“I meant to say that she risks at all and more if she were to run off to Gretna Green,” she said.
Was that what she had intended to say? he wondered.
“Not all the riches in the world can buy love,” she quickly added.
“You are sentimental.”
“Because I am blessed to have had it, and I would caution both my children to marry without it. Even were Francis not to have come into any money as he had, I would still wish to marry him.”
Seeing the look in her countenance when she spoke of her husband, Arthur suddenly felt envious. No woman had as of yet claim to hold such tender feelings toward him. And this Francis Grayson, with no wealth and no breeding, had won the affection of a rather remarkable woman.
“There,” Philippa pronounced, finishing the cravat.
He looked down at her handiwork. “Impressive. As good as my valet would have done.”
She smiled up at him. “Francis had not always had the funds for a valet, so I served in that capacity for many years.”
He suddenly wanted to crush her to him and undo all that she had done. He wanted to be naked against her.
But a servant bringing breakfast knocked. They dined on ham, beans, and toast.
Afterward, he said, “I cannot claim to have the skills of a dressing maid, but if you wish, I should be happy to assist.”
He would just as likely undress her, he silently added.
“I most certainly prefer a dressing maid,” she remarked.
“I see there to be some sunshine peeking through the clouds. Would you like to tour the grounds on horseback?”
She perked at the thought and nodded.
Leaving her to her toilette after breakfast, Arthur returned to his own chambers. He pondered all that Philippa had said. Would Adeline feel about George the same as Philippa did about her husband? If she did, perhaps it would be better than being married to a man who could give her the world but who could not make her happy. Even if she should be content with such a man and he did not treat her poorly, was it better to be married to a man she loved?
Prior to his departure for Château Follet, he had made inquiries into the Grayson family. He had heard nothing ill of them save that they were bourgoise. Those who knew of Mr. Grayson considered him a modest and ethical man. If the maxim that the apple did not fall far from the tree held true, then Adeline could do far worse than George Grayson.
His valet handed Arthur his crop. Prior to deciding that he had wanted the company of Philippa Grayson, he had looked forward to wielding one of his favorite implements against a pretty backside. He imagined applying the crop to Philippa’s supple derriere. The thought stirred the heat in his loins. Could Philippa be persuaded to suffer a more wicked form of submission?
He met Philippa downstairs. Her riding habit of dark grey was likely not the latest fashion, but it fit her smartly.
“We need not ride for long if it is cold,” he said.
“I have gloves and scarf. I should last a decent spell,” she replied.
Their horses were brought around, and they rode toward the hills.
“What a lovely view,” she commented when they had ascended the highest hill overlooking the Château with its two pointed towers serving as bookends of the perfectly symmetrical façade. The steep hip roofs of zinc contrasted with the ivory stones. One would have thought the chateau plucked straight from the French countryside. “How did Château Follet come to bear the moniker of Château Debauchery?”
“Madame Follet and her husband, when he was alive, believe there ought be no shame in indulging our prurient inclinations. These were instilled in us by our Good Lord.”
He did not reveal that Monsieur Follet had once consorted with the likes of the Comte de Mirabeau and the Marquis de Sade.
“Would you claim that avarice and other unsavory qualities that exist in man were also placed there by God and should thus be indulged?”
“The desires of the flesh are universal to all. Every creature, even. That is not the case with avarice.”
“It is our duty to go forth and multiply, but I suspect that is not the purpose at Château Follet.”
“Good God, I hope not!”
“The last thing the world needs is more Lord Carringtons in the making!”
He laughed. “I do not disagree, Mrs. Grayson.”
“Philippa.”
He met her gaze. Mirth made her fetching. Extremely so.
“Philippa,” he repeated. His horse stood near hers, and he could easily reach over and kiss her. And that is precisely what he would do.
But their moment was interrupted by a man calling his name. He turned and saw a man and woman on horseback trotting their way toward them.
“Devon,” Arthur greeted of the man.
O
nce the other couple had drawn near, introductions were made. The Viscount Devon, the son of an Earl, was a frequent guest at Château Follet, but his guest was a young woman Arthur did not recognize. She appeared quite young, not much more than eight and ten, but very pretty.
Devon introduced her as Miss Collingsworth, and Arthur introduced Philippa as Mrs. Gray.
“I thought I saw you headed to a corridor in the West Wing,” Devon said to Arthur. “What the devil are you doing there?”
“That is where our rooms are,” Arthur replied.
“But you once told me you found the West Wing deadly dull.”
“I had a change of heart.”
“Truly? That surprises me greatly. I thought you and I had much in common. You should never find me in the West Wing.”
“We had thought to ride a bit further. Would you care to ride with us?”
Miss Collingsworth, who had been conversing with Philippa, glanced up. “The air is rather chilly now that a cloud has come across the sun.”
“Riding will warm you,” Devon assured her.
The four turned their horses toward a field where the men urged their horses into a full gallop.
“Are we to turn back now?” Miss Collingsworth asked hopefully when the men rejoined the women.
“Not yet,” Devon replied. He turned to Arthur. “Did you know the Marquess of Alastair was here a few months back with the plainest looking bird? And before him, the Earl of Carey had with him a young woman who looked as if she belonged at a nunnery instead of Château Follet. It is as if they have partaken of tainted waters. Or perhaps they are in need of spectacles.”
“I think Miss Collingsworth is feeling cold,” Philippa interjected.
They all looked to see that the young woman was shivering.
“A few minutes more, then we shall turn back.”
“I can accompany her back to the Château,” Philippa offered.
Though Arthur would have preferred she stayed, he would not prevent her. He and Devon rode further.
“I never would have thought you one to develop a taste for older flesh,” Devon remarked. “Is she a widow or are you in the business of cuckoldry.”
“She is a widow.”
“For a widow, she is fairly handsome, but you could have far prettier at your beck and call.”
“She intrigues me. Perhaps I tire of young pretty things at my beck and call.”
Devon sniffed. “That I cannot imagine ever tiring of.”
“I had thought so, too.”
“But do you not prefer the slender, nubile body of a younger woman?”
“Mrs. Gray has a fine figure.”
“Surely her belly is not as taut? Perhaps her breasts hang in the wind?”
“Her body may not have the firmness of her youth, but a naked woman is always a thing of beauty.”
Devon nodded. “I take it this is her first time here or you would not stomach staying in the West Wing?”
“That is correct.”
“Do you intend to venture into the East Wing?”
Arthur considered it for a moment. “I think not.”
“Truly? I would think an older woman more game and less shy than a younger one.”
“She has not been with a man since her husband passed.”
“Then it is like bedding a virgin?”
“Without the bloody mess.”
Devon raised his brows, appearing to have a new perspective. “I have never lain with a woman older than myself.”
“I would recommend it. They have a greater level of appreciation born by experience and possibly disappointment. And they have not the arrogance of many younger women who expect to be treated as if they were princesses.”
“That does sound inviting, but I like the wonder of virgins. There is a certain satisfaction in sowing fields untouched by any other.”
Arthur shook his head. And Philippa thought him a cad.
During the rest of their ride, they reminisced of prior visits to Château Follet and ended with Devon urging Arthur to join him and Miss Collingsworth in the East Wing.
“I hate to think of you languishing in the West Wing, my friend,” Devon said before they parted ways in the foyer of the Château entrance.
Philippa came upon them just then. “Lord Devon, Miss Collingsworth is asking for you.”
Devon rolled his eyes. “Does she expect me to watch over her every minute that I am here?”
“I think she is feeling unwell.”
“You had best go to her,” Arthur suggested.
Devon bowed to them, then took his leave. Philippa watched him depart with a frown.
“Is he a good friend of yours?” she asked.
“A friend,” Arthur acknowledged, “but only through our shared interest in Château Follet. You do not appear enamored of him. Why?”
“I think he is self-indulgent and could be a better host.”
“Indulgence is the purpose of Château Follet.”
“Nevertheless, he seems arrogant to me.”
“That is a rather quick judgment you have formed. You have been in his company for but an hour and barely spoke with him.”
“He barely spoke to me.”
“Is that it? He did not show you enough interest?”
“Not at all! You think I care for the attentions of every man? There is something in his carriage and the way he speaks…it is hard to describe.”
“The intuition of a mother?”
“Well, why not? I did have a chance to speak to Miss Collingsworth. Frankly, aside from his very fine hair and pretty lashes, I know not why she is fond of him. And why does he disparage the West Wing so?”
“You had rather not know.”
“What do you mean?”
“Trust me.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “But he and Madame Follet assumed you preferred the East Wing. Why?”
“Perhaps we can stay in the East Wing the next time we come to Château Follet.”
“You know full well there will be no second time. What is in the East Wing?”
“I have yet to change, Philippa.”
“Perhaps a quick look—”
“I smell of horse.”
“I do not mind it.”
He stared at her. He supposed one look and she would want to turn on her heel and flee. But would she also then think him a monster for enjoying what transpired in the East Wing?
“The East Wing is not for the novice,” he told her.
“How can I be a novice? I am a widow.”
“A widow who, till yesterday, had no lover other than her husband.”
“Before we had children, I spent a year and a half living in India while my husband learned the trade. There are many sights there that would shock the gentle Englishwoman.”
“A friend of mine, the Baron Rockwell, told me of India. There is a goddess of carnal desire in Hinduism, is there not?”
“Yes, Rati.”
“You know of her.”
“There can be nothing in the East Wing more appalling than some of the things I have witnessed during my time in India.”
“One need not venture to the east to find matters that can shock and appall. Have you heard of the Marquis de Sade?”
“Only that he was imprisoned and that his writings were scandalous.”
“They are beyond scandalous.”
“Are you going to show me the East Wing or not?”
He still hesitated. She studied him more closely.
“What secret hides in the East Wing that you are so reluctant to share?”
“It is your comfort I have in mind, a desire to protect your sensibilities.”
She arched a brow. “You are the younger–”
“Not in this subject.”
“I think it impolite of you to keep secrets from me when I am risking my reputation to be here with you.”
“But it is not for my benefit that you do so.”
“True, but it is your fault t
hat I am here.”
At that, he could not help but chuckle. “Very well. I did give you fair warning. It will not take me long to change.”
“That is unnecessary. I can tolerate the smell of horse. There are odors in India far more difficult for an Englishman to bear than the smell of horse. And the delay may only serve to give you time to change her mind.”
She began walking in the direction of the East Wing, leaving him little choice but to follow her.
“As I said,” he said as he matched her quickness with his longer strides, “the guests in the East Wing have very little to no reservations. You will think them beyond wild and wanton. The debauchery that occurs here is wicked, sinful, taboo.”
“And that is your preference?”
His grip tightened about the riding crop he held. “It is. We play a game, if you will, and perform scenes that might have been taken from the Marquis de Sade's writings. In the East Wing, pain becomes pleasure.”
She stopped.
“Pain as pleasure? How is that possible?”
“It is hard for me to describe. You must need experience it to fully understand it.”
“Is there not enough pleasure from indulging the desires of the flesh that you must add pain to it?”
“In the East wing, we seek the highest forms of sensation. Pain fuels pleasure, making the latter more potent.”
She shook her head. “And you have taken women here?”
“Many a time.”
In the West Wing, paintings of nudes abounded, but they were more benign. One might find a painting of a naked woman reclining in a pastoral setting or a scene of satyrs chasing nymphs. In the East Wing, the art took a decidedly dark turn. In the first painting they came across in the corridor, a naked woman, bound by her wrists, hung from the ceiling while a man below her was in the act of lashing a whip against her. Philippa gasped. “Do you do that in the East Wing?”
“Yes.”
The riding crop he held was like poisonous sumac, causing his hand to itch.
“A whip? You would use that upon a person?”
“Among many other implements.”
He tried to discern the extent of her reaction. There was shock, confusion, and some dismay.
“And do you suffer being whipped as well?”
“Rarely. I made mention of a game that is played. In a couple, one assumes the role of the dominant. The other is a submissive and and must obey the dominant. If the submissive fails to please the dominant, he or she may be punished.”
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