A Marriage Most Scandalous (Scandalous Ballroom Encounters Book 2) (2 page)

“Yes,” she whispered, allowing him to remove the robe.

His hands came up to the buttons of her nightgown and he loosened them one by one, slowly revealing a deep vee of bare skin from her neck to her navel. He gasped, his breath catching and holding as his fingertips grazed the valley between her breasts. A curvy woman, she had always been self-conscious about her body—her large breasts, most of all, which earned her salacious gazes when she wore her more daring gowns. But her husband’s gaze on her bare chest made her feel beautiful, womanly. As he pushed the gown from her shoulders, his eyes locking onto her nipples, she felt like a goddess.

“So beautiful,” he murmured, gently palming one breast. “You’re so lovely, Cecily.”

She whimpered and closed her eyes. This was the part she liked best—when he touched her with his beautiful, long-fingered hands.

“Sherry,” she murmured, his nickname. He liked it when she called him that.

His fingers stroked her nipple, causing it to stiffen and pucker. His breath felt warm on her skin when he lowered his head to taste it, his tongue swirling around the hard peak. She panted, arching her back and offering herself to him. His hands moved, skimming her breasts, fingers walking along her ribs, then taking hold of her waist.

His grasp on her ribcage tightened more, his hands shaking as if he held himself in check. He often trembled this way when they made love, as if just touching her overwhelmed him. The thought alone sent shivers down her spine. To know a man could experience such desire for her made her feel empowered.

His tongue on her breasts caused small flutters between her thighs as she grew wet. She wanted him … oh, how she wanted him. But not the timid, reserved man carrying her to the bed now and laying her on the sheets like he handled a piece of priceless china.

No, she wanted the passion she knew he could give her if only he would cease holding back from her. His very touch and kiss seemed calculated, like he’d planned his lovemaking in advance and refused to deviate from their usual routine.

When he entered her, electricity crackled over her skin, causing her to crave more. His low moans in her ear made her more desperate for more. She arched her back and opened her thighs wider, hoping it would be invitation enough for him to quicken his pace, to do
something
other than slowly enter and withdraw until he spent in a hot rush of liquid.

She held him close when it ended, running her fingers through his sweat-dampened hair. A smile crossed her face when he mumbled that he loved her before drifting off to sleep.

“I love you, too,” she whispered, pressing her lips to his forehead. “With all of my heart.”

Their love would be enough. Not only were they espoused, they’d become friends who enjoyed each other’s company. She knew ladies who hated their husbands and even lived separate lives from them. She felt fortunate to have found someone to love. Surely, she couldn’t allow something as insignificant as sex to ruin what they had.

He loved her. It had to be enough.

London

When Cecily and Sheridan arrived in London, they settled into their rented townhouse in Grosvenor Square. His father, the viscount, would have gladly allowed them to stay in one of the many rooms of Perth House, the family residence in town. However, Sheridan had told her he did not wish for their honeymoon period to end.

“I want you all to myself, my love,” he’d said when she’d asked him why they’d rented their own, smaller house in the same neighborhood as Perth House. “How can we be alone with my parents and brother underfoot?”

She suspected there must be something he would not tell her—some other reason he wished to avoid the company of his father. She’d only met the viscount once, but had sensed an undercurrent of tension between them. The same resentment seemed to emanate from Sheridan’s younger brother, Aaron. When she’d asked him about it, he’d told her that it was nothing, and she shouldn’t worry.

She’d refrained from asking him about it again.

Now that they’d arrived in London, they had obligations to fulfill, friends to call upon, and soirées to attend. The second morning after their arrival, she paid a morning call to her best friend, Penelope Hunt, stepdaughter of the Marquis of Hartford.

“Cecily,
darling
!” Penelope exclaimed as she was shown into the drawing room. “How good it is to see you. I vow, London has been so dreadfully dull without you. Though, I suppose I can hardly begrudge your husband the honor of your company.”

Cecily swept forward and wrapped her arms around Penelope. “Oh, you cannot know how happy I am. Being married is simply … oh, it has just been wonderful!”

Her friend smiled and ushered her toward a loveseat before which a silver tea service and Wedgewood china had been placed. She rang for the butler, ordered a plate of biscuits, then turned to face Cecily once they were alone.

“You and Mr. Cranfield have been the talk of the town since your wedding in Bath. Everyone, oh absolutely
everyone
, has hailed your match as the romance of the season!”

“I do not know if I’d go so far as to call it that,” she demurred.

“Oh, but it is,” Penelope insisted as the biscuits were delivered. She poured tea for them both and laced Cecily’s with sugar and milk—exactly the way she liked it. “And just think, if Margaret Seymour had not tossed him over, he might never have found you in Bath. Ah, but such is the beauty of Fate, is it not?”

“I believe it is Margaret Rycroft now. Her Grace, the duchess of Avonleah.”

“Quite a surprise, that match,” Penelope remarked with raised eyebrows. “Perhaps even more so than you and Mr. Cranfield. Tell me, darling, is he good to you?”

She sighed, feeling a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “He is perfect, Penelope. I know you are of the opinion that there is no such thing, but Sherry is simply … he loves me, you know.”

“I do not doubt that he does, my dear. I do hope this happy phase of your marriage lasts.”

Her friend’s comment should not have surprised her. Approaching her third season without nabbing a husband, Penelope had become a bit jaded. There had been a romance during her first season that had ended bitterly, though her friend never liked to speak of it. The man had broken her heart and she’d hardened herself, convinced no man would be worth having.

To become a spinster seemed her aim, and in a few more years, Penelope would be firmly—and quite happily—on the shelf.

Despite her knowledge of this, Cecily’s smile faded as she lowered her teacup into the saucer. “Whatever do you mean?”

Penelope shrugged. “I do not mean to alarm you, darling, but Mr. Cranfield is a man like any other. They all have their vices. Men of the
ton
are known to be slaves to those vices, and that includes their whores and mistresses.”

Her mouth fell open at her friend’s crass language.

“Good heavens,” she gasped.

“I so hate to infringe upon your happiness, dear, but surely, your father kept a mistress?”

Her mind raced as she tried to remember any details from her adolescence that might shed some light on that particular mystery. If her father had kept a mistress, he must have been the most discreet man in all of London. She’d had no inkling.

“I do not know,” she replied. “But surely, not
all
of them keep mistresses.”

Penelope shrugged again, taking a bite of her biscuit. “Those who can afford them do. Those who can’t … well, there are always the brothels for them.”

Shock rippled through her, turning her stomach. She’d never known her friend to be so worldly about such things.

“Sheridan would never …” She lowered her gaze and swallowed past the lump in her throat. “He loves me.”

Penelope set her hand upon her knee, a sympathetic smile upon her face.

“I do not doubt that he does,” she murmured, “but men have carnal appetites they do not fulfill with their wives. Wives bear children and manage the home. Mistresses and whores please them sexually. It does not mean they do not love us.”

“Us?” she snapped. “You have never even been married.”

Instead of being insulted, Penelope laughed. “No, thank heavens, but my mother has … twice. My father—God rest his soul—kept a mistress, and, I do believe the Marquis still keeps a bit of skirt here in town.”

Cecily saw an opening and changed the subject to the events of the upcoming season and the latest fashions for the remainder of their visit. However, her mind could hardly get invested in the conversation.

Could Penelope have been right? Now that their honeymoon had ended and they had returned to town for the season, would Sheridan keep a mistress? Would he visit her, and make love to her, and perhaps even … oh, it was too hard to think of. She’d heard of men who bore bastard children with their mistresses. Just the thought of him siring a child on another woman made her ill.

By the time the visit ended and she set about her short walk home, she’d come to a decision. Her marriage would never come to that—secrets kept about mistresses and illegitimate children. She remained confident in Sheridan’s love, and her ability to please him.

Did she please him? While the marriage bed had left her feeling a bit unfulfilled, her husband always seemed happy when they finished. Even if they made love almost exactly the same way every time. Even if there existed no variety, and very little passion.

But what if Penelope had the right of it? If a man had deeper urges than the ones he fulfilled with his wife, then where would he go to satisfy them? Sherry certainly had made no such demands of her, even though she would have been ecstatic if he had. She often had wicked thoughts … thoughts she knew no gently bred lady ought to have. Yet, she’d been afraid that to tell Sheridan her secret desires would cause him to grow disgusted with her. He’d married a lady, not a whore.

And yet … if she could fulfill his needs, he would have no need for mistresses or whores.

Brow furrowed in concentration, she walked on, determination causing the wheels in her head to spin rapidly.

Sheridan hadn’t been in London for all of two days before his bosom beaus came looking for him. They hadn’t all been able to attend his hasty ceremony in Bath, and so insisted that a proper celebration was to be had—men only—complete with drinks, women, and debauchery.

While he’d insisted that he shouldn’t, they’d insisted otherwise. They’d even gone so far as to call on him at home and enlist Cecily’s aid in convincing him that a gentleman’s evening would be just the thing to celebrate their new marriage.

His wife, of course, being an innocent lady with no knowledge of such evenings and all they entailed, had encouraged him to go and enjoy himself.

“We’ve been in each other’s pockets since the wedding,” she’d said with one of her sweet smiles. “That old adage about absence making the heart grow fonder is quite true, my love. Go, and enjoy the evening with your friends. I shall be quite content to spend the evening at home.”

“Very well,” he’d relented. “But only if you and I spend the entire afternoon together tomorrow. We can do whatever you like.”

She’d given him a sly grin and declared she’d like to go shopping on Bond Street, where he was to walk beside her in silence and tote her purchases. He’d agreed, and after allowing his valet to dress him for the night, he’d joined three of his best friends from university in the coach that would carry them to Brooks’ for cards and drinks. He heard talk of visiting a brothel, but rather hoped they’d become so involved in their card game that all mention of such debauchery would be forgotten.

No such luck.

“Now that the honeymoon is over, have you grown quite bored, Sherry?” asked Tristan Coburn.

The redheaded second son of an earl sat to his left, eyes focused on his cards with a cigar clenched between two teeth.

Sheridan’s gaze flitted from his hand for a moment and he frowned. “Bored? Why the devil would you ask such a question?”

His reply came out a bit terser than he’d meant it to be, but weeks of holding back while making love to his wife had him on edge. The slight fulfillment he found in the marriage bed did very little to squelch the raging fire that had taken residence in his veins.

“Oh, come now,” urged Bartholomew, Tristan’s elder brother and heir to the earldom. “I have been married for five years now, Sherry, so I know better than these numbskulls. You must be quite ready for a bit of fun.”

He took a long swallow of brandy.

“I’ll thank you to mind your own business, both of you,” he snapped as the liquor burned a path through him. He was slightly inebriated, and well on his way to being quite foxed. “Cecily and I happen to enjoy each other’s company. In fact, I’m rather unsure of why I chose to spend the evening with you rather than her at the moment.”

John Barrett, third son of a baron and naval officer home from sea for a short time, nudged Bartholomew and chuckled. “See how agitated he’s become? He’s positively bursting at the seams. Something must be done.”

“Quite right, old chap,” Tristan slurred between gulps of brandy. “A visit to Madame Petra’s is in order, before he snaps and kills us all.”

“A possibility that becomes more likely by the second,” Sheridan seethed from between clenched teeth.

“I say, Sherry,” Bartholomew added, “do calm down. No one disputes that you love Mrs. Cranfield. Who wouldn’t feel affection for such a lovely, amiable woman? You can hardly be faulted for giving in to your baser urges. That’s the way of the male species.”

“She never has to know if you’re discreet,” Tristan piped up. “A mistress tucked away out of sight is just the thing.”

“I don’t want a mistress.” He’d started growling now, a knot of anger working its way through his chest.

“Quite so,” agreed Bartholomew. “A quality mistress could set a man back several thousand pounds, whereas a whore can get the job done just as well for less money and no fear of her becoming overly attached.”

Sheridan’s fingers tightened around the decanter of brandy they shared as he poured himself another snifter. He wanted to stand and dash his glass against the wall and rail at them that he did
not
need sexual release at the hands of a whore or mistress. He desired his wife; he
loved
her.

Yet, he became acutely aware of the fact that he hadn’t slept for days, his body wound taut as a crossbow. Perhaps they—and his father—were right. If he spared Cecily the baser needs of his sexual urges, she’d likely thank him for it. The fantasies that would reduce her to nothing more than a tart … well, they’d be better enacted on a tart, wouldn’t they?

Guilt seemed an unnecessary emotion. He was a man, and this was the sort of thing he’d been raised believing to be proper.

Then, why did he feel nauseous at just the thought of touching someone who wasn’t Cecily?

By the time he’d finished his drink, he’d resolved himself not to do it—to cry off and go home after the brandy ran out and they all grew tired of cards.

But then came the drink after that, and then he really became quite foxed and unable to think past the pulsating vein filling his cock with blood and reminding him of his unfulfilled urges. Which just caused him to drink more. When at last he stumbled from Brooks’ flanked by three equally foxed, randy men, he’d quite forgotten that he’d decided accompanying them to a brothel would be a terrible idea.

It wasn’t until they stood in the parlor of the famous Madame Petra’s bordello that he remembered.

He should never have come here.

However, the Madame had come into the vestibule to take their coats and greet them, and it really would have been quite rude of him to leave now. Of all the brothels in London, Madame Petra’s had been hailed as the best. It boasted the softest beds in the most opulent settings, the cleanest, most beautiful women, and a Madame who was the consummate hostess.

Not to mention ravishingly beautiful.

To call her pretty would have been an injustice to the lady. Indeed, she appeared quite fair of face but he could think of many ladies of the
ton
who possessed equal attractiveness. There existed
something
about the woman—a sort of decadence and inherent sensuality no man could resist. She remained well-known among the men of London for the girls she hand-selected to work in her brothel, in addition to services provided behind the closed doors of the city’s most elite residences.