3

Rupert

Rupert Winthrop, the newly appointed Marquess of Rutledge sat rigidly in a leather armchair in the back corner of Grambler’s Gentlemen’s Club. He brought his glass of scotch to his lips, but didn’t sip it, just stared out across the dim room. At the laughing men gathered around card tables, reclining in armchairs similar to his own, chatting amiably with their acquaintances, heavily painted ladies draped in their laps.

Wenches.

He tried and failed to drown out his mother’s words: Immoral, sinful, vulgar.

Rupert took a deep breath, and his hand tightened on the arm of his chair, the leather squeaking in protest. He tilted his glass back and downed half its contents. Closing his eyes, he basked in the distracting burn, his insides filling with heat. You can do this, Rupert. Bed a wench and get out of here.

“Can I help you, my lord?” a throaty purr whispered over his ear.

Rupert’s eyes flew open. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He hastily cleared his throat. “Erm. Good evening, Miss…”

She let out a husky chuckle and stepped in front of him, running a hand down his upper arm and over his forearm. “They call me Minnie.” She leaned forward, her generous bosom inches from his face. There didn’t seem to be anything…minnie about her.

He glanced to the side. To the floor. To the ceiling. He swallowed and patted the arm of the chair twice. This had been a bad idea. Inane idea. Insane idea.

Minnie tsked as she stepped back and walked behind him. Thank God.

“Oh dear, you are quite tense, my lord. So stiff.”

Her hands settled on his shoulders, and Rupert froze, stopped breathing. She massaged gently, her hands coasting down to his chest.

“Relax, my lord,” she murmured. “I can help alleviate any…stiffness.”

He was sure she could, and that had been his intention. But this didn’t seem as practical a plan as it had when he’d been pacing his bedchamber a few hours earlier. Maybe he should have done this sooner. One of the times his two—and only—friends from Harrow had asked him to go out wenching. Instead, he had built up one-and-twenty years of nerves.

But he had been raised to be a gentleman. Bedding a prostitute was a sin . Bedding anyone who was not his wife was a sin. And even when he had been tempted, the desires that took hold of his dreams…they had held him back, made him delay. Because they were too dark, too dangerous, too deviant.

Surrendering to temptation only leads to moral decay and eternal damnation, my son. Remember that always.

He attempted to shove away his mother’s words. But they lingered. They always did.

The wench leaned over him, her breasts pressing into his neck, her cloying fruity scent enveloping him. Her hands traveled lower. And lower—

He flinched and let out a strangled meeep!

“Well, well, well. Look what you have been hiding, my lord.” She brushed her lips against the shell of his ear. “Goodness, I’d offer my services free of charge for the chance to play with such a gift.” Her words coasted over his neck. Moist. Unsettling.

No. Definitely not. I cannot do this.

“Hampton? Is that you?” The low, familiar baritone interrupted Rupert’s panic and halted the wench’s progress.

Thank heavens. Rupert met the sardonic green gaze of Roderick Blackwood, Lord Dunmore, one of his school chums from Harrow.

Derek shook his head in a practiced movement, jet-black overlong waves falling over his brow, which he quickly brushed back. “Well, Satan’s tits, it is you! Rafe, look here. Hampton is at the clubs. And getting rubbed down by Minnie!”

Rupert groaned. Ensue the teasing.

A lean, tall, young man with short, tightly curled black hair stepped up to Derek’s side and cocked his head—Raphael Sinclair, the Duke of Ironcrest. The two had been inseparable since Harrow, as good as brothers, even resembling each other with their dark hair and tall, lanky frames. Rupert narrowed his eyes. Though Rafe wasn’t nearly as lanky as he used to be, his shoulders must have doubled in breadth since the last time Rupert saw him.

He still remembered the first day he’d met the pair. He’d offended someone at Harrow—again—and found himself desperately trying to defend himself in a fistfight he was sorely losing. Then the two had stepped in on his behalf. He still had no idea why. But they’d taken him under their wing—even though technically he was older than them both. They taught him to defend himself, introduced him to the bonds of friendship, and endlessly attempted to lure him into their raucous behavior. At times, he suspected they found amusement in testing his limits, in seeing how close they could push him to the edge of propriety before he finally faltered and beat a hasty retreat. It was a challenge to them to see if they might finally succeed.

“I wouldn’t have believed you, Derek. But I could have sworn I heard a squeak as we passed by.” Rafe leaned forward, his lips twitching. “Let me guess, Rupe. That was the first time a woman’s touched your cock.”

Rupert’s face went up in flames, and he tapped the arm of his chair again. Rafe chuckled, but his dark grey eyes remained flat. Humor never seemed to reach the Duke’s eyes.

“Excuse us, Minnie,” Derek said, softening the bite of his tone with a slap on the wench’s arse.

Minnie giggled, her gaze greedily taking in the two new arrivals. “Of course, my lord.” She curtsied low, and Derek’s and Rafe’s gazes latched onto her bosom. “If you or Your Grace…” Her gaze darted between the two men, and she licked her lips. “Or if you both are in need of entertainment, just say the word.”

“Both?” Rupert murmured, frowning. What on earth did that mean?

Derek dropped heavily in the chair to Rupert’s left, and Rafe took the chair to his right.

“Yes, the both of us,” Rafe said, a gleam in his eye. “Minnie has many talents.”

Rupert glanced between the two men. “I don’t…”

Rafe opened his mouth, but Derek shook his head and lifted a silencing hand.

“Not the topic for tonight,” Derek said. “Maybe one day Hampton will be ready for that discussion, but I think it best we get to the root cause for his visit tonight first.”

Derek picked up a glass of scotch from the table in the middle of the three chairs. Rupert frowned. “It is Rutledge now,” he said absently. When had more glasses of scotch arrived? The club’s footmen must be quite adept at their job.

“Sorry to hear about your father,” the men echoed solemnly, and all three toasted their glasses to the late Marquess. It had been a long time coming—his father had fallen ill just after Rupert had turned ten. His illness had been a long, drawn-out affair, an always-there heavy cloud, thick and suffocating. A pain that settled over the Rutledge family and refused to leave. The past few years, with his father’s condition worsening, had been especially grueling. Rupert was happy his father was finally free of his suffering. His passing six months ago had been an odd sort of sorrowful relief.

Derek cradled his glass, studying Rupert. “So, tell us Rupe. What has happened to cause you to step foot in the clubs and go wenching? We have begged you for years to join us. Since our days back at Harrow. Offers which you had always declined. Why now?”

“I am to be wed on the morrow.”

Derek reeled backward, and Rafe’s eyes slid shut, his face contorting as if in pain.

“It is not…bad news.” Rupert glanced between the two men’s stricken expressions. “Or at least I did not intend for it to come across as such. You both know I have been betrothed to Lady Francine practically since birth. I accepted that long ago.”

“Apologies, Rupe,” Derek said, his lip still curled back in distaste. “We know you have no way out of this arrangement.”

“So, a bit of a panic that you’ll only bed one chit for the rest of your life spurred your trip to the club?” Rafe asked. “Get one last romp in before the noose closes around your neck.”

That seemed a touch hyperbolic. “Marrying Lady Francine is not a death trap.”

He wished he’d been able to say that with more surety. But she wasn’t a death trap . Untamed raven-black waves and flashing green eyes flickered in his mind. A challenge? Perhaps. Terrifying? Most definitely. Tempting… She had always been tempting. Which was what made her so dangerous.

He took a sip of his drink and rolled his lips inward, his friends watching him through narrowed eyes. “I came here tonight to gain…knowledge…of certain things. Experience for—” He glanced away from his friends and patted the arm of his chair. “For conjugal visits,” he murmured.

“Fuck,” Rafe breathed. “Conjugal visits? He’s a… No. I cannot say it.”

Rupert looked up and caught Derek’s gaze. Derek was leaning forward now, studying him closely. “Rupert…are you a virgin?”

Rupert gave a succinct nod.

“I had thought if I were to come here tonight, I would have a better idea of what I’m doing when I…” Rupert trailed off and messaged his temples. God, it all sounded so dim-witted now that he was saying it out loud.

“Why not practice on your wife, mate?” Rafe chimed in. “Isn’t that the only benefit to a wife anyhow? A thorough bedding whenever you please, without costing you a thing.”

“I’m not sure you can bed your wife whenever you please.” Rupert frowned. “I would think she—”

Derek cut him off. “She won’t know any better, Rupe. From what I’ve heard, it is never good for the woman the first time. You can fumble all you want, and she won’t know the difference. It’ll probably be a blessing for her that it’ll be over quickly.”

Rafe snickered.

“You both don’t understand. Lady Francine…she is not like other young ladies of the ton. If I do something embarrassing…if I mess up somehow…” He dropped his head in his hands and spoke to the floor. “She will tease me mercilessly. She’ll come up with another nickname. Like Roop-a-toot-toot that time I accidentally broke wind in front of her when we were children.”

Coughing and sputtering sounded above him, and Rupert glanced up. Rafe was red in the face, pounding his chest, tears leaking from his eyes, and Derek made the poorest attempt known to man at maintaining composure before dissolving into laughter.

“Oh, Rupert. She sounds like a bloody gem,” Rafe said. He paused, chest expanding with a deep breath, and he gave it one more hard thwack . He rubbed his chin and looked thoughtfully at Rupert. “You know, from what you’ve told us about her somewhat outrageous behavior, I bet she’ll be a fantastic shag.” He leaned forward. “If you’d like, I could do a…preliminary bedding of her. Train her up for you. Teach her all the tricks.” He winked.

The blood in Rupert’s veins shot through him like liquid fire. “You touch her, and I’ll see you at dawn.” His lips pulled back, and he was overcome by an overwhelming desire to crack open Rafe’s ribcage, rip out his heart, and crush it into a mutilated mess beneath his boot. He let out a low growl. Franny was his.

Derek and Rafe stared at him, bug-eyed.

“I believe, Rafe…” Derek said thoughtfully, eyes still wide. “You have finally found a way to hit a nerve with Rupe.” He tilted his head, that unruly lock of hair falling over his brow again. “Given that reaction, I think you will do just fine, Rupert. I assume you know where everything goes, yes?”

Rupert let out a slow breath, his pulse calming slightly. He nodded once.

“I’ll give you a hint then. The louder she is, the better you’re doing.”

He frowned. “Louder? Are we supposed to carry on conversation during?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Rafe muttered, palming his face.

Derek’s lips twitched, green eyes dancing. He shook his head. “Not quite, Rupe.” He paused. “Well, sometimes carrying on conversation can be…titillating.”

Rafe nodded in firm agreement, and a wicked grin split his face. “Remember that time we got that buxom blonde off just by talking to her?”

Derek snorted. “I don’t know if we can claim it was just our words. I think the arm of the chair she was riding helped a bit.”

Rupert blanched. “R-riding her chair?” he asked weakly, visions of the scene his friends were painting filling his mind. But in his mind, the woman wasn’t blonde or buxom. She was raven-haired and all long limbs.

“We’ll come back to that,” Derek said, biting back his grin. “First, have you ever perused any lewd literature or pamphlets?”

Warmth flooded Rupert’s cheeks, and his mother’s frequent warnings rang violently in his ears, but he held Derek’s stare and nodded.

“Excellent. So, you have a rudimentary understanding.” He glanced at Rafe and nodded toward their empty scotch glasses. “Fill ‘em up, Rafe. This lesson is going to require liquid fortitude.” Derek leaned back and steepled his fingers, the tips resting below his mouth. “All right, Rupert, what questions do you have for us?”

Rupert swallowed down his shame, cleared the embarrassment from his throat, and took a deep breath of courage. In for a penny, in for a pound.

“Do you have any specific techniques or tips I should know about?”

Rafe’s lips curved into a smirk, and he rubbed his hands together, danger glinting in his dark eyes.

“Do we ever.”