“You’re mad,” Warren muttered, shaking his head. He sounded almost amused.
“Why is it mad?” she countered. “Mr. Bray loves you. Even knowing he can’t have you, he still won’t consider marrying me.”
Charles groaned again, his heart feeling shredded by sharp claws. Why did she have to so easily say the words that always choked the air out of him?
“He loves you against all adversity. Our strict society, the exacting rules of the Church, the very laws of England are against you both,” she went on. “And yet still I see the way he looks for you, the way he waits for you and watches you. He loves you, Warren. I want to see what it is you share. I want to understand.”
“Why?” he challenged.
She shrank a little under his stare. “How can I ever hope to mirror for him what you offer, if I am kept wholly in the dark?”
Charles froze, pulse pounding. “Wait—what are you saying? You can’t mean…”
“I think she’s saying she’s still interested in marrying you, Charles,” Warren teased.
“But…why?” he muttered, wholly flabbergasted.
She glanced between them again. “Well, you can’t possibly marry him,” she said, gesturing at the gamekeeper. “But I’d hate to think of you both being miserable and alone forever. And I’ve told you again and again that we can make this marriage whatever we want it to be,” she added.
He shook his head. “Madeline—”
“You keep saying a marriage is between a man and a woman,” she said over him. “Well, I am not convinced. If my long experience as a wallflower has taught me anything, it is that a marriage with one man being faithful to one lady is the exception, not the rule. Why must our marriage be any different?”
“You move in a circle wholly apart from ours,” Charles replied with a shake of his head. “That style of living may work in London, but I am a lowly curate. Soon to be a vicar. My world is small, Madeline. I am held to a different standard than your godless lords of the ton. A higher standard. If there was even a whiff of impropriety—”
“But surely, a marriage to me would safeguard your relationship with Warren,” she countered. “What the people would see is a loving marriage between a vicar and his wife. We would play our roles, Charles. And what care would they have if your childhood friend was often over for dinner or joining you on walks to visit your parishioners? You could live out in the open, safe in the knowledge that you had a wife who would shield you both from unkind gossip.”
As she spoke, her vision of their shared future became clearer and clearer in his mind. This was sensible, and more than fair. He was doing her a favor that would offer her financial freedom. Additionally, their marriage would save her from the infernal pressures of the high society husband hunt. And she was offering him the chance to have everything he’d ever dreamed of but never thought possible.
More. The words of the duke floated through his mind. The possibility of more.
Oh Christ, this couldn’t possibly be what he meant…was it? How could James Corbin ever imply such an arrangement?
But still, the thought nagged at him. He could be with Warren knowing his wife was entering the marriage with her eyes wide open. He could love Warren, grow old with Warren. And he could have a wife too. Madeline was sweet and kind, she was lovely as a painting. And if she truly wanted to embark on such an arrangement with them, she must be fearless too.
So why did he hesitate?
“I won’t pretend I know anything about what a marriage ought to look like,” she went on. “But would it not be better to craft a marriage that works for all of us, regardless of whether it is the right kind of marriage for someone else?” she reasoned. “We are the ones who will have to live with this,” she finished with a shrug.
“And what is this?” Charles challenged.
“Well, I don’t rightly know,” she replied innocently. “But if you would only show me—”
“Madeline, we cannot possibly—”
“Charles, just shut up and kiss me.” Warren pushed himself off the table and closed the narrow space between them, grabbing hold of his coat. With a fierce tug, he pulled him forward.
“John, we can’t—”
But he wasn’t stopping. Warren kissed him, molding their lips together with an eager groan. In moments, his tongue was tracing Charles’s full bottom lip, seeking entry into his mouth. Warren teased, cupping the nape of his neck, his fingers digging into his curls.
Charles was always helpless once he had that first taste of Warren on his lips. He tasted like salt and honey, his coarsely shaved chin chafing against his skin. The man just did something to him, turning his mind to scrambled eggs with a curl of his finger. He sighed into the kiss, his own hands gripping Warren at the waist.
Too soon it was over, and Warren was pulling back. Charles’s head swam as he blinked his eyes open, suddenly remembering where he was and why. He spun around in Warren’s grip, ready to see Madeline’s look of confusion and disgust.
But she didn’t look disgusted or even the slightest bit upset. She looked alive. Invigorated. Her cheeks were flushed apple red, and her blue eyes were glassy. Her tousled blonde curls framed her narrow face.
Charles had a sudden image of her in his bed, those blonde curls fanned out across white sheets. Her naked skin would press against his, so soft and supple compared to Warren’s hard planes. He would lay against her, feeling those slender curves mold to him. Behind him, Warren would press in closer, cupping her breast and tweaking her pert nipple as his other hand stroked Charles’s bare cock.
He was getting hard just thinking about it. God, he wanted it. What the hell was happening to him? Is that why he hesitated? Was he going to hold out for a version of this future where Warren was not just his, but theirs to share, theirs to love?
His heart twisted in his chest at the thought. He was jealous by nature. He knew Warren was more worldly than him. As lads, Warren was always tipping maids into the hay. More than once, he’d caught him with a girl, his cock in her mouth. It had made him green with envy. He couldn’t bear the idea of sharing Warren with anyone. Not a look, not a touch.
So why did the idea of Madeline kissing him make his cock hard? Why was he secretly thrilled at the feel of her watching them kiss?
Fucking hell—
The truth set in. He wouldn’t merely be sharing Warren with Madeline. He’d be sharing Madeline with Warren too. That was the more he craved. Which made him a monster. He couldn’t possibly ask her to consider a marriage to them both. It wasn’t done. And she was a proper lady; a viscount’s daughter. She deserved a proper marriage.
He should turn her down. She should run from them before they corrupted her further.
“Well?” Warren said in that same teasing tone. “Is it what you expected, my lady?”
“I hardly know,” she replied, her pink lips still parted.
Charles fought a groan, desperate to cross the room and place his thumb between those parted lips. He wanted to feel the warmth of her tongue. But he had to stop.
Warren still stood there with one arm around him. “Would you like more of a demonstration, lovely?”
“I…how is it different?” she murmured, her eyes on Charles.
He glanced between them, heart stopping. “What do you mean?”
She took a step closer, her bare feet soundless on Warren’s planked wooden floor. “I mean kissing Warren and kissing me. It must be different for you. How so?”
Warren’s hold on him relaxed as he glanced down with that calm, satisfied look on his face. “Perhaps you need to refresh your memory,” Warren said in his ear, giving his hip a squeeze.
Now it was Charles who felt his cheeks heating. Was it possible they both wanted this too? Why else would Warren encourage this? He was more possessive than Charles. “I…”
Warren dropped his hand away in open invitation. “Kiss her, Charles.”
Oh god—
Charles stepped forward, his mind emptying of all logical thought as he closed the space between himself and Madeline. She was so petite. So delicate. And she’d admitted to being bullied in her past. The urge to be her protector flooded him. He wanted his hands on her, wanted to warm her, and keep her safe.
One word screamed through him, licking down his spine, hot like molten fire.
Mine.
He raised both hands, taking a light hold of her upper arms. She stilled, her chin tipping up towards his. She had the prettiest spray of soft freckles across her cheeks and over her nose. The firelight flickered across the planes of her face.
“Our size is different, obviously,” she murmured.
“Obviously,” he replied, his gaze darting to where his hands held her. His thumbs brushed the soft fabric of her ruby red pelisse.
She shifted on her feet, her own hands rising to brace softly at his sides. The touch was so featherlight, he may have imagined it. “You can tell me if I’m doing it wrong,” she stammered. “If I—it’s alright, you can—”
“Madeline,” he murmured, raising a hand to cup that pointed chin.
She bit her bottom lip, eyes wide as she looked up at him. “You don’t have to—”
“Stop talking so I can kiss you,” he teased, letting himself take what he wanted.
If he was going to hell for this, he didn’t care. He kissed her for the third time in as many days, this time letting himself dig his fingers into her loose hair. She let out the most perfect sound low in her throat, so feminine and sweet.
He took his time, kissing her gently, exploring her reactions. She wanted to know what was different, so he analyzed. With Warren, he was always the one feeling breathless. Warren moved them like one body, claiming Charles in whatever way he wanted. And Charles let him. He needed Warren to take control; he craved it.
Kissing Madeline felt entirely different. He felt more grounded in her arms, more aware of himself and her. If he placed his fingers to the pulse at her throat, he’d feel the way she was wild for him. Heaven help him, the idea was making him so hard. He had to know. He slipped his hand from her chin, down the column of her throat, pressing two fingers to her fluttering pulse. It thrummed, sure and strong.
She may be a small thing, but she was fiery. And her fire was burning for him. He needed to taste it. Dropping his mouth away from hers, he pulled gently on the curls at her nape, bending her neck until he could latch on to her neck, flicking and teasing with his lips.
Christ, her skin was so soft. With a sharp inhale, he filled his senses with that perfect soft scent of rose oil and groaned, needing more. He dragged his tongue over her pulse, and she jolted in his arms, holding tight to his elbows.
“Ohmygod,” she gasped, her body wracked with a sharp shiver.
“She’s so responsive,” came Warren’s deep voice from just behind him.
He stilled, loosening his hold on her, his nose brushing the collar of her pelisse.
She trembled in his arms, trying to lean away. “Was that…I mean…” Madeline’s eyes were glowing with awakened desire and her lips were still glossy with his kisses.
Unable to help himself, he lifted a hand and brushed his thumb over her lips. “You kiss like a goddess, Madeline,” he told her. “Venus herself should take note.”
Her eyes darted from him to Warren and back and she looked suddenly worried.
“What’s the matter?”
“Warren did that,” she murmured. “He-he kissed me and touched my lip with his thumb. He—you—” She closed her eyes, shaking her head, unable to say more.
Charles glanced at Warren, surprised to find that the jealousy which had been eating him alive all afternoon was now all but gone. Warren’s presence surrounded them both. Not content to watch them kiss from the corner, he’d crossed the room and was now close enough that he could wrap them both in his arms. And Charles had seen that look on his face enough times before. Warren was hungry…and not for the soup sitting on his table.
Heart hammering in his chest, Madeline still folded in his arms, Charles held Warren’s gaze. If he was destined for the fiery pit, he was ready to burn. “Show me.”
