The Hunt Club Chronicles Bundle (30 page)

Maggie wriggled to get down and smoothed her skirts as her last governess had taught her to do. “That was very kind of her.”

Aiden snorted and met Terry’s gaze. Terry appeared uncertain and Aiden leaned against his side, brushing his knuckles along his thigh as if by accident. “Your father is here, so is Amelia.”

“I see them.”

Terry had taken over Aiden’s correspondence to Lord Henderson after six months and the two appeared friendly, at least on paper.
Henderson
hadn’t been happy that Terry wouldn’t reside under his roof, but there was little he could do to change the situation since Aiden refused to retract his invitation. “We’ll be at Mercer House in a few days. I’m looking forward to unpacking for good this time.”

While the trip had been exceptional, Aiden had missed the comforts of his home. He’d even missed Josephine and Robert. He’d never thought to admit that. But life had changed for the better when Terrance had returned to him. He’d learned to trust, to let someone care for him and care for them in return.

The children ran toward the prow as the ship was tied securely to the docks.

Terry dug into his pocket, produced a key, and twirled it in his fingers. “Do you think we should open that locked chest of yours when we get home, Your Grace? I’m curious to discover as to what it contains, after all.”

Aiden gulped. “I thought you’d thrown that key away long ago.”

A sinful smile twisted Terry’s mouth. “Now, Your Grace, how could I do that to you? After all, you followed me half-way round the world and received little recompense. Surely I can make your sacrifice worth the wait.” He dropped the key into his pocket and patted it. “I’ve made extensive plans for the contents of that chest. Be ready.”

Ready? Aiden thought he might explode here and now. They’d had little opportunity for extended bed play while they traveled, and none at all while onboard ship. He ached to be touched and fucked hard and fast by his lover. But he had to wait now till they were secure in his home.

But what would Terry say when he discovered not a chest but an entire chamber suited to Aiden’s form of pleasure? A collection so vast it would take months to experiment with all the devices he’d locked away.

Terry joined his children at the prow, pointing to those gathered on the docks with a grin.

Aiden wrestled his raging lust back under control, even while marveling that his tender hearted lover intended to dominate him the first chance he got. He may claim not to be Aiden’s master now, but Terry’s whim controlled him as surely as he’d wielded a whip long ago.

Terry waved at Aiden to join them where he stood with his children clustered about him. Pulse thrumming, body aching, he rushed toward the man who’d turned his world upside down and back to rights again.

Life was infinitely better than he’d imagined.

He’d finally found his home.

Hardly a Stranger

Heather Boyd

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Hardly a Stranger

Copyright © 2011 by
Heather Boyd

LLD Press

Cover Design by
Heather Boyd

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.

For more information visit:
www.heather-boyd.com

Ambrose Manning, Duke of Staines, has the worst luck in wives and lovers. A widow for fifteen years, he’s busy running his gentleman’s club, snatches pleasure from transient lovers, and relies on Francis Redding to provide intelligent companionship between social engagements. There is only one problem with his relationship with
Redding
; the man would make the perfect lover, if only he wasn’t a dependant servant.

Life-long footman to the Duke of Staines, Francis Redding, is hardly a stranger to the disappointment of unreachable dreams or the duke’s unorthodox love life. He’s lived in the duke’s shadow for most of his life, trained as a surgeon at his request, too, and has all too frequently kept the duke out of trouble. It’s not a bad life for a farmer’s son, until the duke’s luck runs out.

HARDLY A STRANGER

Chapter One

Too young. Too old. Too forward. Balding, fat, stupid and bilious. Was there no one in
London
whose company deserved the attention of an unattached man? Ambrose Manning, Duke of Staines, scanned the gentlemen seated closest to him in his exclusive club—his pride and joy for the last decade—with growing annoyance. Not one of them attracted him physically or mentally and he desperately wanted some form of pleasure today. Why the hell had he issued invitations to so many unappealing lords? He surely hadn’t invited them all for their deep pockets and large appetites for the finer things in life.

When he’d first conceived of the Hunt Club, he’d wanted a place where like-minded individuals, well-connected lords, could be comfortable and indulge their many and varied appetites in absolute privacy. Yet none of those seated around him, men of vice and excess, seemed to whet his.

A definite problem and one he was having a great deal of trouble accepting as he aged. He would turn five and forty next month. Was this to be the best life could offer?

He hoped to hell it wasn’t, otherwise he might go shrieking mad with frustration and develop blue balls. He was not looking forward to his next birthday celebration. Ambrose heaved a heavy sigh at the thought of that approaching milestone. There were days when he felt as ancient as the gnarled oaks lining the riverbanks at
Tindel
Park
, his ancestral home.

As he drew the memory of his distant home deep into his being, Mr. Robert Banks, the Duke of Lewes’ young heir, threaded his way through the clubs many patrons. Ambrose sighed with relief at the distraction from his maudlin thoughts as Banks stopped nearby.

“May I join you, Your Grace?”

Ambrose smiled in encouragement. “Of course, Mr. Banks. Do join me. Would you care for a brandy?”

“Thank you.”

Ambrose signaled a footman to bring the youth a snifter and regarded the serious man. The Duke of Lewes had asked him to keep a close eye on his nephew while he cavorted on the continent with his lover. Given that Banks was fresh up to Town, and very, very naïve, Ambrose had readily agreed to take him under his wing while he found his feet in society.

As a favor to Lewes, Banks had been invited to the club several months ago now, and seemed content enough about it. But he had not discovered the full range of services offered to patrons so far. To date, he’d only partaken of the same courtesan each time he ventured upstairs. The lovely Felicity had more than one gentleman dangling after her. Not Ambrose, of course. He never dabbled with his employees. But his own restrictions meant, quite exasperatingly, that he had to find his pleasure among the titled lords and ladies he met in society. By no means an easy task. A man like Banks attracted a much larger crowd of admirers than an older man of nearly five and forty.

When Banks fidgeted for the third time under his scrutiny, Ambrose leaned toward Banks. “Is anything amiss?”

A guilty flush swept over his cheeks. “Am I that obvious?”

Ambrose smiled to reduce the sting. “You are honest, sir. There is nothing to worry about in that. Given enough time you’ll be able to mask your emotions as well as the rest of us.”

Mr. Banks nodded. “It’s about my mother.”

Ambrose wasn’t surprised. “What has the delightful Mrs. Banks done now?”

“She’s taken up with Singleton.” Banks scowled fiercely. “I don’t care for the chap sniffing ‘round her skirts.”

Ambrose pursed his lips. “Singleton is a fine man, no scandal or hint of stain to his reputation. What has he done to offend you?”

“It is not what he’s done, but what my mother has. She sings.”

Lewes had mentioned the boy’s tendency to pout, but Ambrose still frowned at the outburst. “I take it she cannot carry a tune?”

“My mother sings well enough. It’s the subject matter that vexes me. She sings of frolicking and newborn suns for heaven’s sake.”

Ambrose snorted. “She sounds like a woman in love.”

“How can you tell?” Banks leaned forward. “This Singleton seems like a decent chap on the surface but he must be very poorly connected if you have not invited him here.”

Singleton was entirely too straight-laced for the club. He’d tell the world what went on here behind closed doors and Ambrose couldn’t allow that. “You are correct that Singleton is not a member, nor would he ever receive an invitation. The club is not for every man. But Banks, people in love do the strangest things. They sing, they smile, they might even leave the country. But falling in love isn’t a bad experience.”

“Were you ever in love?”

Pain tightened Ambrose’s chest. “I loved my wife, very much.”

“Yes, but . . . you’ve never fallen into that trap again.”

“Not so far. Listen, Banks, I know your parents were hardly a love match and you undoubtedly have good reasons for your opinions, but love does not render one weak. It gives strength, too. I am envious of friends who have found love.”

Very envious. Ambrose shifted uncomfortably. Two of his friends had found love recently and were blissfully happy with the outcome. Byworth had his Henry tucked away in the country, Lewes had run off with his Terrance to the continent, leaving Ambrose to wonder what was wrong with him that he was still alone after fifteen years as a widow. Did a man only love strongly once in his lifetime?

His wife, Anna, god rest her soul, had been the perfect woman: captivating in public, utterly priceless at home. He had doted on her so much that when she’d died so suddenly after a mere ten years of marriage his heart had shattered into a thousand pieces—pieces that had taken many years to reform. But perhaps he had never mended at all. Perhaps he was destined to live forever lonely.