Forbidden Desire: Dangerous Desire, #1

1

London, 1898

Descending the steps of the Duke of Mournemoth’s townhouse, Lord Henry McCaulay, the Earl of Rancliffe swung himself into his waiting carriage. Had his driver not been holding the door for him, he would have taken pleasure in both flinging it open and slamming it closed.

Mournemoth's admonition on Rancliffe’s continuing unmarried state was insufferable. His godfather's advice was kindly meant, but unsolicited and damnably irritating. The late earl was deceased these seven years, and Rancliffe was capable of making his own decisions—including on the imperative of finding himself a bride and begetting an heir.

The truth was, he’d steeled through two Seasons with that very objective and hadn’t found a single female with whom he could contemplate spending more than an hour—let alone a lifetime.

Naturally, there had been women enough willing—as there always would be for a man of means and property and illustrious title. Without undue homage to his vanity, Rancliffe owned that he was a catch.

Moreover, his classical features and the curl of his golden hair seemed to appeal to the ladies. His physical pursuits—riding, fencing, and a little pugilism—maintained his measurements with his tailor.

Only hunting and shooting did he eschew. His land in Oxfordshire came under the experienced eye of a Mr Bentley, who had strict instructions to leave the wildlife to its own management. Even the foxes were safe on the Rancliffe estate, the grouse and pheasants killed by tooth and claw rather than the blast of a shotgun.

It wasn’t that Rancliffe disliked women. He was very fond of his sister, Cecile, and his heart yet grieved for the loss of their devoted mama. Nor did he believe women to be incapable of applying themselves to intellectual pursuits, although he doubted that true capability of mind could be gained through acquisition of knowledge alone. It required a propensity towards enquiry and reasoning, and the strength of will to rise above the common opinion of others.

He accepted that a wife would have to be found, and that a woman suitable for that role would, at some juncture, present herself. It was simply that he was exhausted by the process of seeking her out, and ever more fearful as to how far he’d be obliged to compromise, marrying a woman merely for her bloodline and her ability to cause him minimal irritation.

Was it too much to ask for— a woman who would not only ensure his domestic comfort and bear him heirs but who would be a social asset? Someone able to converse charmingly; someone who might even amuse him with her conversation. His mother had made his father laugh, he remembered, but theirs had been a remarkable marriage; a rare instance of conventional alliance combined with love.

As for bed sports, the sort of proper young woman his godfather had in mind as the next Countess Rancliffe would be unlikely to view intimate relations as anything other than a necessity for the bearing of children.

That was what mistresses were for: to satisfy the demands a wife could not be expected to fulfil. He mightn’t bother, of course. It had suited him well enough, so far, to make use of establishments designed for that purpose.

In truth, his sister's unwedded state had been plaguing him more than his own. She was already a little beyond the usual age, and his parents, God rest them, would have chastised his negligence.

His aunt had presented Cecile at court three summers ago, and Rancliffe had spared no expense—on her wardrobe nor her ‘coming-out’ ball. There had been suitors but Cecile had seemed to lack interest and Rancliffe had been loath to agree a match, unwilling as yet to lose his sister to another man.

Selfish of him.

Next season, we shall do better. It shall find a man worthy of her, to secure her happiness.

Rancliffe pressed his thumbs to his forehead. Even prior to joining Mournemoth for their tête-à-tête in the library, the evening had been exceptionally wearisome. The only conversation worth his breath had been with a fellow member of the British Ornithological Union. The wearing of plumage was something he’d always found abhorrent. A million birds killed annually, for the detestable purpose of decorating women’s hats. It had allayed some of his pique to hear that the Society for the Protection of Birds was garnering greater support for the abolition of the practice.

Having studied zoology in his Oxford years, Rancliffe had often reflected upon man’s failure to evolve much above the condition of his fellow creatures, driven largely by the desire to feed and procreate. The achievements of mankind, wonderous as they could be, seemed to fall short. The finger of the Divine was far easier to identify in the beauty of the melodious and colourful avian world.

‘Home, m’lord?’

Rancliffe frowned. For the entirety of the evening, he’d been desirous of nothing more than his own hearth, the latest copy of Ibis—the ornithologists’ journal—and a deeply-filled tumbler of Aberlour whisky. Now, however, he felt the need for relaxation of another kind. It would take more than a Bromo-Seltzer to alleviate the tension spreading through his neck and shoulders, he leant forward to give his driver an alternative destination.

‘To the club, Simons.’

Leaning back into the leather banquette, Rancliffe closed his eyes.

Furnished in plush velvet, the floor spread with Persian rugs, the luxurious salon was lit by a chandelier hung with black glass. Rancliffe had installed electric illumination in his own home the previous winter, but there was an undeniable mystique to the flicker of candlelight.

A dozen were already seated. Despite their half-moon masks, Rancliffe recognized them all.

By day, Brockford’s was a modest refuge from the bustle of business: a place to read the papers in peace over coffee or brandy. The luncheon menu was limited, but entirely adequate for a light repast.

By night, the establishment offered a wider range of services, with only members of the highest standing apprised of who, and what, lay beyond certain doors.

It had often occurred to Rancliffe that the women of Brockford’s might be worshipped more devoutly than the dutiful wives waiting at home. Here, women wielded power, whether in domination or sweet surrender—albeit with the challenge of appearing enthusiastic regardless of who was paying the bill.

Ushered into a chair, and with his usual drink swiftly brought, Rancliffe attempted to relax. There was to be a formal entertainment, it appeared, the stage having been dressed.

‘My lords.’ The Master of Ceremonies bowed with an extravagant flourish. ‘I bid you welcome and good appetite.’

He paused, allowing his eyes and a momentary purse of his lips to convey his meaning. ‘Tonight’s performance promises to be especially memorable, thanks to our new hostess, lately arrived from the Continent, and bringing a wealth of delightful