Marcus stared out the carriage window. Dusk gathered behind the stands of yews and box trees. The village of Betchworth was behind them; another couple of miles and they’d be at Hazelbrook Hall. Where Lavinia had destroyed his marriage, where she’d ruined his oldest friendship, and where she’d managed to kill herself.
He felt a familiar clenching in his chest. He wanted to rap on the carriage roof and tell the coachman to stop, to turn the carriage around and go back to London.
Marcus glanced across the carriage. Albin wasn’t watching the Surrey landscape unfold. A deep frown furrowed his brow.
“A penny for your thoughts, lad.”
“What? Oh . . .” Albin blushed. “I was just . . . I was thinking about last night, sir, at Mrs. Henshaw’s.”
“Mrs. Henshaw’s? What about it?” Marcus stretched his legs out, clasped his hands behind his head, and prepared to be amused.
Albin hesitated, while the carriage lurched and swayed, then took a deep breath and said: “Sir, what was that woman doing to Mr. Langford?”
Marcus’s thought processes seemed to freeze for an instant, like a pendulum clock whose weights were jammed. “What?”
“The woman kneeling between Mr. Langford’s legs. What was she doing?”
Marcus lowered his hands and sat up straight. “Uh . . . she was . . . er, she was playing his pipe.”
Albin’s face creased with confusion. “What?”
“Playing his pipe. His silent flute.” And then, since the lad clearly didn’t understand, he gestured to his own groin. “His virile member.”
“Oh.” Understanding dawned on Albin’s face. He reddened. “I beg your pardon, sir. I haven’t heard it called those names before.”
Marcus bit the inside of his cheek. “There are lots of different words for it,” he said, once he’d quelled the urge to laugh.
“There are, sir?” Curiosity was bright in Albin’s eyes. “What are they?”
The carriage slowed to a halt. Outside came the sound of voices as the last tollgate before Hazelbrook was negotiated.
Marcus pretended an interest in the proceedings. He turned his head and watched the gatekeeper exchange civilities with the coachman. Albin’s question rang in his ears.
He could snub the lad—but he had invited Albin’s confidence. This is your own fault, he told himself ruefully. You asked what was bothering him.
The carriage lurched forward again. Marcus turned back to Albin. “Other names? Let’s see . . . There’s prick and cock and Man Thomas and . . .” He racked his brain. “Hair splitter and arbor vitae.”
Albin nodded, his expression serious. His lips moved slightly, as if he was repeating the words.
“Which one do you use, sir?
I should have snubbed him. “Cock,” Marcus said, trying not to feel embarrassed.
Albin gave another serious nod.
Marcus crossed his legs and looked out the window, signaling the conversation was over, but Albin said: “So what was she doing, sir? The whore? Was she trying to play music on Langford’s cock?”
His brain gave him a ludicrous image of the whore blowing on Phillip’s penis and producing a tune. Marcus blinked. Albin didn’t really think—
He turned his head and stared at Albin.
Albin stared earnestly back at him.
He did think it.
Laughter bubbled up from Marcus’s chest and spilled out of his mouth. He tried to gulp it back, but it was unstoppable.
Albin flushed scarlet, not just his cheeks, but his forehead and throat and even his ears.
It was a full minute before Marcus mastered his amusement. “I beg your pardon,” he said, when he finally caught his breath. He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes. “That was extremely ill-mannered of me.”
Albin shook his head. His cheeks were still deep pink with embarrassment.
“To answer your question, no, she was not trying to play music. She was . . . er, she was . . .” The last of his amusement drained away. How to explain this?
Marcus folded the handkerchief and put it back in his pocket. He cleared his throat. “She was using her mouth and tongue to induce a pleasurable spasm.”
“Oh,” Albin said. From his blank expression, he clearly had no idea what a pleasurable spasm was.
Marcus scrutinized the lad for a moment. “Albin . . . have you ever been with a woman?”
Albin shook his head.
Marcus blinked. His twenty-five-year-old secretary was a virgin? We’ll have to do something about that, he started to say—and then shut his mouth, catching the words on the tip of his tongue. Perhaps Albin wanted to be a virgin? Perhaps he intended to enter marriage as unsullied as his eventual bride?
Marcus winced inwardly. What a terrible thought. “Albin, er . . . in my experience, it is helpful if a man has some skill in sexual matters before he marries.”
“It is, sir? Why?”
“Because otherwise the wedding night can be unpleasant for one’s bride.”
Albin’s brow creased. “Why, sir?”
Marcus tugged at his neckcloth. It felt rather tight. “Because women experience a degree of pain when they lose their virginity. A man skilled in sexual matters can ensure that she also feels some pleasure.” Lavinia had uttered mewing cries and wept in his arms, but her distress had quickly turned to passion and she’d reciprocated his lovemaking with an innocent enthusiasm that had made him love her all the more.
Or perhaps even that had been pretense. It wasn’t my skill at lovemaking; it was her skill at simulating pleasure.
“Oh,” Albin said, frowning. “I didn’t know it hurt. For women, I mean.”
Marcus nodded and prepared to change the subject.
“But only the first time? After that it’s pleasurable?”
“Er . . . no, I believe it’s not always pleasurable for women. Unless the man knows what he’s doing. And cares enough to do it.”
Albin’s head tilted sideways. “What do you mean, sir?”
“When one is with a professional, one naturally does not bother to, er . . .” Marcus tugged at his neckcloth again. “One has paid to receive pleasure, not to give it. Although, of course, a gentleman never hurts a woman he’s bedding, even if she is a whore.”
“But men try to give their wives pleasure?”
Marcus shrugged. “That depends upon the marriage.”
“How, sir?”
“With a love match, a husband naturally wishes to give his wife pleasure.”
“And if it’s not a love match, he doesn’t?”
Marcus shrugged again. “An intelligent man would endeavor to. A wife who enjoys the pleasures of the bed can greatly enhance a marriage.” In the early days of his marriage, with Lavinia eager in his bed, he’d thought himself the luckiest man in England.
Albin’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “It can, sir? Why?”
“Because sex is the greatest physical pleasure one experiences in life.”
Albin considered this answer, his lips pursed slightly in a frown. “Only for men? Or for women, too?”
“If the man knows what he’s doing, then yes, I believe it is extremely pleasurable for women, too.”
Albin nodded seriously.
“If you ever contemplate marriage, I suggest you gain some experience before the event.” Or your wedding night is likely to be a disaster.
“Experience? You mean with a prostitute?” Albin grimaced, an expression of revulsion.
“One from a respectable establishment,” Marcus hastened to say. “Not like Mrs. Henshaw’s. One that has clean girls.”
“Is that what you did, sir?”
Marcus stared at his secretary, torn between amusement and offense. I really should tell him it’s none of his business. But Albin was gazing at him with such earnest seriousness that he couldn’t. “Yes,” he said. “But they’d be above your touch, lad. Very expensive.”
As rebuffs went, it was very mild, but Albin blushed and subsided into silence.
Marcus turned his attention to the scenery. Dusk crept across the horizon. He felt a surge of bitterness. Every woman he’d ever slept with had done so because of his money—the high-class courtesans who’d warmed his bed until his marriage, the wife he’d thought had married him for love.
“Sir, is playing on her husband’s pipe something a wife does—”
Marcus jerked his head around. “No! Good God, no! Don’t ever ask your wife to do that!”
Albin flinched from his vehemence. Bewilderment furrowed his brow. “Why not, sir?”
“Because it’s not something a respectable woman would do.”
“Oh.”
“One pays a prostitute to do it, one hopes one’s chère-amie will do it, but one never asks one’s wife to do it.”
Albin nodded, his expression serious. “Thank you, sir.”
“You’re welcome.” Marcus returned his attention to the window. The trees were vanishing into pools of shadow.
“So you recommend that . . . that someone such as myself visit a respectable establishment and ask for a lesson, sir?”
Marcus’s eyes winced shut at the image that conjured up in his head. “No,” he said, turning to look at Albin. “I recommend that you visit a respectable establishment and discover the pleasures of sex. And then, after a while, you might think about asking one of the girls to show you some of the things that please women.”
Albin nodded. “I see.”
“Good.” Marcus stared out the window again. The line of the horizon was blending into the sky. A thought struck him. Albin was unusually gullible . . . He turned back to his secretary. “And Albin, don’t ever tip a whore’s velvet. Even if she tells you women enjoy it.”
“Tip a whore’s velvet?” Albin’s brow wrinkled. “What’s that, sir?”
“It’s, er . . .” Marcus pulled at the knot of his neckcloth. It really was uncomfortably tight. “To tip velvet is to . . . er, to . . . to tongue a woman.”
“Tongue?” Albin shook his head to show he didn’t understand.
Marcus cleared his throat. To his annoyance, he felt himself blush. “By licking her private parts.”
Albin recoiled slightly. An expression of disgust crossed his face.
“I believe it’s very pleasurable for a woman.” Marcus’s voice didn’t come out quite as he’d intended; there was a defensive note in it.
Albin’s eyebrows rose up his forehead. “It is?”
Marcus nodded.
“Is it something a husband does—” Albin broke off at Marcus’s headshake. “Not respectable, sir?”
“Definitely not respectable.”
Albin’s expression became perplexed. “But if one shouldn’t do it with a whore and one shouldn’t do it with one’s wife, with whom does one do it?”
“One’s chère-amie, if one wishes.” Marcus shrugged. “If one knows she’s not diseased.”
“Have you ever—?”
“No,” he said, cutting off the sentence. I don’t want to snub you, lad, but if you ask me one more question—
The carriage slowed and made a left-hand turn. Marcus glanced out the window. To his relief he saw a familiar gatehouse. “We’ve arrived.”