Page 6 of Joy to the Earl

“His name is Mr. Jack Reynolds. He is a carpenter from North Yorkshire, orphaned, not married or betrothed, with the manners of a gentleman.”

May sighed. “Is that your way of saying you did not make use of that superior-sized appendage last night?”

“Superior?” choked out Donald. “And may I ask when you glimpsed Mr. Reynolds’ cock, madam?”

“The poor man was freezing to death. Rosalind cut his sodden clothing off to save his life. My word, it was lovely. Very thick and long.”

“Ooooh, I know someone else like that,” said Claire with a giggle, shooting her husband a hopeful look. Unfortunately Phillip had picked up the most recent newspaper sent from London and was perusing the front page.

If there was a second newspaper Rosalind would have done exactly the same thing. This was about the last conversation she wanted to have right now, especially when her thoughts about Jack Reynolds weren’t even clear in her own head. A very strong sexual attraction, definitely. Even the thought of him lying on the rug in front of the fire, all handsome and naked and so hard, made her wet. She’d wanted nothing more than to touch him, taste the moisture dripping from the head of his cock, feel him buried to the hilt inside her. To know how he kissed, if he was a man who cared about his lover’s pleasure. If he used those hard lips and long, blunt fingers on a woman’s nipples and quim until she begged him to let her come.

But something hadn’t been quite right. His demeanor, a certain air about him that said all wasn’t what it seemed. Like the memory loss, for example. Was that genuine? Did he have a wife and six children tucked away somewhere? Why had he been travelling so fast on icy roads in winter? As for his expression when she’d touched him—well no one could say she didn’t know what male pleasure looked like. It was the underlying tension and yearning she didn’t understand. But would he ever let her near him again after her blundering attempts to soothe him when in his own eyes he’d embarrassed himself?

Determinedly scooping up and swallowing a mouthful of creamy coddled eggs, Rosalind rolled her eyes at her aunt. “Really? You ask if I made use of his cock? Mr. Reynolds had just been involved in a carriage accident.”

“That is not an answer, pet,” said May, her gaze sharpening. “Did you or did you not welcome Orlando into the depths of your enchanted forest?”

She groaned. “Please. It is far too early for bardy jokes. Besides, unlike Orlando, Mr. Reynolds isn’t a younger son, and he’s not of the aristocracy, so there’ll be no re-enactment of As You Like It in this house.”

“Mr. Reynolds had no say in either of those things,” said Claire, far too thoughtfully. “What about his character? Orlando was one of Mr. Shakespeare’s most delightful heroes, was he not, Phillip?”

“Quite,” said Phillip absently, from behind the newspaper. “Brave, chivalrous, tender, modest, smart, strong, handsome…”

May clapped her hands. “Well, we know Mr. Reynolds is strong and brave. And a fine figure of a man. Clearly it is meant to be. So, did you have him or not?”

“Damnation, wife,” snapped Donald. “Not at all a topic for the breakfast table. And of course our Rosalind would have had him. They don’t call her the Wicked Widow for nothing.”

Dabbing at her lips with a linen napkin, Rosalind barely suppressed a snort. Wicked Widow indeed. So wicked that she’d only had one man since her husband’s death, and it hadn’t gone well. The powerful baronet had spent most of the evening confessing his romantic troubles, then he’d lifted her skirts and shoved inside her with a cock the size of her thumb, nestled into her breasts and fallen asleep. But he’d told everyone she was both a wise woman in matters of the heart and a lover beyond compare, as did his friend, the handsome third son of a viscount who preferred men and had asked so sweetly for her help in staging an encounter to divert talk. After that there had been the older and exceedingly wealthy merchant who liked nothing more than dressing up in gowns of imported silk and playing a devilish game of whist, and the politician who just wanted to be spanked and told he was a naughty boy, before being fed custard.

Thus the legend had begun. And she’d been so intrigued by the differing needs of men, she’d bought books and naughty journals. Collected pamphlets discussing the various specialties of London pleasure clubs and courtesans. Had even found a retired madam more than willing to share jaw-dropping stories for a few shillings. Armed with her newfound knowledge, she’d taken on a few more gentlemen. Soon after, gentry couples started discreetly approaching her for advice with sexual discord, establishing a unique way to support herself and her young daughter Felicity.

“They,” Rosalind said in a voice that announced the subject was well and truly closed, “should mind their own business.”

May made a growling sound. “If only it were after lunch. Then I could ply you with brandy until you talked.”

“The only thing we need to talk about is whether we are going to return to London for Christmas or stay here. It is less than a fortnight away now—if we are going to travel, we need to travel soon. It will take an age on the roads, and everyone in the village swears we are in store for the worst winter in a very long time.”

“I’ve heard the same thing,” said Donald, nodding reluctantly. “I think we should remain here for Christmas and go to London in the New Year.”

“What about Mr. Reynolds?” said Claire, crumbling a piece of toasted bread. “Are you going to invite him to stay?”

Rosalind sat back in her chair, the small mound of coddled eggs abruptly making her stomach churn. “I don’t know. He is welcome to stay until his injuries heal, but he might not want to after that. Although with him having no family…”

The newspaper rustled then lowered, and Phillip peered over the top. “No one?”

“No. He said his mother passed a year ago and he doesn’t have a father or brothers or sisters.”

“That is most unfortunate,” said Phillip. “Even though my siblings try my patience just about every minute, I couldn’t imagine not having them. Everyone needs a family.”

Claire stared at her husband, a frown creasing her forehead. “I shall remember that next time you grumble when I invite them to supper. And when you tell me the time is not yet right for a child.”

“Perhaps we could discuss that further later, in our private session?” said Rosalind, her heart clenching at the sadness on Phillip’s face before he disappeared again behind the newspaper.

“Speaking of children,” said Donald, far too heartily, “where is our darling Fliss?”

Rosalind smiled fondly, as she always did at the mention of her daughter, the light of her life. “As far away as possible from you, uncle. If I ever again see her perched in a tree beside you and singing army ditties, it will be too soon.”

“Quite right, husband,” said May sternly. “If you want to sit amongst the branches and contemplate the world while freezing your bollocks off, that is fine. But that little treasure stays indoors.”