Regency Nights

by Kitti Bernetti

Genres: Erotic & Steamy Romance

Synopsis

An historical novella by Kitti Bernetti with menage and MM themes. It is a truth, universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife. But, unlike the wealthy D'arcy, Cavendish De Courcy's family is broke and he must marry an heiress to save the De Courcys from ruin. When, two weeks from his wedding, he meets the superbly proportioned Nathaniel and succumbs to all the illicit joys that gay 18th-century London brings, how on Earth can Cavendish face his nightly duty to his new wife? And how will he and Nathaniel ever find their happy ever after?

Release date: April 4, 2011

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 57

Sample

CAVENDISH DE COURCY ADJUSTED the handstitched silk cravat at his neck. This Mayfair parlour was stifling now that summer had invaded London with a vengeance after the bitterly cold winter. As Cavendish shifted in his seat, the candles guttering in the wall sconces stirred the heated air unbearably. Lady Arabella and the other ladies threw reproving glances at him, their jewels glittering on uplifted bosoms. A stiff-backed musician began yet another interminable minuet on the pianoforte. Cavendish raised his eyes to the ceiling and prayed for deliverance. These musical evenings were so proper, so beau monde , so utterly dreary. What in the deuce was he doing here? Arabella was pretty enough and she was his intended, chosen by his father. ‘Lady Arabella Fanshawe is childbearing stock, Cavendish. Look at the swell of those hips and those magnificent breasts. There’s a girl who’ll push out heirs like a breed mare. And the Fanshawes have wealth. She’s the one you have to marry to save the De Courcy family from the loathsome mess your grandfather has dragged us into.’

Cavendish scraped his fingers through his mop of chestnut hair. Duty, his life was ever duty, and once he was married with children it would be even worse. He sighed. He enjoyed cavorting around town with the other young blades, eating at his club, playing vingt-et-un at the tables, riding his horse through Kensington Gardens. Polite activities such as this musical evening were feminine pursuits. Although Cavendish could charm any woman, his blood had never been stirred by a girl. If he didn’t get out of this grisly parlour soon, he’d die of boredom. Feeling a sudden restlessness stir his long limbs he stood up. Ladies fluttered their fans in agitation and men looked towards him disapprovingly. He couldn’t walk out, not while the pianist was playing, but now he stood in the crowded salon with nowhere to go. ‘What is it, my love?’ hissed Lady Arabella, her tight curls bouncing as all eyes fell upon Cavendish.

‘The ladies will faint in this heat. I am merely opening a window.’ He smiled his broadest smile and was rewarded with thankful nods from several of the more generously proportioned women whose décolletages trickled with perspiration.

Cavendish moved quietly, taking care his polished hessian boots on the floor should not spoil the music. He unfastened the latch. But, as he did so, his gaze like an eagle spotting a young rabbit was caught. The world, its noise and activity shrank down to the one spot across the way. For in front of an open french window stood an Adonis of a young man. And he was naked. Apart from a cloth no bigger than a handkerchief at his waist. Thinner than cheesecloth, the flimsy film tented teasingly, displaying the fact that even at rest, the boy possessed a cock to be treasured for its fullness – its ripe, hefty masculinity. The youth posed stock still, one sturdy leg at right angles to the other in the manner of a Greek god. Cavendish marvelled at the superb muscularity of his arm as it held aloft an upturned cornucopia filled with tumbling fruits. Cherries, purple grapes, peaches whose fuzzy blushing skin echoed the cheeks of the youth. For blushing he was. He did not look comfortable. Atop the youth’s sandy, sun-kissed waves had been perched a coronet of golden leaves. As Cavendish watched, mesmerised, he saw a hand grasping a paintbrush reach out and tilt the youth’s chin a mere fraction. The movement turned the youth’s face so that his delft-blue gaze settled upon Cavendish. Cavendish stood engrossed, enthralled by the man’s beauty. Those stunning eyes reeled his attention in as helpless as a fish floundering on a line. He had admired some comely women in his time, seen the beauties of the day strutting their charms along London’s expensive streets. But none had ever caused the blood to rush insanely to Cavendish’s loins in the way it did now. The azure eyes so direct, so searing in their intensity, pricked his animal desires. Cavendish looked closer and realised the boy stood in front of a mirror in which his buttocks were displayed in all their glory. Firm as an athlete’s, rigid as a stag’s; more delectable than the finest of cleavages. Cavendish’s cock stiffened instantly against his breeches. If it was the last thing he did, Cavendish knew he had to seek this young man out.

Cavendish should return to his seat to look after Lady Arabella but that was impossible. His legs were rooted to the spot. He glanced over. Arabella was politely listening to the music. No one was remarking on his standing at the back of the room where a number of other spectators shifted on aching feet. Cavendish motioned with his hand to an older man who stood with a stick, to take his chair next to Arabella. His motive would be deemed to be gentlemanly. When in fact, his burning desire was to feast on the youth’s delectable frame. Even the music thundering from the piano was shut out by the intensity of the youth’s perfectly symmetrical form, firm and glowing in soft candlelight. What would it be like to kneel in front of that perfection? To run his fingers up those calves, to tease the hardness of those thighs and feel them twitch with expectation. To explore underneath that flimsy cheesecloth and feel the weight of those balls, as heavy as a bullock’s, to maybe take one in his mouth and taste its saltiness and feel that cock burst into life under his touch ...

The painter was obviously pleased with the pose in which he had placed the youth. A gentle breeze teased the youth’s fringe. His mouth formed an ‘O’ and he blew it away and Cavendish’s lust lurched like a wave crashing inside him. How could so much sensuality be held in the body of one sublime creature? He could see why the artist had chosen the young man to play the part of a classica. . .