James, Viscount of Riverton, lay alone in his bed. It would be a while yet before his fair viscountess Clara would return from the garden, assuming the pattern of previous nights would continue. James had known well before the wedding that Clara never cared for him, so her suspicious late nights in the garden were hardly a surprise. If anything, James was pleased that someone was satisfying her as it meant he didn't have to deal with it himself.
Though he was far from certain, James guessed that his wife's surreptitious lover was William, the Marquis of Lorren (among other holdings), who had arrived as a guest in late January. It was now early July and Lord William had hardly spent a day away in the whole span. James could have been wrong, though. "After all," he thought, "I may only be thinking that he might be with my wife to justify my activities with his."
Indeed, the beauty of Rosaline Marchioness of Lorren was unmatched in James's mind. Her auburn hair was usually done up during the day, but at night it flowed like a gentle stream to her lower back. Her skin was not as pale as the typical beauty standards of the time would have demanded, but its color bespoke a lady with a fondness for the world outside the walls of her home. A crowd of shouting children would hold a tune better, but when she spoke her voice carried a firm conviction and passion which demanded attention and respect, and no singer, no matter how virtuosic, could make a sweeter sound than what passed from her lips as she lay in James's arms.
Like Clara to James, Rosaline had been married to William for political purposes and had only ever interacted with him as demanded by their peers. An heir and a spare, as the saying went, but once their second son had been born she would never willingly give herself to William again. She had even claimed that she would never have anyone at all once her expected children were born.
A knock at James's bedroom door alerted him to someone's arrival. He sat up, preparing to greet his mistress as she entered.
"Good evening, my lady," he said as she came into view. "Is there something I can do for you?"
"Yes," Rosaline replied. "You can begin by foregoing the pretense of propriety. Only we two are here and you already know that there is nothing proper about my intentions."
James chuckled. "There is something proper, though. You want a proper fucking."
Clara would likely have been appalled at the profanity, but not Rosaline. This headstrong lady was more concerned with speaking clearly and concisely, rather than avoiding offense. Thus, in some cases, the vulgar speech would be better.
The visitor grinned mischievously. "Soon enough, my bold friend," she said. "First, you must bring out my desire."
James held out his hand and the lady approached to place hers in it. James placed his lips gently on the back of Rosaline's hand as his usual starting place for their trysts. Then he slid his hand up under her arm to her back, tickling her skin as he exposed it.
"What enticement strikes your fancy tonight?" the nobleman asked.
"I'll begin with a look at your chest," his guest replied as if ordering dinner. She placed a hand over his heart to feel the shape of his muscles through his tunic.
Without a word, James lifted the tunic over his head and let it fall on the floor. Rosaline stepped closer and began running her hands over his chest and abdomen.
"This scar, how did you get it?"
