2

Inside the Lancaster mansion, the ballroom was full as expected. Beaufort brushed past Lords and ladies, wishing for nothing but never to be noticed and to just slip out of the ballroom, through the stairs, and up to his room.

He was tired!

He was tired of the journey, and the noise and French classical music that blasted in the room were really piercing, so much that he was certain they would give him a lingering headache if he did not leave quickly.

"I hear Andrew has purely become mad." He eavesdropped on some gossip from societal mammas just next to him as he quietly sipped champagne, waiting for Lady Somerset to come down the stairs. The last person he wanted to meet was Lady Somerset. Everyone knew her—a true gossiper. Last season he were here, she had kept her toes, but this… well, no one knew.

"Beaufort…" A familiar voice called him as he was woolgathering about how he would escape Lady Somerset from gazing at him, or sniffing his presence.

"Beaufort," it added again, leading to Beaufort brushing past the rest of the people into a slightly darkened hallway and standing by the door leading to the gallery, waiting for his caller. He knew who it was. He just did not expect to see her on this first day, and worse, he had vowed never to indulge in married women's affairs.

"Were you hiding?" she questioned once she was a foot apart from Beaufort.

"N… No." He stammered, unable to contain his nervousness. Lady York was one great woman who exuded a certain type of allure.

She was modest, real, straightforward, and, more especially, beautiful.

Despite aging, her spinster features were far from wearing away, she was more of a fine wine as the years slipped away.

In addition, her voluptuous body certainly made Beaufort lust for her in ways he knew were not acceptable in society. It was sinful and disgusting. But he just could not help himself whenever she was around—especially after all the dark alleys they had kissed and touched in five years ago.

"Are you not going to offer me anything?" she asked, actually playfully pleading, and Beaufort looked down at his hand that held a drink.

"Please." He pushed the drink forward, offering it to her, as he looked around, hoping no one had seen him and her share a drink.

"Where's the music room?" she questioned, and suddenly Beaufort choked on his own saliva, letting out an unintended cough. He knew what was up with being in music rooms, drawing rooms, monuments—as he had left that lady—in carriages too, all areas where no one would see, find, or gossip.

"Are you thinking?" she questioned, disappointment seeping through her voice. "I shall leave then," she added. "My niece put a lot of effort into this ballroom. I should enjoy it then," she continued, her voice slurred, slightly pushing her hand forward and informally brushing her fingers against Beaufort's gloved hand.

"Wait!" he stated, his voice full of command, looking around and then to her.

"I knew you'd be back." She replied, smiling.

"The music room is on the other side. That's the drawing room. Should you love the moon and I to draw you?" he added, his voice sexily deep and low, pointing at a room at the far end.

He had already forgotten his vow. Already forgotten his need never to indulge in married women's affairs.

Lady York was Mr. York's to deal with, but somehow his anima could not let her slip away. It had been five years. Five years since he had slept with a woman—a noble one especially, and better, a married one who knew the rules and made the rules for him.

Before he could even count one to ten, his legs were already striding through the dark hallway, lit with two lanterns at each end, and finally opening the door, indulging himself inside the drawing room as Lady York followed suit, and he locked it back.

"Is drawing your hobby?" she asked, brushing past the canvas lying atop the table and reaching the drawing board in the central part.

"I certainly cannot draw as the moonlight is doing right now," he replied, his eyes fully on her bottom, his desire surging, and his mind imagining all the things he would do to her—that which Lord York could never do. He sometimes pitied married women whose husbands could not just man up.

"The moonlight?" she playfully questioned, sitting o'er a table just near the velvet curtains on the far end, licking her lips—tentative and alluring.

"Yes." He added, his mind in the zone of "I need release. I need it."

"My niece is married, Beaufort," she started, as they always did. They told him their troubles, and he would shush them with soft kisses. "Have you met her?" she questioned.

"What's her name?" he asked, playing along with her story despite not really wishing to indulge in the impediments of her niece. At the moment, he just wanted to kiss her, touch, feel, lick, slip—all the sinful ideas that were lingering in his mind.

"Louisa," she replied.

"Louisa…" he repeated, approaching her and placing both of his hands on either side of her seated area on the table.

"I do not know a Louisa," he added, looking down at her lips, which were now parted, begging for his touch, his mouth, his tongue.

"She is your…" she mumbled as Beaufort was already undoing the ropes tying her gown to her body.

"My what?" he played along, his mouth finding the hem of her collarbone, and she let out a soft sigh.

"Your…" she added, not fully able to form a perfect sentence, but Beaufort was already focused on slipping the gown off her, on touching her, kissing her, and doing everything she wanted him to do to her for the night.

Whoever that Louisa was, he did not care. He just wanted her. He just wanted to hear her moans, her demands for more, and, best of all, her stern lecture of this should never happen again when they finally finished.

"Beauf…" She had started.

"Not my name darling…" He voiced softly…

"Mmmh… Yea…" The voices filled the room.

A little too loud? A liitle too low?

Beaufort did not care…

His hands were on her waist, having bend her into the great style that made him less tire! He did not know its name, but could draw it, explain it, sing it…

"Ouww…" She continued, and Beaufort glided in and out slowly into her…

After an almost three-hour heaven-on-earth moment, Beaufort let out a final, climaxing sigh as he hastily wore the shirt that had fallen several feet from the now-toppled table. Then up went his breeches, then his boots, his knee-length coat, and finally his top hat, as he pushed his gloves inside his coat.

He did not want to look at Lady York. Whether she was wearing her gown or had already put it on, he did not care. He did not want to even look her way. He never wanted to lock eyes with any married woman after they had their moment.

He always feared he would fall in love.

He always feared he would want something more intimate than the insane sex in a dark room at society balls.

"You should find yourself a wife," she whispered. "You know this is wrong."

Another lecture that he was used to from all married women.

They all blamed him for everything, and never, not even once, was he the one who had initiated anything with them—except for meeting up. He was always the first to acquaint himself with a beautiful married woman.

"Would you love a wife who does this to you?" she questioned, and Beaufort said nothing.

His whole body was facing the door, ready to leave.

"Would you?" she added, her soft fingers brushing Beaufort's neck, and then finally, her whole body stood in front of him.

"Just tell me," she insisted.

Beaufort just looked away.

He never wanted to marry. He had never even once thought about marriage.

Not because he was incapable of love or loyalty, but because he just knew he couldn't do it. These women had given him plenty of reasons not to, but he would never tell them.

He would never tell them they had watered a trauma deep within him.

"I should leave," she finally stated, her voice soft as her hand brushed along Beaufort's jawline.

"…" She lightly sniffled, let out a sigh, and then walked out, leaving Beaufort lingering at the closing door, wondering what he had done this time… again!

He had made a vow never to do it again.

Made a vow never to trespass another man's property.

He hated himself.

He hated himself for this, but his mind gave him a quiet, alluring, and perfect thought:

'This is the last night of '64. When the short hand strikes exactly twelve today, I shall leave all my affairs behind and focus. Focus on a woman. A woman who belongs to no one. A woman searching.'

And with that, he shoved his right hand into his coat and walked out as if nothing had happened.

He needed to leave his sinful acts in the past. He needed to man up and call all of it quits.

He bombarded himself with these thoughts as he brushed past the lords and ladies who had not yet slept but were too drunk to even realize who he was.

To his room, he welcomed himself, removing his coat hastily, then his shirt, throwing his top hat toward the far window—sudden tantrums threatening to take hold—then his breeches, which were blocked by his boots, making him grumble as his legs worked against each other to remove them.

"AAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!"

A sharp voice screamed from behind him.

Beaufort suddenly bent over to pull up his breeches but lost his balance and fell with a thud, quickly using his hands to hide his central area from whoever it was, desperate not to be seen.

"I shall be fast," the voice hastily stated, and Beaufort caught just a flicker of her hair before the door slammed shut behind her.

He let out a frustrated sigh, gave his head a small shake, then quietly removed his boots and tugged his breeches off his legs.

"What a night," he mumbled, opening the hem of his soft covers and indulging himself in the comfort of the sheets.