Wicked Desires (Wicked Affairs, Book One)

Wicked Desires

Eliza Lloyd

Michael Dunnaway has it all—a wife he loves, three sons, an earldom. Except he isn’t getting any younger—and his body lets him know in a way that makes him doubt his masculinity. His impotence with Clarissa drives him to seek out new thrills. He’s contemplating giving up everything for the satisfaction he finds with a nubile French whore, but with the pleasure comes guilt. Is betraying the love of his life worth temporary gratification and the restoration of his confidence?

Clarissa has entered a world of shocking passions and unheard of acts, welcoming Michael with open arms. Hidden behind a mask, and with the help of a whorehouse madam, she finds she’d do just about anything to win her husband back. But will it be enough? And will the deep cravings they explore as strangers reveal more devastating secrets? Or will they discover their dark passion and wicked desires can lead to a greater love?

Chapter One

London 1831

“Have you taken a mistress?” Clarissa Dunnaway had had enough of her husband’s evasions. When she shed the cold light of possibility on her situation, an affair was the only thing that made sense. It was the most hurtful too.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Clarissa.” He shot her an inscrutable glance before she took a few steps into his domain, the spacious library at the back of the family home on Cavendish Square.

“Well, have you?” She lifted her chin. There would be no more wringing of hands or shedding of tears behind closed doors. She would not be that woman who hid behind her fears. Who gave in to despair.

He threw the accounting ledger he held onto the desk. “No, I have not. No mistress. No affair. No nothing. Now leave me be, I have accounts to review.”

She stood firm, unwilling to give in now that she’d finally broached the subject. Something was terribly wrong. Twisting the diamond bracelets at her wrist, she waited for the breathless anxiety to dissipate before she broached the next subject.

“What?” he asked. “You have that look. You won’t be satisfied until you’ve plowed this ground full of ruts.”

“Then why? Why haven’t you come to me?”

Clarissa Elsevier Dunnaway had mirrors in her room. By all accounts, she remained a ton beauty even after bearing the earl three children—all beautiful sons. What more could an earl want from his wife? Wasn’t that feat worthy of some devotion and faithfulness?

She’d dressed in her very best. Styled her hair the way she knew he liked it, the ends bunched and dangling in soft curls over one shoulder. His favorite perfume. And still no response, barely an acknowledgement.

Something had gone terribly, terribly wrong and she had no idea how to fix it.

A sharp scowl lined his face before he turned his back on her. “Clarissa, we aren’t having this conversation.”

“I deserve an answer. It’s been over a year.” Her legs wobbled under her skirt, whether from fear or from her absolute desire for her husband, she didn’t know. She craved him. With her body and soul, she wanted him back.

Michael remained fit and strong. Tall and dark except for a few gray hairs at his temple, he hadn’t changed all that much since they’d married. The fine lines at his eyes wrinkled when he laughed, though he hadn’t done much of that lately.

They were a striking pair, made all the more wonderful because they loved each other. She refused to believe that was all gone.

She’d thought she knew her husband better than she knew herself, until a year ago when he’d stopped sleeping in her room. Even before that, he’d started to withdraw.

“Would you leave me in peace if I said I
was
having an affair?” He stood facing the windows, overlooking the garden, his hands clasped behind his back.

She gasped and started across the room. Tears burned her eyes but she refused to shed them. “Michael. Oh, Michael. Please, anything but that.”

Hesitantly, she reached to touch his shoulder. When he acted impervious to her touch, she slid her hand down his back and lowered her cheek to his shoulder blade. “I can’t live my life alone anymore. I need you.”

At that, he turned. “You are not alone. You are my wife. A wife who is causing me a good deal of distress with your wild imaginings.” He clutched her hand and set it to his arm, forcibly escorting her from the room. “Madam, I have responsibilities to attend. And you must cease this endless fretting and nagging. It is very unbecoming of a countess.”

She made a final plea, her voice hardening in determination. “You promise, Michael. You promise me there isn’t someone else.”

He softened somewhat. With one hand, he took her fingers and brushed a kiss across her knuckles. “Clarissa, you have my word. There is no one else. You are the woman I love.”

The door shut with a resounding snap and the light click of the snib as he locked the door behind her. He’d effectively closed her out of every part of his life except the predictable whirlwind of social obligations, and to that schedule he rigorously adhered.

When they were out in a crowd, he was the epitome of grace and manners, indulging her every whim. He seemed proud of her, happy to be with her. Those occasions were precious to her, but the Season was coming to an end and she didn’t think she could bear the exile when they departed for their estates in the north of England.

Had she done enough? Had she loved him well enough? Or was he bored with her for a wife and feeling confined by their vows? Maybe eighteen years was a life sentence for an exciting, powerful man like Michael.

To her, it had been all happiness.

* * * * *

“The Marchioness of Foxley.”

“She’s here now?” The footman nodded with polite deference to Clarissa’s irritable question. “Well, show her to the Red Room.”

She smoothed a hand over her bodice and sleeves, stopping in front of a mirror to examine her hair, knowing her ladies’ maid had dressed it with perfect style, yet filled with unaccountable doubt. Anne had a way of discerning things she’d rather keep secret.

The marchioness was one of her most amusing friends. Clarissa enjoyed her wit and daring, but she’d never known Anne VanLandingham to depart her house before noon. Anne wanted something.

When Clarissa entered the red and gold sitting room, Anne extended her hands, clutched Clarissa’s and kissed both of Clarissa’s cheeks. The marchioness could have been any age, but Clarissa suspected the woman was nearly as old as Michael, though as lush as a woman half her age. Men responded to her. Michael thought she was common and crude, but had long ago joked that were he not married, he might find ample entertainment in her bed. Then he’d whispered that he could never have brought her home to his mother. He’d laughed afterward. Clarissa had turned away in bed and pouted until he coaxed her from her mood. Thankfully, he’d never mentioned the marchioness in that vein again.

“Darling, you must come with me. It is the most extraordinary display of art.”

Arm in arm, they strolled toward the furniture grouping near the fireplace, four overstuffed chairs and two chaise couches. “Where? At the British Museum?”

“Oh, no, no, dear. At the Marquess of Ederline’s home.” Anne lowered her voice and patted Clarissa’s hand. “Everyone says the work is simply stunning. Caroline Dempsey said the nudes are absolutely ravishing.”

Clarissa laughed and then quickly controlled the little surge of curiosity. “Nudes? Why on earth would I want to see nudes?”

“You’ve been married too long. All healthy women want to see male nudes. Though Lady Dempsey said there were also some rather unusual sculpted nymphs she thought I’d enjoy.”

The door opened and two servants entered with a tea tray along with two smaller trays of shortbread biscuits and fruit. The women settled themselves on the same couch while the footmen lowered the trays. Clarissa poured and handed Anne a cup.

After the footmen left, Clarissa asked the obvious. “And your husband approves of this sojourn?”

“Dear Randall encouraged me to go,” Anne whispered again, a conspiratorial smile playing about her lips. “He said I might try some of the poses for him in bed tonight. Can you imagine? Rand’s the very devil.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Clarissa said to her teacup as much as to her friend. Randall VanLandingham had also just celebrated his thirtieth birthday. Anne had whispered to her that Randall, intent on proving his virility, had wagered on the length of his arousal… Well, not so much the length as much as his endurance in maintaining his arousal. Anne had only smiled slyly when prodded for details.

Anne patted Clarissa’s leg. “Oh, dear. Things still aren’t any better are they? Have you talked to him yet?”

“He says there’s nothing amiss.”

“Well then. All’s right with the world, is it not?”

“Anne?” Clarissa despised the weakness tears implied. “I’m afraid.”

“You aren’t going to lose him. He’s your husband ’til death do you part. Nothing will change that. You said yourself he is home in the evening. I would think that is the only answer you need.”

“I want my Michael back. Having him home is not the same as having him in my bed.”

Anne sighed. “Fetch your cloak. We are leaving this instant. This outing will do you good. We’re leaving your trouble behind, along with your unfeeling husband.”

Clarissa surrendered and within a half hour, they stepped inside the large Ederline manse and were led to the art exhibit by the marquess himself, a ruddy-cheeked, white-haired rogue who fancied himself a patron of the arts and irresistible to women. He’d pinched Clarissa’s arse last year after catching her unawares in a darkened hallway. She’d slapped him soundly. Ederline’s eccentric behaviors were somehow tolerated and ignored, as often happened with the very wealthy.

“I’ve collected numerous pieces over the years—Chinese, Arabic, Italian.”

Anne cut him away with a firm grip on his arm. Clarissa overheard her words. Anne could bend rules where other women would be taken to task.

“Louis, dear, would you mind ever so much if we toured on our own? The countess is rather shy about all this. You understand.” Anne brushed his cheek affectionately while he leered at her display of breasts. Patron of the arts indeed!

“Most certainly, my dear. Be sure to give Foxley my regards.”

Ederline tottered away.

“He’s a revolting creature, but so, so rich,” Anne whispered.

“A poor reason to attach yourself to a man or a marriage.”

“We’ve all done it. Except perfect Clarissa, marrying for love while the rest of us founder on the shoals of duty.” Anne patted Clarissa’s hand as if she were a child. They strolled down the long gallery, stopping to look at some of the arrangements. “Love is such a fleeting thing, dear. Maybe you should think about taking a lover.”

Clarissa gasped at the risqué suggestion. “I would never do such a thing. I’m Michael’s wife. I wouldn’t do that to him. Ever.”

“He’s probably doing it to you, as are half the husbands in London, while the other half dream of taking a lover. Not that I’ve heard any rumors,” she added quickly.

“Anne, why are we friends? You insist on provoking me.”

“You need to be stirred. Let the dear Lord Dunnaway know you must be stirred like the embers of a fire. Let him know there is a flame underneath. Stop being the
oh so pretty and perfect
countess. You need to live. Maybe Michael would respond if you lived dangerously and daringly for a change. Let him think you’re having an affair. Remind him of the woman he married.”

“He doesn’t want dangerous or daring. He wants propriety and dignity.”

“How do you know?”

“I know.”

“Oh, isn’t this delicious,” Anne said as she looked up at another painting.

Clarissa’s face heated. Above her, the large painting showed three naked women surrounding a lone man. One held an apple invitingly. Another rested her head upon his bare shoulder. The third, on her knees, hid the lower portion of his anatomy.

“What do you supposed she’s doing?” Anne asked, tilting her head to look more closely and accurately voicing Clarissa’s curiosity.

“You know very well. Must we attend such vulgar displays?”

“Don’t act like such a prude. We should have invited Michael. I guarantee he would have lowered his trousers for that in the coach on the way home.”

Clarissa swallowed hard. Her faced heated—with embarrassment or desire, she wasn’t sure which. There was a time when he had encouraged those pursuits and she’d gladly pleasure him again—if he’d only suggest he might be interested.

She glanced up a second time. The man’s face bore such an expression of ecstasy, she wondered if it was just the skill of the painter or if truly a man could feel such passion as the painting displayed.

Absolute yearning filled her. Had she but admitted it to herself, she would have recognized the need for what it was—she was sexually unfulfilled and Michael’s disinterest seemed to heighten her need.

“Have you ever had a lover?” Clarissa asked.

“When I have Randall? You must be joking.” Anne rolled her eyes. “But before Randall…” Her voice trailed off in teasing suggestion.

“Would you though? Can you imagine a circumstance where you might?”

They strolled further. “Yes. If Randall couldn’t please me. If Randall took a lover. If I grew bored. Yes, I could see it happening. We have a very open marriage. Were I to embark upon an affair, we would discuss it first.”

Clarissa shouldn’t have been surprised.

Anne laughed. “It’s not as if we love each other. Ours is a physically mutual relationship that suits for the time being. I don’t get in his way during the day. Heaven knows I’m not interested in horses or boxing. And he allows me to spend his money to my heart’s content. A perfect relationship.” She laughed again, ridiculously happy with her situation.

“But what about your vows?”

Anne shrugged. They stopped in front of a four-tiered display case featuring green jade figurines in various sexual poses. Clarissa reached for one. Carved with exquisite detail, they showed entwined couples in positions she had never imagined, but now that she’d seen them, considered how they might actually be performed. Twisting the piece, she examined the lovers from all sides.