1 Chapter 1: A Libertine

September, 1837

London

A proper blow always felt nice. Satisfying as hell, he thought. And he'd needed it. Badly. As usual, the sex played out just the way he liked - driving at full hop and more on the rough side of things than not.

His preference for a hard grind had always been like that, and thankfully plenty of brokers plied their skills in the fleshly arts to suit his tastes. To get what he was after never proved a problem. Hell, the beating heart of the pleasure trade trumped in London. If a fellow couldn't find what he wanted in Town, then the toff was probably out of luck.

Jeremy Greymont leaned against the headboard and indulged in the drained flush of a man being satiated, for the moment at least. He knew the feeling wouldn't last. It never did. That was the thing when he paid the person he fucked, didn't know her from Eve, and intended to forget about her the second his prick was back under wraps in his kecks.

Looking around the room, he tried to see it for what it was. A room tastefully done up in forest-green silk wallpaper and dark oak, well appointed and clean enough. Only the best for him, right? But the trappings of decoration aside, it was just a room. A room for fucking. It was merely a room with a bed for the purpose of carnal dealings between people who exploited each other.

The exploitation was up front of course. If he thought about it, the exchange was nothing more than simple commerce at the core. A purposeful trade of good coin for the use of a body. This was about as decidedly purposeful as it was possible to be in Jeremy's opinion. And he was very careful about it. He made sure to employ a French letter with courtesans. No pox, clap, or by-blows for him. He didn't need those worries plaguing his conscience.

And once he had someone, Jeremy usually never had them again. A repeat fuck was a rarity. He sought only physical gratification. This he understood and respected. Attachments could always be avoided, but weren't much of a worry for him regardless. It was nigh impossible to cultivate a relationship if the two parties never saw each other again after the raucous romp amid the bed linens was over and done. He wanted it that way.

Jeremy had to wonder if he was even capable of loving a woman. He certainly had never felt anything akin to a romantic notion about any of the women he'd had. And he'd had many. Jeremy liked them, admired their assets, took pleasure in their bodies, and enjoyed them thoroughly, but that was as far as he was willing to go.

Upon reflection, Jeremy accepted that the hard docking he did wasn't really that satisfying after all. If he was honest, he would say it had become remote and perfunctory for him. What was he even doing here? The oddest sensation flickered through him.

Get up. Leave! Leave this place and never come back. You cannot find it here, and you don't want to be like...him.

Jeremy had arrived at his bordello of preference to cleave off some tension tonight. Coming away from another obligatory meeting with his grandfather and feeling like an absolute shit-stick in the process, he'd needed the release.

Sighing heavily, he dressed himself, thanked his feminine companion for a job well done, and left in search of relief of a different sort.

If he couldn't fuck the demons out of his head, maybe a less private method could be applied. A copious dousing of whisky might just do the trick, he thought, while making his way out into the mild autumn night.

At The Wicked Goat, he settled down into communion with his own personal bottle of Scotland's best and his musings. Jeremy wanted to prove to his grandfather that he took his responsibilities seriously. He didn't intend to shirk, but at thirty years old, Jeremy was running out of time to demonstrate his seriousness about doing his duty to the family. Mere lip service was no longer an option. The time was upon him, he knew, but the idea of simply settling for anyone put him off more than once. He wanted her to be right. But what in the hell did that mean? Right? To be right for him or right for the role? He felt hopeless in this search. Well, not really a search, for he hadn't put forth any effort of note as yet.

Jeremy shifted in his seat, on edge again, thinking of their conversation...

"You must secure the line of succession, son! It is your duty by birthright. Find a good wife and get an heir, and be damn quick about it! I'm not going to last forever."

How many times had he heard the entreaties? Jeremy smirked and tossed his head back, thinking how pleased Grandfather would be if he actually did marry, and to a female of decent lineage. God, both his grandparents would be ecstatic. He wanted to make them proud of him, but the thing was, he didn't know many such women. Women of good family, that is.

Where to find a mate? Where to even start? The females he usually consorted with didn't come with bloodlines written out on parchment. He needed a virgin, and the very idea made him roll his eyes.

By Cupid's cock, what would you do with a virgin?

Exactly. Bedding an innocent did not appeal in the slightest. Not with the way he liked to fuck. Hard and fast was his only rule. He couldn't imagine doing that with a virginal maid. He'd likely frighten her to death.

Born into money and privilege, the baronetcy he'd inherit one day loomed closer with each passing year. Thus the persistent pressure to step up to his duty and secure the line could never be forgotten for long. He supposed sacrifices would have to be made all the way round, and sulking about it served no good purpose. If he could just secure someone suitable and install her in his country house to serve up an infant or two, he could continue on with his libertine ways, with very little bother to either of them. Jeremy thought he would be an easy husband, demanding only the access needed to create the legitimate heir required of him. After one was produced, his lady wife could do as she pleased. She'd have her status in society and his money to make up for any lack in attentions from him. He wasn't a monster...just a man.

As soon as Jeremy remembered how much he despised London society, his mouth turned down into a scowl that caused his lip to curl with a menace. He could barely tolerate society's requirements now. It was an imposition to show at the few events he graced each season. The thought of attending more such tortures was unbearable. The cloying looks, the vicious backbiting and jockeying for positions of power all disgusted him. And don't forget the plotting of eager society matrons trying to secure matrimony for their overbred offspring. He'd been avoiding every bit of it for years.

Now he supposed he'd have to take a serious look in order to find a bride, and force himself to attend more balls and dinners. He felt a headache starting.