Chapter Text
Lord Reginald Fife was having a terrible, awful, no good, very bad day.
The tax bill he had spent the last three months moving through Parliament had failed, rather miserably. His faithful butler, Mister Nelson, had announced his intention to retire in a month’s time. And his youngest brother; the really stupid one; had decided to return home early from his grand tour, a Spanish farm girl on his arm, presented as his wife, who was already plenty round.
It was indeed, the worst day in his recent memory.
And now he was stuck at the edge of a ball—alone—his once favored compatriots; Bridgerton, Cho, Lumley, and even Wetherby; all shacked up, and basking away their nights in carnal, wedded (or in the case of one Lawrence Wetherby, decidedly illicit and illegal, but lovingly committed) bliss.
He sipped at his champagne, sharp eyes scanning the ballroom before him, and it occurred to him that he could do with some carnal amusement himself.
If not bliss.
It had been a minute. More than a minute, if he was honest.
If he was honest, that mess with Margaret Barnell, neé Goring, had rather scared his baser tendencies out of him for a good long while.
He had nearly gotten stuck with the chit—which…sure…she was pretty. She had a pretty face, and pretty little tits, but she was painfully vapid.
He would have made the best of it had they gotten caught.
He always made the best of things.
But after a life spent making the best of everything; a life spent suffering his mother’s neglect, his father’s disdain, one brother’s idiocy, the other’s chaotic rage, and his baby sister’s death; what he really wanted was bliss.
He wanted long, intoxicating nights and late, lazy mornings spent in bed. He wanted spirited arguments, heated looks across any room, and soft soothing whispers on his very bad days. He wanted to lose himself in the body and the mind of a woman he could trust to raise their smart, strong children.
Margaret Goring could hardly provide that.
The notion of having been a hair’s breadth away from a life trapped at the breakfast table with her, listening to her go on, and on…and on…about absolutely nothing of consequence—well, it had kept his paws in his pockets, and his manhood entrusted to only the most exclusive and discrete of London’s high end courtesans.
All two of them.
For three years.
And they were fine.
They were fine.
They were attractive, and clever, and excellent at their craft.
But they were in high demand, currently unavailable (he had checked), and costly.
They cared not one bit about his day, he did not lose himself in them, and they hardly trembled when he touched them.
They were professionals.
He sighed.
He could really use a tremble.
Margaret Goring was no wife for him, but she had been rather trembly.
Another innocent debutante would not do, however. He would not make that mistake again.
Another man’s wife came with risk—the risk of a glove thrown at his feet. And there were no charming widows flitting about the ballrooms this season.
Perhaps a maid.
He could surely make a maid tremble.
Gasp even.
“Fife!” Benedict Bridgerton called out from his left, ripping him from his thoughts, right as he decided to go on a little hunt.
Reginald turned towards him with a grin.
Of the Bridgerton men, he knew the second born the least; having shared overlapping years with Anthony at Oxford and, more recently, many an evening listening to Colin wax poetic about his travels and his exploits at the club; but he rather thought Benedict the best of the three.
They were together at Eton, though they ran in different circles, and did still. But Benedict had an easy humor about him though, and an unabashed sincerity, that Reginald appreciated.
That he envied, if he was honest.
“Bridgerton,” he nodded, tipping his glass towards the man in greeting, “Good evening. I heard the happy news this morning. My congratulations to your family.”
“Ah, many thanks,” Benedict smiled, slapping his shoulder, “We are very proud. They are an excellent match. Absolutely besotted with each other.”
“It does appear that way,” Reginald agreed, taking a sip of his champagne, “When is the wedding?”
“Banns are read on Sunday, and then another month. My mother will surely send along an invite. Colin considers you a good friend,” Benedict said, a wide smile on his face as his gaze turned out towards the dance floor.
“He can count on my attendance on his special day,” Reginald offered evenly, though in truth, he would rather not attend.
He would rather not watch yet another friend—however loosely he applied the term to Colin Bridgerton—lost to marriage, leaving him ever more alone to contend with the farce that was high society.
Alas.
At least Colin Bridgerton would not be the worst of his losses. The lad was entirely too pompous for as little as he mattered.
So, he would attend, and he would wish the happy couple well.
He would even mean it.
Just because he was miserable did not mean everyone else had to be. That was his father’s ideology, and Reginald prided himself on being a better man than him.
“And how are you, Bridge…?” Reginald started before a sharp, hissed whisper cut him off.
“Brother…” Eloise Bridgerton appeared from behind Benedict, her expression positively enraged, “Dance with me before I am forced to throttle our dear mother.”
“But I do not want to dan…” Benedict stared with a pout.
He was seized by his forearm, his body roughly yanked towards the dance floor, where the next set of couples were taking their places, leaving Reginald standing there, alone again, a little dumbstruck.
He blinked.
And he quickly shook his head, before snatching a fresh glass of champagne off the table to his right, and setting down his empty.
He glanced back over to where the brother and sister now stood, exchanging animated whispers. The young lady’s expression was pure, exasperated fury, her older brother’s a mixture of annoyance and sympathy.
He sighed.
He would have liked having a sister.
He cracked his neck and straightened his shoulders. There was no use entertaining that particular train of thought. It only led to dark, dank places in his mind, and his day had been depressing enough.
Fuck—he was lonely.
A maid.
Yes.
He would find the right maid, he would charm his cock into her mouth, and he would feel better.
For a little while at least.
Champagne glass in hand, he stepped away from the refreshment table, and he went about his search.
An hour later, he was no closer to his goal than when he’d started.
Lord and Lady Bentley apparently paid their maids well enough to be completely immune to his particular charms.
That or he was losing his touch. He was not too proud to admit that as a possibility. It had been a few years since he had to really work for it.
Still, thrill of the hunt, and all the vivid imagining of anyone’s mouth around his cock had left him with a bit of a predicament.
He was hard. Embarrassingly, rather unexpectedly so, and despite his mental effort, not likely to soften soon without some physical tending.
He could just go home—he could see to himself in the carriage on the way—but the idea of having to actually confront the infuriating consequences of his idiot brother’s particular charms, was less than appealing.
So, two minutes ago, he slipped behind a curtain, tucked his cock into his waistband, and abandoned his original plan, in favor of just searching for a closet. A closet with a locking door, where he might give himself a quick tug, and go on about the rest of his night.
Perhaps Benedict Bridgerton would join him at the club, and treat him to some scandalous anecdotes from his artist circles. He knew well enough what happened at the Granville salons, and while he could not take the risk of personally attending, there was no harm in listening.
Wilding and Stanton had also just arrived at the ball, and while not his preferred company for the rest of the evening, they were good for a drink and a laugh.
Infinitely better than home.
So.
A closet.
He would defile a closet, imagining a pair pretty, disembodied lips sucking him off, and then he would rally the troops for a night of unattached, unmarried, male revelry.
A solid plan.
He made his way down the main hall, around the corner through a servant’s passage, and then down a back hall. It was quiet, secluded, and he saw a number of closed doors.
He walked right up to the first one on his right, and twisted the doorknob, but he found the door was locked. He swiftly crossed the hall to the door across the way, and it was also locked.
With a grunt, he turned on his heel, crossed the hall again, and on his third attempt his efforts paid off. He felt a wave of relief flush through his veins when the door pulled away from the frame.
He slipped inside the darkened room.
“Wait!”
And quickly shut the door behind him.
“Hold the door!”