He’d waited in the parlor on the appointed day determined to meet the carriage when it approached the house and tell his oldest friend to drive on. Amy, he had decided, would come around on her own. Tregarth could wait for her. Peter Mainwaring had it all wrong. Amy didn’t want a taste of the whip. She was sweetness and light, innocence and purity, and her coldness in the bedroom would thaw with time and patience. He’d been daydreaming about her in the parlor, lulled by the quiet of the house with all the servants gone and didn’t hear the carriage approach. Then Peter was there, in the drive. Tregarth had made Peter promise to respect his boundaries. Amy’s virginity was gone, of course, but Tregarth still couldn’t stand the idea of his best friend sliding his cock into her narrow, still almost innocent sheath. It trespassed somehow, in a way that sliding flesh into her mouth did not. Peter gathered the bags he’d brought with him. “We have a great deal to do. Show me Amy’s room,”
