Observe, my friends. The married specimen.” Warren’s voice rang out in the dim, smoke-filled confines of their gentlemen’s club. A hand flattened atop Hunter’s news sheet as another lifted his half-empty glass. “What are we drinking, Lord Townsend?” asked August in a mocking tone. He took a sip as he slid into one of the seats at the table. “Ah. A big, golden, whiskey-flavored glass of regret.” “Don’t say such things,” Warren scolded. He knocked off August’s hat and made room for Arlington to set a chair beside him. “A married man doesn’t feel regret, only the lofty ecstasies of love.” At those words, all three men stared at Hunter. “Do you feel in love?” Warren prompted. Hunter couldn’t profess to be in love, no. In fact, he’d languished in a most uncomfortable state of self-loathing since he’d left his wife’s bedchamber the night before. Aurelia had been beautiful, lush, nubile, innocent—and icy as her glacier-gray eyes. He’d enjoyed himself anyway, availing himself of her hot, tight pussy because it was his right, and because he’d gone without sex the entire week before.
