PHYLLIDA AND THE BROTHERHOOD OF PHILANDER: AN EXCERPT FROM A BISEXUAL NOVEL - PART 2

Written by Miss Bliss on November 21, 2008 – 6:00 am -

Dearest Readers, I am proud to present you with a sneak peek read of the first chapter from the new Harper Collins’ novel, Phyllida and the Brotherhood of Philander. The novel’s author, Ann Herendeen, is a bisexual writer who takes the classic historical romance genre and twists it by creating realistic bisexual characters with complex and loving relationships. Please support bisexual literature in the mainstream press by purchasing Ann Herendeen’s novel at Amazon.com and become Ms. Herendeen’s friend on myspace by CLICKING HERE. XOXOXOXO BLISS WARRIOR

Ann Herendeen’s website describes Phyllida and the Brotherhood of Philander in this blurb:

Andrew Carrington is the ideal Regency gentleman: heir to an earldom, wealthy, handsome, athletic—and with a preference for his own sex. When he decides to do his duty to his family, he wants marriage on his terms: an honest arrangement, with no disruption to his way of life. But in the penniless, spirited—and curvaceous—Phyllida Lewis, a self-educated author of romances, Andrew gets more than he bargained for, perhaps even love. And when he meets honorable, shrewd—and hunky—Matthew Thornby, son of a self-made baronet, Andrew seems to have everything a man could desire, until a spy and blackmailer tries to ruin him and his friends.

Moving from the glittering ballrooms of the ton to the intimate pleasures of London’s most aristocratic “madge club,” Phyllida reveals a little-known side of Regency life and offers a dishy, wildly entertaining twist on the historical romance.

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CHAPTER ONE - PART TWO

Did you miss Part One of Phyllida and the Brotherhood of Philander?  CLICK HERE to catch up.

Several hours later, Andrew sat in the heavily curtained back parlor of the Brotherhood of Philander and made an announcement. “I’ve decided to marry.”

A moment of stunned, uncomprehending silence was succeeded by the voices of several men exclaiming at once. “Thought your Harry was still in the Peninsula.” “He means a woman, idiot.” “No, he doesn’t. Doesn’t know any women. At least not the sort one marries.” “Who is he, then?”

“As Pierce has so astutely pointed out,” Andrew said, raising his hand for silence, which was instantly obtained, “I mean a woman. A lady. In the Church of England. Marriage. An institution some of you may have heard of.”

After an awkward pause, Lord David Pierce stood and held out his hand. “I think I speak for all of us when I say I shall be damned sorry to lose your friendship.”

Andrew stared. “What the devil are you talking about?”

Sir Frederick Verney cleared his throat “Vere Street scandal got to you at last, did it? Can’t say I blame you, although it will be a shame to see one of our most, ah, active members dwindle into a husband.”

“I thank you for the compliment,” Andrew said, inclining his head to Verney where he sat, naked to the waist, at the card table, “but I am in no immediate danger of a decline. Just thought it was about time for me to do my duty to my family.”

The Honorable Sylvester Monkton gave a raucous laugh. “That gloomy old butler of yours been putting the bite on you because of his nephew, eh? I say, Carrington, I never figured you for the sort to knuckle under to blackmail.”

“Nothing like that, Monkton,” Andrew said, “though trust you to think the worst. Yardley has suffered a great deal of needless mortification over his nephew’s connection with the Vere Street house. The poor man has assured me that he has broken off all communication since the disastrous events of two years ago, out of a rather touching desire to protect both of his families, as he terms it.” Andrew shrugged. “No, it’s really quite simple. I’m almost thirty, you know. Been neglecting my responsibility as the eldest. Last night merely brought it home to me.”

“Last night?” Monkton said. “Now we have it. Come on, Carrington, tell all.” The other men drummed their hands on the tables and stamped their feet to cheer him on.

Andrew grimaced. “Nothing much to tell. Had a run of luck at White’s, thought I’d celebrate with stronger drink and a stroll by Covent Garden–” Jeers and catcalls were interjected at this point. “–picked up some ganymede, actually brought him to my house. Nearly told him my name in a fit of early-morning delirium. Boy ate enough provisions for a week. Probably should have had the footmen search him for the silver before he left.”

The others nodded, sympathetic. “Don’t see what all the fuss is about,” Monkton said. “We’ve all done that, or something like it. Doesn’t make us want to retire into defeated matrimonial respectability.” He shuddered, his willowy frame in his dandified coat with its padded shoulders swaying elegantly. “Although once he knows where you live, no use concealing your name. Have to expect some repercussions, old fellow.”

“Don’t I know it,” Andrew said. “A pathetic attempt to salvage some security after my ruinous lack of discretion. Why they call gin ‘blue ruin,’ I suppose.”

“Yes,” George Witherspoon said, daring to open his mouth after following the conversation with difficulty. “Next time, just bring the boy here. That’s what the club is for, isn’t it?”

“Are you mad?” Pierce turned on his friend. “A whore from Covent Garden? Why not invite an entire regiment of Guards to bivouac in here?”

“Might be interesting,” Witherspoon said, the dreamy look in his eyes enhancing the effect of a fair, angelic countenance.

“As it happens,” Andrew intervened, “our man on the door was vigilant and refused us entrance.”

“Oh, dear,” Monkton said with a sigh. “I hope you didn’t give him the sack, as they say in France. It’s hard enough as it is to find the right sort of people to work here.”

“No,” Andrew said, “I did not dismiss him. He did what he was hired to do. As Pierce says, we can’t start bringing in trade or we won’t have a safe haven, which is, despite Witherspoon’s amusing conjectures, what this place was designed to be.”

“Was it?” Verney said. “I thought it was a place where we could behave honestly, without pretense.”

“That’s just it,” Pierce said. “We can only afford to remove our masks, so to speak, if we’re safe, if we don’t have to worry about informers and blackmailers on the one hand, and thieves and rough trade on the other.”

“Then what are all those rooms upstairs for?” George Witherspoon persisted.

“For respectable couples,” Pierce explained. “Men like us, those who lodge here or who can’t go to their own lodgings, or prefer not to. Not for married men deceiving their wives.”

“It may have escaped your attention, Pierce,” Andrew drawled, “since I don’t suppose you’ve ever lifted your face out of Witherspoon’s lap long enough to notice, but Lord Isham, the founder of this club, is married. I have no intention of deceiving my wife, and if I were you I would be careful about making offensive insinuations.”

Pierce stood up, his hands balled into fists. The little redhead, younger son of an obscure Anglo-Irish duke, was fierce as a wasp. “Would you?” he said. “It may have escaped your attention, Carrington, as your brain is obviously preoccupied by your prick’s fundamental mission to penetrate every underage bumhole between here and Whitechapel, but there are two founders of this club, Isham and Lord Rupert Archbold. Just how do you propose to have it both ways?”

Andrew shook his head, conceding the verbal contest. “I don’t know. Why shouldn’t I? Most married men have mistresses, after all. How does Isham do it?”

Through a chorus of snickers and strangled guffaws, Monkton answered, “Ever had a good look at Melford, Isham’s eldest, and Archbold, side by side? Don’t think that’s exactly what you have in mind.”

Andrew grinned. “Point taken. But I don’t believe Isham intended this club to be merely an exclusive madge house for single gentlemen with independent fortunes. And if he can stay happily married for fifty years while living his life the way he pleases, then I’m damned if I’ll let wedlock turn me into some sort of fugitive in my own country.”

“Hear, hear.” “Well said.” There was a smattering of applause.

“Well, then,” Pierce said, “after that fiery manifesto, you’d better tell her the truth. She’ll only find it out anyway and you’ll drag out the rest of your miserable existence under the cat’s paw.”

“No,” Verney said, “I think it depends on the woman. Some of ‘em don’t want to know. Happier living in a delusional world of their own.”

“True enough,” Monkton said, “but if he don’t tell her, she’ll think he’s in love with her, and she’ll expect him to make love to her, and she’ll pester him to death until he’ll be ready to shoot her and swing for it just to get a little peace.”

“I certainly don’t intend to lie to her,” Andrew said.

“So,” Witherspoon said, “who is she?”

“I don’t know,” Andrew said. “I told you, I only got the idea this morning.”

The others stared at him as if he were the lunatic he felt he was in danger of becoming.

“Here,” Monkton said, approaching him with a glass of brandy. “Have some of this and you’ll feel more yourself.”

Andrew waved it away. “That’s the root of the trouble,” he said. “Woke up sick as a dog this morning, audacious little ganymede chumming it up as if I’d proposed to him during the night, which, given my complete lack of memory after my last hand of faro, is quite possible. Made me think. My brother Tom is serving in the Peninsula, and Richard is no more likely to marry than I am. Very fond of women, is Dick, so long as they already have husbands. My uncle Newburn has nothing but daughters. So really, when you look at the situation, it’s up to me to ensure the continuity of the line.”

“But that’s dreadful,” Monkton said. “I had no idea. You poor man. Surely there’s a less drastic solution. Perhaps a natural son.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Verney said. “A natural son can’t inherit.”

“A title,” Monkton said. “Can’t inherit a title. No reason Carrington couldn’t father a bastard and leave him his property.”

“You forget,” Andrew said, “that when my uncle dies, I’ll inherit the earldom as well. No, if I’m going to do this at all, I want to do it right. Marriage to a lady from a decent family.”

“No offense,” Witherspoon said, “but do you think a respectable lady will have you? And what about her parents?”

Andrew raised his eyebrows. “I assure you, Witherspoon, the Carrington name and fortune are more than enough to purchase the acquiescence of the starchiest puritans in England.”

“So long as they’re poor,” Pierce said. “An heiress from a titled family might stick at sharing your bed with ganymedes.”

“More likely demand to share the boys,” Monkton said.

“Not all titled families have the morals of yours, Monkton,” Andrew said. “Or lack of them. Anyway, I don’t need to marry an heiress, or a peer’s daughter. I do need a virgin, sophisticated enough not to raise a fuss about my way of life, but brought up as a lady. There’s no point in subjecting myself to this if I have to worry whether the brats are mine. And pretty. I can’t afford to go limp at the sight of her on our wedding night.”

“You don’t actually mean to bed her!” Monkton was aghast.

“And just how do you propose I father the heir?” Andrew said.

“Lord! I wasn’t thinking about that,” Monkton admitted. “You are in a tight spot.”

“Not so bad as all that,” Verney said. “He’ll just have to go to Almack’s, and ton parties and society balls, and put himself on the marriage mart.”

“Oh, my god,” Monkton shrieked. “It’s worse!”

Andrew almost shuddered himself. “I admit, the prospect is singularly unappealing. If any of your unmarried sisters or cousins might be interested, or know someone—”

“Are you seriously suggesting,” Pierce said, his voice icy, “that I, or any of us, would allow you within a hundred yards of our sisters?”

Andrew stood up, his fluid movement belying the nervous, hungover condition in which he had arrived. His height was suddenly noticeable, threatening, even in the high-ceilinged first-floor parlor of the modern townhouse on Park Lane. “Care to rephrase that, Pierce?” he said, his voice smooth as velvet. “I haven’t lost my aim, you know, however rashly I behaved last night.”

“Oh, keep your shirt on,” Pierce said. “Pardon the expression, Verney.” He inclined his head to the half-naked baronet at the card table before turning back to Andrew. “Think about it. Would you let any of us marry your sister–assuming that she wasn’t already shackled to Fanshawe?”

Andrew’s eyes widened in shock. “One of you marry Elizabeth? I’d plug the man who tried and spend my life abroad without regret.” He heard the words, and his fury drained out of him as quickly as it had boiled up, replaced by rueful humor. “What a mess,” he groaned as he sat down, shaking with laughter. “What the devil am I to do?”

“I think,” Verney said, “I may have a solution.”

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Wondering what Verney’s solution may be? Find out next Tuesday, November 25th when I publish Part Three.  And if you cannot wait until Tuesday to find out if our hero can find the perfect virginal bride, please purchase Ann Herendeen’s regency novel, Phyllida and the Brotherhood of Philander by CLICKING HERE.


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