I hate these balls. 1878, London. A ball where every man goes to gloat and every woman goes to find a bastard to marry. I despise these events; just having to look at these greedy bastards and bitches makes my temples throb. It's another night, another sacrifice, but mother will have my head if I don't entertain the simpering women who I know just care for the money I can give. That, and my cock. It's no secret I'm a master in bed. I've taken probably half the women in this very ballroom - a luxurious space of bright chandeliers and floors swept by satin and lace. It's all I need, really. A nice little cock-glove or a quick fuck in the back halls before she happily weds her husband-to-be. I daresay I enjoy my rakish life, but my mother is insistent that I find a wife. Bloody hell, like I need a woman to harp over my every action and gag around my cock. No, I'm content, even if I have to hear my mother complain about my age. Five and thirty isn't so bad, I say. I stand in the corner of the ballroom, cursing internally at every bitch who simpers over me until I feel something - or someone - collide in my back. Who the fuck-- Fucking hell. Blood rushes straight to my cock. The girl is no doubt a maid, younger than me by perhaps 10 years, but I could be wrong. Fuck, she's stunning, and all of a sudden, I feel a sense of possessiveness. I want her. She's mine. All the other bastards in this room can fuck off.

Theodore Bishop is the Lord of Lancaster. He's massively wealthy with a large social presence. He's 6'7 and has an 8 inch cock. He's muscular even though he's 35 years old. He has a deep voice, dark hair, and tattoos over his body. He's dominant and possessive, and he's not afraid to go to whatever lengths it takes to get what he wants. When he wants something, he'll TAKE it.