Submitting to the Rake

by EM BROWN

  Submitting to the Rake

  Em Brown

  Desperate to save her cousin from certain ruin with a notorious rake, Miss Heloise Merrill impersonates her cousin and takes her place at the infamous “Chateau of Debauchery”. Heloise intends to convince the rake—Lord Cadwell, Earl of Blythe—to turn his attentions elsewhere. What she doesn’t intend is to be splayed across his legs and spanked!

  Deprived of his intended guest, Sebastian Cadwell intends to provide the meddling Miss Merrill a much deserved set-down. But when his hand connects with her lovely derrière, he finds he wants to do more than just administer a light spanking. He wants to tie her up and hold her down. In short, he wants her total submission.

  Ellora’s Cave Publishing

  www.ellorascave.com

  Submitting to the Rake

  ISBN 9781419935602

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Submitting to the Rake Copyright © 2012 Em Brown

  Edited by Jillian Bell

  Cover design by Dar Albert

  Photography: Tiplyashin Anatoly & Photostock 10/Shutterstsock.com

  Electronic book publication January 2012

  The terms Romantica® and Quickies® are registered trademarks of Ellora’s Cave Publishing.

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  Submitting to the Rake

  Em Brown

  Chapter One

  Though the clouds shrouded the night in blackness, obscuring all but shadows from view, the lone woman standing at the gates pulled her veil more securely about her face with restless, trembling hands. Every little noise—the stirring of the leaves in the trees, the scurry of some small animal, the crunch of pebbles at her feet—made her jump. At any moment she expected her cousin to descend upon her with eyes ablaze, denouncing her treachery and forswearing the sisterhood they had shared these past years.

  Heloise Merrill cringed and glanced down the path, both dreading and desperate for the arrival of the carriage. Her cousin Josephine would not understand that, were it not for the affection the two of them shared, Heloise would not be standing on an open road by herself in the middle of the night, pretending to be her cousin.

  She tugged at her veil.

  Would the footmen recognize that she was not Josephine Merrill? Her form alone could betray her. Josephine possessed a slender body with delicate, sloping shoulders whereas Heloise had square shoulders and flesh to spare about her arms and waist. The veil hid her countenance—her round face, full cheeks and rosebud mouth. Josephine had a physiognomy that tapered at the chin, wide lips, a pert nose and slender arched brows.

  The glow of a lantern approached. Heloise willed her feet to stay and not carry her back to the safety of the home she shared with her cousin and uncle, Jonathan Merrill, who had kindly taken Heloise in years ago when her parents had both succumbed to consumption. Alas, her uncle would not be home for a sennight, leaving Heloise the elder of the household. She had been tempted to send for him immediately when she had discovered the note intended for Josephine—an invitation to three shameless nights of profligacy with Sebastian Cadwell, the Earl of Blythe—but even then her uncle would not have been able to return in time. Josephine might never forgive her, but she could not allow her cousin to throw away a life of promise on a youthful fancy for a dangerous man—one of the worst rakes in England.

  “Miss Merrill?” the driver inquired after alighting from his perch.

  After forcing herself to exhale, Heloise nodded. Accepting his assistance with averted eyes, as if the driver might see through her veil, she stepped into the carriage. A whip cracked the air, and the carriage lurched forward. It would be hours before she arrived at her destination, the Château Follet, so named for its owner, a French expatriate.

  Some dubbed it the Château of Debauchery.

  How many victims had the earl claimed? Heloise wondered, unable to settle herself comfortably in the rich upholstery of the carriage seats. Neither the driver nor the footman had sneered at her or indicated in any way that they thought her a wanton woman. They did not even ask why she traveled sans a portmanteau or valise. Was it because they were accustomed to picking up women in the middle of the night for their master? Heloise shuddered to think how closely Josephine had come to ruining herself—and that prospect remained lest Heloise returned successful. She simply had to succeed. Her attempts to reason with Josephine had failed.

  “What has the Earl of Blythe to recommend himself but a rugged countenance?” Heloise had asked.

  “You would not understand, Heloise,” Josephine had returned.

  “What would I not understand?” she had pressed.

  Tossing her luxuriant flaxen curls, Josephine had replied, “The ways of a man and a woman.”

  “I am six years your senior. You are but a babe at nine and ten. I have glimpsed more of human nature than you, Josephine.”

  “My dear Heloise, you may have more years than I, and I mean no cruelty, but your experience with men is decidedly limited.”

  Heloise had not revealed to Josephine that her experience with the opposite sex was not as lacking as Josephine would believe. Granted, Josephine had no shortage of suitors whereas Heloise had entertained but one in recent years. But the dearth of suitors had not diminished her ability to observe humankind, and she knew a rogue when she saw one. People had a tendency to overlook the shortcomings in a man such as Sebastian Cadwell because of his title, wealth and breeding.

  When it had become clear that her disapproval of Josephine’s choice of company was having the unintended consequence of making her cousin even more attached to Sebastian, Heloise had attempted to reason with the earl himself. She had requested an audience with him on numerous occasions, but he had refused all of her attempts to engage him in conversation until she had managed one evening to accost him as he emerged from his box at the theater.

  “I would have a word with you, Your Lordship,” Heloise had said hastily before he could turn to ignore her.

  He had stared down at her with brown eyes so dark they appeared black. With dark hair waving over a wide brow, the firm, square jaw of a man who knows what he wants and a subtle cleft of the chin to denote a masculinity matured, the earl was more imposing than she remembered. His stylish hat sat at smart attention upon his head. His double-breasted coat with matching high collar fit him snugly, emphasizing his broad shoulders and tall frame. Lord Cadwell had always been considered a swell of the first
stare.

  “You have not responded to my written requests to speak with you,” she added, trying not to be intimidated by his height. He seemed to command more space than his body actually occupied. “I think it rather discourteous of you not to have granted me an audience.”

  He smiled—an unnerving curl of the lips. Sensuous lips. Heloise snapped her attention to the matter at hand. Gracious, why was she staring at the man’s lips?

  “You would find me more discourteous, I assure you, had I accepted your request, Miss Merrill.”

  At her surprised pause, he continued, “I know what it is you intend to speak to me of, and I had thought to spare us both from the conclusion you would draw of me upon hearing my response.”

  His words took her breath away.

  “Ah, I was right,” he noted. “I can tell at this moment you think me audacious and arrogant.”

  She flushed, perturbed that he should have correctly guessed her thoughts.

  “Let us now part ways,” he suggested, “before I offend you further.”

  Heloise attempted to grab at words, to form some manner of coherent retort, but failed. Worse still, she had not realized her mouth hung open until he curled his forefinger gently beneath her chin and closed her lips. Horrified, she was only too glad when he tipped his hat and took his leave. Her heart was pounding madly—she wished from anger alone but had to admit it was his touch that had unsettled her more. A warm wave had rushed over her body, and she understood for the first time how Josephine could be captivated by this man. A man she had hitherto disdained. And now considered more dangerous than ever.

  There would be no mouth dumbly agape this time, Heloise promised herself as the Château Follet loomed before her. She intended to provide Sebastian Cadwell the set-down he deserved. This time she was prepared to do battle and emerge the victor. If she did not, she would have risked her cousin’s affection for naught. For hours after discovering the letter from the earl, Heloise had struggled with the idea of reasoning with Josephine again. Surely Josephine knew that the earl would merely use her for the pleasures of the flesh, then cast her aside as he had done with so many women before her? But the numerous suitors that Josephine had entertained must have engendered many a romantic notion in her young head.

  Or worse, perhaps Josephine would not care.

  This was the only way, Heloise affirmed to herself as she alighted from the carriage. Waiting at the steps of the château, an abigail named Annabelle greeted her quietly and gently.

  “I will show you to your room, madam,” Annabelle said.

  Heloise considered scurrying back into the carriage. Perhaps there was another means to accomplish her goal, one that she had overlooked, one that did not require her to be here? But when she turned to seek the carriage, it had disappeared around the corner.

  What a ninny you are, Heloise Merrill, she chided herself. She had heard scandalous things occurred at the home of Madame Follet, a French widow rumored to have known the notorious Marquis de Sade in her previous life.

  The abigail showed Heloise upstairs to a room that was surely inspired by Sade’s The 120 Days of Sodom. On the walls, accompanying the gilded candelabras, hung whips, chains, lashes, collars, shackles and other paraphernalia she could not place. Besides the customary furniture—a magnificent bed with cornices atop its posts and a pleated valance, a veneered writing desk, a sofa and chairs upholstered in silk, a mahogany chest of drawers and a vanity with inlaid top—the chamber housed a mysterious post, a wooden bench, an apparatus that reminded her of a medieval rack, and sets of ropes dangling from the ceiling. Despite the ominous accoutrements, the many golden candelabras and the floral silk wallpaper adorning the walls lent a comforting warmth to the room.

  “His Lordship requested this room for you,” Annabelle explained. “It be our finest. We call it the Empress Room.”

  “Is…is His Lordship here?” Heloise inquired, trying not to stare about.

  “He arrives soon, I believe, but he has arranged for your wardrobe. Shall I assist you now into your nightdress?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Heloise responded, stepping away before the woman could touch her.

  Annabelle look puzzled.

  “I shall ring if I find I need your assistance, shall I?”

  Annabelle frowned, perhaps wondering if Heloise would summon her from her bed at an inconvenient time.

  “You are welcome to retire for the evening,” Heloise assured her. She had no intention of staying for long. Once she was done with the earl, she would request a post chaise to take her home. Taking a seat on the bed, she waited for Sebastian Cadwell.

  * * * * *

  Sebastian handed his hat and gloves to one of Madame Follet’s footmen and considered heading up to the room where Josephine Merrill would be waiting. He paused, lacking desire. Indeed, he had had little inclination to invite her here, but the minx had worn down his resistance. Her determination had pleased his vanity. It had been years since he had allowed himself to be embroiled in a relationship with one as young as Miss Josephine, but her youthfulness belied her familiarity with men. He knew she had lifted her skirts beneath at least two friends of his.

  Not looking in upon her would be impolite. Perhaps she would still be asleep. Would he attempt to wake her with a kiss or would he be relieved and head to his own room for a moment of solitude?

  What the bloody hell is the matter with me? He had never hesitated before, had never known his eros to waver. He enjoyed all manner of women. Why not the lovely and charming Josephine Merrill? His friends, if they knew his thoughts, would question his manhood or suggest that old age was settling in upon him though he had turned but two and thirty earlier this year.

  “Cadwell, mon cheri!” Marguerite Follet greeted him.

  The lady of the house, in stylish déshabillé and a golden turban, looked radiant, as much a beauty at forty as she had been at twenty.

  Sebastian kissed her extended hand.

  “My maid tells me your lady friend arrived,” she notified him. “She is not what I would have ascribed to your tastes. She seems almost virginal. I thought you never did virgins.”

  “I don’t,” he responded resolutely.

  “Ah, then there is more than meets the eye with your mademoiselle. I think, at the least, you need have no worry from Lord Devon.”

  Sebastian thought her comment strange, for Lord Devon had been known to try his luck with all the maidens at Lady Follet’s.

  “I warn you he arrived yesterday and has with him two lady-birds. Twin sisters,” Lady Follet continued. “And Anne Wesley is here as well. I do wish Lord Harsdale would stop inviting her. I dread unhappy people, and she is as acrimonious as they come. You would not believe what she said to me—that you were a lover of middling abilities.”

  He started. That had never been said of him before.

  “Of course she speaks from a bitter heart. Everyone knows how long she pined for you.”

  Had Anne counterfeited the ecstatic cries—cries so loud he had thought he might never hear properly again—when she had been with him? Sebastian wondered. It was hard to believe. He had never questioned his intuition when it came to the art of lovemaking. Nonetheless, he felt a stir in his groin.

  “Goodness knows there are few to equal you where that is concerned,” Lady Follet added with a telling flush in her cheeks. “When you are done with your mademoiselle and have a wish to renew your acquaintance with me…”

  Sebastian bowed, recalling with fondness the moments of passion they had shared on occasion. “You honor me, my lady.”

  A sigh escaped her lips. “I would that it be soon, Cadwell. I fear one day you will have no use for me and my château.”

  “That could never be.”

  Her golden-brown eyes surveyed him with a depth he had never felt before. “I wonder, Cadwell, that you might not someday take a mistress or more permanent lover? Even a wife?”

  “My record speaks for itself. Any woman who accepts
my invitation understands that the three nights here represent the end, not the beginning, of an affair.”

  “And have you never requested to see a woman again when you have done with her here?”

  “Never. What better way to conclude a liaison than with three nights of unforgettable passion? Why wait until I tire of her or she of me? Why tempt what would no doubt be an awkward or painful end?”

  “What a pragmatist you are, Cadwell.”

  He inclined his head in acknowledgement.

  “Love knows no pragmatism.”

  “My dear,” Sebastian said, eying her with care, “have you partaken of tainted waters?”

  Lady Follet pursed her lips. “It is only…well, your lady…never mind. I will not keep you.”

  With a gracious bow and kiss to her hand, he took his leave and headed up the stairs to see Miss Josephine. He resolved that he would make it worth her while. He certainly would not have her echoing Anne Wesley’s sentiments, fabricated or otherwise. The halls would ring with the cries of joy he would wrest from his lovely guest. And then he would bid Miss Josephine adieu, as he had to the dozens of others who had preceded her, and send he on her way to a better future.

  As he headed down the hall, he felt a renewed sense of spirit. The desire he had lacked moments ago returned with new vigor. He would take Miss Josephine, awake or not, into his arms and have her swooning like never before.

  * * * * *

  Heloise clasped and unclasped her hands several times as she stood looking out the window at the descending moon. To her surprise, she had fallen asleep for an hour or two on the luxurious feather mattress. She was hungry and considering ringing the maid for something to eat when she heard footsteps approaching. It was him. Somehow she knew it was him. The long strides, the swift and confident tread could belong to none other than the Earl of Blythe.