by EM BROWN
She pulled her hand away before he could kiss it. “But you—you seduced her?”
He felt a muscle ripple along his jaw. “My dear, I see no purpose in furthering this tête-à-tête. My horse has been saddled.”
He turned to leave but was stopped again by her words.
“But why stop now? Why send her away? Does she want to leave?”
“Why so many questions about her?” he retorted. “Why, of the many women who have been through Château Follet, does she merit such curiosity?”
“Because she’s not like the many women who have been here. At least not the ones you have brought.”
“I did not bring her. She came uninvited.”
“Nonetheless, you enjoyed her, did you not?”
Hostess or no, Lady Follet was about to have a rude guest on her hands, he thought to himself.
“It makes little sense that you are sending her away so soon,” Marguerite continued, “lest it be an act of conscience, of some form of chivalry. And so, my dear Sebastian, I may ask of you—why her?”
“She is no jezebel. She deserves better.”
She stared blankly at him, and he thought that he might finally have put an end to the conversation, but then she began to laugh. Containing his irritation, he waited patiently for her to be done with the hilarity.
“Forgive me,” she said at last, wiping away a tear. “I never would have thought to hear you utter such things, but I rather suspected that the day would come when a woman would stir the tender part of you.”
The choice of weapon for women was words, and Marguerite, like Miss Merrill, would have done as well had she kicked him in the groin.
“I am pleased to be a source of humor for you, my dear, but I fail to see where this dialogue is headed.”
“Mon dieu, I have never seen you this cross. This mademoiselle must be très spécial, indeed. I must meet her.”
He took a step toward her. “You will not.”
Her brows shot up. “How protective we are. Tell me, she did not ask for you to send her away?”
“It matters not.”
“Of course it does. You said she deserved better. What if she doesn’t want better—at the least, not your patronizing definition of what is better for her.”
He considered Marguerite’s words and tried to recall Miss Merrill’s reaction upon hearing that she was to return home. He had been so immersed in his own objective that he had not paid much attention to what she might have been thinking.
“It is better that she go,” he said at last.
“Coward.”
Of all the things Marguerite could have said, he did not expect that. Rather, he had thought she might praise him for his rare display of chivalry with Miss Merrill or chastise him for being a chivalrous prude. Being called a coward was worse than anything Anne Wesley might have said.
“My dear, you are deliberately trying to provoke my ire,” he said, taking off his gloves as if he meant to slap her across the face and challenge her to a duel.
She eyed the gloves warily. “Only because I adore you, Sebastian, and only the friendship between us stays the jealousy I feel toward your mademoiselle.”
“If you wish to renew our acquaintance, I can have the groom unsaddle my horse.”
“No. I will not serve as a means for you to forget her. I do not wish for you to envision her while you lie with me. If you are the Sebastian Cadwell I thought you were, you would not let her go.”
“How many times do you intend to challenge my manhood, Marguerite?”
She smiled.
“It would do no good,” he said. “If she returns home now, there is a chance no one would find out that she had ever been here. If she stayed, while we might enjoy ourselves for a few days more, we would only defer the misery of parting.”
“That has never stopped you before. Is it her misery or yours that concerns you?”
He considered the many women he had bid farewell to. Some parted with wistfulness, others parted with vain attempts to seduce him. But he had been clear with them all—their time at Château Follet marked the end and not the beginning of an affair. He did not think he could bear seeing the sadness in Miss Merrill’s eyes. Already he suspected she, like so many before her, had fallen a little in love with him. Nor had he a desire to enlarge the emptiness he was already feeling upon her departure.
“I will not see her ruined,” he said stubbornly.
“How condescending of you.”
Her words struck him as ironic. He had used the same with Miss Merrill. And now it was he who sought to shield her from herself—contradicting his own arguments. He would have preferred to keep Miss Merrill and show her body the many paths to ecstasy. Instead, he had chosen to be selfless, and for that he was being called a condescending coward.
“Go to her, mon cheri,” Marguerite urged.
She gazed at him with obvious affection. He wondered if Miss Merrill would gaze at him with such warmth. The prospect beckoned as much as her body called to his.
“Adieu, my dear,” he said to Marguerite with a kiss to her forehead.
And this time, before she could utter another objection, he took his leave.
* * * * *
Heloise had the carriage deposit her a mile from the Merrill estate with the intention of traversing the remaining distance on foot. Watching the carriage withdrawing into the sunset, she was poignantly conscious that her assignation with Lord Cadwell was over. She might not cross paths again with him for some time, and she would prefer the absence to the inevitable awkwardness that must accompany future encounters between them.
She welcomed the solitary walk, hoping the pleasant glow of dusk would calm her unrest. Cadwell had stirred an agitation within her that she could not quiet. Longing for his touch, her body felt as though it were a tuning fork that could not cease its reverberation. What a muddle she had made of herself! Though driven by good intentions, she had succeeded in accomplishing nothing save making a proper fool of herself before the Earl of Blythe. Her cheeks flushed at what he must think of her now.
The most troubling aspect of it all was that she cared what he thought.
As she approached the house, her thoughts turned to Josephine and the dreaded confrontation. How would she explain herself to her cousin? She had reconciled herself to the prospect of losing Josephine’s affection in exchange for “rescuing” her cousin from Lord Cadwell, but now that her mission had proved a failure—and that she herself had succumbed to that from which she had sought to protect Josephine—she no longer felt secure in her standing.
“Miss Merrill!” the maidservant at the door greeted her in surprise, louder than Heloise would have liked. “We was in quite a state as to where you might have gone off to.”
“I went to call upon an ailing friend,” Heloise mumbled as she glanced about for her cousin with a quickened pulse. “Where is Miss Josephine?”
“In the garden, I believe, with Mr. Webster.”
Mr. Webster was a friend of Lord Cadwell and had called once before on Josephine.
“Is anyone else with them?”
The maid shook her head. Heloise sighed at Josephine’s disregard for a chaperone, but she was relieved too, that she might not have to confront her cousin quite yet.
“Shall I assist in your toilette, Miss Merrill?”
With her skirts dust-covered from the walk, Heloise realized she must have looked rather unkempt from her travels. They went upstairs to her chambers, which now looked a tad drab compared to those at the Château Follet.
As she unlaced her bonnet and shrugged out of her caraco, she thought once again of Lord Cadwell, of his hands undressing her, his body pressed against her. How quickly her apprehension had transformed to comfort in his presence, as if they had been lovers for some time. She would never have imagined that she could experience such ease with a man and that the words “fuck me” would fall from her lips as effortlessly as a comment about the weather.
“Allow me.�
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Heloise whirled around. She had stepped out of her skirts and awaited the maid to unlace her stays when Josephine appeared. Her breath stalled.
Josephine pulled at the ribbons without word. The frown upon her lips and the stiffness of her hand “You know?” Heloise ventured.
“I was awaiting the invitation. When none arrived and I discovered you absent without any of the servants knowing your whereabouts, I suspected your interference.”
She forced a breath. “Forgive me, Josephine.”
Josephine paused before replying, her voice quavering with anger, “You are not my keeper, Heloise.”
Heloise stared at the floor. “I know. I was wrong to have intervened. I should not censure you were you to decide never to speak to me again.”
“Then why did you?” her cousin accused.
Noble if not condescending sentiments, the earl had said.
Heloise took a deep breath and looked into Josephine’s eyes. “I was a fool.”
With an exasperated sigh, Josephine flopped into an armchair nearby. “You went all the way to Château Follet?”
She nodded.
“And spoke with Lord Cadwell?”
“Yes.”
“What did you say to him?”
“I beseeched him not to besmirch your honor.”
Josephine snorted. “What did he say?”
“That I was intolerant and that you were not in leading strings.”
Her cousin pursed her lips as silence fell between them. Heloise had stepped out of her stays and clasped her hands together. She had prepared herself for Josephine’s wrath and was ready to receive it.
“That is not your chemise,” Josephine observed with narrowed eyes.
Heloise eyed the undergarment with its lace edging. It was more exquisite than any she owned and belonged to Lady Follet. However, Lady Follet had a slender figure and the chemise stretched visibly over Heloise’s body. She searched her mind for a reasonable explanation but contrived nothing. Now Josephine would be livid…
“What happened at the château, Heloise?”
Her mouth opened, but no words emerged. Helpless and embarrassed, she could only look at Josephine stupidly.
“Heloise, did you and Lord Cadwell…?”
She dropped her gaze and felt her cheeks redden.
Josephine shook her head. “That rake! I wonder that he accepted you for a replacement?”
Heloise looked at her cousin. “I am sure he was exceedingly disappointed.”
Silence. Then a sly smile pulled at the corner of Josephine’s mouth. “Well, Heloise. I must say that such display of boldness on your part is quite surprising!”
“I will no longer attempt to thwart your acquaintance with him,” Heloise assured her.
Josephine sniffed. “Indeed! Imagine what would be said of you if it should be discovered you spent the night at Château Follet. I think you shall no longer lord over me simply because you are my senior. But did Lord Cadwell make mention of when he would repair my stolen invitation?”
A shameful seed of jealousy threatened to sprout, but Heloise suppressed the feeling. “He did not.”
Josephine knit her brows for a moment, but then waved a hand dismissively. “The invitation is no great loss, though admittedly, I was quite furious when it dawned on me what you had done. But if the Earl of Blythe will not replicate the invitation to Château Follet, Mr. Webster will.”
Heloise said nothing.
“Tell me, is Lord Cadwell as divine as rumored?”
And more, Heloise thought. She noted the mischievous sparkle in her cousin’s eye.
“He is!” Josephine exclaimed. “For you are blushing as scarlet as a pimpernel.”
“Only because I have made a royal fool of myself. He proved me for a hypocrite.”
“I own it is a relief to find you are not quite so virtuous. It is rather taxing to think that I am somehow short of character when compared to you.”
Heloise let out a shaky breath. “I think that I owe you my confidence, dear cousin, but I was compromised long before this.”
Josephine’s eyes turned into saucers.
“Of my own volition,” Heloise added. “Perhaps that is why I thought it no large matter to…to lie with Lord Cadwell.”
“And I had been led to believe you were the virtuous one!”
“When your father was kind enough to take me in, I vowed I would not bring shame upon him—or you, Josephine. You are my only family and far too dear to me.”
“But you ought not advise me to adhere to expectations you yourself have not fulfilled.”
“Your prospects, Josephine, are much greater than mine.”
“Yes, yes, but it is so much more pleasurable to succumb.”
Heloise sighed in agreement. She sat down on the bed, and the two shared a moment of silence.
“There is no purpose in protecting me, Heloise. I had surrendered my maidenhead a year ago.”
Now it was Heloise’s turn to be surprised. “Of your own volition? Did you consider the consequences?”
“Did you?” Josephine retorted.
“Touché.”
“Where is the harm if no one knows?”
“I wish we had shared our confidences earlier. Perhaps all this could have been avoided.”
“Perhaps. But then you would not have experienced the embrace of Lord Cadwell.”
Heloise thought of the desire that had been stoked to life by the earl. The hunger had lain dormant these years—suppressed—and she had lamented its awakening at first. But perhaps she could exalt in its vigor instead? Why should the thrill of it turn sour simply because she could not be with Lord Cadwell?
Looking at her cousin, she saw that Josephine’s countenance had softened. “I hope that someday you may forgive me, Josephine.”
“I may be cross with you still,” Josephine said, but a faint smile tugged at one corner of her lips. “But I do prefer the Heloise I know now.”
Heloise felt as if a boa had loosened its hold of her chest.
Josephine leaned in. “Now tell me everything about the Château Follet…”
Chapter Five
Closing his eyes, Sebastian imagined the plush lips of Heloise Merrill wrapped about his cock, the look of lust shimmering in her eyes as he pushed his erection deeper into her mouth.
He had bound her arms behind her to call more attention to her breasts. Naked and upon her knees, she was far too delectable a vision not to fuck. The only dilemma was which orifice to take first. But he had taken notice of her mouth ever since their encounter at the theater, when her bottom lip had dropped in astonishment over something he had said. He had been tempted then to run his thumb over her succulent lips.
Her mouth, a rose to be plundered, willingly took in his thickness. He sawed his cock in and out of her, felt the velvet of her tongue grazing his length, throbbed when she sucked the crown of his penis. Was there a heaven greater than that of her moist warmth encasing him?
Wrapping a hand behind her head, he pushed her farther on to his cock until his tip brushed the back of her throat. She gagged at first but relaxed when he rubbed the base of her head. Soon her lips were touching the hairs of his pelvis, her chin pressed against his scrotum. A few more thrusts and the fire in his blood, the roiling in his sac could not be contained.
The stream of his desire shot from his cock as the screams of the woman beneath him jolted him from his reverie.
He climbed off her before the last of his seed had emptied. Stumbling, he leaned against the wall for support and took in a deep breath. He was not in the Empress Room of Château Follet but the boudoir of an opera dancer, and the woman sprawled upon the bed with her skirts thrown above her waist was not Miss Merrill but a woman whose name he could barely recall. Three days had passed since he had left the château and still he could not quiet the humming in his body whenever he thought of Miss Merrill. Perhaps he should not have dismissed her quite so soon from Château Follet. There was muc
h he wanted to show her, much he wanted to do with her body. Would she enjoy being bent over the back of a chair, tied to the posts of the bed, or suspended in bondage? He wondered which position he would most favor with her—throwing her legs over his shoulders, pressing her against the wall, or taking her from behind as she knelt on all fours?
The answer would surely prove to be all of them.
Despite having just spent, he felt desire welling once more in his groin. He glanced at the woman, now asleep, in the bed before him. For a moment he considered climbing back onto her, but she looked far too tranquil in her slumber, and he suspected that pounding himself senselessly into her would not dispel his thoughts of Miss Merrill.
An hour later he found himself at Brooks’s, but neither cards nor drink proved an effective distraction. He longed not only for her body but her company. There was so little he knew of her, save that Jonathan Merrill had become her guardian upon the death of her parents. He wanted to know what she thought of Château Follet after her experience with him? He would like to believe that he had surpassed the depths of any encounters she had had with previous lovers.
“Go to her,” Marguerite had urged.
He imagined the possibilities of a second encounter with Miss Merrill. The grounds of the château possessed a bucolic charm, and he would have liked to take her on a stroll and engage her in a less confrontational situation. He sensed that he could speak to her as a peer and on a world of topics. Some women had a most annoying practice of feigning ignorance or appearing stupid to please the vanity of the men in their company, but Heloise was as likely to challenge him. Of course he could always silence any argument from her by smothering her mouth with his own.
A second assignation would provide him an opportunity to make amends for his abrupt departure from her. The look of surprise, the slight frown of her brows had indicated her disappointment when he had taken his leave. He had no doubt she had the fortitude to recover, though he half wished, selfishly, that her recovery would not be too swift. He wondered if he occupied her thoughts as much as she did his. He hoped, for her sake, that it would not be the case. Or did he?