An Improper Proposition (A Steamy Regency Romance)

by Georgette Brown

  The full weight of her gaze was upon him, as if daring him to betray that trust.

  “And I have one condition,” she continued. “I agree to go with you to this Chateau for the sum of a hundred pounds.”

  He sat in stunned silence, realizing she spoke with too much conviction to be jesting. She was deliberately choosing to prostitute herself? He leaned back in his chair, giving himself a moment to process the situation. How he wished she would remove that damned veil. He liked seeing her eyes. He could discern much through them.

  “You’re in need of funds, Miss Herwood,” he stated the obvious. He could not help but be disappointed that that was the motivation for her presence.

  Her back stiffened. “Do you accept my offer, Lord Rockwell?”

  In a bloody instant, the carnal in him responded. Instead, he asked, “What happened to the Indian elephant?”

  She shifted in discomfort. “It was a generous gift, your lordship. Alas, I found it necessary to pawn it.”

  The confession did not surprise him, and he regretted his question as it clearly distressed her. He wondered how desperately she needed the money. If he were truly generous, he would simply grant her the sum she needed. Certainly there was a pitch of desperation in the way she spoke. But then he would lose the opportunity to take her to Chateau Follet.

  She must have interpreted his quiet as disinclination and said, “Surely a hundred pounds would not cause you grief?”

  As if to accentuate her point, she looked about his study with its large bay windows, silken walls, velvet curtains, Persian rugs, polished tables, and richly upholstered seating.

  “Not at all,” he replied, recalling he had offered her more—much more—in the past. He would have easily agreed to her current proposition for a larger sum. No miser, he was not cavalier with his money save when it served a specific purpose or helped him achieve something he very much wanted.

  And he wanted Miss Herwood.

  He wanted her bent over a chair, tethered to the bedposts, or writhing beneath him. Only after he had had his fill of her could he truly hope to release her hold on him. Feeling his erection stretch, he crossed one leg over the other.

  “And I should require the sum in advance,” she stated evenly but in one breath.

  He raised a brow. She was desperate indeed. “You are in some haste, Miss Herwood?”

  “If I were, it would be no affair of yours.”

  Still wanting to understand the exact circumstances prompting her request, he contemplated whether or not to insult her pride with further inquiry. “Having placed your trust and confidence in me to protect your personage, you do not trust me where money is concerned?”

  She reset her grip on the reticule. If he could, he would toss the annoying article.

  “I appeal to your charity.”

  The noblesse oblige in him would have him give her the money without condition. But he could not deny the visceral part of him. What if this were his last chance with Miss Herwood?

  “Are you in a precarious way, Miss Herwood?” he asked flatly. He knew she kept to herself for the most part and respected that she was not one to indulge in pity. What little he understood of her and her family he had gleaned from others or his own observations. But if she was in danger, such knowledge might sway his decision.

  She had the impudence to let out an exasperated sigh. “Lord Rockwell, you had solicited me. I am at a loss with regards to this interrogation.”

  “Because it is obvious it is not my charm that compels you.”

  This time she had the decency to flush.

  “Then you underestimate yourself, my lord,” she murmured.

  She was playing the coquette, but he had to suppress the rising desire to reach over and manhandle her.

  “Are we agreed to the proposition at hand?” she pressed.

  “Lift your veil.”

  Apparently taken aback by his authoritative tone, she hesitated.

  “If you are to come to Chateau Follet, you must be willing to please me in every manner.”

  He waited patiently for his statement to sink in. She pulled the veil off her face. He drank in the sight of her. She was more comely than she assumed. Even if she had not the long lashes or narrow shoulders desired by most women, she had an intelligent brow and a decent glow to her complexion.

  “I would be a poor businessman if I advanced the whole without collateral,” he stated as he eyed her response carefully.

  “Half then?”

  He had one more test for her.

  “Come hither—and put down the damned reticule.”

  Her eyes widened slightly. She was on her guard, but she did as told and went to stand before him. He appraised the length of her from his seat. Without warning, he grabbed her by the arm and pulled her onto his lap. His mouth covered hers. After a moment of surprise, her lips parted for him. He tasted of her mouth and delved his tongue into its warm wetness. When he felt a return pressure, he released her back onto her feet.

  Noblesse oblige had never possessed the upper hand, and it was vanquished for good by the kiss. The scent of her—a mixture of the lavender soap she used and the Darjeeling tea she drank—continued to linger in his nostrils, despite their distance. The blood was pumping in his veins, and especially his groin.

  “Does that mean you accept my proposition, my lord?”

  “Indeed, Miss Herwood.”

  She emitted a small breath of relief.

  Rising, he went to his writing table and began to pen their agreement. “When do you wish to depart?”

  “When I have received the initial payment?”

  “I can have it sent to your address tomorrow.”

  She nodded and picked up her reticule. He was satisfied to see that she was a little flustered. Signing the agreement with flourish, he melted the wax over a candle and affixed his seal.

  “I will make all the arrangements necessary and send further instructions by messenger. You need only prepare your person and a valise.” He held the agreement out for her. “Our agreement simply states that I owe you the balance when you have completed three nights at the Chateau Follet, and that disclosure of our arrangement to anyone entails an additional payment of five hundred pounds.”

  “That was unnecessary, but thank you.” She took the agreement.

  He rose. “Allow me to see you—”

  “I do not require an escort to the door.”

  He watched as she pulled the veil over her face. It was unnecessary to conceal her identity when she had given her name to his steward, but perhaps she intended to hide her embarrassment.

  “Until tomorrow then, Miss Herwood.”

  “Until tomorrow.”

  He sat back down only after she had departed. Her words hung in the air, ringing with promise. There had been no hint of dread in her tone and none in her kiss. That she did not despair at his touch had made his mind. As he had suspected but begun to doubt, she had not forsaken all desire for him. He had not asked the obvious question, in part because he had no wish to dissuade her from her proposition, but she could have simply asked him for a grant or loan sans any condition to go to Chateau Follet. It pleased his vanity to think it was because she wanted to go with him.

  With renewed vigor, he looked to finishing the letter to Lucy that he might then turn his mind to spending the next three days—and nights—with Miss Herwood.

  Chapter Four

  COULD THE BARON ROCKWELL have been more maddening? Deana fumed as she walked away from his townhouse, the ghost of his kiss still burning her lips. Why did he sit there impassive, as if he had limited interest in seeing his own invitation fulfilled? Recalling the brief but forceful manner in which his mouth had claimed hers, she imagined he could not have been entirely indifferent. A small surge of triumph lifted her heart. He had, most importantly, agreed to her proposition.

  She wished the kiss had lasted longer. It had been quite unexpected and equally jarring when he had returned her to her feet, almost a
s if she were a fruit and he was merely assessing whether she had spoiled. Perhaps he wanted to ascertain if he could still find her pleasing? But if he had not known, why proposition her to begin with? She might have accepted him the first time. The kiss affirmed to her that she had and still desired him, to degrees beyond all else she had desired. Bereft of his touch, her body felt out of sorts.

  The Chateau Debauchery.

  She shuddered with anticipation, a heady mix of giddiness and fear. And she was to spend three nights at such a place with him. What had he said about the activities there?

  Not for the faint of heart.

  She recalled way he had commanded her in his secret room adjoining his drawing room. He had only tied her to the bedpost before ravishing her. She had never expected to find pleasure from being bound, and the intensity of the experience had amazed her. She would have done it again, done near anything he commanded. But could she withstand more debauchery?

  And who besides Lord Rockwell would be a guest at the Chateau? She would have asked him more about the Chateau had she not been in such haste for him to accept her proposal. He had certainly asked enough questions of her, as if he were conducting a bloody inquisition. Was it merely a meddlesome nature? It would be no easy matter spending any night with the man.

  You must be willing to please me in every manner.

  What the devil did he mean by that? The realization sank in that she would be at his mercy in an unfamiliar place, among unfamiliar people, to engage in unfamiliar acts of debauchery. She had been quick to place her trust in him because she required the funds, but perhaps that would not prove prudent? He had mentioned the Marquis de Sade. Was the Chateau Follet intended to be a replica of the Château de Lacoste? She shuddered again.

  Having arrived home, she let herself in and went upstairs to look upon her mother. Mrs. Herwood lay in her bed asleep. How pale and weak she appeared. Deana sighed, knowing she was a great disappointment to her mother.

  “A woman with no funds and passing beauty cannot be particular,” Adeline had advised her on many occasions.

  Though Deana did not disagree, she had not been able to bring herself to apply more effort to men she had little interest in. While she may not have much to recommend, she did possess intelligence, health, and a fair disposition. Surely that merited some standards in selecting a husband? But perhaps it was selfish of her not to have made the sacrifice regardless.

  Her aunt approached. “What are we to do?”

  “I am to see a distant relation,” Deana replied, “one that father helped in a significant way years go. I understand he is now a man of some means and intend to call upon him tomorrow.”

  “Who is this relation?”

  “He lives in the country. I must prepare that I can travel as soon as possible.”

  Lydia nodded, perhaps accepting the lie easily for the truth might have depressed her. Deana turned quickly to avoid further questioning and headed into her own room. For the health of her mother, she had no option but to follow through with her plan. She had to tolerate the queasiness, ignore the doubts, and bear the consequences. Her destination, or perhaps her destiny, was clear.

  She pulled the portmanteau from under her bed and began to pack for her journey to Chateau Follet.

  * * * * *

  The carriage Lord Rockwell had provided her pulled up before a posting inn just outside of London. The footman assisted her from the vehicle. Deana could not help but wonder how many women the man must have performed a similar service for. Did the Baron invite many women to the Chateau Follet?

  What did that matter? she chided herself.

  Expecting her, the innkeeper showed her to a private room where a marvelous repast of cheese, bread, ham, meatpie, cooked apples, tea, and burgundy had been spread upon the table.

  “His Lordship desires that you not wait for him,” the innkeeper told her, “but to partake as much as you please.”

  Too nervous to eat earlier, Deana now found herself famished. As soon as the innkeeper left the room, she removed her bonnet, broke off a piece of bread and stuffed it into her mouth. She looked at the tempting bottle of burgundy. Rockwell would surely scold her if she poured herself a glass. Well, she intended to keep her wits about her at this Chateau Follet. She spooned a hefty serving of the cooked apples onto her plate and speared a slice of ham with her fork. The food tasted delicious.

  “I’m pleased to see you have an appetite.”

  She looked up to see the tall form of Lord Rockwell at the threshold. Having just taken a large bite of cheese with bread, she could not respond. She could only marvel at how rugged he looked in his riding clothes. His polished boots, slim-cut coat and extremely tight buckskin breeches showed off an impressive physique. She swallowed the food. Perhaps she would require the burgundy after all.

  “Miss Herwood,” he said, bowing over her hand.

  He seemed in a more jocular mood than usual. She felt more at ease.

  After handing his crop, hat and gloves to the innkeeper, he took a seat at the table. “The courier informed me the advance had been received?”

  “Yes, thank you. Your instructions were fairly minimal.”

  He poured two glasses of the burgundy. “Why trouble you with more than you need to know?”

  She stared at the glass he offered.

  “In moderation,” he explained.

  She accepted the glass. “Am I to expect that you shall dictate the amount of wine I may consume?”

  “Precisely.”

  His answer startled her for she had meant her question rhetorically. She recalled his statement about indulging him.

  Casually he crossed one leg over the other. Once again he seemed to read her mind. “The rules at Chateau Follet are simple. Please me and you shall be rewarded. Do not and there will be consequences.”

  She took a deep breath as his statements sank in. “And how would I please you?”

  “By following my directions at all times.”

  “I am to be your servant.”

  He frowned. “No. My demands shall not include those that I would request of a valet or maidservant—unless I deem it appropriate.”

  She could not help an unladylike snort. “A servant in the guise of a guest.”

  Little fires lighted his eyes. “I do not spank my servants for their misdeeds, Miss Herwood, or bring them to spend.”

  Her cheeks warmed. Yes, there were benefits to pleasing his lordship.

  “I have only three simple imperatives I wish you to observe at all times,” he continued. “First, you will not flirt with any of the other male guests at the Chateau.”

  “Jealous?”

  His jaw tightened. “Whilst we are at the Chateau, you are wholly mine.”

  To her surprise, she felt comforted by his statement. “You need not worry, Lord Rockwell. As you may have observed, I am not the most accomplished coquette.”

  “A distinguishing trait given your company at the gaming hall.”

  “What are your other decrees?”

  “Second, you will consume no more than one glass of wine per day without my permission.”

  She had no interest in becoming inebriated while at the strange and unknown Chateau, but she bristled at the rule all the same.

  “And?” she prompted with a twinge of exasperation.

  “Last, but most importantly, you will inform me at any time when you feel any unease with what transpires at Chateau Follet.”

  “Ah, such as my sentiments regarding your second rule,” she could not help quip.

  Abruptly he leaned over and grasped her chin, pulling her to him. “Be careful, Miss Herwood. I could require much more of you.”

  She stared into his gaze. The air around them crackled with tension. She wanted him to kiss her again. He was so close it would not require much for their lips to graze, but he let her go and sat back in his chair.

  “Do you require all your female guests to follow these three rules?” she inquired, feeling a littl
e petulant at not having been kissed.

  He broke off a slice of bread and cheese for himself. “The second is unique to your situation. The first one enforces a level of discipline that I prefer to have in a place as unpredictable as Chateau Follet, and I always articulate the third rule. I am allowing a great deal of leniency as this is your first visit to Chateau Follet.”

  “Indeed?” She wondered how many women he had invited to the Chateau more than once, though the answer should not matter to her at all.

  “You will observe there are women—and men—whose partners at the Chateau dictate every term: when and if they can speak, whom they may speak to, what they may wear, what they may eat—”

  “And when to use the chamber pot, too?”

  Nonplussed, he spread butter on his bread before replying, “If it suits them.”

  She churned this new bit of information in her head.

  “They do not speak unless spoken to,” he continued. “They are certainly never insolent or questioning; they conduct themselves in a respectful manner at all times, their behavior serving as a reflection of their partner.”

  “With such onerous conditions, why would anyone wish to participate in such practices?”

  “Some would consider such conditions liberating.”

  “Liberating? In what perverted sense of the word?”

  His look made her feel as if she had rushed to judgment, but what rational person would not think as she did?]

  “To be freed to experience.”

  “To be treated as a child,” she countered.

  He chewed his food evenly as he contemplated her. She found herself mesmerized by the movement of his jaw. Good God. The man was arousing even in the most ordinary of movements. Recalling her perturbation that he was the one disclosing, or engaging, in these monstrous activities yet she was the one left feeling overbearing, she asked him, “Have you engaged in such activities?”

  After finishing his swig of wine, he met her gaze. “Yes.”

  Despite her elevated concern, a dark, visceral heat pooled in her loins. She found herself simultaneously drawn and repelled. Had it been any man other than Lord Rockwell, she would have fled at what he had described. She imagined him giving her permission to use the chamber pot. How was it possible that could be provocative?