An Improper Proposition (A Steamy Regency Romance)

by Georgette Brown

  She was buttering her toast and did not observe his pensive gaze.

  Perhaps he would venture to London sooner.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “MAY I?”

  Deana smiled at the flaxen-haired man as he held the door open for her. This was the second night in a sennight that he had spoken to her, and she suspected he fancied her a little. From what she had been told, he was a decent fellow of moderate means but sufficient to support her and her family. She liked his manners and his countenance, though she would have preferred a taller man. But she was reconciled to find a man who could provide for her and treat her well. She asked for nothing more.

  Her luck had improved since finding the new gaming hall. Though the balance of what she had received from Lord Rockwell was sufficient to sustain the family for some time, she wanted a distraction, to keep her from dwelling on his lordship. She could not bring herself to return to her old grounds for fear that she might encounter the Baron Rockwell. The new hall was much smaller and its appearance more modest, but after three months, she had become acclimated to her new environment. The hall was a further walk and situated in an entirely different part of town, its patrons a bit more rumbustious, but if she were truly fortuitous and played her “cards” right, she would have no reason to frequent the place overmuch.

  Deana stepped out into the summer night and turned to him. “Thank you. Mr. Billings, is it not?”

  He bowed. “Yes. And you are Miss Herwood, I presume? I heard you are one of the best at vingt-et-un.”

  “Hyperbole. I am a little more than competent.”

  “You are modest.”

  A light wind blew at them as they regarded each other in a moment of quiet.

  Then a voice called from inside the gaming hall, “Neville! Your turn with the dice!”

  “Perhaps you would humor me with a game then?” Mr. Billings said hastily.

  “I could.”

  “Tomorrow night?”

  “Billings!” the voice called again.

  She smiled. “Tomorrow night.”

  He returned her smile, his happiness obvious, and bowed before turning back inside.

  Deana walked with a spring to her step as well. Not wanting her mother or Aunt Lydia to harass her, she decided she would not tell them yet about Mr. Billings. Her mother had recovered well once they were assured they would not be thrown out of their house for some time. They had even recovered a few pieces of the furniture that had been taken from them by the collectors.

  “Who is this saint that has saved us?” Adeline had asked her when Deana had informed them that they had a hundred pounds to their name.

  True to his word, Lord Rockwell had opened and deposited the sum into a bank account—she had never had an account at a bank before—two days after her return from Chateau Follet.

  “We must offer our most heartfelt thanks,” Lydia had added.

  “He insists on anonymity,” Deana had replied.

  “But you know who he is. Surely, you can tell us!”

  “I have expressed our gratitude, though I think he would not wish for us to solicit him again.”

  As she had hoped, the statement had disappointed but distracted her mother for the time being.

  The first month upon her return to London had been torturous for Deana. Not only did she miss Rockwell, but also she worried for a fortnight if her menses should not come. She had been willing to take the risk, but she could have reduced her chances of conceiving while at Chateau Follet. She could have encouraged the Baron to attend to Lady Isabella more. A child would have been devastating. Though she would have liked to think that he would have at least provided her the pecuniary means to support her and a child, she would have ruined her chances at marriage to anyone else. Thankfully, her menses did come.

  The task of putting Rockwell from her mind was her next concern. She craved his company, she craved his touch. Bereft of his attentions, she felt tense and irritable. No amount of self-pleasure, of which there were many in the loneliness of night, satiated her longing. Only time could ease the pain of his absence.

  As she walked further into the night, a sudden gust of wind took her ill-tied bonnet off. She turned around, but someone had retrieved it from the ground.

  “Still tempting peril, Miss Herwood?”

  She froze as she drank in the sight of Lord Rockwell. He held out her bonnet for her. Her heart throbbed painfully within her. She had not prepared herself for such a meeting.

  “I once remarked that you are possessed of sense and wisdom,” Rockwell continued. “But walking alone at night is pure foolhardiness. Did I not advise you against it?”

  Her rancor allowed her to find her wits, and she took the bonnet from him.

  “Lord Rockwell,” she greeted, noting that he looked every bit as handsome, even in the dark, as when she had last seen him. Of course, only three months, not three years, had passed. How coincidental that their paths should have crossed in this neighborhood and on this street of all places.

  “I will see you home, Miss Herwood.”

  She knew it was of no use to protest and followed him to where his curricle awaited. After assisting her onto the vehicle, he seated himself and took the reins. They sat in awkward silence as the horses began their canter.

  “How fare your mother and aunt?” he asked, reminding her of a similar conversation that had eventually led them to the Chateau Follet.

  “Well. And you and your sister?” she replied.

  “Lucy is ecstatic. I approve of her young soldier.”

  Deana looked at him with surprise. “Indeed?”

  “He is a man of integrity.”

  “I thought you deemed him unsuitable?”

  “He is not ideal, but matters of the heart are rarely rational.”

  Had not those words been her own? It pleased her vanity to think that he might have given much consideration to what she had said.

  “Then felicitations are in order,” she said.

  “Not yet. I am requiring they wait at least eighteen months. The heart is subject, too, to change.”

  “That is sound.”

  They fell once more into silence. Though it was dark and she would be out of his presence soon enough, she wished she had worn a better gown than her old ivory muslin. The sleeves of her spencer were a bit frayed at the edges, and she had a hole hidden at the pit of one arm. Rockwell, in contrast, was immaculately dressed in a double-breasted tailcoat and patterned waistcoat. His linen was starched and bright, the ruffled sleeves showing past the cuffs of his coat, and his cravat perfectly tied.

  She searched her mind for other topics to pass the time. She had no wish to ask about Lady Isabella, though she was curious as to the state of his relationship with her ladyship. Asking about the Chateau or Madame Follet might also lead the discourse into unwanted territory. She was about to comment on the weather they were having when he spoke first.

  “Why have you chosen to frequent this new gaming hall?”

  She shifted uncomfortably to delay answering.

  “I was having a run of bad luck at the previous place,” she said carefully. “I thought a change of scenery would improve it.”

  He studied her and seemed dubious. She avoided his gaze and glanced at the stately buildings lining the street.

  “We’ve taken a wrong turn,” she said and realized that they were in Mayfair, where he lived.

  “I thought a midnight tea in order.”

  This was highly irregular and improper. She did not want to have tea at his townhouse. In her mind, she had bid him good-bye for the final time.

  “I have other engagements,” she objected.

  The curricle felt small, and she occasionally bumped against his arm.

  He raised his brows. “At midnight.”

  “Other intentions,” she rephrased.

  “At midnight,” he repeated.

  She screamed inside her head. The man could not be more vexing!

  “Regardless, i
t is most presumptuous of you to assume that I have the time and inclination to take tea with you,” she asserted.

  He pulled the curricle in front of his townhouse. His stable boy met him to take the horses and vehicle to the back.

  Stubbornly, she remained seated. “You told me you would see me home.”

  “And I shall. After tea.” He offered his hand.

  “Why not now?”

  “Because we’re having tea.”

  She clenched her teeth. “I would prefer to go home now.”

  “Pray, do not make a scene, Miss Herwood.”

  She looked to the stable boy, who watched them curiously. Relenting, she took his hand and allowed him to assist her down. She noted the encompassing warmth of his grasp. The man had remarkable hands.

  Cease and desist, she told herself. She pulled at her hand, but he held it a few beats longer than necessary.

  If he expects a willing and cheerful guest, he will be quite mistaken, Deana told herself. She intended to be done with tea as quickly as possible.

  Midnight tea indeed.

  She followed him inside and into the drawing room where she had sat over a year ago. Nothing about the room had changed. She remembered the bronze oil lamp above the fireplace and the tapestry of Rati, wearing a golden headdress, arms stretched with a bow and arrow, astride a many-hued parrot. She flushed at the significance of the Indian goddess of love and carnal pleasure.

  “Have a seat, Miss Herwood,” he indicated.

  She sat at stiff attention upon the settee without removing her bonnet or releasing her reticule.

  “Do you often keep your servants up at such late hours?” she asked when a footman set down a tray upon the table between them.

  Seating himself across from her, he smiled at her attempt to censure his treatment of his staff.

  She helped herself to the tea and biscuits as it was a useful occupation to avoid conversing with him. Why had he brought her to his place for tea? Was he bored and in need of a companion? Did he have an…urge…when he saw her coming out of the gaming hall and no one else to seek in the middle of the night? She found herself wanting an answer to her questions. She looked over at him to find him appraising her.

  “How is Lady Isabella?” she asked the question she had not wanted to ask.

  “I understand she is well and currently in Scotland with family.”

  Ah. That was why he was in need of company. She sipped her tea and waited for him to speak, but he only continued his observation of her.

  “This is a delightful tea,” she said.

  “It is a chai blend of cardamom, nutmeg and black tea from the Himalayas. You should try it with milk.”

  He picked up the small vessel. She held out her cup and saucer. He held her saucer still, his hand upon hers in the process. Her heart palpitated an uneven rhythm.

  “Delicious,” she acknowledged, then proceeded to finish the beverage quickly to hasten the end of the tea.

  “More?”

  “No, thank you.”

  They sat staring at one another until impatience and insecurity forced her to her feet. She walked around the room, pretending to analyze the décor, conscious of his gaze upon her.

  “How long do you intend on keeping me here?” she asked, feeling more at ease now that she could more easily avoid looking into his eyes.

  “Do you mean to imply that I am holding you hostage?”

  “I do.”

  “Is my company so distasteful to you?”

  She frowned. Though he did not mean it, it was an unfair question. “Not at all, but I am quite puzzled as to why you wish for mine.”

  “Do you really?”

  “Yes, our arrangement had been executed and finished.”

  “Would you care for another arrangement?”

  She looked at him sharply, then returned to looking at the walls, stopping before the tapestry of Rati. She felt angry. She had put him out of her life, had met another man with whom she might have a chance, and he had the gall to reappear and ask her for another arrangement?

  “Lord Rockwell,” she said, fueling her courage through anger, “you must disavow yourself of this notion that I am always at your beck and call, available to you as you wish. Despite what our past arrangements have been, I am not a whore. Circumstances compelled me to become one, but I have no interest at the moment in renewing that state. There is no sum of money that you can offer that would make me amenable to—”

  Feeling his presence, she whirled around. In the next instant, his mouth was over hers. She struggled, but his arm was about her, crushing her to him without give. She pushed against his hard body. He circled his hands about both her wrists and pinned them above her head as he pushed her up against the wall. His mouth assaulted hers with frightful force and suffocating breadth. She panicked that he might try to impose his will upon her, though she would never have thought him capable of such an offense—no, she panicked because her body was responding to him.

  “Holding her wrists in one hand, he untied her bonnet and tossed it to the floor. She closed her eyes against the onslaught, trying to pick up the fragments of her anger as her traitorous body succumbed to the longing she had hitherto kept at bay.

  “We should not,” she mumbled, to herself as much as him.

  His hand went to her spencer, tearing it open. The buttons clattered to the floor. She twisted against his grip.

  “How dare—”

  “Ask me to take you,” he demanded. She stared into his molten eyes. Good God, he wanted her. The realization heated her loins and caused her to ache.

  But he will be back to Lady Isabella tomorrow.

  “Have you not heard a word?” she cried in anguish.

  “Do not keep me waiting much longer, Miss Herwood.”

  Her legs threatened to liquefy. She had always found his voice sensual, the sound of her name upon his lips wickedly enticing. How was it she could not resist him?

  He turned her head so that he could access her lips. His mouth was more controlled this time, probing and commanding. With his lips and tongue, he enticed hers into a sensual dance. Desire pooled low and hot in her abdomen. He released her head. His mouth trailed across her jaw, down her neck, and to the edge of her décolletage. His hands grasped the spencer and pulled it down past her shoulders, pinioning her arms. As his mouth continued to caress her about the neck, he pulled down the bodice her frock. She gasped as the fabric tore a little to accommodate. He went for her stays next.

  “They lace in front,” he noted with approval.

  With her back still pinned to his chest, he reached around her bosom and unlaced the ribbons with ease despite his hindered view. He pulled the stays down her arms as well. She now had three layers of garments—her spencer, frock, and stays—locking her arms uncomfortably to her body. He palmed both breasts through her shift and rubbed her nipples through the cotton fabric. They pressed against his hand. He rolled and tugged at the points of flesh between his thumbs and forefingers. She writhed against him. As she became more and more aroused, his touch became harder. The attention was devastating. She did not know whether to bend away or arch her back further into him. The ache between her thighs throbbed angrily.

  He pulled her atop him as he sat down on the sofa. After positioning her upon his lap, he gathered her skirts to her thighs. He parted his legs, forcing hers open. With her arms pinioned, she felt unbalanced and had to concentrate to stay atop him. Reaching under her skirts, he found the moisture between her thighs.

  “This pleases me, Miss Herwood,” he said, swirling his fingers in her wetness.

  She groaned. Her body began perspiring. An agonizing tension had built within her, and only he could release it.

  “In due time,” he murmured as if reading her mind. He began to rub and torment that rosy nodule of flesh between her legs, his gaze intent upon her reactions.

  He pulled down her shift to bare a breast, then took it in his mouth. She nearly toppled from his lap as he
sucked her tit while toying with her other highly sensitive nub. He put a hand to her hip to hold her steady. Moaning, she writhed at the pleasurable assault. She had been right to submit to him, her body signaled. She had already done so in the past. One more night was of little consequence and could only bring such delights as she was unlikely to ever experience again.

  His mouth sucked, his hand fondled with increasing vigor. The pressure within her was just about to reach the boiling point when he released her. As if she had been hit with a wall of fresh air, she inhaled at the sudden deprivation. He put her back on her feet.

  “Shed your clothes,” he instructed as began to unloosen his cravat.

  Eager to return to her earlier progress, she struggled to pull her arms free. It was no easy deed for the garments on top had secured the ones beneath. Lord Rockwell, also disrobing, had a much easier time as he cast his cravat onto the back of the chair and began to unbutton his silk brocade waistcoat. As she struggled with her attire, she found herself mesmerized by the calm with which he undressed, revealing a broad and chiseled chest, arms and torso. She drank in his splendor.

  “Let us not tarry, Miss Herwood,” he said. “If I grow too impatient, I shall be tempted to tear the clothes from you.”

  Doubling her efforts, she wiggled and jumped, her unrestrained breasts bouncing with the exertion, but the tight sleeves of the spencer were caught.

  “Yo have ten seconds, Miss Herwood. One…two…”

  Straining one hand, she reached for the cuff of her spencer.

  He cupped the side of a breast. “Three...four…five.”

  With a hasty yank, she pulled the sleeve and the spencer slipped from under the sleeve of the frock and the strap of the stays.

  “Six…seven…”

  Quickly she shimmied her arms out of the garments and pushed them to the floor. Her petticoat and chemise quickly followed.

  He smiled, though she found no amusement. Nevertheless, she said nothing for all thought scattered to the wind when he lowered his head and kissed a nipple.

  . He flicked at it repeatedly with his tongue, and she groaned as the fire in her belly stirred. . He sat back down upon the sofa and had her stand astride him. To her delight, he undid his front fall and pulled out his very solid arousal. She hoped he would let her take possession of him soon. He rubbed himself slowly so that his erection lengthened to its limits. He pointed it between her thighs.