An Improper Proposition (A Steamy Regency Romance)

by Georgette Brown

  “Bend your legs.”

  Yes!

  She lowered herself.

  He rubbed the bulbous head along her slit. It felt wonderful, but she wanted him to touch the deepest part of her. He pressed his shaft at her pleasure bud, and she closed her eyes to further relish the pleasure. Back and forth he worked his rod. Coated in her wetness, it slid easily along her. Beautiful, delicious sensations fanned from below her belly. But squatting over him was an awkward exertion, and her legs soon began to tremble.

  She grunted as beads of sweat formed along her brow. “My lord—”

  “Not yet,” he said.

  The labor required to stay in position distracted from her ascent toward orgasmos. He increased the rubbing, making her quiver in delight. But her legs threatened to buckle beneath her. Her legs gave way. She sank onto his lap, sheathing him with her body. The feel of him inside of her was nothing short of wonderful. For a second she didn’t care that she had not succeeded in keeping the position he wanted. She looked at him through lowered lashes, but instead of a frown, she saw his eyes gleaming.

  “Make yourself spend,” he urged.

  She worked her hips, trying to push him as deep inside her as she could. He reached a hand to toy with her nipple. His other hand found that nub of flesh between her folds, slick and engorged. The triple stimulation, his hardened desire inside her, his thumb at her clitoris, his digits tugging at her nipple, combined to send her over the edge. She would have convulsed right off his lap if he had not caught her hip. Shuddering violently, she fell against him, her hot and sweaty body against his. She murmured an oath, then realized she had spoken it aloud. Recovering from her raptures, she found him stroking her back tenderly. She stirred slightly and felt he was still hard inside of her. Oh dear, that meant she was not finished.

  “Pleased?”

  The strange inquiry made her look at him. He was gazing at her as if searching her face for something.

  “A little,” she teased, “but I should be pleased more if you also spent.”

  He grinned. “On your knees then, my good girl.”

  She settled between his legs and opened her mouth willingly, wanting to give him the same pleasure he had provided her. He slid his rod inside of her. She tasted her own wetness upon him, unsure of how she regarded her own flavor. With her arms still bound behind her, she could not exert herself as well upon his shaft, so he fisted a hand in her hair and guided her mouth. She tried to take him down her throat as much as possible and managed to suppress most of her gagging reflexes.

  His lordship’s eyes closed, and he grunted his enjoyment.

  “Harder, my love.”

  She obliged until her cheeks hurt. He tensed further, and she sensed his end was near. He bucked his hips at her, and with a roar, he shoved himself deep into her. Warm, tangy liquid filled her mouth. She swallowed to prevent from choking as he pumped his seed into her. His legs shook, and his fingers curled in her hair. Pleased that she could cause his surrender, she licked her lips after he had pulled himself from her. He knelt down before her and kissed her. And this, being claimed by his lips, was as divine as anything. She returned the pressure, wanting to stake her own claim.

  After releasing her, he buttoned the fall of his trousers. He swept her into his arms and lay her upon the sofa against the pillows. Laying beside her, he fitted his hand between her thighs. His languid strokes felt pleasant, but she wondered that she had the wherewithal to go another round.“Have you thought of Chateau Follet since your departure?” he asked.

  Many, many times.

  “Often enough,” she replied.

  “And what memory strikes you in particular?”

  She thought of all the times she had been with him. How could she pick a favorite among them? For days afterward, she had relived each one twice over.

  “They were all of them an experience, to be sure,” she said. “Certainly the night with Lady Isabella and Lord Devon was beyond the pale.”

  “In what manner?”

  His fingers had an intoxicating effect, putting her at ease while strumming a luscious tension.

  “What Lord Devon did…”

  She felt him stiffen. He rose. No doubt the mention of his rival did not sit well with him. She chastised her carelessness.

  “Does Lord Devon compel your ardor?” he asked.

  She knit her brows. “Pardon?”

  “He had taken a fancy to you,” he noted as he swirled a digit along that most sensitive bud between her thighs.

  Pleasure rippled from there.Did you fancy him at all?”

  How could he think such a thing? Devon was nothing compared to Rockwell. Was the Baron possibly jealous?

  “Why do you ask such a thing?” she returned. “I felt quite sorry for Lady Isabella and thanked God that I had the situation I did.”

  He seemed to relax and continued his delicious ministrations. She emitted a soft moan.

  “You are in not in need of anything, Miss Herwood?” he teased, running a finger along the length of her folds.

  She groaned, surprised at how quickly lust had flared. I am in need of you.

  “Do you wish me to beg for it, my lord?” she asked more flippantly than she intended.

  His eyes steeled. “Would you?”

  “If you wish it, my lord,” she replied more sincerely. He dipped a finger into her. She closed her eyes. Yes, she wanted him inside again.

  “Please, my lord,” she began.

  “Please, what, Miss Herwood?”

  She stared him in the eyes. “Please ravish me, my lord.”

  His gaze aflame, he withdrew. Slowly—much too slowly—he kicked off his boots, tore off his stockings, unhinged his braces, and left fall his trousers. His erection stood at proud attention. Kneeling against her bottom, he rubbed his shaft along her. He jerked himself against her clitoris and her folds until she was near to spending. Retreating, he caressed the expanse of flesh before him from the underside of her thighs to her buttocks and across her hot, wet folds. She purred. Her body knew no shame before this man.

  “Take me, my lord,” she implored.

  “We were deprived our final night at Chateau Follet,” he said, halting.

  She strained for his hand to fondle her again, as he had before. “Yes.”

  “A pity.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is there anything you wish we could have done, Miss Herwood?”“I would that you could have taken me till I was senseless.”

  He frowned and she wondered if she had responded too brashly. But in the next instant he was upon her, plunging deep into her. She cried out at the depth of his penetration. She welcomed every ounce of force. Her body, tormented with lust, in need of the strongest relief, wanted the pounding, wanted him, wanted to drive out all possibility that there would remain some small grain of unsatisfied desire for him to taunt later.

  They reached the pinnacle simultaneously, her cries mixed with his anguished grunts as their bodies bucked and shuddered against each other. Her body felt awash in warmth, throbbing, grasping. He trembled atop of her, pushed his hips at her a final time, and collapsed against her. They took in large, heaving breaths, their perspiration mingling, as they lay joined together.

  Gradually the thundering of her heart receded and she became aware of his weight upon her. He lifted himself off, then fell back once more beside her. He pulled her wrists to him and kissed them.

  “Forgive me if I was rough,” he said. “You cannot speak to me in such a fashion. It incites a demon in me. A demon that compels me to possess you to the hilt.”

  She sighed inside. She wished he could and would possess her in all ways. A part of her wanted to cry. Though she had done her best to downplay her emotions for the past three months, she had missed Rockwell greatly. And now she would have to start anew with her efforts to forget him. She ought not have come here tonight. She ought to have resisted his offer to take her home. She ought to have told him that she wished never to set eyes upon
him ever again.

  “I am not so fragile as you may think,” she replied, pulling her wrists away from him.

  Her movement seemed to displease him. With his hair damp from perspiration, clinging in parts to his face, he looked quite provocative all naked and mussed. She turned from him, worried that the sentimental feelings stirring inside her might lead to tears.

  “Who were you speaking to at the gaming hall?” he asked.

  “Pardon?”

  “The fellow with the poorly tied cravat. As you were taking your leave.”

  “Mr. Billings?”

  “You seem upon familiar terms.”

  His questioning puzzled her. “He is a regular patron there.”

  “Have you feelings for him?”

  “That would be none of your affair.”

  Irked, she sat up and intended to rise and retrieve her clothes, but he caught her arm.

  “Why did you change gaming halls?”

  She looked at him sharply. “My lord, you have asked that already.”

  “Yes, but I would have the truth.”

  She wanted to scream. The glow of their lovemaking—if it could be called that—had dissipated, replaced by a confluence of anger, sadness, and even self-pity. She had brought this upon herself, true, but Fate had been most cruel to set before her a man to love but not possess.

  “You meant to avoid me,” he answered for her.

  His rudeness deserved affirmation.

  “Yes. And if you’ve any noblesse oblige, you will not seek me again.”

  She could not look him in the eye. This time when she made a move to rise, he did not stop her. Quietly, she pulled the shift over her body. She would be quite sore tomorrow.

  “Your family has managed to exhaust over half of your funds in a mere three months. What will you do when you have exhausted the remainder?”

  How did he know the balance of their account?

  Aloud, she said, “I shall find a way. Perhaps I will marry.”

  He watched her dress from where he was, still lying upon the pillows. “Whom? That fellow Billings?”

  “That is my affair.”

  “I can provide for you far better.”

  She halted in the middle of lacing her stays. What did he mean by that statement? Did he wish her for a mistress?

  “Pray, do not concern yourself,” she replied before considering the temptation. “I am quite resourceful.”

  “You are indeed, Miss Herwood.”

  She finished with her stays and reached for her frock. The sooner she escaped his presence, the better for her.

  “I have a proposition for you.”

  Damnation, she groaned, not another one.

  He rose and went to the chest of drawers. Upon it was a large velvet box. He brought it over to her.

  “Humor me,” he said as he opened the familiar container.

  She stared at the exquisite jewelry she had worn at Chateau Follet. She hesitated. Had she not just determined that she had to leave as quickly as possible? But the ornaments called to her. He lifted the necklace and placed it about her neck, then the headpiece, earrings, and bracelet. She fingered the intricate web of the necklace.

  He stepped back for a better view. “They belong with you.”

  “I said once before—gifts are unnecessary.”

  “You’ve not heard my proposition, Miss Herwood.”

  Did he mean to offer her the jewels if she spent another night with him? If she returned to Chateau Follet with him? She dared not consider the prospect further.

  “I think Lady Isabella would enjoy these equally,” she said.

  His expression twisted oddly, and she admitted that her statement sounded rather stupid.

  “Miss Herwood, if you disrupt me again, I will spank your arse such that it will be a sennight before you can sit down.”

  She blinked. By God, he meant it. Reluctantly, she remained silent. But she knew her answer already. Whatever he offered, she had to refuse.

  “I would have you take the jewels, Miss Herwood, if you will not take my hand.”

  “I have no intention of accepting your—pardon?”

  Astonished, she watched him go down upon a knee.

  “Miss Herwood, would you honor me by becoming the Baroness Rockwell?”

  Was he mad? Drunk? Jesting? If the last, it was a cruel, cruel hoax. Or perhaps she had mistaken him? Heard incorrectly? The hour was late, her body had endured much. Her mind was not at peak performance. But then why was he before her on bended knee?

  “Lady Isabella,” she said in her confusion.

  Rockwell appeared annoyed. “What of Lady Isabella?”

  “Did she reject your suit?”

  “Reject my…? I never asked for her hand. But, God, woman, I am asking for yours. Do you know how many hours I have spent in the last month searching for you? I must have gone to every gaming hall in London—twice. I made inquiries everywhere. I had someone ask your mother and aunt and would have paid them a visit myself if my appearance would not have alarmed them. And if I had been certain you had feelings for me. That I had to determine for myself.”

  He had been searching for her? Was he not pursuing Isabella then?

  “I had thought,” he continued, “if I could show you, remind you, of the pleasures we knew, perhaps you would find it difficult to be parted from me. I have thought of nothing else but you since leaving Chateau Follet. I had to have you. It would hardly have been fair to you to constantly proposition you or hope that you lost often enough at vingt-et-un. I considered asking you to be my mistress, but then that would have been unfair to my future wife for doubtless I would have wanted to spend more nights with you than her. A common practice among husbands, I know. But my sister had reminded me of what my father and mother had between them. A mistress would be an unnecessary excess if I had what they did. But I see that I have been greatly deluded for my offer cannot best a set of damned baubles from India.”

  She sank to her knees before him, still hardly able to believe what she heard. Searching his face, she saw the depth of emotion there.

  “You wish for me to accept your hand…in matrimony?” she inquired. “Are you certain?”

  “I burn without you, Deana. I need to have you for my own. I cannot bear the thought of you with another man. I cannot bear the thought of never seeing you again.”

  “It has been a long three months,” she said almost to herself. “But…Lady Isabella?”

  “Why do you insist on speaking of her?”

  He truly seemed confused.

  “I thought you…”

  “Thought I felt affection for her?”

  “You seemed quite taken with her at Chateau Follet, and she would have made you a most suitable wife.”

  He sighed. “We would have suited one another horribly. I regret the attention I had to spend upon her. You know not what I would have given to have had that final night with you.”

  He took both her hands and brought them to his lips, his eyes shining with anticipation. As the full realization of what he asked, of his feelings for her, sank in, she could barely contain her euphoria. She choked on the intensity of emotions.

  “Lord Rockwell, yours is an unfair proposition,” she said, her voice unsteady and cracking. “The jewelry is magnificent, you see…”

  He paled.

  “But I accept you, of course.”

  He grasped her face in both his hands and smothered her mouth with his. She leaned into his kiss willingly, deliciously, and returned it with her own fervor. They wrapped their arms about each other as if letting go meant parting forever. She wanted to laugh. She wanted to cry. But most of all she wanted to show him the depths to which she would love him.

  “Deana,” he murmured against her lips. “My Deana.”

  She would be forever grateful that she had lost that fateful hand at vingt-et-un to Lord Rockwell. She wrapped her arms possessively about him, feeling the full smile of Lady Luck upon her.

  THE
END

  Other Titles by Georgette Brown

  fSteamy Regency Collection

  An Indecent Wager (Book #1)

  Surrendering to the Rake (Book #2)

  That Wicked Harlot (Book #3)

  Tempting a Marquess (Book #4)

  Tempting a Marquess for Christmas (Book #5)

  Surrendering to the Baron (Book #6)

  Other

  Pride, Prejudice & Pleasure

  The Countess and the Rake

  COPYRIGHT

  Published by Wind Color Press

  Copyright © 2019 by Em Brown

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

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