Submitting to His Lordship

by EM BROWN

“Has Madame taken an interest in the Bard of Avon?” he queried, amused, for despite the vast quantity of books in the room, Marguerite had never been known to read any of them.

  She waved a dismissive hand. “Penelope here has a belle voix. She could read from anything and make it sound lovely.”

  From the gleam in her eyes, he deduced Marguerite had other interests in Penelope beyond the young woman’s exquisite voice. She smiled at Penelope, who closed her book and politely withdrew from the room.

  “She’s young,” he remarked of Penelope.

  Marguerite raised her finely shaped brows. “Do you imply I am too old for her?”

  “You, madame, could rival women half your years.”

  Appeased, she admitted, “Penelope is twenty years younger. A jeune fille douce.”

  “Have you done with men then?”

  She sighed. “Not done but a trifle bored, though less now that you have arrived. Where have you been, Halsten? Has it been years since you were here last? I thought you had married. To some Viscountess.”

  “She would have been shocked and, with her delicate constitution, taken ill if she knew my prurient interests.”

  “Then who have you here?”

  “A novice—”

  Marguerite pursed her lips. “I had the Earl of Blythe here not too long ago with a novice. Fell in love and married the chit.”

  “I assure you that is not my arrangement, nor my intention.”

  “Are you shunning marriage?”

  “Not at all, but it is incumbent that I seek a suitable match, not only for Rockwell but for Lucy. I will not diminish her prospects.”

  “But you are willing to risk scandal by patronizing my chateau.”

  He bowed. “My lady always was quick of wit.”

  “I will not dissuade you further. Bring your novice to me that I may meet her when she has settled in.”

  He kissed the hand that she held out for him and took his leave. As he closed the doors of the library behind him, he contemplated the unexpected news regarding the Earl of Blythe, a notorious rake. Blythe had a bit of a reckless streak, and Halsten doubted any woman could rein him in for long. And while Halsten and the Earl may have shared a mutual interest in the Chateau Follet, they would not share the same fate.

  * * * * *

  Deana had had no specific expectation of what to find upon arriving at Chateau Follet, but she did not imagine an inviting abode. Despite its moniker as the Chateau Debauchery, the dwelling was tastefully furnished, its servants pious and polite, and there was no evidence that the most wanton activities occurred within its walls.

  She studied the small slender abigail, her long dark hair wound in a braid down her back. The woman had large almond shaped eyes, which she kept focused before her. Deana could discern nothing from her.

  “This be your chamber, m’lady,” Bhadra said.

  Deana stood stunned at the threshold. The room was breathtaking. A large bed of carved ebony comprised most of the room. The linens and plush pillows of vibrant orange and deep red with gold detailing flamed the imagination and spoke to passion. A beautiful vanity of engraved ivory and tortoiseshell with shiny brass handles, coupled with a painted chair in the Mughal tradition, was equally exquisite. The armoire with its intricate floral design and bold colors was unlike any furniture she had ever seen. An intricate jali surrounded the window, tapestries covered the walls, and above the fireplace stood a vase of peacock feathers and a large mirror framed with geometric motifs. She imagined she stood in a palace in Jodhpur or an equally exotic place.

  “His lordship requested a bath be drawn,” Bhadra informed. “I shall assist m’lady with her toilette.”

  Deana ceased gaping at her surroundings and replied gently and a little awkwardly for perhaps the maid thought her the wife of Lord Rockwell. “I am not of nobility. Miss Herwood will do.”

  “Yes, m’lady,” Bhadra replied with understanding.

  “This is my, er, first visit here.”

  “Yes, m’lady.”

  Sensing Bhadra was anxious to execute her responsibilities, Deana allowed the abigail to assist in undressing her.

  Additional maidservants brought a bathtub, which was set before the fireplace, and poured in the steaming water. What a luxury to have a bath filled to the brim with hot water! Bhadra helped her settle in while others took her clothes—she supposed for cleaning. She blushed thinking that the quality of her garments was not likely what they were accustomed to handling.

  The bath felt wonderful. She would not have minded relaxing hours in the tub, but Bhadra had grabbed a sponge and began scrubbing her with a soap that smelled of sandalwood and cinnamon. She meant to protest that she was capable of cleansing herself, but Bhadra was intent upon her task. The bath was over all too soon, but Deana felt incredibly refreshed. Her skin tingled from the cleansing. Bhadra next applied a milky cream over her body. Again Deana felt awkward at having the hands of another woman touching her extensively, but she said nothing. She could only guess what protocol, if any, existed at the Chateau.

  “My portamanteau,” she said, though it had little to offer.

  Bhadra shook her head and produced a loose blouse with short sleeves and a low neck that she topped over Deana’s head. She had Deana step into a layer of petticoat, then wrapped a long strip of silk dyed from safflower about the waist before draping it over the shoulder. Deana marveled at the comfort of the strange attire, though she found the air upon her naked back disconcerting. She felt half-clothed. And without stockings her legs were completely bare.

  “My stays,” Deana remembered.

  “A sari does not require stays, m’lady,” Bhadra replied as she slipped a pair of beaded cloth slippers upon Deana, then gestured for her to take a seat at the vanity, which had a full complement of accessories to assist in one’s toilette.

  Bhadra braided her wet hair, coiled it atop her head, and added a jasmine sprig.

  “Does m’lady require anything else?”

  Deana stared at herself in the mirror, feeling quite out of place. She considered asking Bhadra what she knew of the Chateau but decided not to keep the maid. “No, thank you.”

  After Bhadra left, Deana ran her hands down her sari and admired the intricate weave of the fabric. Did the women of India wear this in public? She stood and looked once more about the room. It contained none of the implements of pain that she had expected—no whips, crops or sticks. A closer examination of the tapestries revealed elephants, tigers, a man playing a reed, a woman and a man...

  She leaned in closer and saw a man and a woman in tight embrace, her legs wrapped around the hips of the man. The images below all contained naked couples. One had the woman sitting upon a prone man, facing away from him, his hands upon her breasts. Another featured a woman bent in half, her hands upon the ground, while the man stood behind her, gripping her waist. Deana felt warmth in her cheeks and a stirring in her groin.

  “They are depictions of an ancient Hindu text.”

  Whirling around, she saw the Baron Rockwell standing at the door.

  “Ah,” was all she could think to say. “You have read this text?”

  He went to stand beside her before the tapestry. “I have not studied Sanskrit literature, but it was explained to me by my aman that Hindus believe life holds three purposes: dharma, artha, and kama. Kama is sensual pleasure.”

  Her mind reeled at the outlandish thought. How strange and wondrous. She considered her own innate desires and responses of the flesh. Would the Hindus celebrate the carnal?

  Feeling his gaze upon her, she decided to switch to a calmer topic. “Did you specify that I should be attired in this ‘sorry’?”

  “Sari.”

  “I had packed my own clothes.”

  “Do you not like it?”

  “It’s beautiful but...a little indecent, I should think.”

  “The Indian subcontinent can be quite hot and humid,” he replied with an appraising sweep from her feet to her head.
“Turn around.”

  Unaccustomed to being directed as if she were a servant or child, she paused at first but then complied as there was no gain to be had from objecting. He made no sound, but she felt his hand at her shoulder blades. Her breath caught when his hand slid down the middle of her back to her waist. She had not thought her back to be so sensitive and stimulating.

  “Lovely,” he murmured.

  She wished he would caress her back once more. “Is this garment customary for the women of India?”

  “In parts.”

  She turned to look at him. His eyes were like dark pools of chocolate as he looked down upon her.

  “How fortunate you are to have traveled there.”

  “It is no place for a gentlewoman.”

  “I think I am no gentlewoman,” she said, her voice husky.

  The corner of his mouth quirked upward. He slid his arm about her waist and pulled her to him. “Thank God.”

  Her heart drummed in anticipation as she was pressed into his hard body. She waited for him to kiss her...and waited. He wanted to kiss her. She could see it in his eyes. She could feel it in the erection against her abdomen. Why did he not kiss her?

  He planted a soft and chaste kiss upon her brow. “Sleep well, Miss Herwood. There may be long nights ahead.”

  Abruptly, he released her. She watched, bereft, as he bowed and took his leave. When the door had closed behind him, she let out an unladylike curse. What manner of sport was this? Why send her blood percolating if he had no intention of resolving the tension? Was it his intention to build anticipation or merely to tease her to prove his power?

  She would have to take matters into her own hands. She crawled into the luxurious bed and pulled up her skirts underneath the covers. Finding the nub of flesh between her thighs, she sighed and sank into the pillows. As she stroked herself, she wondered why she desired this exasperating man? The Baron was handsome, but she had known men of superior countenance who had not affected her so.

  Compared to her experience at the posting inn earlier today, her own fingers felt slight and unsatisfactory against her clitoris. After a few minutes, she relented. She wanted him and him alone. She watched the simmering fire in the fireplace until she fell into a deep slumber with hopes that her patience would be rewarded tomorrow.

  * * * * *

  The brightness of the sun slipping through the curtains informed Deana that it was late in the morning. She stretched her arms above her. The travels of yesterday had tired her more than she expected, but having spent one of the most comfortable nights, she felt quite rested and refreshed. She stared at the designs in the canopy above her. Her body surrounded by soft and sumptuous fabrics, she felt as if she had awoken in the chamber of a princess. With a contented sigh, she threw back the covers and walked over to the sideboard. Bhadra must have come in at one point for Deana found a towel, a brush for cleaning teeth, a pitcher filled with water, and other accoutrements of hygiene.

  Just as she had finished cleansing her face, Bhadra entered with a tray. “Good afternoon, m’lady.”

  “Afternoon?”

  After setting the tray on a small table, Bhadra opened the curtains. “It is past the noon hour.”

  Drawn to the coffee she smelled, Deana sat down at the table and helped herself to the delicious meal of eggs, ham, beans, and bread. Bhadra busied herself with laying out the clothes that she must have unpacked from the portmanteau.

  “My clothes will never feel as pleasant after having worn a sari,” Deana remarked.

  Bhadra gave her a small smile.

  “Do you...service many guests?”

  “There are many patrons of the Chateau.”

  “Do they all wear attire such as this?”

  “No. His lordship requested it specially for you.”

  She was unsure if she should be pleased that he had singled out the garment for her. She decided to take advantage of the opportunity that Bhadra was less reserved than the prior night.

  “Does his lordship come here often?”

  Bhadra paused. “It has been some time.”

  Deana mulled over the information. “Are there many other guests presently at the Chateau?”

  “Not more than usual. Shall I brush your hair, m’lady?”

  Deana went to sit at the vanity. Bhadra uncoiled her hair and removed it from its braid. As the maid brushed her hair, she considered which question she wanted to ask next and how to phrase it to solicit the best answer possible.

  “You may return later, Bhadra.”

  Lord Rockwell stood at the door. Dressed in a dark blue double-breasted tailcoat and spotless white trousers, he presented as smart a vision as any pink of the ton. In one arm he held his hat and riding crop. The other arm was at his back.

  Bhadra curtsied. “Yes, m’lord.”

  He watched her leave—with some tenderness, Deana thought but could not determine with certainty. She remained seated at the vanity, not knowing quite what to do. She was not in her element here at Chateau Follet.

  “I trust you slept well?” he inquired as he strode over to her.

  “Yes, thank you. Are you often in the habit of entering a woman’s boudoir unannounced?”

  He smiled, a little, but did not answer her question. Instead he produced a large velvet box.

  “To complete the ensemble,” he explained and opened the box.

  Deana gasped at the jewelry she beheld. The little diamonds and rubies were laced together with gold in the most intricate and elaborate designs. He removed the necklace, set the box upon the vanity, and went to stand behind her.

  “I could not,” she objected immediately.

  “You shall.”

  “I should be afraid something terrible would happen to it.”

  “You will not wear it for long, but I desire to see how it looks upon you.”

  He pushed her hair to one side and fastened the necklace about her. It served almost like a collar, covering most of her neck. Little red beads dangled like raindrops from the bottom row of the necklace. Methodically, he attached the other pieces: earrings that dangled like miniature chandeliers from her ears; a bracelet that fit first like a ring about her middle finger and ran down the back of her hand before encircling the wrist; and a headdress laid down the center of her head and onto her forehead. Every time his fingers grazed her skin, she felt a rush. The weight of the jewelry, like an extension of his hand, continued to caress her. That familiar tension down below began to simmer.

  Rockwell stepped back and looked at her reflection in the mirror. Deana stared at the same in awe.

  “The jewelers of India cannot be bested,” he said.

  He traced the bottom of the necklace with his forefinger. She shivered as his finger glided along her collar, and suddenly the unquenched desire of the prior night flared through her. She had no wish to be denied once more.

  “What is your desire today, my lord?” she asked.

  A muscle tensed along his jaw. “I thought to show you the extensive grounds. Our horses are being saddled, and I will have Bhadra prepare a picnic.”

  His answer disappointed her, though at any other time she would have delighted in his proposal.

  “Ah,” she said flatly. Recalling how she had once seduced him, she taunted, “Is there no debauchery at the Chateau Debauchery?”

  He raised his brows, though he seemed pleased. “Patience is a required virtue here.”

  She refrained from pouting for she had no wish to be like Miss Walpole, but her desire would not be quelled. She squirmed in her seat.

  “Your intentions are quite the mystery to me, Lord Rockwell.”

  He cupped her chin and turned her gaze to his. “You have much to learn, Miss Herwood.”

  “Then begin your lessons—”

  “I have.”

  “—and, pray, do not prolong them more than necessary. I am an avid pupil.”

  She fixed her most smoldering stare upon him. “Have you no appetency or are you lacking
in resolve?”

  She dropped her gaze to his crotch. It was risky challenging his manhood, but she had no interest in a picnic till her ardor was relieved.

  He did not take the bait. “I need no enticement to ravish you, Miss Herwood.”

  “Then ravish me.”

  It was the boldest statement she had ever made.

  “Learn me what you will, my lord,” she urged when he did not respond.

  “Very well,” he decided and gave her a serious stare. “You are short of patience but it can be forced upon you.”

  She did not comprehend his statement, nor care. At last they were to attend to that wanton part of her that wished to experience all that the Chateau Follet portended to offer.

  He undid the gold buttons of his coat one by one. Watching him remove his coat, she sensed desire growing. He hung the coat on the back of a chair.

  “Tell me, Miss Herwood, did you pleasure yourself last night?”

  Stunned by the audacity of his question, she had no reply.

  He went to stand before her. “I have no desire to repeat myself.”

  The sternness in his voice prompted her to speak. “Pleasure myself? In what manner?”

  “I think you know to what I refer.”

  She felt herself blushing to the roots of her hair.

  “There is no shame in the act,” he added. “The Hindus are not alone in their acceptance of this simple human urge. The ancient civilizations of Egypt and Greece regard it as commonplace.”

  “We are neither in Egypt nor Greece.”

  “If we were, would you have?”

  “Perhaps,” she mumbled.

  “I should like to witness it.”

  Her eyes widened. Perhaps she preferred the picnic after all. “I forget—Bhadra may return at any moment.”

  “She will not lest I ring for her. She heeds direction well.”

  Unlike others, he no doubt left unsaid. Deana took a deep breath.

  “Your directions were hardly exact.”

  “She does not require specifics.”

  He spoke with such assurance. There was history betwixt him and Bhadra, she was sure of it.

  He folded his arms. “Now, Miss Herwood.”