by EM BROWN
“Have you other criticisms to level at me and the Company?” he invited as he continued to plant kisses about her nape.
Was he daring her to use that which she had intended as her shield against his seduction?
She steeled herself. “Would it prove of any use or fall upon deaf ears? Or, rather, will it simply serve as amusement for your vanity?”
“My vanity?”
“Yes. Men quite taken by themselves enjoy themselves as the subject of discourse, good or bad.”
“And you think me such an extreme narcissist?”
“Why would you invite criticism?”
He put a hand upon her rib cage to hold her still for she had been leaning away from his kisses. Amazingly, it mattered not where he touched, her whole body was his instrument to play.
“Would it surprise you to know I’ve an interest in your thoughts?”
She had not considered that possibility. Her cheeks colored at the disservice she had done to herself. No, not to herself. She was confident of her opinions. It was he of whom she had not had better expectations. Perhaps she should view him with more charity than she had?
His hand moved to cup her breast. She quickly glanced around, but not even the birds in the trees could be seen. Again, no, she was safer being angry at him. She had fought this battle before and lost. He had wagered five hundred pounds that he could make her spend at his hand. Now there was but her pride at stake, lessening her odds further.
“Only a narcissist would wish to prove his potency,” she said, squaring her shoulders.
He squeezed her breast in response. She felt the compression despite the stiffness of her stays, and her back arched of its own accord, pushing her bosom further into his hand. The nearness of his body, and his breath upon her neck, threatened to send her thoughts scattering.
“Do you realize, Miss Herwood, I would call a man out for lesser accusations than what you have leveled?”
“Pistols or swords?”
“I prefer different weapons entirely,” he answered, flicking his tongue against the back of her ear.
He slid his hand beneath her décolletage and pinched a nipple. She did her best not to whimper. She decided she would have rather faced weapons of steel. They were not in the privacy of his secret room. They were in plain, open view. That fact might provide defense against his advances.
Or not. As he rolled her hardening flesh between thumb and forefinger, she felt pulses shooting from her nipple to her cunnie. What had happened to her anger? Why did it not win her the day?
“There is no shame in submitting to me,” he whispered in her ear.
She shivered, but did her best to resist. “How convenient for you.”
“Ah, but the rewards are shared. Lift your skirts.”
She gasped, “I beseech you, my lord—”
This time he did not wait for her to comply and reached for the hem himself. She stopped his hand.
“We are not in the East Wing,” she protested.
“Indeed. No one is here to witness us.”
“That could change,” she snapped, angry that they were repeating an earlier exchange.
“An exciting prospect,” he growled.
She ground her teeth. There was no winning with this man!
“All this proves nothing,” she asserted desperately, “only the weakness of my mind to combat the corporal desires of the body.”
“I will brook no further delay. Lift your skirts, madam.”
At the severity of his tone, she decided to comply. She grasped the hem of her skirts and slowly inched them up her legs, exposing her calves. At the least, she had on a pair of decent stockings rather than her own.
“Further,” he commanded.
She pulled the skirts over her knees and closed her eyes. Someone would come upon them, surely, despite the fact that they were some ways from the Chateau.
“Further.”
Dear God, the tops of her stockings and garters were showing...
“Now part your legs.”
Her mind clawed for an escape, but no argument would deter him this time, she knew. Slowly she widened the distance between her knees. This would surely be her greatest affront to decency. What did he intend with her? Would he take the crop to her backside?
Holding her against him with one arm, he reached between her thighs with the other. His hand went beneath the skirts, and it took all of her not to shut her thighs even as she tingled in anticipation. When his fingers touched her flesh, she had to close her eyes, unable to witness her own wantonness. How had she managed to invite this upon herself? Her legs were bared and spread for all to see. At least the skirts still covered her most intimate parts.
Gently he fondled her clitoris. Her breath became ragged. She leaned against his shoulder for support. His fingers circled the little nub of flesh, encouraging it to swell. None of her prior lovers had attended to her with such skill. She ought admit, to herself in particular, that she could not resist his touch.
And he would prove it.
Her body grew warm despite the rise of a cool breeze. He quickened his strokes, driving all thoughts from her as the intensity of sensations overcame all else. He played with that little nymph of flesh, teasing and torturing it, till she writhed and panted. The collection of wetness between her legs seeped into her petticoats, but she cared little. Her body had begun its ascent. Only when she reached the top could she hope for divine relief.
When his fingers slipped lower, she gasped. Her whole perineum lit up. Curious at the small area of immense sensitivity, he fondled it frequently, strumming the base of her clitoris to the edge of her opening. Each time she cried out uncontrollably, shuddering as bolts of lightning shot up her spine. She almost wanted him to stop, but he worked the area without mercy. Unable to withstand the powerful stimulation, she quickly came undone, crying out loud enough to send birds scattering from the trees as her body bucked against his. Even as her body went over the edge, he did not cease his rubbing until he had squeezed every last shudder and every last cry from her. Feeling as if she had just been shot into the heavens like a cannonball, she sagged against him without word or movement, hoping for recovery.
What had happened? The potency of what she had just experienced both enlivened and frightened her. That her body was capable of such intense euphoria was a marvel, and part of her very much wanted an encore, but such loss of control, such helplessness at his hands surely did not bode well.
“My God,” he breathed.
Rockwell seemed equally at wonder. He brushed a stray hair from her eyes and kissed her upon her brow.
“I hope you are not the sort, sir, to gloat in victory,” she murmured.
Pulling out a handkerchief, he said nothing as he gently wiped the wetness between her legs. Feeling at ease—perhaps she was becoming accustomed to such acts of wantonness after her experience at the posting inn—she found his attention to this small detail of lovemaking rather gallant. She was glad not to have to sustain the clamminess for the duration of the ride back to the Chateau.
He pulled the skirts back over her legs. She eyed the wine in his glass. She would require a few drinks to calm the energy she felt in her body right now. If she were a steed, she could have run a hundred laps.
Seeing the object of her gaze, he allowed her his glass, which she finished off. He rose to stretch his legs. She wanted to know if he needed attending. Certainly the bulge in his trousers would indicate he required relieving, but he made no move to seek it. Instead he went to see to the horses. Had something happened to him since their encounter of a year ago? Was he no longer capable? Did he intend to protect her, or himself, from the consequences of copulating? Did he not desire her enough? Lest he were to spend in equal fervor, she felt unsatiated.
Returning, he began to collect the items of their picnic.
“Back to the Chateau?” she asked.
“Yes.”
Just as she was about to purse her lips at his taciturn manner
, he looked at her, a gleam in his eyes. “After all, there is still the matter of your punishment, Miss Herwood.”
Chapter Nine
MY GOD, HALSTEN REITERATED to himself, his cock ready to burst the buttons off his pants. If not for marveling at the beauty of her climax, he would have thrown himself atop her. Bearing witness to her spending was a most provocative event. He could recall nothing more titillating nor invigorating. That he could produce such glorious screams and paroxysm was beyond gratifying. The vision of her legs sprawled open, her back arched against him, her brows knit in twisted pleasure upon her uplifted face, would stay with him for some time. And, for a brief moment he knew he would find no other woman that could elicit an equally intense response from him. He craved her beyond all else.
After packing up their picnic, they rode in relative silence back to the Chateau, via a different route. He needed to concentrate on cooling his ardor and kept his comments to the history of the land and extent of the Follet estate. They came across a clearing and though her awkwardness in riding had not escaped his notice, he invited her to a gallop.
“I would fall from the horse within seconds,” she replied.
He paused, thinking he would do himself no good if he came in contact with her body, but remembering the thrill of his first gallop, he decided to bring his horse alongside hers.
“Come,” he said, holding out his hand. “Put your foot upon my boot.”
She stared at his hand but did as told. He pulled her onto his horse, closing his eyes briefly when her rump brushed his thigh.
“Hold fast,” he instructed.
He urged the horse into a light gallop and felt her body tense. The feather of her hat struck him in the eye, but otherwise, the rush of air against them, the thunder of hooves beneath them was second only to the carnal pleasures of desire. He sensed her gradually relaxing, and though he went far slower than he would have on his own, he derived satisfaction from her enjoyment. When they came to a rest, she seemed disappointed to stop.
“As a youth, I once rode a horse until the beast collapsed,” he said after he had assisted her off the horse. “As it was my favorite stead, I learned my lesson in the most painful manner.”
“I better understand the appeal of riding. I wish I could be as fine a rider,” she said.
Strands of hair flew about her cheeks, which, already flushed from their previous exchange, were now in ripe bloom. Her eyes sparkled, and her complexion glowed with bliss. He became undone, his guard crumbling like a weak dam against a mighty flood. Seizing her to him, he crushed his mouth atop hers. Her lips, soft and pliant, parted beneath his. He felt his blood pounding in all parts of his body—his head, his bosom, and especially his groin. Pushing his tongue deep into her mouth, he tasted of her. Wanting to consume her with all senses, he inhaled her scent, a nondescript yet heady air that lengthened his cock. He pressed his erection against her, feeling as if he might explode if he did not find a way to possess her from the inside.
Startled by the intensity of his assault, she offered no resistance. Indeed, she pressed her own body against his. She moaned as he seared her neck with large, moist mouthfuls. Wanting to devour her, he licked and sucked his way back to her mouth. She grunted into his mouth at the force of his kiss. But this time it was not about her pleasure but his need to claim her body with his.
Yet through the storm he meant to unleash upon her, he found enough restraint to allow her a breath. She gazed into his eyes, her pupils dilated. He confirmed that she did not abhor the onslaught, though he doubted he could cease no matter what her reaction—a troubling recognition that was lost in the surge of raw, animal desire for this woman.
His restraint, however, was tested by another source.
“I say, would that be Halsten Rockwell?”
The voice was at some distance still, but he felt Miss Herwood stiffen in his arms immediately. He kept his gaze upon her, but she had turned to seek the speaker. Steeling his nerves and suppressing the instinct to turn upon the intruder with a vengeance, he managed to step away from Miss Herwood and compose himself. He heard two horses approach but did not turn around for he would only have glared at the riders.
“Lord Rockwell?”
It was a woman’s voice and one he recognized with great surprise.
* * * * *
Deana saw the stunned look in the Baron’s eyes before he turned around to greet the new company, a couple. The gentleman, dressed as handsomely as Rockwell, but with a less solemn and more affable demeanor, was accompanied by a striking lady. Deana had thought her own borrowed riding habit exquisite, but the smart blue dress of the other, with its fur lapels and shiny gold buttons, was the finest outfit she had ever seen and made more attractive by its wearer of such refined features and glorious flaxen hair that she appeared more angel than human.
“Lady Isabella,” Rockwell greeted when the couple had pulled their horses before them. His gaze shifted to the other gentleman and there was no mistaking his stiffened tone. “Lord Devon.”
Lord Devon, however, seemed oblivious or impervious to the cool welcome. His gaze fell upon Deana. “And who is this?”
It was then that the lady seemed to notice the presence of another, and Deana detected a slight narrowing of the woman’s eyes.
Rockwell looked upon Deana for a moment before replying, “May I present Miss Sherwood?”
Deana doubted that she would cross paths with the couple outside Chateau Follet, as they were clearly of superior society, but she was grateful for his attempt to protect her identity.
“Delighted,” Lord Devon responded with a large grin. “Are you staying at Chateau Follet?”
“We are,” Rockwell replied.
“As are we!”
Rockwell’s nostrils flared and he looked to Lady Isabella for confirmation. She regarded him carefully.
“I had no idea you were acquainted with Madame Follet,” she remarked.
Observing the exchange between the two, Deana suspected Rockwell and Lady Isabella to have been on familiar terms.
“Likewise,” Rockwell said.
They seemed to have forgotten the presence of the other two until Lord Devon interjected, “Will you be staying long?”
Rockwell’s response was a curt “No.”
Lady Isabella turned her attention once more to Deana. Her ladyship seemed to take in every aspect of her appearance and determined that something less than chaste had transpired. Unperturbed, Deana returned the stare in full. This startled her ladyship and rendered Deana even lower in the woman’s estimation.
“Have I had the pleasure of your acquaintance before, Miss Sherwood?”
“That would be doubtful,” Deana replied, “lest my lady frequents gaming hells.”
Lady Isabella frowned, perhaps wondering if she was the subject of a jest. Lord Devon’s brows shot up. Even Rockwell turned in astonishment, though Deana thought she detected the corner of his mouth twitch upwards.
“Perhaps we can become better acquainted at dinner?” Lord Devon suggested, eying Deana with improved interest.
“Perhaps,” Rockwell said, his tone doubtful. “We have not—”
“Till dinner,” Deana said gaily, ignoring Rockwell’s frown.
Lord Devon doffed his hat, and he and Lady Isabella turned their horses around. Deana attempted to mount her horse without assistance. Knowing that Rockwell was not pleased, she wanted to put some distance betwixt them. Had she more forethought, she might not have spoken as she had, but jealousy had overcome her. It was not a sentiment she had great familiarity with, but she hoped to overcome it for their remaining time at Chateau Follet.
Rockwell, folding his arms, watched her slide off the saddle. “I did not allow that we would dine with them.”
“Nor did you forbid it.”
“What possessed you to speak of gaming hells?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “It stopped her from prying further, did it not?”
“She asked an innocent
question.”
She looked at him with some sympathy. The most astute of men could not discern the subtleties that women could. Strangely, the jealousy fueled her confidence.
“Your friend has formed a judgment of me.”
“Isabella is too often quick to judge,” he admitted.
It was ‘Isabella’ and not ‘Lady Isabella.’ As she had suspected, the two had been close.
He shook his head. “The compulsions of the fair sex shall always baffle me.”
She put her foot once more in the stirrup and attempted to hoist herself onto the saddle, but, lacking practice, she failed once more to mount the horse. She felt his hands at her waist. Strong arms lifted her easily onto the saddle.
They rode in relative silence. Deana wondered if his thoughts were upon the Lady Isabella. She knew she could never claim the affections of a man such as Lord Rockwell, but she would have liked to have had him to herself for the duration of their time at Chateau Follet.
Rockwell allowed her some solitude before dinner. Bhadra assisted with her half dress, a beautiful French dress of sheer ivory muslin embroidered with vermeil in an Oriental style and possessing a daringly wide décolletage that exposed the majority of her bosom. Worn over multiple petticoats, it flared from the empire waist and was accented by two long tassels down the front. Bhadra added a plumed turban and velvet slippers.
In truth, Deana had little wish for dinner company, but her curiosity regarding Rockwell and Lady Isabella had prevailed. She sighed at the new feelings Rockwell had engendered, for better and for worse. Anger and shame, titillation and euphoria, brazenness and jealousy. What a mix of emotions for one day! And throughout it all, a thrill unique to anything she had felt before.
“I find the styles and colors of the Orient to be singularly attractive,” Deana commented and eyed the maid. “Do you miss India much?”
After a pause, Bhadra replied. “I am satisfied with England.”