Submitting to the Marquess

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Submitting to the Marquess Page 9

by Brown, Em Browint writing as Georgette


  A trull was she? A Jezebel. A jade. She had heard worse, but coming from him, the words were fuel to a fire already burning out of control. What else was it that he had said? For beauty or not, I would rather be seen with a carnival animal than in her company…

  “I will consider your exchange under one condition,” she said. “You will submit to being my suitor—an ardent suitor—for a period of six months. You will tend to my every wish and command. Only then, upon your satisfactory and unconditional submission, will I relinquish the deed to Brayten.”

  He stared at her in disbelief before smirking. “You suffer delusions of grandeur. I am not in the habit of courting sluts.”

  “Then I suggest you begin practicing,” she replied, feeling triumphant to see the veins in his neck pulsing rapidly. “You will appear no later than ten o’clock each evening and await my directions. You will speak not a word of this arrangement to anyone or I am sure to find Brayten beautiful this time of year.”

  Broadmoor was beyond livid. He grabbed her with both of his hands. “Damnable doxy! I shall see you thrown in gaol for your treachery and have no remorse if you perished there.”

  He was holding her so close that she could feel his angry breath upon her cheek. She tried to ignore the rapid beating of her heart and the painful manner in which her arms were locked in his vice. He looked as if he desired to snap her in twain—and could no doubt accomplish it rather easily in his current state of wrath. It took all her courage to force out words.

  “Unhand me, Baron—lest you wish to pay for the privilege of your touch.”

  At first he drew her closer. Darcy held her breath. But then he threw her from him in disgust as if she possessed a contagion. Grabbing his gloves and cane, he strode out of the room. Darcy watched his anger with pleasure, but a small voice inside warned her that she had just awoken a sleeping tiger.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  AUNT DARCY…I came across Mrs. Weaver, who is not of any lineage that signifies but you would never know it from the airs she gives herself…the largest dog I ever saw…with the most audacious headdress…

  “Aunt Darcy!”

  Darcy Sherwood snapped to attention and looked across the dining table into the bright eyes of her five year old nephew. Each day Nathan grew more and more like Edward Barrington. The boy had the same dark eyes, the same ears that curved outward from his face, the same rounded jaw. He had his mother’s fair hair and her sweet smile, but excepting those features, he was a diminutive version of his father. Darcy had vowed that the similarities would lie only with his physiognomy. He was better off with as little of the Barrington blood in him as possible.

  She knew not which Barrington was worse: Edward or his cousin Radcliff. She had not slept well the night before for she could not rid herself of the image of the Baron Broadmoor, gazing down his nose at her with those dark unnerving eyes of his. And when she awoke, her first thoughts had been of his rugged countenance—she would make that handsome scorn of his turn into a frown of despair—and his blistering words—he would be speechless when she was through with him. And to think she had nearly kissed the man! Worse—she had desired it. Her body soured recalling how giddy and anxious she had felt yesterday before he revealed his true purpose. If he had meant all that he had said, why the bloody hell had he bothered playing that hand of brag? Was it to humiliate her? The thought burned her, and she could hardly wait to provide him his set-down.

  “Aunt Darcy, did you hear my story?”

  “Let Darcy eat in peace,” admonished a slender and pretty young woman of two and twenty years.

  “Worry not, Priscilla. I enjoy my supper with a story,” Darcy assured her sister. She turned to Nathan. “Will you tell it to me again?”

  Nathan smiled. “Most certainly!”

  “I take it you heard not a word I said either?” asked Mrs. Sherwood with a self-pitying sniff as she dabbed at the corners of her mouth so as not to mar the rouge upon her lips. Leticia Sherwood always kept her face presentable as if important company might call upon them at any moment.

  “Mama, you ought not to have bought a new bonnet,” replied Priscilla, “no matter what Mrs. Weaver said. You yourself said she gives herself airs. Even were she any authority on the fashion of bonnets, we haven’t the money for such expenditures.”

  “Does this mean we can’t have a dog either?” asked Nathan.

  “I fear it is.”

  The crestfallen look on the boy’s face pained Darcy. It was not the first time he had been denied, and for the most part he bore the realities like a little soldier. He never complained that his meals were plain, his clothes worn, his playthings nearly nonexistent, but a dog was something he had set his heart on.

  “No matter how good I am?” Nathan persisted.

  Darcy caught her sister’s helpless look and responded, “Someday, Nathan. It may be longer than you wish, but someday, you shall have a dog.”

  “Then I shall be especially good—shall I?—so that day may come!” exclaimed Nathan happily. “Mama, as I have finished my plate, shall I go wash the dishes?”

  Darcy watched her nephew depart with both pride and pain. As little girls, neither she nor Priscilla had ever had to work in the kitchen. Jonathan Sherwood had made a decent sum in the West Indies, where Darcy was born, and there had been plenty of servants in the Sherwood house. Now Priscilla and Mrs. Sherwood shared a maid between them. The butler, the housekeeper, the footmen, and all the other maids had been dismissed before Nathan was born. Darcy had tried as hard as she could to retain at least the house they had lived in, but the income at the gaming hall and what loans she could secure would not suffice.

  Priscilla turned her bright blue eyes, fringed with long full lashes, onto Darcy. “How in the world are we to afford a dog when we can barely feed the three mouths currently under this roof—let alone an animal that could easily eat the equivalent of two?”

  “We can afford a dog and new bonnets. Darcy holds the deed to Brayten!” declared Mrs. Sherwood triumphantly. “I have often said that gaming hell you frequent is despicable. I thought for certain that nothing good could ever come of your being there, but Providence has at last seen fit to pity our situation.”

  Priscilla glanced at Darcy in surprise. “I thought you meant to return the deed?”

  Darcy took a bite of her stale bread and chewed it vehemently as the image of the Baron Broadmoor flashed before her eyes. “In due time.”

  “Return it?” gasped Mrs. Sherwood. “Why should we wish to return such a prize? What folly! Indeed, no price could compensate us for the wrong they’ve done to our family!”

  “Mama, I am content that the past remain in the past.”

  “We have a right—your son Nathan—has a right to that land!”

  “But it is Darcy that has won it.” Priscilla turned to her sister with eyes of regret. “You have born the burden of my mistake. It was my fault—”

  “No,” Darcy stopped her. She stared hard at her half sister. The two could not look more unalike—one was fair with delicate features, the other dark and dramatic—but Darcy had always felt naught but love for Priscilla. She had cherished playing the little mother to her younger sister. “Edward had the opportunity to do right by you and Nathan, and he chose not to because of that dreadful cousin of his.”

  “His cousin Radcliff? How do you mean?”

  “I only just—the man himself admitted as much to me.”

  “He came to see you? Oh, Darcy, do be careful! I have only heard stern things said of him.”

  “Did he try to take Brayten from us?” asked Mrs. Sherwood apprehensively.

  “He does not frighten me,” Darcy answered, “nor shall he reclaim the deed so easily.”

  “What do you mean?” Priscilla asked.

  Avoiding her sister’s worried question, Darcy said, “Do not fret, Priscilla. You imagine yourself—and Nathan—a burden when he is a blessing in our lives. In truth, it is the debt of our dear Papa that weighs upon us—thoug
h we do not aid ourselves by continuously purchasing items that we can ill afford. And you may think the gaming hall a terrible place, but I quite enjoy it, I assure you. As for Radcliff Barrington, he is of no consequence.”

  She spoke with greater confidence than she felt where the Baron Broadmoor was concerned, but Darcy had no intention of sharing her plans with either Priscilla or her stepmother. She admired her sister’s ability to forgive, but she herself desired only to avenge her family upon Radcliff Barrington. He would regret he had ever crossed swords with Darcy Sherwood.

  *****

  “Do you suppose Jonathan Banks will allow me the pleasure of his company this evening?” Henry wondered aloud to Darcy.

  Darcy looked across the card room at the young gentleman in question flirting with one of the female patrons. “Are you sure he can be persuaded?”

  “He has yet to discover his true nature, but he can be persuaded. Most assuredly.” Henry turned to see who had just entered the room. “That one, I have a distinct feeling, can not be persuaded.”

  Glancing up from the checks she had collected from the last round of faro, Darcy saw the tall form of the Baron Broadmoor. Her heart quickened its beat, and she could not help but admire how the tailoring of his clothes enhanced his impressive figure. The cutaway of his dark blue coat revealed a broad chest encased in a buff waistcoat and immaculate linen. The tall standing collar reached into his lush black hair and was wrapped with a cravat that would have met the approval of Beau Brummel.

  She had half expected the Baron not to come, that he would laugh off or simply refuse her ultimatum. From the frown on his face, it was clear he was unhappy to be here. Good, she thought to herself. He would soon be unhappier still.

  “Another round, Miss Sherwood! The night is young!” cried one of the bettors.

  “Soon enough,” answered Darcy as she met the gaze of the Baron, “but first I mean to take a respite in the dining hall.”

  A number of men quickly offered to escort her, but Darcy kept her eyes on Broadmoor. He met her challenging look and presented his arm. His intent stare could easily have been mistaken for determination, but Darcy knew better. She accepted his arm with a satisfied smile.

  “Gentleman, actions speak louder than words,” she explained before allowing Broadmoor to lead her towards the dining hall.

  “How many poor fools have you led to ruin at your faro table?” asked Broadmoor.

  “Is that your best attempt at polite conversation?” Darcy returned as he pulled out a chair for her at one of the more private dining tables. No doubt he desired to be seen by as few people as possible.

  “My impression is that polite conversation is the least of your interests here.”

  “Ah, yes, we do our share of gambling here as well. I am sure you have noted that this is a gaming house?”

  “Is that all it is?” he replied with a cocked eyebrow.

  Darcy narrowed her eyes at him. He sat opposite her with his arms crossed, casually leaning against the back of his chair. His posture struck her as arrogant. But even with his mouth curled in a derisive smirk, he was disconcertingly attractive. It was unjust that such a horrible ogre could possess such devilishly handsome features.

  “What are you implying, Baron?”

  “The men…the women…”

  “We are not a priggish establishment. Men and women are free to enjoy each other’s company, but we are not a brothel.”

  “Indeed?”

  He poured a glass of wine for her from the bottle that had been set at their table. Darcy observed how his fingers curled about the neck of the bottle and was reminded of how strong they had felt when he had grabbed her yesterday. She wondered if those hands were capable of a different kind of touch…if they could stroke as well as grasp…but her thoughts were soon shattered by his next question.

  “Is what you do so different from that of a harlot?”

  She stared at him in almost disbelief. The gall of this man! But she managed to smile as if she were an amused mother who had just heard her young child say something precocious.

  “A whore lies with a man for money,” she explained before leaning in and continuing in a conspiratorial tone, “I lay men for the enjoyment of it.”

  Seeing that she had him speechless, she settled back in her chair with satisfaction. “Make no mistake, Baron, as much as I enjoy the carnal pleasures, I lay only men who may please me. Only no man has managed to please me for long. Which is why I am no courtesan. I prefer my freedom to choose as I please. I am not now and will never be any man’s mistress.”

  “As such, you do very well for Madam Tillinghast,” responded Broadmoor, “though it also helps when the dealing boxes are gaffed.”

  Darcy thought she had mastered the situation, but his words had the effect of completely dispelling her complacency. She bit her tongue—in anger as much as to prevent herself from unleashing a string of invectives.

  “Our tables are honest, sir,” she said between clenched teeth.

  “And the dealers?”

  Darcy could not resist jumping to her feet. His raised eyebrow suggested that he was playing her, but nonetheless, he had uttered words that could not be taken lightly in a gaming house. Had she been a man, she would have called him out.

  “More honest than some of our patrons,” Darcy said, almost quivering with anger. “Though in some cases, cheating would be quite unnecessary on our part. Your cousin, for example, could not win a hand were the game rigged in his favor!”

  “Did you not wish to partake of any refreshments?” he called to her after she had turned to leave.

  Even that simple question served to ignite her indignation. What was it about him that grated her nerves like no other? she wondered as she stormed out of the dining hall.

  “My dear!” Henry exclaimed when she collided with him in the hallway. “You look as if you’re ready to take someone’s head off.”

  “I am!” Darcy admitted. “Would you believe what that pompous Baron Broadmoor dared accuse me of? He said…oh, it should not matter. Nothing a Barrington says should ever matter to me.”

  “I take it this Barrington is even worse than his cousin for I have never seen you this livid. It is not a becoming color on you, my dear.”

  “Harry, he is far worse than Edward! He is easily the most detestable man I have ever met!”

  For the rest of the evening, Darcy refused to engage anymore with the Baron. She did not even wish to make eye contact, though she could not refrain from glancing at him when she thought he wasn’t looking. As much as she wanted to embarrass him further, her infuriation had melted her plans for the Baron—at least for now.

  You may have won this round, Darcy silently told the man, but tomorrow will see my reprisal two-fold.

  Thinking of ways to humiliate the man improved her outlook. Still, she took an early leave of the evening and retired to the bedroom that Mathilda had set up for her long ago so that Darcy would not have to travel through the streets of London at night.

  Back in her room, Darcy rang for the abigail that she shared with Mathilda and began to unpin her hair, trying not to think of the Baron Broadmoor and how she could possibly have found him attractive. The intensity of his stare when first she saw him had intrigued her, and it had been some time since any man had caught her attention. She fancied he had not been immune to her charms, but alas, how wrong she had been!

  After ringing for the abigail for the third time, Darcy realized she was to have no help undressing for the evening. She removed her gown and with some difficulty managed to disengage her corset. She stepped out of her chemise and into her nightgown. Her hair had already been released from its chignon and fell thickly over her shoulders. She climbed into bed and was about to blow out the candle when a voice jolted her upright.

  “Tire of all the amusement already?”

  Darcy looked into the semidarkness to see the Baron sitting in a corner chair. Had he been here this whole time? His cravat had been loos
ened and a small part of his chest could be seen above his shirt.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Are you in the habit of stealing into the rooms of ladies?”

  He snorted. “Is there a lady present?”

  “Get out,” Darcy seethed, trying not to think about how much of her undressing he might have witnessed.

  He stood up and advanced towards the bed. “But how unkind of you to rebuff one who is but attempting to be, as you demand, an ardent suitor.”

  “I expected a gentleman suitor.”

  “Perhaps I am not gentleman where you are concerned. Nor do you deserve a gentleman.”

  “Pray do not fancy that you can seduce me. I shall ring for the servants.”

  “And will they come?”

  Despite her anger, Darcy paled in the flickering candlelight. She had no doubt that the impudent abigail was simply ignoring her.

  The Baron had reached the bed. He scowled down at Darcy. “What did you expect bringing me here and into such company?”

  Darcy turned from him and pretended to settle into her pillows, “Do as you will, but I will bid you good night.”

  To her dismay, Broadmoor slid into bed next to her. “You asked me to play my role convincingly.”

  “You disturb my sleep, Baron.” It sounded stupid, but it was all she could think to say.

  Undeterred, Broadmoor slipped a hand down her nightgown and reached for her breast. Darcy stopped his hand.

  “How dare you take such liberties?” she gasped harshly, but her body had already begun to warm at his touch.

  “From what I understand, others have taken far more liberty than this.”

  “Only by those who can please me,” Darcy responded evenly as she shoved his hand back to him.

  “And you think I could not?”

  Darcy glared at him. He took her silence as a challenge and reached underneath the covers. His hand grazed her ankle. She started but was overcome by both curiosity and desire to see what he would do next. His hand trailed lightly up her calf and underneath the hem of her gown. She should stop him before he went beyond her calf, but when his fingers brushed the back of her knee, she could not find words. His hand continued lightly up the length of her thigh. When his fingers reached the nest of curls between her legs, she lost a breath.

 

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