Submitting to the Marquess

by Brown, Em Browint writing as Georgette

  He wanted her to stop—and didn’t. To his surprise, he found the flashes of pain arousing.

  She had managed to unbutton his trousers during this time, and Radcliff felt a surge of desire and relief when she pulled out his length and fingered it lightly before fisting it in her hand. Radcliff would have doubled over if he were not lying down. He pulled at the shackles to no avail.

  Fear suddenly gripped him. He was at her mercy and vulnerable in a way he had never thought to be. He could have misjudged her character completely. She could exact a most terrible revenge with him in such a defenseless position. What if she were mad enough to do it?

  But his fear was quickly replaced by arousal when she pressed her tongue against his shaft. She slid her tongue up and down his length and over the tip. When at last she encased him entirely in her mouth, he felt that it might even be worth the prospect of castration to be able to spend inside of her.

  It felt extraordinary to have her warm wet mouth about him. He could not resist lifting his hips to push himself further into her mouth, but she pulled away.

  “Release me,” Radcliff said. “Release me. I shall make it worth your while.”

  “There is nothing you can offer me worth my while,” she replied with an edge.

  “If I recall, you were not adverse to my touch last night.”

  His response seemed to unsettle her. She pressed her lips together. “I give the commands here.”

  She grabbed him harshly. Radcliff grunted. He looked at her, willing her to read his mind: when she was done, he was going to repay her in kind—with interest.

  “If this is how you treat all your lovers, I wonder that they remain such devoted admirers of yours,” said Radcliff.

  “They always return for more—as will you.”

  She slid away from him and off the bed. Perplexed, he watched as she strode out of the room. The door to the inner room closed behind her. Where the bloody hell was she going? He heard water being poured. The minutes passed as his body, having been brought to the precipice but not over it, hung in aggravation. Closing his eyes, he cursed. How long did she intend on leaving him here?

  When she returned, he saw that her skin was damp, perhaps from a bath. He waited eagerly for her to approach the bed, but instead she reclined herself on the settee and retrieved a book from the end table. His eyes widened in disbelief when he realized she meant to ignore him. The wretched jade!

  Forcing down the anger that boiled inside of him, he said, “A work of the Marquis de Sade?”

  She gave him a tight smile. “A fair guess. We tramps and harlots do favor the literature of libertines and wantons. I myself prefer the story of Juliette.”

  He knew she mocked him but could not resist accepting her statement as truth. “The amoral sister. How appropriate.”

  “Who would not prefer the path of Juliette over that of her sister? Justine strives to be virtuous and is chastised. Vice is rewarded. It is an irony that is all too prevalent in life.”

  Her last words bore an edge, and her eyes clouded over with a mix of anger and sadness. For a moment, Radcliff forgot his own discomfort and wished he could wipe away her pain. How was it this harlot could provoke such charitable emotions when he ought to feel nothing but disdain and animosity?

  He softened his tone, surprising himself. “In yours?”

  She looked at him sharply, but he saw the flash of wistfulness before her defenses rose. Her chin lifted in defiance. “Yes. Favorably so.”

  Her response warned him not to succumb to pity. He had sensed from the beginning that this Miss Sherwood was a proud one, but he saw through her pride.

  “You don’t believe that—not completely. Or you would not be the daughter of Jonathan Sherwood.”

  He realized too late that he had gone too far. They were not on such terms for him to utter such a statement, but he could not recall his words, and to explain that he meant no malice— indeed, he perceived Jonathan Sherwood to have been a decent, albeit improvident, fellow—would only worsen the awkwardness.

  Her eyes flared with anger. “My father is worth the lot of you.”

  Silence descended between them. He sank his head into the bed and stared at the ceiling. He was shackled—naked—to a harlot’s bed, and yet he felt as if he had wronged her. This was beyond belief.

  “Your father was a good man,” he commented, wishing he had something more reassuring to say.

  “He was,” she said defensively.

  “Sometimes you can glimpse into a man’s soul through his smallest actions,” Radcliff prodded. “I did not know your father, but I saw him once, after a poor performance at the gaming tables, give his last shilling to a pauper in the streets.”

  “Yes, Papa was always generous to a fault.”

  The sadness in her tone twisted like a knife in his gut.

  “And proves the story of Justine,” she finished, putting an end to any glimpse of vulnerability.

  Radcliff refrained from pointing out that amorality and recklessness were two different qualities.

  “Then you are determined to be a Juliette?” he inquired.

  This time her smile was wide. Swinging her legs off the settee, she stood and dropped her book. Pulling her shift down her shoulders, she allowed the garment to fall from her body. His arousal sprang to life in an instant at the glory of her nakedness. Her skin was perfect. Not a blemish, a freckle, a vein, or mark could be found. He wondered if the smoothness of it, the relative lack of hair upon her legs, was due to her dark heritage. How she differed in strange but beautiful ways!

  “Why not?” she replied as she sauntered toward him. “Would you prefer a Justine?”

  The words were stuck in his throat, but he would not have disputed her even if he could speak. With his gaze, he devoured her form, from the downy curls at the apex of her pelvis to her voluptuous areolas. Somewhere in his mind he contemplated the injustice for both the Justines and Juliettes of the world, but he was too consumed with desire to pursue the discussion.

  Miss Sherwood, too, seemed to have no interest in further dialogue. She climbed on the bed and knelt before him, flaunting her nudity so close to his body he thought he would go mad if she did not touch him soon.

  The last he saw of her was her eyes—was that desire burning in them?—before his vision was taken from him by the neckcloth she tied over his eyes. He could hardly believe it. He had been tied to a bed and was now blindfolded with what was his own cravat. His valet would be shocked wordless to know how the linen was currently being used.

  Deprived of his sight, Radcliff felt every inch of his body come to life. He felt her hand brush against his inner thigh and nearly jumped out of his skin. The hand now wrapped itself around his arousal. It did not take long for the ministrations to take effect. He had been close to spending a few minutes ago, and a climax once more quickly loomed for him.

  And went.

  The hand had ceased its motions. Radcliff could only wonder at what had made her stop. He could hear her breathing, feel the heat of her body near. Why had she changed her mind? He had been so close to spending. He desperately needed her, and only her, to bring him to fulfillment.

  After minutes that dragged on like hours and after he began to think that she was going to leave him bound and unfulfilled for the night, he once again began to receive her attentions. She enveloped him with her mouth, taking him so deep he felt her throat. Expertly, she drew her mouth up and down his shaft, wrapping it with her tongue, bringing him again to the brink with ease.

  And denial.

  Radcliff groaned as he realized at last her designs for the evening. Repeatedly, she brought him close to his climax but never over it. She had an uncanny ability to sense that slim moment right before the ascent to fulfillment. On his fourth time down the dead-end path, he roared in frustration. The pressure was building painfully. Perspiration lined his forehead. His abdominal muscles were sore.

  It was the most maddening experience to be so tantalizingly c
lose to an orgasm always out of his reach. He no longer dared hope nor attempted to will his body to spend. His body belonged to her. And when he came to that conclusion, she finally had mercy upon him and pressed a finger to his perineum. His body exploded in a blinding orgasm that rocked him to the core and jerked so violently he nearly brought the posts of the bed to collapse upon him.

  And though he could not see through his blindfold, he could have sworn that her lips curled in a smile.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE SLIVER BETWEEN the curtains was just wide enough for the sun to slide through onto his eyes. Radcliff awoke to find that he was not in his own bed. Having undergone a marathon of sweet torture, his body felt sore. He had slept as if recovering from an arduous physical task.

  Since the shackles had been removed, Radcliff was able to sit up. Looking around himself, he saw that he was alone save for a note beside him. The instructions were simple: he was to return to the gaming hall that evening. Radcliff ran a hand through his hair. He was unlikely to survive many nights if they were all similar to the one he had just experienced.

  He wondered many times later that day if he should call Miss Sherwood’s bluff. She was no fool, that much he knew. She must realize that she was better off with a cash settlement than the deed to Brayten. He thought about renewing his initial offer of a hundred thousand pounds. If she accepted, they could put an end to this madness between them.

  But he didn’t.

  Instead, he found himself back at Mrs. T’s later that evening. He played the part of the dutiful admirer, and once more Miss Sherwood rejected his attentions. This time, however, the note from her was not an invitation upstairs but instructions for him to return tomorrow. He should have been relieved but instead he felt disappointed.

  The following evening was more of the same. It was becoming difficult to watch her flirtations with all the other men. The more he saw of her, the more he wanted to be with her—even if it meant enduring another night like his first. But Miss Sherwood proved more evasive every successive night.

  “Wooing her won’t get you Brayten,” one gentleman said as Radcliff attempted to distract himself with a game of whist. “Have you offered her money in exchange for your cousin’s property?”

  What a novel idea, Radcliff thought to himself sarcastically but responded with “Who said I was attempting to retrieve Brayten?”

  “Indeed,” acknowledged another player at the table. “Miss Sherwood needs no such adornment to entice, eh?”

  Radcliff looked over at the faro table where Miss Sherwood stood with her usual throng of players and admirers. He clenched his jaw upon seeing one of the gamers attempt to place his hand about her waist. Miss Sherwood firmly pushed the hand away but much more nicely than Radcliff would have if he had been standing next to the man.

  “I think Miss Sherwood may favor me with her attentions tonight,” said the man seated next to Radcliff at the whist table.

  The hairs on the back of Radcliff’s neck stood up. He looked sharply at the man and found it hard that Miss Sherwood would want to be with the dandy.

  “Told me yesterday that I should have the honor of dining with her today,” continued the dandy as he stroked the billowing white waterfalls that served as his cravat.

  “Care to wager that privilege for fifty guineas?” Radcliff asked.

  “Not at all. Guineas can be won any day, but a moment in Miss Sherwood’s company is not as easily had.”

  Radcliff did not pursue the matter, and they continued their round of whist betting only guineas. In each new round, however, Radcliff raised the ante. Whist was not a game he played as often, but Lady Luck was favoring him tonight. Soon the dandy was down to his final guinea, having lost three hundred to Radcliff. After dabbing a lace handkerchief to his brow, the dandy agreed to wager his dinner with Miss Sherwood.

  As she had promised, Miss Sherwood later accepted the arm of the dandy to the dining hall. Radcliff watched them leave the gaming hall together and waited a few minutes before following. He found them seated at a table in the more remote part of the room.

  “These are the buckles favored by all the pinks of the ton…” the dandy was explaining to Miss Sherwood.

  Radcliff approached the table and bowed politely. “May I have the pleasure of dining at your table?”

  “I fear there is only room enough for two,” answered Miss Sherwood with equal politeness.

  “Then pray take my seat, sir,” offered the dandy. He rose to his feet and apologized, “Miss Sherwood, I beg your pardon and hope, if I may dare, that we renew our conversation. Perhaps tomorrow?”

  Miss Sherwood frowned as she watched Radcliff take the place of her prior dining partner. “Tomorrow is spoken for.”

  Sighing, the dandy left the two alone.

  “Did you threaten him?” she asked, arching a brow.

  “Not at all,” Radcliff replied. “He surrendered the privilege in a hand of whist.”

  “I shall henceforth not make the mistake of promising anyone such a privilege in advance.”

  “That will not be necessary. How long do you think you can keep up this charade, Miss Sherwood? Have you not made a sufficient fool of me?”

  “I have only begun to repay the favor you provided my family,” she answered grimly before putting a fork and knife into the steak that had been served her.

  Radcliff felt a desire to pursue the matter with her, but decided that discussing what was clearly a painful history would only anger her further, and he had no wish to infuriate her more. Quite the opposite. No matter how justified he felt in doing what he had done with Priscilla and Edward, he wished somehow that it were less painful for her.

  “You have taken the place of your father,” he realized as he studied the way she kept her shoulders proud and straight. “You are the head of your family. The provider.”

  “My father had no sons.”

  “It is no small role to fill.”

  For a brief second, he thought she might let down her guard, but she did not.

  “My father was not the most adept at providing,” she pointed out.

  “But he has your respect nonetheless—and abiding love.”

  She swallowed even though she had not taken a bite of food.

  “You were close to your father, I take it?” he continued.

  “How do you know?”

  “I noticed the other evening you wear a locket bearing his initials about your ankle—an uncommon place for such a bracelet.”

  Miss Sherwood blushed. “I wear it there that I might resist the urge to wager it if I should find myself in a desperate situation.”

  “I wish I had had such a connection with my father. I knew little of mine, but he was not the munificent sort. My father spent most of his time in London while my mother and the children stayed at the seat.”

  “Do you have brothers and sisters then?”

  “I have one sister. She is married to an Earl and has two children. They prefer the country this time of year.”

  “How old are the children?”

  “The boy is five and the girl two.”

  “Five? That is the same age as my nephew Nathan.”

  Her face brightened as she spoke about her nephew. Radcliff was content to let her speak, enjoying the affectionate and animated way in which she relayed all of Nathan’s escapades and attempts to be a good person.

  “He is five, but seems much older in so many ways,” she sighed as she finished the last mouthful of steak.

  Radcliff stared at the empty plate in some astonishment. She followed his gaze and grinned.

  “I am not the sort of delicate woman who eats only small birds and sweetmeats,” she explained. “I prefer a good cut of beef-steak at any time.”

  Radcliff returned her grin. “I must admit I have never found beef-steak quite so sensuous.”

  “You should watch me eat an orange,” she returned playfully.

  “Broadmoor! By Jove, are you, too, a fan of Mrs. T’s t
hese days?”

  Stemming an urge to glare at whoever was interrupting this rare moment between him and Miss Sherwood, Radcliff looked up to find the cousin of his mistress approaching.

  “Penelope was remarking to me yesterday how she has not had a visit from you in over a fortnight,” Alastair Robbins continued. “Says she is beginning to feel more like a wife than a mistress. Ah, Miss Sherwood, beggin’ your pardon.”

  Alastair’s surprise was poorly feigned. Radcliff knew the remarks were purposeful. It had once been rumored that Penelope and Alastair were lovers when Penelope’s husband was still alive. Despite her current situation with Broadmoor, Alastair never wavered in his loyalty to her.

  “Not at all,” said Miss Sherwood as she rose. “We were finished. Gentleman, I must return and preside over the faro table at this time. No need to escort me.”

  “Has you on a short leash on account of Edward, eh?” Alastair asked as they both watched her leave. “Pity your fate lies in the hands of one such as her.”

  Radcliff stood, towering over the shorter man, and fixed a cold stare down at Alastair.

  “It is a leash no shorter than the one Penelope keeps about you,” Radcliff said before taking his own leave.

  The mention of his mistress had no doubt ruined any chance he had of receiving an invitation upstairs from Miss Sherwood. For the rest of the night, she did not even glance in his direction once. That she seemed to only favor the company of her friend Wyndham was no consolation, even though Radcliff had the suspicion that young Wyndham was more interested in men than the fair sex.

  After losing a few rounds at hazard, Radcliff went to collect his hat and gloves, thinking he should have gone home hours ago, when the page handed him a note. It was from Miss Sherwood.

  When he refolded the note, he looked up to see the page grinning from ear to ear. The young man was clearly aware of what the contents of the note implied.

  “If you please, you may follow me, m’lord,” said the page.

  Radcliff followed the young man to Miss Sherwood’s room, though he knew full well its location after having bribed a serving maid—one that clearly had no love lost towards Miss Sherwood—that first night. He tipped the page, half wondering if the lad would return to pin an ear to the door.