Submitting to the Marquess

by Brown, Em Browint writing as Georgette

  “I am to meet a friend at Brook’s for dinner tonight,” Radcliff informed her as he brought her hand to his lips, “but expect to see you tomorrow night.”

  “Very well,” Darcy returned, “but do not expect me to leave my position and fall to my knees upon your arrival.”

  “What an intoxicating vision,” he murmured into her hand.

  The look in his eyes, as if he meant to devour her, made her flush. She wondered if her appetite for him would ever be satiated.

  “Good night, Lord Broadmoor,” she said, disengaging her hand before they each found themselves needing to tear the clothes from the other on the front steps of the gaming hall.

  He let her go but hesitated to bid adieu. A different countenance came over him—no longer the commanding and haughty Baron Broadmoor. He seemed unsure. She was tempted to reach for his hand. What was it? What did he wish to say?

  “I will call upon you tomorrow,” he said brusquely, avoiding her lifted brows. He tipped his hat to her, then urged his horses forward.

  Puzzled, she watched as the curricle rounded the street corner and disappeared from view. Had she said something she ought not have? They had shared such a lovely evening together. Did he perhaps regret having taken her to such a visible place as Hyde Park? Yes, that must have been it. He had allowed his lust for her to rule over his common sense. Perhaps he was thinking of what the ton would say of his being seen with that wicked harlot from the gaming hall.

  Her own feelings towards him confounded her. Surely he felt the same regarding his own. With a sigh, she turned to the gaming hall. The evening was much less enticing without the prospect of his presence.

  “Darcy! Darcy!”

  A feminine form emerged from the dusk.

  “Priscilla!” Darcy exclaimed. “Whatever are you doing here?”

  Priscilla trembled. “Nathan. He’s—he’s hurt.”

  Panic speared through Darcy as terrible images flashed through her mind in the span of seconds. “Hurt? How?”

  Her sister’s mouth twisted in pain. “A dog. He was—he was out with Swifter—the dog he has been tending. Swifter got in a brawl with another animal. Nathan tried to intervene. The beast mauled his arm. I swear it looks as if it took his whole arm!”

  Darcy grabbed Priscilla by the arms. “Where is he now?”

  “At home. Mr. Trevor—the blacksmith, you know—happened to be near and helped me to carry Nathan. The poor thing went unconscious. We stopped the bleeding with bandages, but Mr. Trevor suspects a bone might be broken.”

  “Have you sent for a doctor?”

  “Yes, yes, but we’ve nothing to pay him. I have but a few guineas in the till.”

  “Leave that to me. You had best be at Nathan’s side.”

  “Will you not come home then?”

  “As much as I would like to, my presence will provide little value. I can do best by ensuring that we have a capable doctor for Nathan.”

  “If you think it best, Darcy. But Darcy…Darcy, it is horrid!”

  “You must have strength, Priscilla! For Nathan’s sake.”

  Priscilla bit her lower lip but nodded. Darcy gave her sister a quick embrace, saw her off in a sedan, then headed into Mrs. T’s. How much a doctor would require in payment, she knew not, but she did not intend to return home without some amount to buy time. She went in search of Harry. He would lend her the money if he had any on him. But Harry had yet to arrive for the evening. She asked the page for Mathilda but was informed the proprietress was attending the theater with Mrs. Egan.

  “Damn,” Darcy swore beneath her breath.

  She took her place at the faro table but could not concentrate on the task at hand as she glanced constantly around the room for Harry.

  “Have you any notion when Lord Wyndham will arrive?” she asked the page, who shook his head.

  She considered borrowing from the house—surely Mathilda would not mind. If she played a few hands and won, she could pay back Mathilda and use the earnings towards the doctor.

  But Lady Luck had abandoned her in her time of need. For the first time in many years, the house was down significantly.

  “My dear, you are not your customary cheerful self,” noted James Newcastle as he took a seat next to her at the card tables.

  At last! Darcy thought to herself. Here was a man she could apply her situation to.

  “I have in need of some money,” she told him. “My nephew has taken ill and will require the care of a doctor.”

  His beady eyes glowed. “My dear, consider me your savior. There is naught I would deny you.”

  He took her hand and brushed his lips over it. She tried not to cringe.

  “How much do you require?”

  “I know not. Perhaps fifty guineas to start.”

  “It is yours.”

  Darcy breathed a sigh of relief. “My dear Newcastle, what a blessed man you are!”

  “And in exchange…”

  His eyes gleamed.

  “A kiss?” she offered with a smile, though inside she grimaced.

  “I think much more than that is warranted?”

  She bit back the retort she wanted to launch at him.

  “Perhaps I should apply myself to another,” she suggested.

  “I think when your situation is known, any number of your admirers would be willing to offer you what you need—for an attractive trade.”

  “You would take advantage of my need, sir?”

  He casually reached into his waistcoat and took out his snuff box. She watched as his fat digits opened the gold plated case and pinched the contents.

  “You are a clever woman,” he replied, snorting the snuff, “and have long been familiar with the art of the deal.”

  She rose to her feet, too angry to negotiate further with the man. Whirling about, she again went in search of Harry. She asked the page to send a note to Harry’s apartment before returning to the card room. Over and over the cards betrayed her. She owed five songs to Newcastle alone and a kiss each to three different men. At this rate, she would be kissing half the men in London!

  Through her desperation, she suddenly remembered the locket about her ankle. For a second, she hesitated. It was the only possession from her father that she still owned.

  No! Her father would not have wanted her to keep it if she could assist her family with it. It had only sentimental value, but someone would allow her to use it as ante.

  The locket brought her luck at the card tables as she won three hands of brag and had amassed fifteen guineas. She thanked her father silently. It would be one of the few times he had come to their aid where money was concerned, albeit posthumously. She decided to try one last hand. Twenty guineas would be enough until she could borrow from Harry.

  She stared at her hand. Two aces and a seven. A middling hand. She eyed the other players. Newcastle did not have a good hand. She could tell by the way he wrinkled his brow. Rutgers was in deep concentration. Perhaps he had a decent but unimpressive hand and attempted to gauge if he should risk a better hand. She decided to stay with her cards.

  “Well, Miss Sherwood, you have a flair for risk,” Newcastle pronounced as he tossed his useless cards on the table.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, she lay down her cards. But a large smile broke over Rutger’s face.

  “Three of a kind,” he declared, showing the four of diamonds, the four of spades, and the four of hearts.

  Eagerly he picked up the locket and brought it to his lips. “At last! My most prized winning here at Mrs. T’s, I think. It shall bring me great joy when I remember where it once rested.”

  “Surely you will not stop Lady Luck now?” Darcy prodded hastily.

  “Perhaps not, but no one will win this treasure from me!” He deposited the locket into his waistcoat and patted it. “Lest there be a prize more worthwhile than this?”

  She rose to her feet and smiled. “But then what would be your incentive to return, I wonder?”

  Laughter and a
few hollers followed her banter. Excusing herself to tend to her toilette, she went upstairs. Once in her bed chamber, she sank to the floor and drove her fist into a nearby armchair.

  She had lost everything: her guineas and her locket. There was nothing left to wager. How was she to help Nathan now? How was she to help any in her family? Would Lady Luck never grace the Sherwoods? Would she only tease them, as she had with the deed to Brayten, only to strip it from them?

  The tears began to roll.

  “Oh, Papa,” she moaned. If only he had been more prudent…but it was not in his nature. He had too much the blithe spirit. She loved and hated him for it.

  Come, come, my girl, she rallied herself. Such sentiments did nothing to help Nathan. She had to put her mind to the task at hand.

  There was the offer from Newcastle. And he would not be the only one willing to pay for her favors. She would become a true whore. But would she not do anything for Nathan? Of course she would.

  Wiping away her tears, she took in a deep breath and prepared herself to return to the card room. She opened the door to find the Baron Broadmoor upon her threshold.

  She started, “Lord Broadmoor!”

  “Miss Sherwood…” His gaze roved over her features, and he took her by the shoulders. “What is it?”

  “What is what?” she returned.

  “Something is the matter? What is it?”

  Her defenses threatened to crumble at the sound of his concern. How was he able to see her troubles?

  He led her back into the room and closed the door after them.

  “Tell me,” he urged.

  She couldn’t. Could she?

  “Tell me,” he repeated softly.

  The dam gave. She could not hold back the tears. Her strength deserted her and she had to clutch at his arms for support. To her relief, he held her close. Those strong arms seemed able to protect her from anything, and in his compassion, she indulged herself.

  “I can help,” he said when the brunt of her tears had subsided. “But you must tell me what has happened.”

  “It is Nathan—he’s been hurt—terribly.”

  She felt his arms stiffen about her.

  “Mauled by a dog,” she explained between shudders.

  His jaw tightened. “Where is he?”

  “With my sister. And a doctor—I hope.”

  “You hope? Has one not been called?”

  Swallowing a new wave of sobs threatening to overcome her, she sputtered, “I told Priscilla to send for one, but we have no means to pay for one. I pray that we shall find one with a charitable heart, one who will see that a boy—a child—is in need of aid…surely a doctor will help him even if he cannot be compensated?”

  He did not answer her immediately.

  “I can come up with the money,” she added desperately, “I’ve been trying…”

  He put a finger to his lips. “Worry not. If you will go and tend to Nathan and your sister, I will see to the doctor. Will you do as I say?”

  Oddly assured, she found herself nodding.

  “Good,” he said. “I will send a physician to your address.”

  He saw her into his chaise.

  “Your friend,” Darcy remembered. “Were you not to have dinner with a friend?”

  “I ate fast.”

  Before urging his coachman on, he brought her hand to his lips. It was dark, but she could see the look in his eyes. It made her heart soar. He had come to see her because he wanted to see her. She marveled that she could feel such happiness even in the midst of distress.

  The chaise did not travel fast enough for her. When it came upon the Sherwood residence, she flew into the house and up the stairs.

  “Darcy!” Priscilla cried in relief.

  Even Leticia proffered a “thank heavens.”

  Darcy approached the bed where Nathan lay, groaning, his form small, his countenance pale. She would sooner have had a dagger twisted into her belly.

  “Where is the doctor?” she whispered to Priscilla.

  “He came and went,” Priscilla replied. “Said there was little to be done till the bleeding stops. And, Darcy, it won’t stop bleeding!”

  Mrs. Sherwood paced the floor, wringing her hands and bemoaning the evils of dogs, until Darcy bade her leave the room. The two sisters in silent watch over Nathan until a knock sounded at the front door. Darcy leaped to her feet. Was it Broadmoor?

  “Hornsby. Dr. Hornsby, at your service, Miss Sherwood,” the gentleman at the door greeted as he removed his hat. “I was sent by Lord Broadmoor.”

  She closed her eyes and uttered a silent appreciation to the Baron before ushering the doctor to Nathan’s room.

  “He is fortunate,” Dr. Hornsby pronounced to Darcy and Priscilla after examining the boy. They stood in the hall and spoke in hushed tones. “There appear to be no broken bones. I gave him a sedative to make him sleep. When the wounds are better healed, the stitching can be removed.”

  “But he is at risk of infection,” Dr. Hornsby continued. “Change his bandages often and clean the wounds as best you can. Watch for fever. I will be by tomorrow to see how he fares.”

  Darcy walked the doctor to the door while Priscilla returned to Nathan’s bedside. Her sister would no doubt stay the entire night there.

  “Doctor Hornsby, how can we thank you for your kindness?” she asked.

  “Not at all, my child.”

  “The fee for your services—”

  Dr. Hornsby shook his head. “Let us say I am indebted to Lord Broadmoor and thank you for the chance to repay the favor.”

  The fever appeared the second day, but true to his word, Dr. Hornsby came every day to see to Nathan and sent a nurse to assist the family. Priscilla and Darcy took turns sitting beside Nathan’s bad. Gradually the fever broke, and though weak, Nathan was able to sit up in bed and inquire after Swifter.

  Priscilla shook her head. “He worries more for the dog than for himself.”

  “Someone has to run with Swifter,” Nathan protested. “Mama, can you read my letter again?”

  Darcy raised her brows inquisitively.

  Priscilla held up a parchment and read aloud, “‘Dear Master Sherwood, we eagerly await your recovery. Signed, Gibbons and Swifter.’”

  Nathan smiled. “Eagerly await.”

  When Nathan was once again asleep, Darcy urged her sister to rest.

  “And you, Darcy? What of you?” Priscilla returned.

  “With the nurse here, I ought to return to Mrs. T’s,” Darcy answered. “She is sure to have missed me.”

  “You are a wonder. How did you ever come across such a wonderful physician?”

  “I didn’t. Lord Broadmoor…”

  “The Baron Broadmoor?”

  Darcy relented and confessed that she had told him about Nathan and that he had been the one to send for the doctor.

  Priscilla seemed deep in thought.

  “Are you troubled by it?” Darcy asked.

  “No. I…”

  “What is it, Priscilla?”

  “Nothing. I am weary and find I cannot think well.”

  Darcy nodded, but she sensed that her sister wanted to tell her something. She wondered what it could be?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “MY LOCKET!”

  With a wide smile, Broadmoor placed the object in her hands.

  “But how did you come by it?” Darcy inquired.

  “By no easy means,” he replied. “It would have cost me less to procure you a new one.”

  “And how did you know?”

  “Rutgers couldn’t stop boasting about it. I overheard him and challenged him to play for it. He didn’t want to at first. Had to wager some forty pounds before he would give it over.”

  In an uncharacteristic show of exuberance, she threw her arms about him. He stumbled backwards, and they both fell onto her bed. Realizing what she had done, she pulled back from him and cast a suspicious eye.

  “And what do you wish from me? Forty pounds? Th
e deed to Brayten.”

  “Good God, woman. Can a charitable deed not go uncensored? It is yours. Free and clear. Though perhaps I will settle for a kiss. Seems only fair since you were giving kisses away to half the men in London the other night.”

  “Then a kiss, my lord, you shall have.”

  She rolled back on top of him and pressed her lips down upon his, drawing him into her mouth. His hand went to the back of her head as she showed him the depths of her appreciation, pressing her tongue low into his mouth, engaging his tongue, and caressing his lips.

  “Mmmm,” he approved when she lifted her head for breath. “Worth every pound.”

  She stared at him, her heart filled with gratitude.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “No one has shown our family such kindness before,” she answered.

  “You’ve not needed it.” He stroked the hair from her face. “You’ve been the little father for your family.”

  She crooked her smile. “Not an effective one. I abhor to think what would have happened to Nathan were it not for Dr. Hornsby.”

  “Hornsby tells me that Nathan is recovering with astonishing alacrity.”

  “He couldn’t wait to get back to walking Swifter.” She shook her head. “I would like nothing more than to give him his own dog.”

  “You will. You are Darcy Sherwood. Many things are possible with you.”

  How was it he could have more confidence than she? she wondered.

  “Come,” he said, “let us return the locket to where it belongs.”

  He took it from her and sat up to clasp it about her ankle. His hand smoothed over her stocking.

  “I think,” he said, his hand trailing up to her knee, “I shall require more than a kiss.”

  “Such as?” she teased.

  Bringing her mouth to his, he leaned her back down on the bed, reversing their previous position. She wound her hands around his neck and pressed her body eagerly against him. They kissed with surprising thoroughness, given the frenzied heat that always ruled their bodies when they came into contact. In a slower, scintillating manner, their tongues danced and plumbed the depths of their mouths.

  Broadmoor cupped her buttock and fitted his hardness between her legs. She curled a leg about his, willing to delay her need to couple her body to his, as she explored him through his clothes. Her hands went under his coat and up his back. He unlocked his mouth from hers and applied the heat of his mouth to her neck.