Submitting to the Marquess

by Brown, Em Browint writing as Georgette

  “Oh, that.” Juliana released him and looked away. “It was of no consequence.”

  He sensed an uneasiness from her, but put up his quizzing glass to take another look at Robert, who sat with his mother, father, and two brothers. His gaze wandered past their box, and he stiffened.

  It couldn’t be.

  It was.

  Darcy Sherwood. She was sitting with Wyndham, Lady Worthley, and an older woman he could not name.

  Despite her worn and slightly dated gown, she looked beautiful. Different. Fragile. Her hair had been set in curlers and arranged on top of her head and fixed with a jeweled hairpiece. But he was reminded of how much he liked her hair loose and even unruly. He was filled with a sense of loss that he would most likely never again see her hair tumbling in disarray about her. He wondered what brought her to the opera house.

  “Cousin?”

  Juliana’s voice came to him as if from the end of a tunnel.

  “I take it you have found Miss Sherwood.”

  Radcliff lowered his eye piece.

  “That explains the look of concern I have been receiving all evening,” he stated, “and what has set the tongues to twitter. One would think the gossips have tired of it all by now.”

  Juliana bit her lower lip. “That and…”

  “And?” He fixed a daunting stare at her as he lifted his brows.

  “It is said that she will wed the Viscount Wyndham.”

  Blood drained from him. To where, he knew not. When he recovered from the unexpected blow, he was besieged by a multitude of feelings. Anger. Jealousy. Pain. Loss. She was lost to him forever. His worst fear come to life. Only he had not put words to that fear for he had never conceived that she would marry, given that she had refused his offer.

  Only his had not been one of matrimony.

  The Viscount Wyndham. Well that was not quite the surprise given their obvious friendship. And the man would come into substantial wealth when he became the Earl of Brent. He had at times thought with confidence that Wyndham only cared for his own sex, but this proved otherwise. It was said that Wyndham had a lover.

  This would not do. Nathan Barrington could not be brought up in a household filled with debauchery.

  Radcliff signaled for the page. He scrawled a note and told the man to deliver it to the Viscount Wyndham.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “WHAT DO YOU MEAN, Priscilla? How can that be?” Darcy asked in disbelief despite the obvious agony in her sister’s eyes.

  “I received this by courier today,” Priscilla explained and handed over a letter.

  The seal, though broken, was clearly that of the Baron Broadmoor. Darcy took the letter and scanned its contents.

  Dear Miss Priscilla Sherwood,

  It has come to my attention that young Nathan is not being afforded the advantages worthy of a Barrington. He is at a critical age when great care must be attended to his upbringing. I mean to cast no aspersions on the care you have provided him thus far, but there are limits to what your family can offer him. As such, Nathan should be retained in my custody to ensure that he receives the full breadth of what is due to him.

  Your servant,

  R. Barrington

  It was brief and very much in the style of Radcliff. Even the bold but elegant handwriting could not have been formed by any hand other than his.

  “Worthy of a Barrington?” Darcy recited from the letter, confused. “Does he believe Nathan to be Edward’s then?”

  Priscilla colored. “He is certain.”

  But surely he would have mentioned such knowledge, Darcy thought but then recalled Radcliff’s growing interest in Nathan throughout their conversations. Then there was the suspicious matter of Nathan’s new clothes and books…

  “The tutor,” Darcy said quickly, “the clothes…was Rad—was he providing those?”

  Priscilla nodded with guilt.

  “But how did he come to know? Did you speak to him?”

  “He came upon us in the park,” Priscilla explained. “Quite by accident—I think. Though it was rather strange that he should be at our park of all places. But when he saw Nathan—you know the resemblance Nathan bears to Edward—it became quite plain, I think.”

  “How is it you have not told me this?” Darcy cried as a dozen thoughts whirled and collided in her mind.

  “He swore me to secrecy. For what reason, I know not, though I imagine it had something to do with his association with you…”

  This time it was Darcy who colored.

  “Have you fallen in love with him?”

  Priscilla would have done better had she slapped Darcy across the face with all her might.

  “You have, haven’t you?” Priscilla persisted.

  “It matters not,” Darcy replied, then wished she had not spoken so sharply when she glanced a pained look in her sister’s face. “Forgive me, Priscilla, I should have confided in you—as you should have confided in me. I told myself that I wished to protect you, Nathan, and mama from the scandal.”

  “We do not live on a separate continent, dear sister. We heard rumors almost from the beginning. But even were it not for the gossip, it was plain on your face how you felt—at least to me.”

  Darcy felt tears pressing against the back of her eyes as she received her sister’s sympathetic smile.

  “I suppose,” Darcy said, “I was too mortified. Imagine two Sherwood sisters both falling for a Barrington!”

  Darcy could see the tears in Priscilla’s eyes as well. Without word, Priscilla threw her arms about Darcy.

  They drew strength from each other, and when Priscilla pulled from the embrace, she said with half a laugh, “Those Barrington men are such horrid creatures, are they not?”

  “Yes,” Darcy answered but there was no jest in her voice as she recalled the letter she held. “’Worthy of a Barrington’…typical Barrington arrogance! For five years they did not lift a finger for Nathan—did not deign to acknowledge his existence—and now they wish to take him from us?”

  “Had I known him better…” Priscilla began, “He seemed to have such a wonderful rapport with Nathan…and when Nathan so adored his dog…”

  “The Duke that Nathan speaks of. It was Baron Broadmoor, then?”

  “Yes, but, oh, I never conceived that he would try to take Nathan from me!”

  “He most assuredly will not take Nathan from us,” Darcy pronounced as she clenched the letter in her hand.

  “But—”

  “I will defend with my last breath our family. The Baron will rue the day he ever laid eyes upon a Sherwood!”

  “Do you think perhaps we should seek the counsel—”

  Darcy sighed with exasperation as she went to get her hat and gloves. “I know you think my better thoughts to be overcome by my vehemence, Priscilla, but my anger better enables me to do battle. Nathan may be a Barrington by blood, but he is a Sherwood in name and birth. And no pompous meddler, no matter his stature or wealth, will change that!”

  Whirling on her heels, she stormed from the room with Priscilla struggling to keep pace. Encountering the page, Darcy requested that Mathilda’s hackney be brought around.

  “Shall I come?” Priscilla asked.

  Darcy shook her head. “You must stay by Nathan’s side. If we must, we will leave London to a place where the Baron cannot find us.”

  “Nathan is with his tutor and Mama. Should I begin packing a portmanteau?”

  “It may be advisable. I will bring word as soon as I have done with the Baron.”

  Darcy received one last parting embrace from her sister before alighted the vehicle and directed it towards Grosvenor Square.

  The audacity of the man! How dare he trifle with her family? Darcy fumed. Was this the Baron’s way of exacting revenge upon her for having refused him?

  Granted, he had been kind to pay for the new clothes, books, and tutor for Nathan. But they would have refused his benevolence had they known his true purpose! Never did a more odious man exist
in all of England!

  She did not know that the Baron would be home, of course. He could be out of town for all she knew, but her fury could not wait. If he had written the note to Priscilla himself and delivered it by courier, there was a chance that he had not left home yet for the day.

  When she pulled up before Broadmoor House, the boldness with which she had spoken before Priscilla began to wane. In truth, there was little they could do if the Baron chose to exert his influence to take Nathan from them. Nothing but run away and begin their life anew. She had the fifty-thousand from Radcliff. It would more than suffice until she found another means of support.

  But someone had to let the arrogant man understand that he could not do anything he damn well pleased just because he was a Barrington.

  Forcing down her trepidation, Darcy mounted the steps of his residence resolutely. The butler greeted her once more with indifference and hesitantly allowed her passage.

  “Is the Baron home?” Darcy inquired.

  “He is, but, I believe, indisposed.”

  “I have an urgent matter which requires his attention.”

  The butler paused. “I will pass him that message, but perhaps you would wish to return at another time?”

  “He will see me today,” Darcy pronounced and sat down on a chair in the hallway. “I will wait until he is disposed.”

  “He may be busy the entire day.”

  “I have all day.”

  The butler stiffened. “If you will wait here, Miss Sherwood.”

  “I intend to.”

  When the butler returned, he indicated that his lordship would see her in his study. Darcy followed the butler, recalling the last time she had been here, also under unhappy circumstances.

  “Miss Sherwood, my lord,” the butler announced before leaving the two of them alone.

  Radcliff, seated behind his writing desk, did not even lift his head but continued engrossed in whatever he was writing. Darcy waited for him to acknowledge her presence.

  He didn’t.

  She pressed her lips together as she watched the quick movements of his pen. No one could excel at infuriating her more! He did not even look up when she stomped over and stood right in front of his desk.

  Casting the letter he had written to Priscilla at him, her lips quivering with rage, Darcy declared, “Nathan is ours. You will never lay a hand upon him.”

  He finally looked up at her, and it was impossible to read his expression. The darkness of his eyes concealed his thoughts. “Are you not being rather presumptuous, Miss Sherwood?”

  Presumptuous? His choice of words flabbergasted her. “Nathan has known no other family but us.”

  “He has a right to know the other half.”

  “There is no other half. For five years Edward has denied his son; he cannot expect to now dance into Nathan’s life as if nothing had happened.”

  Radcliff folded the letter he had been writing with maddening calm. “Nathan will not be raised as Edward’s son; he will be in my custody and raised, nonetheless, as a Barrington.”

  “Your custody?” Darcy flamed. “Nathan is not your responsibility. If this is a means of assuaging your guilt for the part that you played—”

  “Regardless of my motivations, is it not in the best interest of Nathan to be given all the privileges that come with his heritage?”

  “It is not in his interest to be taken away from his mother!”

  “Neither you nor your sister would be barred from visiting Nathan now and then.”

  Darcy’s eyes widened. She and Priscilla would be relegated to ‘visits’? ‘Now and then’?

  “You contemptible overbearing bastard,” Darcy cried. How she hated the man! Hated how he sat there without the slightest emotion while she was twisted with fury and fear.

  “I appreciate your sentiments of me, but I hardly think they persuade your case.”

  “What is it you want?” Darcy seethed. “Is it the money you gave me in exchange for the deed to Brayten? I would give anything to never see or hear the name of Barrington again!”

  “Anything?” He raised an eyebrow.

  “Anything,” Darcy spat.

  He crossed one leg over the other and considered the matter while Darcy wondered how best to wring the man’s neck.

  “I will relinquish my pursuit to obtain Nathan,” he announced.

  Darcy perked up. Had she heard correctly?

  “On two conditions,” Radcliff continued, rising to his feet. He stood before her. It was all she could do to stand her ground and not be overpowered by his aura.

  “What conditions?” she asked. He was so close she could smell him, the scent alone awakening all her raw animal senses.

  He looked down at her and this time she saw in his eyes a hunger that a predator might have when beholding its prey.

  “That you submit to me. Here. Now.”

  Her knees began to shake, and she could barely swallow. “Here?”

  “And now.”

  By the hard set of his jaw, Darcy could see that he was not jesting. Why was he doing this? Part of her wanted to run. Part of her was thrilled that he wanted her still.

  “You give your word that you will not attempt to take Nathan from us?” she asked, wondering where her towering rage had disappeared to all of a sudden.

  “My word. In writing if you wish.”

  She trusted him. He was insufferable but his integrity was in tact.

  “Very well,” Darcy surrendered, wondering how she was going to explain it all to her sister.

  Holding her immobile with the strength of his gaze, he gently pulled at the ribbon of her bonnet until it came undone. Darcy closed her eyes as he removed her bonnet and tossed it aside. He might as well have torn her entire dress away—she felt naked before him. Would he kiss her now?

  But Radcliff stepped away. She felt as if chains had been lifted from her, but the absence of his closeness was both liberating and poignant. She watched him as he went back to his writing desk and sat down. Was the heat in his eyes from anger? Did he want to make her pay for rejecting him?

  “Take off your dress,” he ordered.

  “I cannot reach the pins in back,” Darcy responded with defiance.

  “Then you must tear the dress from your body.”

  Remembering the time he had commanded her to tear her shift, Darcy felt an old familiar warmth begin to fan from her loins.

  “But…” Darcy stalled, studying her dress to see if there was a way it could be easily reassembled after being torn. Did he mean to provide her with another dress? Somehow she doubted it for there were no signs of sympathy in his eyes.

  “I am waiting, Miss Sherwood.”

  “Perhaps you could assist with the pins, sir—my lord?” she offered.

  A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Perhaps. But that is not what I suggested.”

  Darcy frowned. She would have to reconcile herself to purchasing a new morning dress. Unhappily, she grasped the hem of the gown and stretched it between her two hands. It took a number of attempts, but the fabric eventually gave way. As the sound of her gown ripping filled the air, Darcy vacillated between feeling enraged and aroused.

  She hated him. Hated him for blackmailing her into submission—for the second time. But most of all, she hated him for making her submission feel so good.

  “Well done,” he commended when she had slipped her arms free of the gown. “Now remove the petticoats and stays.”

  Fortunately her stays fastened in front. It and the petticoats fell to the ground around her feet.

  “And the shift—I want it torn.”

  “It’s the one you bought,” Darcy said hotly. Despite her lack of clothing, she felt warm from head to toe.

  “Yes, I recognize it. Tear it.”

  “But what will I wear when I leave?” Darcy asked in a panic.

  “That is your dilemma, Miss Sherwood…You could simply leave in the buff.”

  Darcy emitted a cry, then glared
at him. His lack of concern enraged her. This was retaliation. He meant to settle the score by requiring not just her submission but her complete humiliation as well. If it weren’t for Nathan, she would have whirled on her heels and left, never mind the dampness that had begun forming between her legs.

  As if reading her mind, he said, “The love you bear your nephew is commendable.”

  “Well you know anything of love!” Darcy snapped. “You are a heartless and callous lout.”

  “The shift, Miss Sherwood.”

  Stifling a scream, Darcy ripped the thin cotton garment as if it were a metaphor for how she felt about him. She now stood before him without a shred of clothing, and though her nakedness was nothing new to him, she felt the need to cover her bosom and groin.

  “Such modesty does not become you, my dear,” Radcliff noted with a sardonic grin. “Turn around.”

  Darcy did as she was told, the lack of emotion in his voice making her feel as if she were a simply a slab of beef that he was inspecting. She watched him as he appraised her, his gaze touching upon every inch of her body. The shadow beneath her breasts. The subtle swell of her belly.

  “Touch your breasts for me,” he directed, and for the first time Darcy thought she detected a tremor in his voice. “With both hands.”

  She reached up and cradled one globe in each hand.

  “Fondle them,” he clarified.

  She kneaded her breasts, first slowly and lightly, then harder and faster as she felt sensations rippling from her breasts down to her belly. She pinched both her nipples and softly groaned.

  “Stop,” he ordered brusquely and rose to his feet.

  She continued to dig her fingers into her flesh and pushed the orbs together.

  “Stop,” he repeated and dashed her hands from her breasts.

  She felt a wave of disappointment.

  “Your ability to follow orders is wanting, Miss Sherwood,” he commented as he walked around her like a hawk circling its prey. “Such defiance must be addressed. Stand against the table with your feet apart.”

  He leaned her forward onto his desk and spread her legs so that her buttocks were more than adequately exposed for him.

  “That,” he said after he delivered the first smack to her derrière, “is for your hesitation. This for your defiance.”