Submitting to the Marquess

by Brown, Em Browint writing as Georgette

  He was a different man than she had known before. There was no one like him, and she felt privileged to know a side of him few others saw.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  MILDRED WINCED AS she took a seat before the vanity the following morning.

  “Are you all right, miss?” asked the dressing maid.

  “Yes,” Mildred answered as she positioned her rump to avoid the tenderest spots and not aggravate the soreness between her thighs. Her cheeks warmed as the memories of the prior night flooded her. She observed her reflection in the looking glass and noticed her plaits had come undone. She had slept soundly last night, but there were faint half circles beneath her eyes. Nonetheless, she felt buoyed by all that had transpired.

  When she was dressed and went downstairs, she found that everyone else had already finished breakfast except for Edward’s boys. Alastair and Kittredge were already in their riding clothes.

  “Miss Abbott,” said Kittredge, approaching her, “I had hoped to have the chance to bid farewell. I quite enjoyed meeting you and your family. Perhaps our paths will cross back in London.”

  She smiled and expressed a similar sentiment. Alastair did not approach her, and she was partially glad for it. She had protested what awkwardness may come of their affair at Château Follet. But this time felt different. She wished she had not slept quite so late that she might have more of his company before he and Kittredge departed.

  As Alastair accepted the well wishes from his family, Millie felt his gaze upon her often.

  “I mean to host Christmas dinner,” said Lady Katherine. “You will come, will you not, Andre?”

  He frowned.

  “Of course I will not expect you,” she said, “but you are welcome, nonetheless.”

  Everyone moved outside to watch the two men out to their horses. Mildred assumed the appearance of indifference but found herself grappling with a sadness as she observed them depart. And when everyone returned indoors, she was the last to follow.

  During what felt like a somber breakfast, she tried to rid herself of the strange sentiments that had settled upon her. She told herself that she might not see Alastair again, not for some time. And it ought not matter to her. He had gifted her three nights of ecstasy; she should expect no more from him. He was probably relieved to be done with her.

  After breakfast, she declared that she would go out and enjoy the weather before winter made such outings difficult.

  “I will join you for a stroll about the grounds, Miss Abbott.”

  Mildred turned around in surprise, for it was Mrs. Wilmington who spoke. Though she would have preferred the chance to be alone with her thoughts and feelings, she gave a short curtsy and waited till Mrs. Wilmington had donned her coat, bonnet and gloves.

  They walked in silence until they were far enough from the house not to be beset by anyone. From Mrs. Wilmington’s demeanor, Mildred suspected she had not joined her for friendly conversation.

  “Though your standing in society differs greatly from ours,” Mrs. Wilmington began, “you are, nonetheless, joined to the d’Aubigne name, which has generations of breeding.”

  “It is an illustrious name,” Mildred acknowledged.

  “You must know the importance, therefore, of acting in proper accordance with your family’s elevated position. You must now adhere to higher standards.”

  “I shall strive to, madam, and am most sorry that my recent behavior was not in concert with expectations.”

  Mrs. Wilmington narrowed her eyes. “You took great liberties in your speech.”

  “And I am most sorry for it.”

  “Andre ought to have put you in your place with the harshest of words.”

  “Yes, I wish he had.”

  “The Andre I know would have spared nothing, regardless of your sex. That he did not is curious. But when you pair that with the excessive dowry he has granted you, I can only conclude that you have influenced him as only a jezebel could.”

  Mildred stopped in her tracks.

  Mrs. Wilmington looked at her squarely. “I know what you are about, Miss Abbott.”

  Mildred felt her color rise. Her voice quivered when she spoke. “Madam?”

  “I mean to warn you that you will only ruin yourself if you continue in the manner of a trollop. Imagine the shame your mother and father would face. It would not matter then that your uncle had married our aunt. A d’Aubigne can weather scandal, but the same cannot be said for an Abbott. Whatever your designs upon my brother—”

  “I must protest, madam! I have no designs upon your brother.”

  “No? It was merely coincidence that you returned to your chambers shortly before Alastair did? It is more than curious that you two were both awake at such an ungodly hour.”

  Stunned, Mildred could make no reply. Her legs trembled beneath her skirts. When she finally found her voice, she said, “It would seem that three of us were awake, and perhaps it is thus not so curious.”

  “Your breeding shows in your impudence, Miss Abbott. I know that I suffer from insomnia. Can you say the same?”

  “It was a coincidence.”

  “That you would attempt to deny it only sinks you further in my estimation.”

  Mildred looked away. What was she to do? What could she say?

  “But I will keep your dirty secret if you can assure me that you will cease this jezebel business. I have long deplored Andre’s profligacy, but with Lady Sophia, there is hope that his indulgent ways will finally come to an end.”

  “Madam, I can assure you that you need have no worries. You are mistaken in your presumptions. There is nothing between Alastair and I.”

  Mrs. Wilmington raised a single brow. “I presume that you are a light-skirt, and that Andre, being the man that he is, does not hesitate to make use of such easy virtue. If you were not in Katherine’s good graces, you should be no different than a whore that he would take to bed before casting back into the streets.”

  The constriction in her chest made responding difficult.

  “If I were you,” Mrs. Wilmington continued, “I would make use of your dowry whilst you have it, and marry the first man who offers. Perhaps he will never discover the doxy that you are. Andre will succumb to his obligations. He has enough pride in the d’Aubigne name that he will not shirk his duties. He may continue his dalliances even after marrying Lady Sophia, as many men are wont to do, but if you have any fanciful notions that he will favor you, you have but to look at his pattern of behavior. I could let you descend into disgrace—it is a fate you most assuredly deserve—but you have the chance to save yourself and your family from utter ruin. If you have any decency in you, you will take my advice.”

  Without another word, she turned and headed back to the house.

  Still in shock, Mildred stood without moving. When Mrs. Wilmington was no longer in view, Mildred reached for the nearest tree and sank to the ground beside it. Her chest hurt, the pain exceeding any she had experienced last night at Alastair’s hands.

  It ought not matter what Mrs. Wilmington thought of her, but it did. Because she was Alastair’s sister and Lady Katherine’s niece. But Mildred knew there was little she could do to earn the good graces of Mrs. Wilmington. She did not doubt that the woman could carry out her threat, though she need not have worried. Mildred would not have wanted to harm the d’Aubigne family in any way. She respected Lady Katherine too much.

  And she loved Alastair.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  “AS LONG AS SLAVERY is safe in the colonies, the economies there need not collapse,” Mr. Carleton explained at the dinner table. “It was more economical to import slaves than to encourage them to breed. A slave’s first five years are useless and a burdensome cost to the slave owner, but now that the slave trade has been abolished, we have little choice. That is why you have seen the price of sugar rise, Mrs. Abbott.”

  Mildred bit her tongue to keep from speaking, telling herself that doing so would only prolong the conversation. She k
ept her attention upon the partridge on her plate.

  “And are you quite certain you must travel to the West Indies in December?” her mother asked. “Why, you will likely have to spend Christmas aboard a ship!”

  “Alas, our plantation manager is gravely ill, and quite possibly dead as we speak. I would, of course, much rather spend Christmas here in England.”

  Mildred felt his gaze upon her.

  “Well, when you are returned, we shall certainly have to have you over once more for a proper welcoming dinner.”

  “I hope you will spend Christmas more enjoyably than I?”

  “We will have Christmas dinner with Lady Katherine, the aunt of the Marquess of Alastair. We spent Michaelmas with her at her country estate.”

  “I remember. What a fine family are the d’Aubignes. They have an illustrious history.”

  “Yes, and they will soon join with the equally exalted family, the Strathingtons, for we expect a betrothal between the Marquess of Alastair and Lady Sophia.”

  “Indeed? Felicitations on such a grand union for your families.”

  This was not the first that Mildred had heard of Alastair and Lady Sophia recently, and she was determined not to be forlorn.

  Since Michaelmas, her mother had redoubled her efforts to obtain an offer of marriage for Mildred, and Mildred had considered choosing one simply so that she would no longer have to entertain Mr. Carleton and Mr. Porter. The one gentleman whose company she did welcome was that of George Winston. If not for him, she would've found herself thinking too often of Alastair in the months since Michaelmas. She had kept herself busy and spent much more time with friends than she used to do. Though for several weeks after, she could not pass the day without thinking of him, and at night, her body burned for his touch. She hoped eventually she could face the memory of him without the pain of sadness. She had even declined two invitations from Lady Katherine, for his aunt would remind her too much of him.

  *****

  “Are you quite certain you don't want to go to the club for cards?” Kittredge asked as he and Alastair guided their horses past the trees in the fields outside of London. “The manager had me sample some Russian spirits. I know they are not quite the gentlemanly drink, but I rather liked their potency.”

  Alastair observed the gray clouds in the sky. There was likely to be rain, and if they rode much longer, they might be caught in a shower, but part of him would not mind. Ever since returning from Edenmoor, he had wanted to be out of doors as often as possible. The brisk autumn air helped to calm his ardor whenever his thoughts turned to Millie.

  He had erred in agreeing to her proposition yet again. Only this time, it would be harder to shake the spell she had cast upon him. He appreciated that she had made no effort to contact him in the fortnights following Michaelmas. Too many women entertained hopes that he would renew their acquaintance despite his advice to the contrary. Millie was far too practical for such fancies. She knew that if he wanted her company, he would seek her out, and not expect to receive a letter or visit from her.

  And yet, when his butler brought him each day's mail, Alastair found himself looking for a letter from Millie. At night especially, and even during the day when there were far more distractions to be had, his mind would wander back to Edenmoor. To the bright crimson of her ass after the paddling. To the triumph shining in her eyes when she had caused him to spend in her mouth. To the glow of rapture upon her countenance after her body had succumbed to his ministrations. There was no better triumph or accomplishment than making a woman spend. Millie especially. He often considered what more he could do with her. The possibilities were endless.

  “Then perhaps you will join me at the club tomorrow evening,” offered Kittredge.

  “Alas, I am to escort the Duchess and Lady Sophia to a pantomime tomorrow,” Alastair replied.

  “Ah, I had meant to ask about Lady Sophia. You have been seen in her company more often, and I have been asked by our friend, Sir Carrie, how he should bet at Brooks's. When is an announcement expected?”

  Alastair had thought that spending more time with Lady Sophia would help to ease away the memories of Millie, but he only found himself comparing the two women. Without doubt, Lady Sophia, with her golden curls, long thick lashes, and alabaster complexion, was a beauty none could rival. And she was perfectly aware of this; thus, she carried herself with a regal confidence that Millie would never have. Their stations in life could not be more different. The daughter of a Duke, Lady Sophia had all the connections anyone could want in society. Millie clearly had not, yet she still had much compassion in her heart. He was still astounded that, when given the chance to enjoy her much deserved euphoria, she had chosen instead to ask for his consideration on behalf of weavers. What woman would propose such nonsense? It had been clear her body needed and desired to spend. Her request was tangential, even if admirably selfless. It was not the sort of proposition he would ever had made, which explained his surprise and awe.

  Realizing that he had been silent, and that his silence had earned the careful study of his friend, Alastair said, “And did you advise Sir Carrie how he should place his bet?”

  “I told Carrie that I am not privy to your innermost thoughts. We share wine and cards, but not women. I did say, however, that you have had more than ample time to ask for Lady Sophia's hand, and despite your reputation, His Grace is amenable to you for a son-in-law. That an announcement has not been forthcoming marks some hesitation on your part, I think. But Carrie responded that you are loath to do what others expect of you, and I had to agree there was much truth in that. Would you consider my assessment a fair one?”

  “It is as Carrie says: my actions are not guided by what others wish to see from me. When I am ready to propose to Lady Sophia, you may be assured that you will be the first to know.”

  As he spoke, he wondered if he would ever be ready to ask for her hand in marriage.

  “Will I know far enough in advance to place a bet myself?” Kittredge asked.

  As Kittredge spoke in jest, Alastair made no answer, though he would not put it above Kittredge to use his position of friendship to monetary advantage.

  They rode in silence for a spell before Kittredge said, “Shall I have the pleasure of meeting your cousin again?”

  Alastair stiffened. “My cousin?”

  “Miss Abbott. She is quite the interesting creature. She seems so deferential to the likes of your aunt, your sisters, and her parents. I would almost say she is a shy young woman, but she speaks to you with a daring few women would.”

  Millie did address him with much more ease than she did others, which was odd because she ought to have found him far more intimidating than the individuals Kittredge had named. Alastair found her audacity both vexing and impressive.

  “Perhaps she does not hold you in much esteem,” Kittredge mused, “and that is why she finds such courage to address you as she does.”

  Alastair would have to agree that that was likely how it started for Millie, but he hoped that she had come to find more reason to value his thoughts and opinions despite their disagreements.

  “My aunt no doubt encourages her boldness,” Alastair replied dryly.

  “I can fathom why your aunt might be partial to her. She is not much to look at upon first glance and not the cleverest in conversation, but there is definitely a quality to her that compels, the more one is acquainted with her.”

  “And what is your purpose in talking of Miss Abbott?”

  “No purpose at all. She merely popped into my mind by happenstance.”

  Alastair let that be the end of their dialogue and started his horse into a full gallop.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  MRS. ABBOTT LOOKED out the window of the drawing room and frowned. She sniffed, “It's that George Winston fellow again.”

  Mildred tied her bonnet in place and smiled to herself. It was the one name her mother had recently uttered that did not cause her to cringe.

  “Why
is he so often with the Grenvilles? And they have Harold Wiggins with them,” Mrs. Abbott continued. “I wonder that Wiggins has a farthing to his name? His family is practically penniless if you take into account all the debts his father has. No doubt four thousand pounds would mean a great deal to him.”

  “No doubt,” agreed Mildred, “but despite that, he is most interested in Jane. I could have a dowry of ten thousand pounds, and he would not look my way.”

  Mrs. Abbot sniffed again. “Well, that simply shows that he lacks sense as well! And what of Winston? What do we know of his situation?”

  “I gather he is well situated enough, but it hardly matters. I do not think him overly partial to me. Not when he has the attentions of Miss Hannah Rose.”

  That piece of intelligence seemed to appease Mrs. Abbott a little. She knew that Mr. and Mrs. Rose would never permit their daughter to favor a man with no standing.

  “Nevertheless, it would be more worth your while to keep the company of some others. Mr. Carleton, for example, has requested to speak with your father on his return. I expect the topic of conversation will be a proposal.”

  “Mr. Carleton reeks of tobacco and has a propensity to pick his teeth when he thinks no one is looking.”

  “What does that matter? He is a far better prospect than someone like Winston.”

  “It is not only income that makes for a good husband.”

  “We are of a family with the d’Aubignes. It is your obligation to wed well or your dowry is gone to waste.”

  Mrs. Abbott had been in particular good spirits ever since Michaelmas. An invitation to dine with Lady Katherine for Christmas had only added to her glee.

  “Take care you do not give Winston any encouragement,” her mother advised after Mildred bid her adieu.

  Although modesty had prompted Mildred to say to her mother that Mr. Winston took only a cursory interest in her, she suspected it was not the case. And if he should show greater interest, she did not think she would discourage him as her mother wanted.