Submitting to the Marquess

by Brown, Em Browint writing as Georgette

  Robert nodded in gratitude. “Do you think the Countess will allow us access of the Lowry land?”

  “I think so.”

  “I was right to have you talk with her then. Why was Lady Sarah here?”

  “You have no wish to know.”

  Robert sighed. Taking up his hat and gloves, he rose to his feet. “I hope you are not attempting to seduce the Countess of Lowry? I have no desire to incur the wrath of a Farrington if we are to tunnel beneath their land.”

  Phineas thought of the anger Sarah would no doubt experience when she emerged from her shock.

  “I thought you intended I should use my arts of persuasion?” he replied.

  Robert opened his mouth, but no words came to him. Phineas watched his brother depart, wondering when the poor chap would finally master the skill of ignoring his older brother. He finished off his wine, then proceeded upstairs to prepare for a night at the Ballroom.

  * * * * *

  Lady Athena found Hephaestus waiting for her in naked glory, per the instructions she had left for him. She had to pause to admire his sculpted body. He stood in full confidence of his nakedness, and she was reminded how unlike other men he was. But she refused to be taken by his attributes. She would not allow herself to tarry with him.

  Tonight she wore her black ensemble with black fingerless gloves that went past her elbow. Tonight he would experience the strength of Lady Athena. Tonight he would not dare trifle with her.

  “Pleasure yourself, Hephaestus,” she told him.

  Wordlessly, he gripped his shaft and coaxed it to hardness, all the while staring at her. She allowed him this impudence and even teased him by playing with one of her nipples, which protruded just above the top of her corset. She pinched her nipple, pulled it, twisted it. His member lengthened quickly in response. Striding over, she pressed a finger upon his shaft to feel its hardness. Her finger slid over the ridge of a vein and toward the swollen head.

  “Lay down,” she said.

  He did as told upon the chaise. Walking over to the candelabra, she plucked out a candle and held it over him.

  “You are to stay still,” she instructed before tilting the candle.

  The hot wax fell onto his stomach. He sucked in his breath but made no sound. Hovering the candle above his left nipple, she dripped more of the wax onto him. She covered his other nipple with wax. As she waited for the wax to melt, she kissed him hard, forcing her tongue into his mouth, imposing her will upon him. She pulled her lips away when he began to respond to her kiss.

  “You are mine, Hephaestus,” she whispered near his ear. “Mine to do as I desire.”

  Moving towards his legs, she pressed his erection level with one hand and poured the wax upon it. His hands clenched, and the chains rattled. Smiling, she returned the candle.

  “Thank you, Lady Athena.”

  “You have done well, Hephaestus,” she said. “As a reward, you may taste my cunnie.”

  Straddling his chest, she lowered herself down upon him. She was already wet there, and he would have much to lick. He ran his tongue along her folds, then closed his mouth about her clit and sucked. Gertie closed her eyes and moaned. It was just the right amount of pressure to make her crave for more. Laying her chest along his body, she took the uncovered part of his shaft into her mouth. Reaching below his shaft, she began to fondle him roughly. She pulled at his sack and squeezed his scrotum. His legs jerked at her touch, but he did not disrupt the rhythm of his tongue darting at her clit.

  He was skilled, taking the time to find her most sensitive spots. He licked with precision, and she found it difficult to concentrate on her own task of delaying pleasure. His motions stoked the fire in her belly, and she was tempted to buck her hips against his face, but she did not want to disturb the delight his tongue was swirling in her quim. The yearning between her legs stretched for its desired release.

  No.

  Jerking herself from the pool of pleasure, she lifted herself away from him.

  “Let me finish, my lady,” he said.

  Her breath haggard, she rose to her feet and looked down at him. Her wetness glistened upon his face.

  “It will not take long,” he added.

  That was precisely why she had to stop.

  “You like the taste of cunnie, do you?” she asked.

  “Its nectar be more delectable than wine, Lady Athena.”

  “Do you worship the cunnie, Hephaestus?”

  “I prefer it to any church.”

  His words reminded her of her earlier conversation with Lord Barclay.

  “It is a divine thing, Lady Athena,” he continued. “Yours is divine. Your swollen nub of pleasure protruding from supple, pink folds called to me. I would have worshiped it with my tongue, my mouth, my nose, my fingers–”

  “Your nose?”

  A corner of his mouth curled. “Your quim has a luscious scent, Lady Athena. I enjoy using any part of me that is at my disposal, especially as my hands are bound.”

  Gertie curled her toes inside her boot. Her insides churned with curiosity. Her body wanted more of his touch.

  “How do you like to spend, Hephaestus?”

  “Wrapped inside the chapel of your desire,” he quipped.

  She picked up her riding crop and let it touch against his inside thigh.

  “Lady Athena,” he added.

  She peeled off the wax that had hardened upon his shaft and obtained from her table a small vial. She poured the contents into her hand, then rubbed the slick salve onto his erection. The liquid seemed to warm against his flesh. She smoothed her hands along his length. He shuddered when her palm swept over the swollen head of his member. His control made her womanhood pulse. Most men she observed had not the fortitude.

  Reaching for the candle, she poured another measure of the hot wax just below his navel, perilously close to the tip of his rod. Her other hand wrapped itself tightly about his shaft.

  Her hands slid over his length, coaxing the heat churning within his groin. He tried to quell the rising desire.

  “Would you like to spend, my Hephaestus?”

  “Yes,” he said drily.

  “Do you feel that you deserve to spend?”

  “Not till my lady has spent.”

  She studied him carefully, then began to tug at his rod more forcefully as she dripped the candle upon his thighs. Tossing the candle away, she straddled his hips and pressed her quim onto the base of his shaft. Rocking her hips, she glided herself along his length. Her wetness there eased the motions. The nearness of her most prized flesh to his member made him breath in sharply. He closed his eyes to regain command.

  “Do you hope to ravish me, Hephaestus?”

  He opened his eyes to stare at her. God, yes.

  “And see how close you are,” she said as she teased him by sweeping her flesh close to the head of his shaft, but she would allow no penetration. “Do you imagine how I would feel?”

  Again he closed his eyes. He was imagining how her inner folds would feel against him. He imagined the heat of being inside her.

  “Would it feel hot and wet? Would you enjoy it?”

  He attempted to shut out her words.

  “Would you take me hard?”

  She ground herself against him. His desire was at the boiling point. He could not stop himself from the thought of pushing her up against the wall and taking her from behind.

  “However my lady wishes to be ravished,” he said earnestly.

  But before he realized it, she had pushed herself off of him. She encased his member in her mouth and sucked hard. Her words, coupled with the sensation bursting upon his shaft, made the dam falter. She took her mouth off him in time for him to shoot his seed all over himself. His climax wracked his entire body, sending tremors through his legs. When at last he felt himself settling back to earth, he saw her smile in triumph.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “I BELIEVE SHE THINKS me your wife—or your mistress,” Georgina said with a shudd
er.

  Phineas looked through his quizzing glass at the raven-haired beauty standing next to the statue of Handel on the South Grand Walk at Vauxhall. Her frown as she gazed upon Georgina became a demure smile as she turned her attention to him.

  “Yes, I think she would have more sympathy if she knew your true relation to me,” Phineas replied as he admired the woman’s slender sloping shoulders.

  “She’s very beautiful,” Georgina sniffed. “I think she would satisfy your predilections.”

  “All women of beauty satisfy me.”

  Phineas watched as the raven took the arm of a redcoat likely to be her husband. They passed out of the South Walk and into the hall.

  “It is a relief to have you back, Phineas. Robert—or his wife, rather—can be exceedingly tiresome. She would have him disavow us as his family.”

  “Doubtless he would be better situated if he did. We are none of us an asset—you, Abigail, and I.”

  Georgina sighed. “Am I so terrible because I married in error?”

  He patted her hand. “Not at all. I ought be grateful that some of the disdain towards me has been averted by your crim con.”

  “They may disdain me all they wish,” she replied with a scowl. “I am tired of hiding from their contemptuous gazes. I suppose they envy me my affair. Those tied to their ugly, wizened husbands abhor that I have found a man who holds me in as much affection and admiration as I him. They loathe that I shall soon be a free woman while they are imprisoned in their miserable marriages.”

  “Is this man someone you shall find happiness with, m’dear?”

  “As soon as Parliament approves the divorce, we shall wed.”

  “From one marriage into another, Georgina?”

  “I have not your aversion to the institution. Shall you never marry, Phineas?”

  He wondered, as he studied the middle of the Barclay sisters, if her quick diversion of topic reflected a slight lack of confidence on her part. He would not pursue the matter tonight but determined to himself that he would learn more of this paramour of hers.

  “Marriage is a useless institution for me.”

  “Have you no wish for an heir?”

  “Robert is the one who must need worry of an heir. I am still a dead man.”

  “I think we come across your admirer once more,” Georgina remarked as they entered into the hall where the paintings of Thomas Gainsborough hung. “And she appears to be sans her husband.”

  Phineas discerned the raven to be about four and twenty years of age, married for what he believed to be a short period. She stared blatantly at him with cool blue eyes.

  “I will amuse myself with the paintings,” Georgina sighed, “that you may have a word with her.”

  He inclined his head. “You know me too well, m’dear.”

  After Georgina left his side, he made his way to the raven. In her gown of crystal blue and diamond chandelier earrings, she shined bright in the dim lighting in the hall. The exhilaration of the sport simmered rather than flared in his veins, but he approached her almost by habit.

  “How unwise of your husband to leave such a vision to fend for herself,” he remarked when he came upon her.

  Her bosom with its two orbs pertly pushed above her bodices heaved at his audacity, but she chose to simply correct him. “That was not husband but Sergeant Ames, a friend of the family. My husband is Major Summers, aide-de-camp to the Duke of York.”

  “And he is unwise to have left you,” Phineas reiterated.

  “His service often calls him from my side.”

  She flashed him an alluring smile.

  “If I were your husband, I should have left you in more diligent hands than this Sergeant Ames.”

  “I sent him away to fetch me a glass of lemonade.”

  The minx. Phineas smiled. “I knew that you were a woman I could appreciate.”

  “Tell me how it is that I have not seen you here before?”

  Phineas looked over at Georgina, who was being rebuffed in her attempts to find a place to sit. One woman had an empty spot next to her but quickly covered the area as Georgina approached. Another couple had turned the other direction upon seeing her.

  “You are new to London,” he appraised of the raven.

  “Yes, this is my first season in town, but I am often here at Vauxhall. The lights here are wondrous, and the entertainment beyond the pale.”

  She spoke of her favorite performers and was describing the singer set to perform tonight when Phineas spotted the Countess of Lowry. She stood beneath one of the archways with Alexander, who scowled something at her before leaving her side. She wore a silk gown lined with ribbons and lace trim about the neckline, covering what he considered to be a most pleasing bosom. Her feathered headdress did not quite match her gown, but somehow he found her more appealing than usual.

  “And I am quite excited to see the balloon ascension,” the raven was saying.

  Phineas noted Georgina had secured a bench all to herself. She sat staring at the portraiture. He decided he would conclude his tête-à-tête with the raven and return to Georgina, but to his surprise, he saw that Lady Lowry had taken a seat next to his sister. Lady Lowry spoke first, Georgina answered, and the two began a conversation.

  “Oh dear,” the raven groaned, “I think Sergeant Ames has accomplished his task.”

  A young man in scarlet uniform was indeed approaching them.

  “Phillipa Summers,” the raven said. “I think I know not your name?”

  “Phineas Barclay,” he replied with a bow over her hand.

  He took his leave before the redcoat reached them. With the entry of the Countess, he had lost interest in the raven. If he were to be assured of arriving at Madame Botreaux’s in timely fashion, he would need to depart Vauxhall in twenty minutes. He had no wish to disappoint Lady Athena—not when he had victory in his sights. But the arrival of Lady Lowry was too tempting.

  He made his way towards the Countess.

  * * * * *

  Gertie went to sit beside Mrs. Georgina Westmoreland. Perhaps because Alexander told her that she should shun the woman and Gertie had no desire to accommodate her husband. Since returning from her evening with Hephaestus, she had felt giddy, daring, almost fearless. Over and over her body had relived the delicious sensations he had evoked. She had not wanted to pull away, but what she had done was wrong. Never before had she been so forward, so devilish. But Hephaestus evoked qualities she would never have guessed to have presided within her. She had wanted to spend, desperately. But spending would be the ultimate act of infidelity.

  But you were not the first to break the wedding vows, a small voice reasoned.

  When Gertie looked upon Mrs. Westmoreland, there was empathy for a woman who perhaps felt trapped in a joyless marriage. She had not seen anyone receive such coldness from others and noted the woman had such sadness in her eyes despite her defiantly lifted chin.

  “The pastoral scene is one of my favorite works by Gainsborough,” Gertie remarked as she looked at the painting alongside Mrs. Westmoreland.

  “Mine as well,” Mrs. Westmoreland replied. “I find his paintings possess many facades. One could study it for hours.”

  Gertie only nodded. Although she appreciated the art, she could not fathom having the patience to stare at it for above a few minutes. Instead, she looked about the hall and glimpsed Lord Barclay talking to a beauty in an ice blue gown. A flush of jealousy crept up her neck. Of course he was engaged in his next conquest. Why should that surprise her?

  She had not intended to come this night and much preferred the prospect of being with Hephaestus. Indeed, she welcomed an evening at the Ballroom with him. But the Dowager Lowry had expressed a headache, and Gertie did not relish having to spend the evening with Belinda. Sarah, no doubt with similar dread towards having to keep her mother’s company, had also opted for Vauxhall. No sooner had brother and sister set foot in the boat when they began arguing over Sarah’s marital prospects. Alexander was qu
ite set on an older gentleman by the name of Mr. Rowland and admonished Sarah for not encouraging the man. After pouring out all the reasons why Mr. Rowland would not make a suitable match, Sarah had looked ready to cry. Gertie had begun to sympathize with her sister-in-law. At least her own unhappy marriage had been of her own making.

  “They have works by Reynolds at Ranalegh,” Gertie said to Mrs. Westmoreland.

  “How delightful. I have not been to Ranalegh in some time.”

  “Nor I.”

  “I grow weary of London at times.”

  “And I,” sighed Gertie. She liked the lands of Lowry, but Alexander preferred to spend his time in town.

  “But it is nice to have found a kindred spirit, if I may be forward. You and I have not conversed much in the past, Countess.”

  Gertie smiled in empathy. “Perhaps we shall have more occasion hence.”

  From the corner of her eye, she noticed movement. Lord Barclay was approaching them. Instinctively she sprang to her feet. “I think I shall find my husband and see if he intends to take supper.”

  Georgina looked at her in surprise but nodded. Gertie took her leave and began to walk briskly towards the maze in the gardens. It was childish of her to avoid Barclay, silly for her to be jealous of the woman he spoke with, and absurd of her to feel any sentiment towards the man. How much easier it was to detest him! Perhaps she still could—she had only to imagine him with Sarah. Their sort deserved each other. Men like him could never appreciate any other kind of woman.

  Although the image of him with Sarah fueled her anger, it also made her miserable. She barreled into the maze, upset that she had felt the need to lie to Georgina about going in search of Alexander. Perhaps she had been better to stay at home with the Dowager. Once Belinda had taken to bed, she could have slipped out and made her way to Madame Botreaux’s. Now she was all alone in a garden meant for lovers while her husband gallivanted publicly with his mistress.

  She walked into a dead-end. Huffing to herself, she turned around and slammed into the body of Lord Barclay. A flush flared through her as she realized who it was. She wanted to demand why the bloody hell he found it necessary to approach her with such proximity, but his hands upon her as he steadied her had her too flustered. She could not recall ever being so firmly grasped by a man. His touch seared straight into her bones and somewhere deep within her.