Submitting to the Marquess

by Brown, Em Browint writing as Georgette

“But I did as you bid,” she protested.

  “After much delay.”

  “But—”

  “Are you refuting me, Miss Herwood?”

  She contemplated the tone of his voice. It would be worse for her if she argued.

  “No,” she relented, for now. She did not believe he would hurt her, and her body was warm still, too relaxed to protest to his assertions..

  “Good.”

  She felt his hand caressing the contour of her rump.

  “As lovely as ever,” he murmured.

  Even as she swallowed in fear, the wetness between her legs increased. She tightened her hold of the post. Would he exercise restraint as this was her first visit to the Chateau?

  With his hand, he began slapping the bottom of one cheek. Gradually, he increased the amount of force to a tolerable sting. Then, unexpectedly, he whacked the other buttock. Deana sucked in her breath, mostly in surprise. It was a sharp but not overwhelming blow, the sensation eased by his caress. Desire pulsed between her legs.

  He spanked her with increased strength. This time she shut her eyes against the smarting. She grasped the bedpost as if she could diffuse the discomfort into it. He let fall his palm several times with lighter, almost teasing, strikes. When she thought she had acclimated to the punishment, he jolted her with a sharper blow. “Do you need me to stop?”

  She contemplated answering in the affirmative, but pride mixed with curiosity won the moment.

  “No, my lord.”

  He swatted her derriere twice more. The area of her groin grew warm along with her arse. How was it she could be excited while clinging to a bedpost, nude but for the jewelry and the blouse that concealed nothing, submitting herself to being spanked like an errant child? If she had known she would find herself in such a position, would she have acquiesced to coming here?

  The answering moisture of her arousal slid down her inner thigh. Rockwell caught the rivulet with his fingers and slid it up along her leg until it skimmed her most private part. Her legs weakened with anticipation. He rubbed her flesh. She moaned low. The tip of his thumb bumped against her clitoris. He retraced his path and slapped her buttock, but this time she fully welcomed the touch, the sting fueling the hunger burning between her legs. Again she felt his fingers gliding across her slit, sliding with ease across her wetness.

  Good God. First her hand, now his, and a punishment that felt more like a pleasure. She shivered but did not resist the delight building inside of her. She wanted the stimulation, wanted it harder and faster. And he seemed to know her body better than herself. He began fondling her in earnest. The stinging of her arse had not receded and made her more alert to the wonderful sensations fanning from her nether region. Needing to spend above all else, she grasped the bedpost and rode his fingers in return.

  She spent gloriously, her body engulfed in flames of desire. Pain mingled with pleasure to produce a most sensational end. Her limbs shook. Barely able to hold onto the post, she was vaguely aware of her own cries. His thrusting slowed. Occasionally his thumb pushed against her clitoris, shaking quivers from her body. When he finally retreated from between her legs, she slithered to the floor. Eyes closed, breath fast, she would have preferred to fall into bed to recuperate but did not have the wherewithal.

  After what felt like a long time, she pried open an eye and dared to gaze at Lord Rockwell.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  DESPITE THE MOLTEN LOOK in his eyes, Rockwell showed no evidence of being affected by what transpired. Deana’s gaze fell to his crotch and the bulge there. Well, perhaps not wholly unaffected. She marveled at his poise. Surely it was uncommon for a man to show more restraint than the fair sex in carnal matters? Her lack of control over her own wayward body surprised her, and yet the self-indulgence provided a most liberating feeling.

  “What now, your lordship, now that you have had your way with me?” she asked.

  He unrolled his sleeves and buttoned the cuffs. “Bhadra will see that you are properly dressed for our ride and picnic.”

  Deana found herself chagrined by his placid demeanor. It seemed unfair that she should have been in such a state of discomposure, giving in to her basest needs, while he chose to proceed with a bloody picnic. Why would he not take her? Had he no wish to? Had she dissatisfied him in some way? She watched him retrieve his coat, studying him for signs that he might be flustered in the slightest. Her body could not have asked for a more satisfying and exquisite conclusion, yet she now felt vaguely unfulfilled.

  Returning to her, he assisted her to her feet and kissed her lightly upon the hand. A shiver went through her. The simplest touch from him had such an effect upon her.

  “I shall return in an hour’s time,” he informed her before walking towards the door. He paused at the threshold and gazed at her with a devilish glimmer flashed in his eyes. “You’ve pleased me well, Miss Herwood.”

  Her cheeks heated. With some relief she watched him take his leave. She had much to digest. The fresh air would suit her. Yes, she looked forward to engaging in normal activities with Lord Rockwell. She pulled the blouse back over her breast and was picking up the sari just as Bhadra returned. Flushing, she covered herself with the fabric.

  “I’ve an ointment for m’lady,” Bhadra said as if nothing were amiss.

  The maid turned Deana around and began applying the salve upon her derriere. Deana flinched, mostly in embarrassment.

  “It be only a balm of witch hazel and aloe.”

  Deana noted the redness upon her arse apparently did not surprise the maid. Indeed, how had Bhadra been prepared with the ointment? Her cheeks colored to think that the maid had heard through the door what had happened or had been told by Rockwell himself. She wanted to ask Bhadra but was too mortified. In silence, she allowed Bhadra to remove the beautiful jewelry, which she placed carefully back in its case. Traditional petticoats and an English riding habit, an elegant green wool challis with velvet collars, complete with a Shako hat, were produced.

  “Whose garments are these?” Deana asked.

  “A cousin of the late Monsieur Follet. She went into the nunnery. You and she are near identical in size. Lord Rockwell has a discerning eye.”

  Deana looked at Bhadra. “Have you been acquainted with his lordship long?”

  “For some years.”

  “Have you always been at the Chateau Follet?”

  “No.”

  She felt she would appear prying if she asked too many more questions, so she allowed the maid to finish the toilette in silence.

  After the soft and loose sari, the stays and chemisette were an unwelcome change, but seeing herself in the mirror, Deana had to admit the ensemble looked quite smart. She thanked Bhadra and awaited the return of Lord Rockwell.

  * * * * *

  Halsten grunted as his seed poured from his member into his hand. He shook his head and leaned back into the armchair. Not what he truly desired but at least the tension would be relieved for a time. Nothing less than her cunnie would ultimately satisfy, and he had been tempted from the moment he entered her room and saw her wrapped in the sensuous fabric of the sari. The jewelry had enhanced every part it touched—her brow, her neck, her ears, the top of her hand, her long, slender middle finger. If he dressed her again with the baubles, he would kiss each spot before it became bejeweled. Of course the jewelry looked most beguiling when she had little else on. His shaft twitched at the vision of her naked arse. How beautifully the marks of his hands had adorned those full and sumptuous cheeks. But he had withheld himself for he wanted the focus to be on her pleasure. His time would come soon enough.

  Miss Herwood presented a fetching picture in her riding habit. Though he had found her compelling despite her ordinary garments before, the proper attire could make a difference. Bhadra had even done her hair in more becoming fashion, pinning part of it atop her head and leaving the rest in perfect coils at her neck.

  He extended an arm. “Madame Follet requests your audience.”

 
; The hostess was found lounging upon her patio, partaking of grapes, like an image of Dionysius, a copy of the Lady’s Magazine upon her lap. Despite her years, Marguerite had a youthful glow and her complexion seemed to have found the fountain of youth—or at least a very convincing pomade.

  “Welcome, my dear,” she greeted Miss Herwood warmly. “I hope you found your first night comfortable?”

  “I did, thank you,” Miss Herwood replied. “Bhadra has been quite helpful and attentive.”

  Marguerite looked at Halsten. “Bhadra has been a wonderful addition to the staff. How long do you intend to stay?”

  “Three nights,” Halsten replied.

  “In the West Wing? Or do you plan to venture into the East?”

  He could feel Miss Herwood’s inquisitive gaze. “The West Wing.”

  Marguerite turned back to Miss Herwood. “My chateau is at your disposal. If there is anything you require, do not hesitate to ask it of me. If I may be presumptuous, and I often am, you are in good hands, Miss Herwood.”

  He noticed the color intensify in Miss Herwood’s cheeks and briefly wondered if he would be able to keep his hands off of her during their excursion.

  “As it is plain you intend to go out for a ride, I will keep you no further.”

  She waved them away and went back to her magazine.

  As he escorted Miss Herwood to the stables, he knew it would not take long for her to ask, “What is the East Wing?”

  He eyed her carefully. “The activities in the East Wing are more…intense.”

  She regarded him with equal care. “How intense?”

  If he were too explicit, he might frighten her. “The guests in the East Wing have been to Chateau Follet many times.”

  She waited for more information but he did not provide it.

  “We will confine ourselves to the West Wing,” he assured her.

  She looked at him squarely. “Have you been to the East Wing, Lord Rockwell?”

  He paused. “I have.”

  “Do you prefer it?”

  “At times,” he replied candidly, “depending upon the company.”

  To his relief, she changed the subject. “Madame Follet seems a lovely hostess.”

  “Did you expect otherwise?”

  “In truth I had no specific expectations, but in what manner was her husband acquainted with the Marquis de Sade?”

  Perhaps he should never have made mention of de Sade. What righteous young woman would not be alarmed by that name?

  “They were imprisoned in the Château de Vincennes at the same time, both under a lettre de cachet. Their fellow prisoner included the Comte de Mirabeau.”

  “Was Monsieur Follet a writer of erotic works as well?”

  “In truth, he wrote political essays, but his letter de cachet was the result of an affair with the wife of an influential Marquis, who claimed Follet had attempted to abduct his wife. Follet said the kidnapping was consensual, a form of titillation, and that he was liberating her from an abusive husband. She took her own life shortly after Follet was imprisoned.”

  “How very sad. Did you know Monsieur Follet well?”

  “He passed some years ago. I am better acquainted with Madame Follet.”

  He could discern her thoughts: she wondered if he and Madame Follet had been intimate. He would not have abhorred any feelings of jealousy from her, but while he could often read her mind, he was far from certain as to how Miss Herwood truly felt about him.

  “She is very comely,” Miss Herwood said. “I wonder that she has not married again?”

  “I know not her interest in matrimony, but she has not had a shortage of lovers.”

  She turned her clear eyes upon him, her gaze asking, “Are you one of them?”

  They had arrived at the stables. Two horses had been saddled, one of them carrying the picnic. He assisted Miss Herwood onto the chestnut while he took the grey. The afternoon proved temperate and their ride a pleasant one as they took the horses over rolling hills and across green fields. They found a flat area above one of the hills and set up their picnic.

  “What a lovely landscape,” she murmured as she looked out at Chateau Follet in the distance. The fresh air and minor breeze agreed with Miss Herwood.

  After setting out the bread, cheeses, and sweetmeats, he poured two glasses of wine.

  “I am allowed?” she asked wryly.

  “I have no intentions to ravish you.”

  “Why not?”

  Her forwardness had him taken aback. He handed her a glass of the wine to provide himself a second to recover. The pulse in his member throbbed. “Are you trying to tempt me, Miss Herwood?”

  She took a sip of the wine. “And if I were?”

  He did not expect but was certainly not displeased by her show of shamelessness for it proved she felt enough at ease with him.

  “I have no reservations of baring your arse out here.”

  She quickly partook of the sweetmeats as if they could provide her a protective barrier. “Is this all part of your seduction?”

  “You propositioned me, Miss Herwood,” he reminded her.

  “And you did not require much seducing.”

  “I did not,” he acknowledged.

  “Why?”

  Her simply query was not an attempt to fish for compliments, as Miss Walpole would have done. Miss Herwood seemed genuinely mystified. He watched as she nibbled on the food, waiting patiently for his answer.

  “Or is it any skirt would do for you?” she prompted.

  “I sensed in you a spirit of adventure. Have I not alluded to this before?”

  “And what, pray tell, did you find in me that would suggest I liked my arse spanked by an overbearing baron?”

  He grinned. There were many women he found more attractive the less they spoke, but he enjoyed the repartee with Miss Herwood. “In truth, it was a wild gamble. But one that has paid off, has it not?”

  She blushed. He liked the rosiness in her countenance. Liked that it owed its appearance to him.

  She lowered her gaze. “I have astounded myself, to say the least.”

  He covered her hand with his, an instinctual move and not one he necessarily intended. “Do not be ashamed.”

  She gazed at his hand upon hers. “I am not as ‘practiced,’ shall we say, as you.”

  Retracting his hand, he helped himself to the bread. “And you have shown fortitude and adeptness despite your inexperience.”

  “How did…from whence came your experience?”

  Vivid images danced in his mind. Silhouettes of a man and a woman behind beaded curtains.

  “It began in a bagnio in Bombay,” he related. “A Japanese sailor, Hideo, used to frequent the same. I witnessed what he did with his strumpet and how she seemed to enjoy it. She seemed happiest when he arrived and so very sullen when he departed. I began experimenting, but my hand was awkward. Hideo came upon me and the poor kanya that was my subject at the time and took it upon himself to learn me the proper skills, the most important of which is developing an acute sense of what one’s partner is feeling.”

  He eyed her carefully but saw no judgment in her reaction.]

  “Do you find many women receptive to your predilections?” she asked.

  “You think me a rakehell.”

  She said nothing.

  “I was, of sorts, in my younger days in India,” he admitted. “But despite what you may think now, I do not often take women to bed.”

  “You are not a frequent guest of Madame Follet?”

  “Has Bhadra not informed you it has been some time since last I was here?”

  Her mouth fell open that he knew of their conversation. Of course he had not wasted a moment that first night before mining Bhadra for all the information she could offer on Miss Herwood.

  “How did Bhadra come to England?”

  Ah, she wanted to know his relation to the maid. But he did not mind her inquisition, though he usually had little patience for prying questions, eve
n from Lucille, who seemed to produce a great many.

  “I brought her here,” he replied. “Her mother was my amah. Bhadra had been married less than a sixmonth when her husband died. His family wanted her to commit sati.”

  At her quizzical glance, he explained, “It is a practice wherein the widow immolates herself upon her husband’s funeral pyre.”

  She put her hand to her mouth.

  “My amah begged me to save her daughter.”

  The look in her eyes had softened as she beheld him.

  “Do not think me a hero, Miss Herwood. I do not go about the Indian countryside rescuing damsels from sati.”

  “How is this sati permissible?”

  His jaw tightened. “The Dutch and French, and the Portuguese before them, had banned the practice in their territories. But the Honourable East India Company has not seen fit to follow suit—yet. There are efforts underway to pressure the Company to ban the act.”

  She shook her head. “As you said once before, there is much one could disdain of India—as with any country, I imagine, for surely we have practices considered barbaric to others. Still, I would be no less curious to visit her.”

  Still appraising her, he stretched his long legs out before him and leaned back against his elbow. “Most women would aspire to riches, love, or beauty. You dream of traveling to India?”

  “When I was small, my father had a client who spent time in India. The gentleman gifted me a small tapestry. It was of a little Indian girl beside a peacock and lagoon. It was a most remarkable picture.”

  “The reality of India is harsher than your vision.”

  “No doubt. I cannot fathom this horror called sati. Poor Bhadra. You will forgive me, I hope, when I say I find it rather dishonorable that the Company has not outlawed the practice.”

  “Is it the place of the Company to interfere with native practices?”

  “With governance comes responsibility.”

  “It is not so simple.”

  Her eyes flared. “Are you defending—you would allow the practice of sati?”

  Her anger made her oddly appealing, and he could not resist fanning the flames a little. “There is much at stake. The Company is better off not increasing tensions with the Indians.”