“I see. Greed trumps duty to your fellow man.”
“And if we began imposing our traditions, enforcing British customs, you would as easily accuse us of being superior and overbearing.”
She folded her arms. “Too late for that. You have earned those epithets already.”
He suppressed a grin. The blood in his groin had already warmed during the previous topic. Now his arousal was at stiff attention.
“Come hither, Miss Herwood.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
STILL CONTEMPLATING HIS DIRECTIVE, Miss Herwood made no move. Halsten could tell she was still vexed with him.
“For what purpose?” she asked.
“The purpose matters not,” he replied. “It suits me to have you come here.”
“Are you unable to bear a little criticism of your precious Company?”
He helped himself to the strawberries to improve his patience and resist reaching over the food and wine to manhandle her. “Not at all, and it is not my Company.”
“Are you not a shareholder?”
“One of many.”
“I understand your family to have been quite involved with the Company.”
She seemed proud to demonstrate that she, like he, could acquire knowledge of the other party.
“The third Baron Rockwell helped to set up the trading posts and factory in Surat nearly two hundred years ago,” he acknowledged.
“You cannot abdicate responsibility simply because you are ‘one of many.’”
He had humored her detour long enough. “Were you a troublesome little girl, Miss Herwood? You seem unable to obey orders.”
She, too, turned to the strawberries for distraction. “Particularly from men who presume to play the role of guardian.”
“Hardly, Miss Herwood, or you would not be here,” he corrected. “And a few well-administered reprimands, I think, would do much to rectify your defiance.”
She squirmed and picked the greenery off the tops of the strawberries. “If you have such a penchant for being the disciplinarian, might I suggest you find a wife and have yourself a gaggle of children to tyrannize?”
Overseeing Lucille was sufficient for the time being, but he kept that thought to himself. “Superior, overbearing, tyranny. Are there other appellations you wish to direct at me?”
“How much time have we?” she threw back at him.
Reaching over, he grasped her wrist and pulled her to him. “What does it say of you, Miss Herwood, that you would still consort—that you would still desire my touch?”
He saw her bosom rise with extended breath. She blinked against his gaze, then pulled herself from his grip.
“Contrary to what you wish to think, Lord Rockwell, I do not pine and burn at all times for your touch.”
He raised his brows, intrigued by the challenge. “Prove it.”
* * * * *
Deana felt her mouth go dry despite the moist berry she had stuffed in it. She should have known she was playing with fire when it came to this man. She had no wish to go near him, but if she did not please him, he might call an end to their sojourn at the Chateau Follet and she would lose the opportunity to earn the remainder of the funds she required. What a situation she had placed herself in! She had not been four and twenty hours at the Chateau and was now facing her second “punishment.”
She considered renewing their debate about the Company, but he was not likely to take the bait a second time. Indeed, she suspected he had only humored her the first time. The thought perturbed her. He could afford to humor her, as he could afford many things. She did not often bemoan the difficulties in her life—her mother and aunt did enough lamenting for them all—but she could not ignore the inequity between her situation and that of Lord Rockwell. Did he deserve his place in the world more than she? If she were in his place, she would not allow the Company to turn a blind eye to the practice of sati. How could he have the valiance to rescue Bhadra but take no action to save others from certain death? She encouraged the line of thought for it made her cross with him, and her vexation could serve as armor.
“If you will not take my word for it,” she replied, “then that is the end of the matter.”
“Hardly.”
His impassiveness was maddening. She finished off her wine to indicate the picnic was at an end.
“I have no desire to prove anything to you, Lord Rockwell.”
“You have no wish to be gainsaid.”
“Resorting to childish taunts will not abet you in accomplishing your objective.”
He raised his brows once more. “M’lady has a tart mouth.” He lowered his voice. “I can think of a better use for that mouth.”
His response had her rattled. What did he mean by that? To which she answered herself, Best not to ask. It was not like her to be so provoking. She had encountered men far more difficult than he at the gaming hell and thus had no explanation at hand for why Lord Rockwell could incite her with such ease.
Laying back, he crossed his hands behind his head. “I have no interest in coming to get you, Miss Herwood. Simply know that the longer I wait, the greater the punishment.”
“What sort of…punishment?”
“I have a number of delectable options to choose from, but I think I should like the punishment to fit the crime.”
She fidgeted with her now empty glass while stewing upon his latest statement. It was becoming clear that she had few choices here at the Chateau—of her own devising. Perhaps if she had been more creative, she would not have had to turn to Lord Rockwell for her salvation. Alas, there was little to be gained from crying over spilt milk. She had made her bed and should see it to its end.
Without word, she rose and resettled herself on his side of the picnic rug. He turned to his side and fixed his gaze upon her like a predator that had its prey cornered. Her pulse quickened.
“Satisfied?”
“Partly,” he murmured. “Unbutton your riding habit.”
Dread and a dash of excitement filled her to the quick. “Now? Out here? But we could be seen.”
“So be it.”
He must have noticed her pale for he added, “Do you see a soul beside the birds in the trees?”
“Not at present.”
“I had not thought to begin your punishment out here, but I may as well if you continue to defy me.”
She bit back an oath and reached for the buttons, which she undid one by one with great reluctance. Perhaps the appearance of another person would prove advantageous. Surely he would not have her continue with another present—or would he?
“If anyone were to come upon us,” he said, “it would most likely be a guest at Chateau Follet. And chances are they will have witnessed far greater acts of lewdness.”
She thought of the East Wing and wondered if the guests there would be fine with what they did. Did those individuals have no shame? And he one of them, she reminded herself. Of course it were easier for him for it had always been her in a state of undress.
The wicked gleam in his eyes made her heart pound. Under his intense stare, she slid her arms from the jacket. She would do no more unless directed. He regarded her from the top down, and despite her discomfort, she felt herself growing warm about her groin. How was it she could be mortified and aroused at the same time?
He moved to sit behind her and brushed her curls off the back of her neck. Gently he pressed his lips to the exposed area. Her skin tingled where he caressed. Oh dear, this did not bode well.
“Have you other criticisms to level at me and the Company?” he invited as he continued to plant kisses about her nape.
Was he daring her to use that which she had intended as her shield against his seduction?
She steeled herself. “Would it prove of any use or fall upon deaf ears? Or, rather, will it simply serve as amusement for your vanity?”
“My vanity?”
“Yes. Men quite taken by themselves enjoy themselves as the subject of discourse, good or bad.”
>
“And you think me such an extreme narcissist?”
“Why would you invite criticism?”
He put a hand upon her rib cage to hold her still for she had been leaning away from his kisses. Amazingly, it mattered not where he touched, her whole body was his instrument to play.
“Would it surprise you to know I’ve an interest in your thoughts?”
She had not considered that possibility. Her cheeks colored at the disservice she had done to herself. No, not to herself. She was confident of her opinions. It was he of whom she had not had better expectations. Perhaps she should view him with more charity than she had?
His hand moved to cup her breast. She quickly glanced around, but not even the birds in the trees could be seen. Again, no, she was safer being angry at him. She had fought this battle before and lost. He had wagered five hundred pounds that he could make her spend at his hand. Now there was but her pride at stake, lessening her odds further.
“Only a narcissist would wish to prove his potency,” she said, squaring her shoulders.
He squeezed her breast in response. She felt the compression despite the stiffness of her stays, and her back arched of its own accord, pushing her bosom further into his hand. The nearness of his body, and his breath upon her neck, threatened to send her thoughts scattering.
“Do you realize, Miss Herwood, I would call a man out for lesser accusations than what you have leveled?”
“Pistols or swords?”
“I prefer different weapons entirely,” he answered, flicking his tongue against the back of her ear.
He slid his hand beneath her décolletage and pinched a nipple. She did her best not to whimper. She decided she would have rather faced weapons of steel. They were not in the privacy of a room. They were in plain, open view. That fact might provide defense against his advances.
Or not. As he rolled her hardening flesh between thumb and forefinger, she felt pulses shooting from her nipple to the flesh between her thighs. What had happened to her anger? Why did it not win her the day?
“There is no shame in submitting to me,” he whispered in her ear.
She shivered, but did her best to resist. “How convenient for you.”
“Ah, but the rewards are shared. Lift your skirts.”
She gasped, “I beseech you, my lord—”
This time he did not wait for her to comply and reached for the hem himself. She stopped his hand.
“We are not in the East Wing,” she protested.
“Indeed. No one is here to witness us.”
“That could change,” she snapped, angry that they were repeating an earlier exchange.
“An exciting prospect,” he growled.
She ground her teeth. There was no winning with this man!
“All this proves nothing,” she asserted desperately, “only the weakness of my mind to combat the corporal desires of the body.”
“I will brook no further delay. Lift your skirts, madam.”
At the severity of his tone, she decided to comply. She grasped the hem of her skirts and slowly inched them up her legs, exposing her calves. At the least, she had on a pair of decent stockings rather than her own.
“Further,” he commanded.
She pulled the skirts over her knees and closed her eyes. Someone would come upon them, surely, despite the fact that they were some ways from the Chateau.
“Further.”
Dear God, the tops of her stockings and garters were showing…
“Now part your legs.”
Her mind clawed for an escape, but no argument would deter him this time, she knew. Slowly she widened the distance between her knees. This would surely be her greatest affront to decency. What did he intend with her?
Holding her against him with one arm, he reached between her thighs with the other. His hand went beneath the skirts, and it took all of her not to shut her thighs even as she tingled in anticipation. When his fingers touched her flesh, she had to close her eyes, unable to witness her own wantonness. How had she managed to invite this upon herself? Her legs were bared and spread for all to see. At least the skirts still covered her most intimate parts.
Gently he fondled her clitoris. Her breath became ragged. She leaned against his shoulder for support. His fingers circled the little nub of flesh, encouraging it to swell. None of her prior lovers had attended to her with such skill. She ought admit, to herself in particular, that she could not resist his touch.
And he would prove it.
Her body grew warm despite the rise of a cool breeze. He quickened his strokes, driving all thoughts from her as the intensity of sensations overcame all else. He played with that little nymph of flesh, teasing and torturing it, till she writhed and panted. The collection of wetness between her legs seeped into her petticoats, but she cared little. Her body had begun its ascent. Only when she reached the top could she hope for divine relief.
When his fingers slipped lower, she gasped. Her whole perineum lit up. Curious at the small area of immense sensitivity, he fondled it frequently, strumming the base of her clitoris to the edge of her opening. Each time she cried out uncontrollably, shuddering as bolts of lightning shot up her spine. She almost wanted him to stop, but he worked the area without mercy. Unable to withstand the powerful stimulation, she quickly came undone, crying out loud enough to send birds scattering from the trees as her body bucked against his. Even as her body went over the edge, he did not cease his rubbing until he had squeezed every last shudder and every last cry from her. Feeling as if she had just been shot into the heavens like a cannonball, she sagged against him without word or movement, hoping for recovery.
What had happened? The potency of what she had just experienced both enlivened and frightened her. That her body was capable of such intense euphoria was a marvel, and part of her very much wanted an encore, but such loss of control, such helplessness at his hands surely did not bode well.
“My God,” he breathed.
Rockwell seemed equally at wonder. He brushed a stray hair from her eyes and kissed her upon her brow.
“I hope you are not the sort, sir, to gloat in victory,” she murmured.
Pulling out a handkerchief, he said nothing as he gently wiped the wetness between her legs. Feeling at ease—perhaps she was becoming accustomed to such acts of wantonness after her experience at the posting inn—she found his attention to this small detail of lovemaking rather gallant. She was glad not to have to sustain the clamminess for the duration of the ride back to the Chateau.
He pulled the skirts back over her legs. She eyed the wine in his glass. She would require a few drinks to calm the energy she felt in her body right now. If she were a steed, she could have run a hundred laps.
Seeing the object of her gaze, he allowed her his glass, which she finished off. He rose to stretch his legs. She wanted to know if he needed attending. Certainly the bulge in his trousers would indicate he required relieving, but he made no move to seek it. Instead he went to see to the horses. Had something happened to him since their encounter of a year ago? Was he no longer capable? Did he intend to protect her, or himself, from the consequences of copulating? Did he not desire her enough? Lest he were to spend in equal fervor, she felt unsatiated.
Returning, he began to collect the items of their picnic.
“Back to the Chateau?” she asked.
“Yes.”
Just as she was about to purse her lips at his taciturn manner, he looked at her, a gleam in his eyes. “After all, there is still the matter of your punishment, Miss Herwood.”
CHAPTER NINE
MY GOD, HALSTEN REITERATED to himself, his hardened desire ready to burst the buttons off his pants. If not for marveling at the beauty of her climax, he would have thrown himself atop her. Bearing witness to her spending was a most provocative event. He could recall nothing more titillating nor invigorating. That he could produce such glorious screams and paroxysm was beyond gratifying. The vision of her legs sprawled open, her
back arched against him, her brows knit in twisted pleasure upon her uplifted face, would stay with him for some time. And, for a brief moment he knew he would find no other woman that could elicit an equally intense response from him. He craved her beyond all else.
After packing up their picnic, they rode in relative silence back to the Chateau, via a different route. He needed to concentrate on cooling his ardor and kept his comments to the history of the land and extent of the Follet estate. They came across a clearing and though her awkwardness in riding had not escaped his notice, he invited her to a gallop.
“I would fall from the horse within seconds,” she replied.
He paused, thinking he would do himself no good if he came in contact with her body, but remembering the thrill of his first gallop, he decided to bring his horse alongside hers.
“Come,” he said, holding out his hand. “Put your foot upon my boot.”
She stared at his hand but did as told. He pulled her onto his horse, closing his eyes briefly when her rump brushed his thigh.
“Hold fast,” he instructed.
He urged the horse into a light gallop and felt her body tense. The feather of her hat struck him in the eye, but otherwise, the rush of air against them, the thunder of hooves beneath them was second only to the carnal pleasures of desire. He sensed her gradually relaxing, and though he went far slower than he would have on his own, he derived satisfaction from her enjoyment. When they came to a rest, she seemed disappointed to stop.
“As a youth, I once rode a horse until the beast collapsed,” he said after he had assisted her off the horse. “As it was my favorite stead, I learned my lesson in the most painful manner.”
“I better understand the appeal of riding. I wish I could be as fine a rider,” she said.
Strands of hair flew about her cheeks, which, already flushed from their previous exchange, were now in ripe bloom. Her eyes sparkled, and her complexion glowed with bliss. He became undone, his guard crumbling like a weak dam against a mighty flood. Seizing her to him, he crushed his mouth atop hers. Her lips, soft and pliant, parted beneath his. He felt his blood pounding in all parts of his body—his head, his bosom, and especially his groin. Pushing his tongue deep into her mouth, he tasted of her. Wanting to consume her with all senses, he inhaled her scent, a nondescript yet heady air that lengthened his member. He pressed his erection against her, feeling as if he might explode if he did not find a way to possess her from the inside.
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