Submitting to the Marquess

by Brown, Em Browint writing as Georgette

  During their dinner at the inn, Isabella prattled on about various people they knew. “Elizabeth Marley is being courted by James Thomas, of all people. She was partial to Harry, but he had his eye on that American heiress. You remember her? She had such a dark complexion. I wonder that they do not care as much for their features there?”

  Halsten had no interest in conversing and idly wondered if this was what a marriage to Isabella would be like. She seemed interested that he renew his hand, and perhaps now that Miss Herwood was out of his life, he should buckle down and be done with marriage.

  But, ah, Miss Herwood. What would it be like to be married to her? Would he be able to stay himself from ravishing her all day long? There was so much more he could do with her. To her. His shaft stiffened at the thought.

  “Traveling can be dreadfully dull,” Isabella said. “Perhaps we can amuse ourselves with a game of cards after dinner?”

  “We’ve a long day’s journey ahead,” Halsten responded. “An early bedtime would be best.”

  He wanted nothing more than to kick off his boots in the privacy of his room and jerk himself to thoughts of Miss Herwood. He wondered if her journey had been pleasant. He had insisted on the finer of Marguerite’s carriages and that Pierre, her favorite manservant, ride alongside the driver and footman.

  “Mon dieu, only the best for your Miss Sherwood,” Marguerite had remarked as she stood before her new acquisition, a statue of Eros with wings flared wide and large like the feathers of a Peacock, his body twisted so that one could observe the countenance and the curve of the buttocks.

  “The artist studied with Antonio Canova,” Marguerite continued. “Is the derriere not perfection?”

  She turned and eyed Halsten. “I wonder if you have not been struck by his arrow?”

  “Madame?” he responded.

  “My dear Rockwell, I am une femme. I sense things. While my chateau is dedicated to carnal pursuits, its walls are not impervious to more tender feelings.”

  Halsten turned to the marble statue. Perhaps he had fallen in love with Miss Herwood. He was sophisticated enough to realize his passion stemmed from more than his fleshly desires for her.

  He turned to Marguerite. “The arse is perfect.”

  * * * * *

  The knock at the door surprised Halsten just as he was about to snuff the candle. Throwing a banyan around himself, he went to answer the door.

  Expecting the innkeeper or the innkeeper’s wife, he instead found Isabella in her ruffled nightgown and shawl.

  “Is something the matter?” he asked.

  “May I enter?”

  He hesitated but reluctantly stepped aside. She swept into his room and appraised his quarters. She looked at the bed.

  “A luxury compared to the duet beds in the East Wing,” she murmured, stepping towards him. “Did you enjoy last night?”

  “I hope never to set eyes on Lord Devon again.”

  She looked to his groin. “That did not stop your…arousal.”

  “Isabella, what is it you wish?”

  “In truth, I care little for Lord Devon myself. But he is gone. As is Miss Sherwood. The time is ours.”

  He stared at her as she peered up at him. For a fleeting moment, he considered that she could help him forget Miss Herwood.

  He sighed. “Isabella, go back to you room.”

  “La, you have not turned into a gentleman of a sudden? How tiresome that would be.”

  “As the daughter of the Duke of Trent, you still have a world of possibilities before you. Do not waste your attentions on me.”

  “Why not? Did you not seek my favors?”

  “I have not renewed my suit.”

  “But you and I have much in common. We are kindred spirits, thanks to Chateau Follet.”

  He considered her statement. A wife with the same penchants in that realm was certainly attractive.

  “We are not suited in other ways.”

  She reached out to him and fingered the cloth of his banyan. “Do you not seek in a wife beauty, breeding, and youth?”

  And intelligence, compassion, and fortitude, he added silently.

  She slipped her hand beneath the banyan to his chest. “Or do you prefer women of Miss Sherwood’s sort? Older and less refined?”

  He pulled away from her, angered by her petty disparagement of Miss Herwood.

  “I prefer a field unplowed by the likes of Lord Devon.”

  They were rude words, but he did not regret them in the heat of the moment. Isabella stared at him, stunned, then colored quickly when she realized his implication.

  “You do prefer Miss Sherwood. I wonder if your time spent in India has lowered your standards? Alas, you could have done much better.”

  She lifted her chin and stalked out of his room.

  She did not speak to him the entire remainder of the journey the following day. The Duke was much surprised to see his daughter as well as the Baron Rockwell. Isabella claimed convincingly that the air in London was a bit stifling and she missed her mother.

  “Our paths crossed, and I saw no reason not to escort your daughter home,” Halsten explained when the Duke turned to him.

  Despite the late hour, Halsten declined the Duke’s invitation to stay. If the Duke had any thoughts that Halsten intended to pursue Isabella, Halsten wished to put an end to such thinking by preferring an inn and departing from Trent as soon as possible.

  * * * * *

  “Well?”

  Halsten pulled his gaze from the wall and turned to the lovely young woman seated to his left at the breakfast table. Lucille had dark hair, a petite frame, and large, round, innocent eyes that she used to great effect on most persons.

  His sister scowled. “You are most unlike yourself, Hal. Did you not hear a word of what I said?”

  “No,” he admitted.

  He could smell the Darjeeling tea at the table. The scent reminded him of India. And Miss Herwood. He had thought of nothing else since departing Chateau Follet, though he had thought his time there would satiate and purge his need for her. He could fool himself into thinking it was because he had failed to spend that third and final night with her, but his passion for her had only grown. If anything, his shortened time had saved him from becoming irretrievably enamored.

  What stayed him was the lack of reciprocity. She had a carnal attraction to him. That much he was sure. Unlike many other women, save for the unfortunate strumpets who gave of their bodies for commerce, Miss Herwood had a pragmatism that no doubt allowed her to separate corporal desire from the heart. She had given no indication that she wished for more than their business arrangement. He had given her the opportunity to have that final night together, and she had declined. She had even refused his gift of the jewelry.

  “Hal, need I ask a third time?”

  “Forgive me, Lucille,” he said with a concerted effort to hear what she had to say.

  She narrowed her eyes. “What has become of you? Are you ill?”

  “Please ask your question—for the last time.”

  “Am I not to go to London this Season or will you continue your rule as tyrant?”

  He smiled. “I have no qualms with being a tyrant.”

  “How am I to improve my wardrobe properly? The millinery here cannot compare to what London offers.”

  “Come, Lucille. We both know that your primary interest in London is a certain young soldier.”

  Seeing she could not fool her brother and guardian, she relented. “You would find him a good and worthy person if you took the chance to acquaint yourself with him. But you would prefer to judge him afar, purely upon his station in life, and cast away my chance at happiness.”

  “I want you well taken care of, Lucy.”

  “Will you cease to be my brother when I am married? Are we—you—without means? When you describe the poverty you’ve seen in India, are we not wealthy beyond compare?”

  He stared at Lucille, surprised by her articulation. Had she matured in the
months since last he saw her?

  “Perhaps you seek wealth or breeding for your marriage,” she continued. “I seek the happiness and love that Mother and Father had.”

  “And you think this soldier can provide it?”

  “Yes. Perhaps. But how will I make a better determination sitting here practicing spinsterhood?”

  He almost laughed. Pouring himself a cup of the Darjeeling, he recalled his conversation with Miss Herwood. Matters of the heart are rarely rational, she had said. But Lucille had offered very rational rebuffs to him. Perhaps he could trust Lucy with making the proper judgment at the end of the day?

  Miss Herwood had also urged a more gentle approach, less didactic—or tyrannical, in Lucy’s eyes. He thought of Isabella and shuddered inwardly. He dared not think Lucy would behave in a similar manner. He found himself wanting to seek Miss Herwood’s counsel. Looking at Lucille, he wondered if the two women would get along. It was an attractive prospect.

  “Very well, you may accompany me when I return to London,” he said.

  Lucy squealed and knocked over her bowl of sweetmeats in her haste to embrace him. He nearly dropped his cup of tea as she threw her arms about him.

  She pulled back. “And will you meet Wilson?”

  “If I must.”

  She tightened her embrace. He smiled to himself. At least he could make one woman happy.

  “Wilson will be so excited to meet you—and nervous. He holds you in high esteem, given all that I have told him.”

  “That I am tyrant.”

  “That, too.”

  “I reserve the right to resume my tyranny at any moment.”

  “Yes, yes,” she said as she returned to her seat. “When do we depart?”

  “But I have just arrived. I have had a most tiring journey from Trent and thought to stay here at least a fortnight.”

  Her mission accomplished, Lucille fell upon her breakfast with improved appetite. “Why were you in Trent?”

  “I had the opportunity to escort Lady Isabella home.”

  “Oh. Her.”

  He raised his brows at her tone.

  Lucille cut into her sausage. “I know her only a little but am not taken by her. She seemed a trifle silly to me.”

  She looked at Halsten. “I would you could find the proper woman for yourself.”

  Miss Herwood came instantly to mind. He pushed the vision of her away, but he humored Lucy. “And what would constitute a proper woman in your eyes?”

  “One that you love.”

  “Ah, it is that simple.”

  “Of course she must be your intellectual equal, fit your disposition, and stir your passions. But all that is merely fodder for love.”

  “I see you are a philosopher of romance.”

  “Mother and Father had love between them. They seemed much happier than those whose marriages lacked the same. I know you seek a suitable wife for my sake and the sake of the barony, but I would sooner see you happy, Halsten.”

  She was buttering her toast and did not observe his pensive gaze.

  Perhaps he would venture to London sooner.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “MAY I?”

  Deana smiled at the flaxen-haired man as he held the door open for her. This was the second night in a sennight that he had spoken to her, and she suspected he fancied her a little. From what she had been told, he was a decent fellow of moderate means but sufficient to support her and her family. She liked his manners and his countenance, though she would have preferred a taller man. But she was reconciled to find a man who could provide for her and treat her well. She asked for nothing more.

  Her luck had improved since finding the new gaming hall. Though the balance of what she had received from Lord Rockwell was sufficient to sustain the family for some time, she wanted a distraction, to keep her from dwelling on his lordship. She could not bring herself to return to her old grounds for fear that she might encounter the Baron Rockwell. The new hall was much smaller and its appearance more modest, but after three months, she had become acclimated to her new environment. The hall was a further walk and situated in an entirely different part of town, its patrons a bit more rumbustious, but if she were truly fortuitous and played her “cards” right, she would have no reason to frequent the place overmuch.

  Deana stepped out into the summer night and turned to him. “Thank you. Mr. Billings, is it not?”

  He bowed. “Yes. And you are Miss Herwood, I presume? I heard you are one of the best at vingt-et-un.”

  “Hyperbole. I am a little more than competent.”

  “You are modest.”

  A light wind blew at them as they regarded each other in a moment of quiet.

  Then a voice called from inside the gaming hall, “Neville! Your turn with the dice!”

  “Perhaps you would humor me with a game then?” Mr. Billings said hastily.

  “I could.”

  “Tomorrow night?”

  “Billings!” the voice called again.

  She smiled. “Tomorrow night.”

  He returned her smile, his happiness obvious, and bowed before turning back inside.

  Deana walked with a spring to her step as well. Not wanting her mother or Aunt Lydia to harass her, she decided she would not tell them yet about Mr. Billings. Her mother had recovered well once they were assured they would not be thrown out of their house for some time. They had even recovered a few pieces of the furniture that had been taken from them by the collectors.

  “Who is this saint that has saved us?” Adeline had asked her when Deana had informed them that they had a hundred pounds to their name.

  True to his word, Lord Rockwell had opened and deposited the sum into a bank account—she had never had an account at a bank before—two days after her return from Chateau Follet.

  “We must offer our most heartfelt thanks,” Lydia had added.

  “He insists on anonymity,” Deana had replied.

  “But you know who he is. Surely, you can tell us!”

  “I have expressed our gratitude, though I think he would not wish for us to solicit him again.”

  As she had hoped, the statement had disappointed but distracted her mother for the time being.

  The first month upon her return to London had been torturous for Deana. Not only did she miss Rockwell, but also she worried for a fortnight if her menses should not come. She had been willing to take the risk, but she could have reduced her chances of conceiving while at Chateau Follet. She could have encouraged the Baron to attend to Lady Isabella more. A child would have been devastating. Though she would have liked to think that he would have at least provided her the pecuniary means to support her and a child, she would have ruined her chances at marriage to anyone else. Thankfully, her menses did come.

  The task of putting Rockwell from her mind was her next concern. She craved his company, she craved his touch. Bereft of his attentions, she felt tense and irritable. No amount of self-pleasure, of which there were many in the loneliness of night, satiated her longing. Only time could ease the pain of his absence.

  As she walked further into the night, a sudden gust of wind took her ill-tied bonnet off. She turned around, but someone had retrieved it from the ground.

  “Still tempting peril, Miss Herwood?”

  She froze as she drank in the sight of Lord Rockwell. He held out her bonnet for her. Her heart throbbed painfully within her. She had not prepared herself for such a meeting.

  “I once remarked that you are possessed of sense and wisdom,” Rockwell continued. “But walking alone at night is pure foolhardiness. Did I not advise you against it?”

  Her rancor allowed her to find her wits, and she took the bonnet from him.

  “Lord Rockwell,” she greeted, noting that he looked every bit as handsome, even in the dark, as when she had last seen him. Of course, only three months, not three years, had passed. How coincidental that their paths should have crossed in this neighborhood and on this street of all places.<
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  “I will see you home, Miss Herwood.”

  She knew it was of no use to protest and followed him to where his curricle awaited. After assisting her onto the vehicle, he seated himself and took the reins. They sat in awkward silence as the horses began their canter.

  “How fare your mother and aunt?” he asked, reminding her of a similar conversation that had eventually led them to the Chateau Follet.

  “Well. And you and your sister?” she replied.

  “Lucy is ecstatic. I approve of her young soldier.”

  Deana looked at him with surprise. “Indeed?”

  “He is a man of integrity.”

  “I thought you deemed him unsuitable?”

  “He is not ideal, but matters of the heart are rarely rational.”

  Had not those words been her own? It pleased her vanity to think that he might have given much consideration to what she had said.

  “Then felicitations are in order,” she said.

  “Not yet. I am requiring they wait at least eighteen months. The heart is subject, too, to change.”

  “That is sound.”

  They fell once more into silence. Though it was dark and she would be out of his presence soon enough, she wished she had worn a better gown than her old ivory muslin. The sleeves of her spencer were a bit frayed at the edges, and she had a hole hidden at the pit of one arm. Rockwell, in contrast, was immaculately dressed in a double-breasted tailcoat and patterned waistcoat. His linen was starched and bright, the ruffled sleeves showing past the cuffs of his coat, and his cravat perfectly tied.

  She searched her mind for other topics to pass the time. She had no wish to ask about Lady Isabella, though she was curious as to the state of his relationship with her ladyship. Asking about the Chateau or Madame Follet might also lead the discourse into unwanted territory. She was about to comment on the weather they were having when he spoke first.

  “Why have you chosen to frequent this new gaming hall?”

  She shifted uncomfortably to delay answering.

  “I was having a run of bad luck at the previous place,” she said carefully. “I thought a change of scenery would improve it.”