“The Duke that Nathan speaks of. It was Baron Broadmoor, then?”
“Yes, but, oh, I never conceived that he would try to take Nathan from me!”
“He most assuredly will not take Nathan from us,” Darcy pronounced as she clenched the letter in her hand.
“But—”
“I will defend with my last breath our family. The Baron will rue the day he ever laid eyes upon a Sherwood!”
“Do you think perhaps we should seek the counsel—”
Darcy sighed with exasperation as she went to get her hat and gloves. “I know you think my better thoughts to be overcome by my vehemence, Priscilla, but my anger better enables me to do battle. Nathan may be a Barrington by blood, but he is a Sherwood in name and birth. And no pompous meddler, no matter his stature or wealth, will change that!”
Whirling on her heels, she stormed from the room with Priscilla struggling to keep pace. Encountering the page, Darcy requested that Mathilda’s horse be brought around.
“Shall I come?” Priscilla asked.
Darcy shook her head. “You must stay by Nathan’s side. If we must, we will leave London to a place where the Baron cannot find us.”
“Nathan is with his tutor and Mama. Should I begin packing a portmanteau?”
“It may be advisable. I will bring word as soon as I have done with the Baron.”
Darcy received one last parting embrace from her sister before she mounted the horse and directed it towards Grosvenor Square.
The audacity of the man! How dare he trifle with her family? Darcy fumed. Was this the Baron’s way of exacting revenge upon her for having refused him?
Granted, he had been kind to pay for the new clothes, books, and tutor for Nathan. But they would have refused his benevolence had they known his true purpose! Never did a more odious man exist in all of England!
She did not know that the Baron would be home, of course. He could be out of town for all she knew, but her fury could not wait. If he had written the note to Priscilla himself and delivered it by courier, there was a chance that he had not left home yet for the day.
When she pulled up before Broadmoor House, the boldness with which she had spoken before Priscilla began to wane. In truth, there was little they could do if the Baron chose to exert his influence to take Nathan from them. Nothing but run away and begin their life anew. She had the fifty-thousand from Radcliff. It would more than suffice until she found another means of support.
But someone had to let the arrogant man understand that he could not do anything he damn well pleased just because he was a Barrington.
Forcing down her trepidation, Darcy mounted the steps of his residence resolutely. The butler greeted her once more with indifference and hesitantly allowed her passage.
“Is the Baron home?” Darcy inquired.
“He is, but, I believe, indisposed.”
“I have an urgent matter which requires his attention.”
The butler paused. “I will pass him that message, but perhaps you would wish to return at another time?”
“He will see me today,” Darcy pronounced and sat down on a chair in the hallway. “I will wait until he is disposed.”
“He may be busy the entire day.”
“I have all day.”
The butler stiffened. “If you will wait here, Miss Sherwood.”
“I intend to.”
When the butler returned, he indicated that his lordship would see her in his study. Darcy followed the butler, recalling the last time she had been here, also under unhappy circumstances.
“Miss Sherwood, my lord,” the butler announced before leaving the two of them alone.
Radcliff, seated behind his writing desk, did not even lift his head but continued engrossed in whatever he was writing. Darcy waited for him to acknowledge her presence.
He didn’t.
She pressed her lips together as she watched the quick movements of his pen. No one could excel at infuriating her more! He did not even look up when she stomped over and stood right in front of his desk.
Casting the letter he had written to Priscilla at him, her lips quivering with rage, Darcy declared, “Nathan is ours. You will never lay a hand upon him.”
He finally looked up at her, and it was impossible to read his expression. The darkness of his eyes concealed his thoughts. “Are you not being rather presumptuous, Miss Sherwood?”
Presumptuous? His choice of words flabbergasted her. “Nathan has known no other family but us.”
“He has a right to know the other half.”
“There is no other half. For five years Edward has denied his son; he cannot expect to now dance into Nathan’s life as if nothing had happened.”
Radcliff folded the letter he had been writing with maddening calm. “Nathan will not be raised as Edward’s son; he will be in my custody and raised, nonetheless, as a Barrington.”
“Your custody?” Darcy flamed. “Nathan is not your responsibility. If this is a means of assuaging your guilt for the part that you played—”
“Regardless of my motivations, is it not in the best interest of Nathan to be given all the privileges that come with his heritage?”
“It is not in his interest to be taken away from his mother!”
“Neither you nor your sister would be barred from visiting Nathan now and then.”
Darcy’s eyes widened. She and Priscilla would be relegated to ‘visits’? ‘Now and then’?
“You contemptible overbearing bastard,” Darcy cried. How she hated the man! Hated how he sat there without the slightest emotion while she was twisted with fury and fear.
“I appreciate your sentiments of me, but I hardly think they persuade your case.”
“What is it you want?” Darcy seethed. “Is it the money you gave me in exchange for the deed to Brayten? I would give anything to never see or hear the name of Barrington again!”
“Anything?” He raised an eyebrow.
“Anything,” Darcy spat.
He crossed one leg over the other and considered the matter while Darcy wondered how best to wring the man’s neck.
“I will relinquish my pursuit to obtain Nathan,” he announced.
Darcy perked up. Had she heard correctly?
“On two conditions,” Radcliff continued, rising to his feet. He stood before her. It was all she could do to stand her ground and not be overpowered by his aura.
“What conditions?” she asked. He was so close she could smell him, the scent alone awakening all her raw animal senses.
He looked down at her and this time she saw in his eyes a hunger that a predator might have when beholding its prey.
“That you submit to me. Here. Now.”
Her knees began to shake, and she could barely swallow. “Here?”
“And now.”
By the hard set of his jaw, Darcy could see that he was not jesting. Why was he doing this? Part of her wanted to run. Part of her was thrilled that he wanted her still.
“You give your word that you will not attempt to take Nathan from us?” she asked, wondering where her towering rage had disappeared to all of a sudden.
“My word. In writing if you wish.”
She trusted him. He was insufferable but his integrity was in tact.
“Very well,” Darcy surrendered, wondering how she was going to explain it all to her sister.
Holding her immobile with the strength of his gaze, he gently pulled at the ribbon of her bonnet until it came undone. Darcy closed her eyes as he removed her bonnet and tossed it aside. He might as well have torn her entire dress away—she felt naked before him. Would he kiss her now?
But Radcliff stepped away. She felt as if chains had been lifted from her, but the absence of his closeness was both liberating and poignant. She watched him as he went back to his writing desk and sat down. Was the heat in his eyes from anger? Did he want to make her pay for rejecting him?
“Take off your dress,” he ordered.
“I c
annot reach the pins in back,” Darcy responded with defiance.
“Then you must tear the dress from your body.”
Remembering the time he had commanded her to tear her shift, Darcy felt an old familiar warmth begin to fan from her loins.
“But…” Darcy stalled, studying her dress to see if there was a way it could be easily reassembled after being torn. Did he mean to provide her with another dress? Somehow she doubted it for there were no signs of sympathy in his eyes.
“I am waiting, Miss Sherwood.”
“Perhaps you could assist with the pins, sir—my lord?” she offered.
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Perhaps. But that is not what I suggested.”
Darcy frowned. She would have to reconcile herself to purchasing a new morning dress. Unhappily, she grasped the hem of the gown and stretched it between her two hands. It took a number of attempts, but the fabric eventually gave way. As the sound of her gown ripping filled the air, Darcy vacillated between feeling enraged and aroused.
She hated him. Hated him for blackmailing her into submission—for the second time. But most of all, she hated him for making her submission feel so good.
“Well done,” he commended when she had slipped her arms free of the gown. “Now remove the petticoats and stays.”
Fortunately her stays fastened in front. It and the petticoats fell to the ground around her feet.
“And the shift—I want it torn.”
“It’s the one you bought,” Darcy said hotly. Despite her lack of clothing, she felt warm from head to toe.
“Yes, I recognize it. Tear it.”
“But what will I wear when I leave?” Darcy asked in a panic.
“That is your dilemma, Miss Sherwood…You could simply leave in the buff.”
Darcy emitted a cry, then glared at him. His lack of concern enraged her. This was retaliation. He meant to settle the score by requiring not just her submission but her complete humiliation as well. If it weren’t for Nathan, she would have whirled on her heels and left, never mind the dampness that had begun forming between her legs.
As if reading her mind, he said, “The love you bear your nephew is commendable.”
“Well you know anything of love!” Darcy snapped. “You are a heartless and callous lout.”
“The shift, Miss Sherwood.”
Stifling a scream, Darcy ripped the thin cotton garment as if it were a metaphor for how she felt about him. She now stood before him without a shred of clothing, and though her nakedness was nothing new to him, she felt the need to cover her bosom and groin.
“Such modesty does not become you, my dear,” Radcliff noted with a sardonic grin. “Turn around.”
Darcy did as she was told, the lack of emotion in his voice making her feel as if she were a simply a slab of beef that he was inspecting. She watched him as he appraised her, his gaze touching upon every inch of her body. The shadow beneath her breasts. The subtle swell of her belly.
“Touch your breasts for me,” he directed, and for the first time Darcy thought she detected a tremor in his voice. “With both hands.”
She reached up and cradled one globe in each hand.
“Fondle them,” he clarified.
She kneaded her breasts, first slowly and lightly, then harder and faster as she felt sensations rippling from her breasts down to her belly. She pinched both her nipples and softly groaned.
“Stop,” he ordered brusquely and rose to his feet.
She continued to dig her fingers into her flesh and pushed the orbs together.
“Stop,” he repeated and dashed her hands from her breasts.
She felt a wave of disappointment.
“Your ability to follow orders is wanting, Miss Sherwood,” he commented as he walked around her like a hawk circling its prey. “Such defiance must be addressed. Stand against the table with your feet apart.”
He leaned her forward onto his desk and spread her legs so that her buttocks were more than adequately exposed for him.
“That,” he said after he delivered the first smack to her derrière, “is for your hesitation. This for your defiance.”
Darcy nearly flew over the writing desk with the second slap.
“And your impudence….”
Her knees shook with the force of the third and fourth strikes. Her arse burned with the spanking, but a smoldering ache was building between her legs.
“Do not question me again, Miss Sherwood,” Radcliff told her and added another whack for good measure.
He reached beneath her to discover her wetness had begun to slide down her thigh. Darcy suppressed a whimper.
He instructed her to lie across the writing table on her back and reached down to the floor and picked up the shift, which he tore in twain. With each half, he tied her legs to the legs of the table so that the softest parts of her flesh were exposed to view. With her dress, he bound her wrists together and pulled her arms over her head, securing them to the remaining two legs of the table.
The damn thing—the table and the manner in which she was stretched across it—was exceedingly uncomfortable. Silently, Darcy cursed Radcliff and promised herself she would make him pay for this.
His gaze traveled the length of her body from her toes to the elbows on either side of her head. She saw a facial muscle twitch along his jaw. He ran a hand languidly from her knee and up her thigh. Darcy caught her breath when his fingers grazed her belly button and cupped a breast. She shivered when his thumb passed over her nipple. She hoped he would touch her again. She was sure to spend quick if he did.
But to her dismay, he stepped away, saying as he surveyed her, “Most delectable, but I have at present an appointment to keep.”
Darcy felt the air sucked from her. She opened her eyes and looked at him as if through a haze. Had she heard him correctly? But then she watched in horror as he put on his gloves.
“Oh, please…” she whispered through parched lips.
He raised an eyebrow. He was going to make her beg, she realized. So be it. She needed to spend as if her life depended upon it.
“Please…take me,” she whimpered.
“Why?”
The question went screaming through her mind. She was going to go mad if he didn’t make her come soon.
“Because I desire it…because you have made me desire it…”
“How much?”
“I crave it immensely…desperately…” she said through her blurred thoughts. “No one makes me feel as you do.”
“No one?”
“No one,” she confirmed. “No one can bring such delight…my body longs for your touch…”
“Is it mine to do as I please?”
“Yes, yes, my body is yours. Yours alone. Radcliff … take me now.”
He smiled and planted a tender kiss upon her brow. Grabbing the letter he had been writing earlier, he donned his hat and said, “In due time, my love.”
Her eyes widened in panic. She gave him a wild look. He was not going to leave her bound to the writing table?
“Ring for my servants if you require anything,” he offered before closing the door after him.
Her desire ached with emptiness, and she attempted to will herself to spend. He had left her on the worst precipice she had ever known. Darcy struggled against her bindings. Good God, what if a servant walked in? She struggled harder.
The minutes dragged on. But all she could do was wait.
*****
It had killed him to leave her there, her quivering body tied to his writing table. Radcliff wanted nothing more than to help her achieve the greatest ecstasy her body could know. But it was true that he had an appointment.
She would hate him for this. But it was worth it to hear her utter her desire. Yes, yes, my body is yours. Yours alone.
She would not believe him if he told her that he suffered with her. His arousal had strained against him from the moment she attempted to tear her dress. If it could speak, it would have howled i
n rage against him for not allowing it to sink into her wetness. It had taken every ounce of restraint when he had witnessed that clear honey glistening down the length of her and onto the surface of the writing table.
But she would understand now that she was his and could only be his. And he knew now, more than ever, that he was hers and could only be hers.
“Miss Sherwood’s horse is still here,” his perplexed butler explained to Radcliff upon his return.
“Yes, I know,” Radcliff said briskly as he tossed his hat and gloves to the man. He could wait no longer. He had to have her.
He opened the door to his study and was relieved and guilt-ridden to see her still tied to his writing table. She was struggling against her bindings liked a caged animal. Hoping he had not tied her bonds too tightly, he silently promised her that he would make it up to her—for the rest of his life. He sauntered over to inspect her.
She was wetter than ever.
Thank God, Radcliff thought. His assumption had been correct. When he met her eyes, which were casting daggers at him, he gave her his best devilish grin. Still defiant. And he would have it no other way with Darcy Sherwood.
“I know you, Radcliff,” Pinkerton had told him, “need someone as bloody cocky as yourself.”
She was perfect for him, Radcliff concluded as he stared at her beautiful bound body. In wit, passion, honesty, and flesh, his match—and better. It was time to bring her to the rapture she deserved.
He reached between her legs and stroked her. Her body responded like a well-tuned instrument. She had been hanging on the edge of spending for so long that it did not take her long to climax. Spasms erupted throughout her body. Her body would have arched off the table if not for her bonds.
Before she completely recovered from her orgasm, Radcliff undid her bonds and flipped her over onto her stomach. With her breasts flattened by the desk and her arse hanging deliciously off the edge of the table, he drew out his length and pushed it into her. Having been deprived of her for so long, it felt as if he were entering her for the very first time.
It felt sublime.
After only a few well drawn thrusts, he had Darcy riding her second orgasm. His orgasm came with a blinding fury. His thighs shook as he pumped himself into her once, twice, thrice. He felt like collapsing on top of her, but he knew she must have been sore from being tied to the writing table. Collecting her body in his arms, he carried her over to the sofa. She breathed what sounded like a contented sigh and leaned her head against him. This, too, felt sublime.
That Wicked Harlot (A Steamy Regency Romance Collection Book 2) Page 17