“He is a rather talented writer. Few details escape him. He, well, he creates a vivid picture,” she answered with some unease.
He glanced back towards the picnic. They had walked out of sight, but he had no desire for Devon or Isabella to show up unexpectedly if he were to initiate anything with Miss Herwood. Bad enough that Devon was in the company of Isabella. He had no wish for Devon to be further interested in Miss Herwood.
“Have you an interest in reading more of Fanny Hill?” he asked, steering the discussion away from a topic that would have his shaft bursting.
“Yes. But I would not read of de Sade.”
He nodded. “The images of de Sade are far more dark and savage.”
“That the heroine is but twelve is most disturbing.”
“Devon would not be so dismissive if he had a daughter of his own.”
“Or a sister?”
The hairs on his neck stood on end. The mere thought of Lucille suffering anything of what Justine had endured was enough to drive him mad. He quickly changed the direction of discussion.
“As a work of political philosophy, there is much to be said for de Sade. His work is undoubtedly provocative.”
“Then I would read it but for one overbearing Baron who believes the constitution of the fair sex too weak to bear the imagery.”
He stiffened. “I have faith in your constitution, but I cannot say the same for Lady Isabella. Hers is more delicate.”
“Ah.”
She turned away from him, and he could not read her expression. He sensed a coolness in her demeanor. He tried to improve it with praise.
“You read extraordinarily well. The work is much improved through the quality of your voice.”
She turned to look at him, and he sensed the distance had melted.
“I was relieved to be reading English. My French is not nearly as good.”
“You were aroused by what you read.”
She blushed. Her loveliness had somehow grown from a year ago. He wanted nothing more than to reach for her, but if he did, he was unsure he could stop himself from taking her upon the pebbled ground. Or maybe he could pin her against a tree, her legs wrapped about him.
“As was Lord Devon,” she murmured.
His jaw clenched. He would have her refrain from ever uttering that name.
“If you’ve a strong desire to read more Cleland, I can procure you a copy of Fanny Hill.”
“Hopefully in less than two day’s time, I will have a hundred pounds from you. I do not require more than that.”
Their remaining time together sounded awfully short of a sudden. He had to have her soon. And all to himself. The ride and picnic with Devon and Isabella had been his own doing so that he could keep an eye upon Isabella.
“We have walked a ways and should return.”
They turned around and headed back to the picnic. There was no more talk of de Sade or Cleland. He admired the comfort of their silence. He knew far too many women who felt the need to fill a void with chatter.
When they came upon Isabella and Devon, he sensed something amiss. Isabella was staring into her glass of wine, her mouth twisted as if she had stomach ache. There was moisture in her eyes, and her hair was a bit mussed. Devon was lounging an arm’s length from her, reading from Justine.
Dear God.
Halsten fisted his hand. It was all he could do not to take the riding crop and whip the man into oblivion.
“Let us return to the Chateau,” he said.
They packed their articles. Isabella had the deportment of a shy little girl as she wordlessly went to stand beside her horse. He went to assist her in mounting, leaving Devon to do the same for Miss Herwood. Isabella winced as she sat upon the horse. He steeled himself and said nothing.
Isabella was silent the entire ride back. Devon prattled on about inane matters, addressing most of his comments to Miss Herwood, who listened politely and occasionally voiced her acknowledgment of what he said.
“I think a nap would do me good,” Devon said after their horses had been seen to the stables. “Proper rest is required for the nighttime activities at Follet.”
He bid them all adieu in the foyer and headed off to the East Wing. Halsten looked between Miss Herwood and Lady Isabella, whose eyes remained downcast. Fortunately, he saw Bhadra from the corner of his eye.
He called to the maid, “Bhadra, please escort Miss Sherwood to her chambers and assist her with her riding habit.”
After seeing Miss Herwood off with Bhadra, he turned to Isabella. “May I escort you to your room, m’lady?”
Isabella placed her hand in the crook of his arm and they walked wordlessly to her room.
“Isabella, are you well?” he asked after he had seated her upon the settee and rang for the maid.
She nodded.
He took a fortifying breath. “Did Lord Devon hurt you?”
She shook her head, then abruptly looked up at him. “I did not expect it to hurt so. It was nothing at all like what Cleland described.”
He tried to temper his anger at Devon for even the most tender of lovers could not grant a painless penetration of the hymen. He remembered the one and only time he had been with a virgin, a young Indian maid. She had shrieked so loudly, he had been frightened out of her. Then she had taken to such fits of sobbing as to convince him that he was surely the most miserable bastard alive.
“Are you bleeding much?” he asked gently.
“I have not determined, but there is a viscous moisture there.”
Lord Devon’s seed. The thought made him sick.
“A bath will cleanse and refresh you,” he told her. “Then you should consider returning to London.”
“By myself?”
“Madame Follet will relinquish one of her maids to accompany you.”
Isabella was quiet. He sensed some reluctance on her part but decided not to pursue further discussion as she was still recovering from the shock of losing her maidenhead.
“Some rest after the bath would be beneficial,” he said as the chambermaid appeared.
He took Isabella’s hand and kissed it before taking his leave. She rewarded him with a wan smile.
“Does it—does it improve?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“And will it be as blissful as what was described in the novel?”
“That depends on a great many variables, my lady.”
“Oh.”
“Isabella.”
“Yes?”
“If you should require anything, if Lord Devon should impose upon you the slightest discomfort, I am at your disposal.”
She smiled. “Thank you, Halsten.”
He bowed and left her room. In the hallway, he paused and considered seeing to Miss Herwood, but first he marched to Lord Devon’s room.
“I say!” Devon protested when Halsten entered without knocking. “A little politeness would be much appreciated!”
Devon had taken off his coat and boots. His valet was assisting with the cravat. Halsten dismissed the valet, who as if sensing something amiss, scurried away.
“I did not think you so desperate as to require a virgin for company at Chateau Follet,” Halsten began.
Devon straightened. “I had no idea Isabella was a virgin. She certainly did not conduct herself as if she were.”
“Was it not obvious? Or were you so lost in your own passion that you could not notice?”
“Well, it was a little late when I did. The surrender of a woman’s maidenhead is never painless. But no real harm has come of it.”
Halsten imagined drilling his fist into the pretty face before him.
“Lady Isabella is the daughter of the Duke of Trent. I would take proper care of her if I were you.”
“I do not mistreat my guests and take offense at your implications and your imposition.”
“If you harm Isabella, I will see that you are never welcome at Follet again.”
Devon stared at him, then pursed his lips. “
Do not threaten me, Rockwell, lest you wish to draw swords at dawn. I do not fear you or the Duke of Trent. My father is the Earl of Kensington. I suggest you attend to your own guest, the lovely Miss Sherwood. It would be a shame if she were to feel neglected.”
Devon’s words struck a chord. Halsten had noticed a look of disappointment upon Miss Herwood when he had chosen to escort Isabella to her room. It would do no good to come to blows with Devon, though he was more than tempted by the prospect of drawing swords with the man. Nonetheless, the best strategy was to keep him away from Isabella until one or the other could be removed entirely from the Chateau. Until then, what was he to do with Miss Herwood?
* * * * *
“Is something amiss, m’lady?” Bhadra asked as she assisted Deana out of her riding habit.
Deana mustered a half smile. Rockwell was clearly interested in Lady Isabella and would be with her were it not for the presence of Lord Devon and obligation on the part of Rockwell to play the good host.
“I am well.”
“Have you enjoyed your stay here, m’lady?”
The maid’s effort to initiate conversation surprised Deana out of her doldrum. “Yes, the hospitality has been more than welcoming.”
There was a pause, and Deana wondered if Bhadra would protest that she had not intended to fish for compliments.
“And your company?” Bhadra continued. “With his lordship?”
It was a very forward question, and Deana wondered at what prompted the maid to ask it. But she could not observe Bhadra, who was lacing the stays from behind.
“Yes,” Deana replied slowly. “I must admit I found his manners rather disagreeable at first, but he is much improved with familiarity. However, I do not think he is entirely partial to my company.”
“Why would my lady think otherwise?”
“If I were a man, I should prefer to pursue the Lady Isabella.”
“His lordship is most concerned with your welfare and asked me to service you with the best of care.”
“He is a magnanimous host.”
“It has been some time since last his lordship was here, but in times past, it was apparent he only half-enjoyed his time and company.”
Deana caught Bhadra’s gaze for only a few seconds before the maid retrieved the bodice of the evening gown. She wondered at the purpose of Bhadra’s statement.
“But he seems to derive much satisfaction in yours,” Bhadra finished.
Deana contemplated what had been said. Bhadra might know better than most the true sentiments of Lord Rockwell. Perhaps he even confided in the maid. That he enjoyed his time with her, however, did not negate his preference for Lady Isabella.
“Thank you, Bhadra,” Deana acknowledged of the attempt to console her. “It has been a pleasure to know you.”
Bhadra made a curt nod and finished dressing Deana for dinner. Deana looked at the reflection of herself in a pale blue frock with white lace edging. She wished there could be another night in which she could wear the sari. She had felt beautiful then.
At dinner neither Lord Devon nor Lady Isabella were present. Though she had Rockwell all to herself, he seemed preoccupied and they conversed little. Madame Follet had the card tables brought out after dinner. Deana encouraged Rockwell to play, thinking it might lighten his mood. They had just sat down to a round of vingt-et-un when Lord Devon and Lady Isabella appeared. Contrary to her quietness after the picnic earlier, Lady Isabella seemed in cheerful spirits. She flashed them a large smile as she fluttered her ivory handled fan. Lord Devon was his customary self.
“I might as well hand over my money now, eh?” Devon quipped as the pair sat down at their table.
Deana raised a quizzical brow.
“Are you not a maestro at this game, Miss Sherwood?”
“I have played it many a time,” Deana replied, “but there is always the element of luck, which no man can master.”
“As there are four of us, perhaps a game of whist is in order.”
Deana looked over at Rockwell, whose countenance had darkened considerably since the advent of the couple.
“Very well,” she agreed for a few hands of whist was surely harmless.
“Now, what shall the stakes be?”
“Whatever you wish,” Lady Isabella replied. “There can be no amount Rockwell here can ill afford.”
“You would have to carry us both,” Deana said quietly to him, “as I am, well, low in the way of funds.”
Devon waved dismissively. “Rockwell here can front you any sum you desire. For myself, I prefer stakes of a different sort. Perhaps you would care to join me, Miss Sherwood?”
Beside her, Rockwell stiffened. The Baron seemed more displeased with Devon than ever.
“What manner of stakes?” she asked.
“If we win, you join us in the East Wing tonight. If you win, name your price.”
Rockwell straightened as if interested. Deana wondered what he would name as the price. Would he ask for the Lady Isabella? As for losing, venturing into the East Wing could not be so bad. After all, the Lady Isabella was staying there.
“Why not?” Deana replied.
Chapter Fourteen
DEANA WAS CONSCIOUS OF Rockwell’s stare but began shuffling. He put his hand upon hers to stop her.
“I have not agreed to the terms,” he said.
“The stakes are quite favorable, Halsten,” Lady Isabella said. “I wonder that you would turn them down? Surely our company is not so abhorrent?”
“Or perhaps it is,” Lord Devon remarked, his own tone now as solemn and quite out of character.
Deana glanced between the two men. Had something transpired between the two?
“Or perhaps he is fretful,” Lord Devon continued, assuming his carefree manner once more, “that his skills are not up to par for the East Wing.”
“What is required of our presence in the East Wing?” Rockwell asked, his voice low and dark.
“Merely that you engage with us and mirror the amusements of the East Wing.”
Silence.
“No one will come to harm,” Devon stated. “As you are well aware, one has only to employ a safety word to cease anything that is deemed unbearable.”
“The East Wing is quite exhilarating,” Isabella addressed Deana. “You ought not leave Chateau Follet without experiencing it for one simple night.”
“Yes, I should like to,” Deana said. Though it may well ruin her stay at Follet, she wanted to force Rockwell’s hand should they win.
“Miss Sherwood, a word with you,” Rockwell said rising to his feet.
Deana followed him over to the sideboard. She could tell he was displeased, but she could not determine who or what was the main culprit.
“I did not agree to Lord Devon’s terms,” he said to her.
“You proposed I honor three rules in coming to Chateau Follet,” she returned. “They had nothing to do with playing cards.”
“I know not what Devon has planned, and I would sooner task a snake not to eat a large, fat mouse before it.”
“Then you have only to win. If you wish, I will grant you the option of stating the reward should we win.”
He seemed to contemplate the enticement, then looked at her with searching eyes. “Are you certain you would wish to venture into the East Wing?”
Inside, she shook her head most vociferously, but she was assured in her speech. “Yes, I profess a great curiosity.”
It was the truth, and if Lady Isabella could tolerate it, surely she could do no worse.
They returned to the table.
“It seems I am outvoted here,” Rockwell said.
“Capital!” Devon cried. “Let us begin!”
Deana took a deep breath and handed the cards to Devon to shuffle. Rockwell then cut the cards. Her hands trembled a little as she dealt the cards. To her surprise, Rockwell called to a servant for wine and poured them each a glass. Deana took a welcome sip of the port and waited for Lord Devon to play the first
trick.
Devon and Isabella won the first score, and Deana wondered if she had been hasty in agreeing to the game. Despite her vast experience at cards, she did not often play games with partnerships. Cards had become more of a vocation than a form of amusement for her, and it had been some time since last she had played whist. Lord Rockwell, however, appeared well versed in the game. In the next round, he won enough tricks to gain them two points. Then Rockwell and Deana, feeling more relaxed after finishing her port, secured a third point. Devon and Isabella won a point from the following hand to put themselves just one point behind Rockwell and Deana.
“This could go on all night!” Isabella lamented.
“Technically impossible as the partnership to first reach five points wins,” Rockwell explained.
They played two more hands, and split the wins with one point per pair.
“I think I should like to stretch my legs with a walk about the room,” Deana said.
“A grand idea!” Devon exclaimed.
“I am more in need of another glass of port,” Isabella said with a languid wave of her fan. “Halsten, would you be so kind?”
Rockwell seemed to hesitate between satisfying Isabella’s request or joining Deana and Devon.
“Your servant,” he said to Isabella.
Of course, Deana sighed to herself and took Lord Devon’s arm.
“I must say,” Devon began when they were out of earshot of anyone. “Halsten has all the luck. How did he come by such a fetching maiden as yourself?”
“I am hardly a maiden,” Deana replied. “I’ve six and twenty years to my name.”
“Remarkable. You look not a day over eight and ten.”
“You’ve no need to flatter me, Lord Devon. I’ve no wish to be eight and ten years of age again.”
“Nor I. The years since then have been far too advantageous. But tell me more of yourself, Miss Sherwood. I know so little and confess to being greatly intrigued in your person.”
“As I remarked to Lady Isabella at dinner last night, I am most uninteresting. There is very little to tell.”
“A woman of mystery! I am further captivated!”
Observing his boyish grin, Deana could see how he could charm many a woman.
An Improper Proposition (A Steamy Regency Romance) Page 13
