Submitting to His Lordship

by EM BROWN

  When she looked across to the Baron, his discerning stare made her feel as if her questions were writ upon her face.

  “Why did you forfeit that hand in brag?” she directed at him as the carriage lurched forward.

  Settling into the plush seats, he did not disavow her accusation. “Because I could, Miss Herwood.”

  “Is my situation that apparent?”

  “You presume my action to be one of philanthropy?”

  Taken aback, she could not voice her query: Why else?

  Confused, she replied, “My prospects are not as bleak as you would believe.”

  “Indeed? You frequent a gaming hall merely for sport.”

  She could not tell if he mocked her for amusement or to make a point. He sat away from the window and the light of the carriage lantern, and his dry tone was too difficult to interpret. It was she who sat in the glow of the light, her every expression visible to him.

  “I do not intend to be a regular for long,” she said.

  “A wise choice. In the interim, might I suggest you lower your consumption of port?”

  Her cheeks grew hot. She almost retorted that she was not wont to drink such quantities until he appeared. Instead, she rebuffed, “You have an affinity for playing my guardian, Lord Rockwell.”

  She thought she heard a smile in his response. “It is a role in need of fulfillment.”

  “Ah, that is why you have returned to our humble gaming hall—that or the company of Miss Walpole drew you.”

  Despite the gaiety in her voice, she wished she had not uttered that last refrain. She had thought herself better than that and was disappointed to find that she could be as jealous as the most petty of women.

  “She draws many a patron,” she fumbled. “The gaming hall is quite fortunate to have her company.”

  “How fare your mother and your aunt?”

  “As well as can be. Better. Thank you,” she replied, relieved that the query saved her from further embarrassing babble. She would have asked after his family, but she knew his parents to have passed.

  Rain began pelting the carriage window.

  “And you, Miss Herwood? How fare you?”

  The gentle eagerness in his tone warmed her. They were no longer lovers, but perhaps they could be friends.

  “I am well, especially now that I sit sheltered from the elements due to the foresight and insistence of one very patronizing baron.”

  He chuckled and stretched out his long legs.

  Encouraged, she continued, “If you intend to make a habit of losing at brag, I shall have to ensure my frequent attendance at the gaming hall.”

  “That would not do. A gaming hall is hardly an appropriate den for a young woman.”

  At six and twenty, she was considered a spinster by most, but she replied instead, her words coming out more breathy than intended, “Yes, as one might come across questionable rogues with outlandish propositions.”

  He shared in her mirth. “Precisely.”

  When the carriage pulled up in front of the townhome she shared with her mother and aunt, Deana could not help but feel disappointed they could not continue their tête-à-tête.

  Rockwell assisted her from the carriage. Taking the umbrella from the footman, he walked her to the door.

  “I suppose I should be much indebted to you,” she remarked as they reached the threshold.

  “You owe me nothing, Miss Herwood,” he affirmed.

  They stood too close beneath the umbrella for her to look long into his eyes. The rain about them served as walls penning them in, and despite the cool night air, she felt warmed by his nearness. She noticed the driver and footman discretely looking away.

  “I should return you your winnings. It was not fairly won.”

  At his frown, she added, “At the very least, I should offer you the opportunity to win back your money.”

  “I would rather have your company.”

  She stared at him, uncomprehending.

  “I am to spend some days in the country at the Chateau Follet,” he continued. “I would be much obliged if you were to join me.”

  She hoped her mouth did not fall dumbly agape at yet another outrageous proposition from the Baron Rockwell.

  “That is no mere invitation to tea,” she said, unsure of how she should feel. Is that why he had let her win at brag? Were her winnings intended as a payment of sorts for her company? Had he sought her out in coming to the gaming hall then? And above all, why her?

  With his uncanny ability to read her thoughts, he answered, “Your winnings tonight are yours regardless of whether or not you agree to accompany me.”

  “When is your intended trip?” she asked for lack of a better response.

  “It is an open invitation from the hostess.”

  “Lord Rockwell, you must disavow these tendencies to proposition me,” she said, feeling her wits returning. “You disapprove of my patronage at a gaming hall—a disapproval I find quite hypocritical as you are a patron of the same—yet would invite unspeakable scandal upon me were I to accept this invitation of yours.”

  “Chateau Follet is immensely discrete.”

  “I am neither your mistress nor your whore, Lord Rockwell.”

  She saw a muscle ripple along his jaw and decided it was best to end their conversation before she incurred his wrath.

  “I bid you good night.”

  She stepped out from under the umbrella and managed to unlock the door despite her trembling hands. Without a backward glance, she hurried inside the house, safe from the rain and safe from Lord Rockwell.

  Chapter Two

  THE RAIN PERSISTED into the morning. Sitting in the comfort of his study, Halsten cursed to himself as he recalled the events of the prior night. He had been too injudicious with Miss Herwood and had spoken with the hastiness of a callow youth rather than the maturity of his thirty years. She had such an effect upon him. Despite the year that had passed, her influence only seemed to have grown more potent. Standing beneath the umbrella with her, their bodies so close it was miraculous that they did not touch, he could not resist. He wanted another night with her.

  Nay, he wanted more.

  He rose from his chair to walk off the tightening in his groin whenever he recalled his tryst with Miss Herwood. How lovely her derriere had looked quivering beneath the tails. How exquisite her form bent over the chair. How beguiling her groans as she succumbed to him. He had had little doubt that she would find pleasure in his forbidden proclivities. Though her initial fear and doubt was expected, she had not judged or condemned him for a deviant. She had acquiesced rather quickly—though he had proposed a wicked wager to tempt her consent. It had been an unfair wager. He knew full well he would make her spend.

  What he had not expected was the impression their encounter had made upon him. Though he had not anticipated they would spend more than one evening together, he had to withhold himself from seeking her out in the following days. How often had he jerked his cock while on the chair to which he had trussed her? Even now he felt a desire to venture into the room where he kept the implements of his carnal interests and work his cock till he could think no more.

  He had even taken himself to India in an effort to forget her. Granted, he had business in India to tend to, but the trip had not been necessary. He had no fondness for the long journey, and whilst in India, her absence was made more palpable. He found himself thinking of the temples that he would show her and how delighted she would have been by the markets with their teas and silks. A visit to the most infamous brothel in Mumbai proved as fruitless in erasing Miss Herwood from his mind. As he pounded his cock into one particularly limber nautch dancer who could wrap her ankles behind her head, her slender frame so light he could have picked her up with one hand, he longed for the fleshier body of Miss Herwood.

  Gradually, sessions in Parliament, a passing courtship with the daughter of a Duke, and a trip to Bath with Lucille, his younger sister, did force the memory of Miss Herwood to
recede. But when he heard a friend mention the gaming hall that he knew Miss Herwood to favor, he could not resist seeing if she was still there. He wondered if she had kept the ivory elephant he had gifted her in their last and only correspondence since their affair, but Miss Herwood was not a sentimental woman. He had quickly gathered that her financial situation had not changed since last they met.

  His steward interrupted his reverie. “A letter from Miss Rockwell, your lordship.”

  Breaking the seal, Halsten scanned the contents of the letter. In between reprimands of his cruelty for leaving her with their Aunt Sophia and lamenting the tedium that would surely send her to an early grave, Lucille alternately scolded him and begged him to allow her to come to London.

  “You treat me as you would a child,” she had complained upon his last visit.

  “And I will continue to do so until you are happily married to a man who can provide for you,” he had responded without lifting his eyes from the newspaper.

  “A more ruthless guardian could not be had than mine own brother!”

  Shaking his head at the memory of her words, Halsten cast the letter onto his writing table. He knew he could not keep her long from London. She had already had her come-out last Season, but he knew her primary interest in London at the moment was a young man named Wilson. It was an unsuitable match, and he was quite disappointed with Sophia for having allowed the friendship between the two to occur. Distance and time would cool their interest.

  If only the same could prove true for him and Miss Herwood.

  * * * * *

  The winnings from last night’s game of brag with Lord Rockwell remained in Deana’s purse for she had not wanted to touch them. She had no desire to keep his money, but her more frugal side would not allow her to indulge her anger by tossing the winnings. Did he think that because she had accepted his first proposition—an acceptance under duress, no less, given her need to alleviate her financial distress—that he could waltz into the gaming hall and proposition her as if she were his mistress?

  But she was as indignant with herself, for a part of her wanted to accept his invitation. Still cross the following day, she took herself to the gaming hall once more despite her decision not to return for some time. She reasoned that another evening spent at the gaming hall meant avoiding her mother and aunt and their constant laments. It had not at all to do with one patronizing baron.

  He was not at all the reason she had put on her best frock. The bright blue with lace trim at the décolletage lent color to the dullness of her hair and plain brown eyes. Though mostly parsimonious with her rouge and powder, she paid more heed to the ample use of cosmetics to draw attention to the few features she considered fine: her high cheekbones and unblemished complexion.

  Her luck that evening proved unexceptional. She won at brag and lost at piquet. All the while she would glance at the entry of the card-room, wondering if Lord Rockwell would make an appearance. The bottle of port tempted her throughout the evening, but she was mindful of Lord Rockwell’s admonishment. She had no wish to provide him another opportunity to reprove her.

  She was in the midst of a run at faro when Rockwell appeared. She fumbled her chips. Though Miss Walpole was quick to approach him as the page assisted him with his hat and gloves, he made no secret that the object of his gaze was one Deana Herwood. He did not look pleased. Deana wondered if she had offended him. No doubt accustomed to women flattered by his propositions, he must have taken exception to her rejection of him.

  “I think I shall take a respite,” she informed the other players before taking her leave.

  She went to the dining hall to gather her thoughts. Of course she could not hide from him all evening. What if he intended to frequent the gaming hall with regularity? A distressing thought indeed. What would she do then? Patronize another gaming hall? But why should she forsake her grounds to him? She would simply have to find a way to ignore him, a task she knew to be easier said than done. Picking at the food upon her plate, she wondered why she had ordered beefsteak when she knew she had no appetite?

  “May I?”

  As she was sitting, Lord Rockwell seemed to tower over her. He was alone with no Miss Walpole in sight. He had a hand upon the back of the chair opposite her, and she could not help but admire his long deft fingers. Those fingers had once fondled her most intimate parts in the most delectable manner...

  Snapping her attention away from his hand, she replied, “As you wish, but I am nearly finished here.”

  He eyed the uneaten beefsteak, potatoes and turnips. Without word, he took a seat at the small table. He ordered a Madeira. She should have rebuffed his request to join her. Alas, she had not her best wits in his presence.

  “I am sorry to have offended you, Miss Herwood.”

  She blinked several times. Though she merited his apology, she had not expected a man of his standing would offer it to someone like her.

  “Indeed,” she answered, unsure of how to handle the surprise as she mindlessly moved the vegetables around on her plate.

  “I had thought, perhaps mistakenly, there to have been favorable sentiments from our last proposition.”

  She looked him square in the eyes. “My lord, that was a year ago. Do you suppose I have little more to attend than to wait for you to appear at a moment’s notice to proposition me?”

  He bristled. “Of course not.”

  “Hmmm. I am not entirely convinced,” she murmured.

  His brows shot up, but then he met her grin. “Careful, Miss Herwood.”

  There was a salacious quality to his warning, and she decided further conversation would not prove safe. She rose to her feet. “I appreciate and accept your apology, Lord Rockwell. Shall we be friends?”

  She extended her hand as an olive branch. He looked at it, took it in the warm grasp of his long fingers, and brought it to his lips. She nearly gasped. The kiss was brief, but her whole body lit up. Her heart palpitated twice as fast.

  “Friends, Miss Herwood.”

  She smiled wanly, then left the dining hall as quick as she could for she doubted she could put two words together. She paused in a deserted hallway and forced herself to take a deep breath.

  A page came up to her. “Pardon, miss, be you Miss Herwood?”

  She nodded.

  “This come by courier.”

  He handed her a small note and left after receiving his tip. Deana opened the note. It was from her Aunt Lydia bidding her to come home for Adeline had fallen gravely ill.

  Chapter Three

  “NERVES,” THE DOCTOR EXPLAINED. “Has she been under strain or duress?”

  Deana glanced through the open bedroom at door at her mother, who lay in bed with eyes closed, a furrow upon her brow.

  “Nothing more than customary,” Deana replied. “She seemed well enough yester evening when I left. Though we did have that visit from the collector this morning, I wonder that would be all? Aunt Lydia?”

  Her aunt kept her gaze lowered. “We did receive a notice by courier—just after you had left, Deana. If the rent is not received within a sennight, we must seek other accommodations.”

  Deana paled. “But I thought we had been granted a stay?”

  Lydia shook her head. “Your mother received a letter last week that we have exhausted the reprieve. If we do not pay all that is owed, we shall, in short, be thrown out.”

  “How did I not know this?”

  “Your mother wanted your attentions focused, er, elsewhere.”

  “This is grave indeed,” the doctor said. “Your mother is in no condition to be moved. Have you no funds at your disposal?”

  It would take an incredible streak of luck at the gaming hall to amass the amount needed. They had long since exhausted the kindness of family, mostly distant, and friends, which had grown fewer and fewer. She knew of only one man for whom the sum would be no hardship. Perhaps Lord Rockwell would take pity upon her once more, but how could she expect his generosity when she had rebuffed him
the other night? She doubted she had the courage to approach him. The thought of asking for his charity made her cringe inside. Pride won over pragmatism.

  “I am sorry for your circumstances,” the Doctor said, “but to keep from worsening your mother’s state, you must not cause her further distress.”

  “What are we to do?” Lydia cried, wringing her hands, after the Doctor had left.

  “Fear not, a solution will avail itself,” she assured her aunt.

  But she very much doubted her own lie.

  * * * * *

  Putting down his pen, he leaned his head over the back of his chair in his study and closed his eyes. He did not like the consternation he felt. He would do well to forget Miss Herwood—as he had intended a year ago. She had made it clear she wanted nothing beyond a chaste friendship with him. And it was just as well. He had a duty to Lucille and the barony. Perhaps it was time he renewed his efforts to seek a wife.

  Yes, he would forget Miss Herwood once and for all this time.

  “Miss Herwood, my lord.”

  Halsten sat at attention to face his steward. “Pardon?”

  “A Miss Herwood is here to see you.”

  “Show her in.”

  He strode to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of sherry. This was most unexpected. Remembering how discreet she had been with her first visit here in the dead of night, he wondered what could have brought her to see him in the light of day?

  “Lord Rockwell.”

  He turned to see her standing at the threshold, the veil of her bonnet pulled low over her face, but he could make out her bottom lip. The thought of taking that mouth in his warmed his loins. He threw back the sherry.

  “Miss Herwood.”

  He noticed the tight manner in which she clutched her reticule.

  “May I offer you a glass of port?” he asked.

  Her mouth quirked to the side. “I thought you disapproved of my drinking?”

  “When done to inebriation.”

  “I seldom...It would seem you are witness to the moments when I have become a little intoxicated. A coincidence, I wonder?”