Submitting to His Lordship

by EM BROWN

  His kisses became more adamant, more hungry. He held her head in place with one hand while he took whole mouthfuls of her. Instinctively she put a hand upon his forearm, though he had yet to be exceedingly rough with her. Desire bloomed below her waist. He had taken her last night. Would he go so far as to do that in the gardens?

  As if in answer to her question, he abruptly swept her off her feet and laid her across the marble bench. He continued to kiss her, his tongue darting into her mouth only ever so often, teasing her with the possibilities. She grew warm quickly, and not just from the heat of his body over hers. The simple weight of him upon her was enthralling. She was not completely at ease with where they were, but she had learned from her experience yesterday not to protest too much. And in truth her mind was being superseded by the wishes of her body.

  The bench was cold and hard, but another discomfort, one that could only be satiated by his lordship, proved more urgent. With every kiss upon her neck, her collar, the tops of her breasts, the yearning grew. She arched her back, allowing him greater access to her neck. His hand was upon one breast, pulling down her décolletage until he could access the nipple, which he sucked and fondled with his tongue. Arrows of desire shot from her bosom to her cunnie, and she could feel the moisture gathering between her legs.

  This was hardly fair. If she were to be publicly exposed in such a manner, the least he could do was to join her. She reached for the buttons of his pants.

  “Not yet,” he mumbled as he placed her hands back at her sides.

  After easing himself off of her, he pushed her skirts above her knees and spread them apart. Standing between her legs, he appraised her wanton position. She watched curiously as he lowered himself onto a knee. He kissed the inside of a thigh. She shivered at the delicate caress. His kisses trailed upwards to her cunnie. No man had ever had his face so close to that most intimate part of her body. What did he intend? His head was beneath her skirts.

  “Bloody damnation,” she swore when his tongue flicked at her clitoris.

  Her body jumped at the trespass, but he held her hips firmly in place.

  “I cannot submit to this,” she protested, trying to sit up. This was embarrassing and wanton beyond words.

  “You will,” he said from beneath her skirts.

  She took a deep breath, squeezing her eyes shut when he licked her once more. Still unaccustomed to the touch, she attempted to squirm from his grasp.

  “Relax and enjoy,” he encouraged.

  Reluctantly, she tried to settle down. He rubbed his tongue against her flesh.

  “Ahhh!” she cried, jerking.

  It was a delicious sensation but still too foreign a concept.

  “Hold still,” he commanded.

  “I can’t.”

  Having a cock between her legs fit a natural order. Having his head there was surely blasphemous? But then, what at Chateau Follet was not improper?

  He looked up from under the skirts at her. “Are you defying me, Miss Herwood?”

  She groaned, sensing defeat, but made a last attempt to defend herself. “The body has impulses, my lord, not easily controlled.”

  “Try harder.”

  With a sigh, she lay back, but he slapped the inside of her thigh with his hand, causing her to sit back up.

  “What was that for?” she demanded.

  “For protesting. Now, you will submit and, more importantly, you will spend.”

  Impossible, she replied silently, but she lay back again. When he nuzzled her with his nose, it took all of her not to recoil. How could he do such a thing? It was wet down there, with a distinctive smell. And she had no idea how it looked.

  He fondled her nub with his tongue. It was slick, and the sensation differed from his fingers. Moaning, she dug her nails into her palm. What if she did not spend? Would she be punished? Would she need to pretend to spend?

  “Oh!” she exclaimed when his tongue found a particularly sensitive spot.

  He worked the area with surprising effect. His tongue was proving rather pleasurable. She concentrated on the sensations, pushing away thoughts of how it was happening. His touch became more forceful. Her resistance began to fade as he stoked her lust. She writhed upon the rigid bench but did not attempt to escape. Her legs, bent and exposed, felt awkward. She knew not what to do with them as the pressure in her cunnie built.

  “My God,” she breathed when he sucked on her clitoris and tugged it gently with his teeth.

  She was going to spend. She should never have doubted him. He quickened his pace in response to her ascent. Tension, jarring and magnificent, mounted and spread from her cunnie into her abdomen and down through her legs. She almost feared the impending climax, wanting and resisting what was to come. He kept a firm grip on her hips and held in her place when at last the unraveling of her desire crashed through her body. Her legs flayed of their own accord, bumping against him, as the most glorious shivers overcame her.

  Her cry sent the birds scattering from the tree tops. She felt as if she had been catapulted into the skies. When she sank back down from the heavens, her limbs a little weakened by the spasms, she found Lord Rockwell upon his feet, staring down at her. The area about his mouth and even his chin glistened from her moisture.

  “Well done, Miss Herwood,” he said.

  She flushed. “I think the praise ought to be placed with your lordship.”

  He returned her smile and passed her his handkerchief. She applied it to his face first, admiring the contours of his lips as she wiped around it. Despite the wickedness of what he had just done, she now found his efforts endearing. Just as she had finished cleansing his face, she realized he was staring at her with that unnamed intensity. She stared back, locked in his gaze. For several beats, the world consisted of only him and the beating of her heart.

  As if startled, he put an end to the moment. “My turn.”

  He took the handkerchief from her and gently wiped the moisture that had dripped down her derriere. He then offered her a hand up. Only then did she realize how relieved she was not to be lying against the marble. Just as her skirts fell back down, they heard the sound of footsteps.

  “Lady Isabella has arisen, my lord,” a maid told him.

  “I shall speak with her now,” he replied, clearly expecting the information.

  Deana willed herself not to be jealous.

  He turned back to her. “Shall I see you to the library? Madame Follet has an extensive collection of books and magazines.”

  “Are they as stimulating as her art?”

  “I leave that to your own determination,” he replied with a grin.

  “I should like to enjoy the garden more.”

  “Very well. I will seek you in an hour’s time.”

  She watched as he took his leave, wondering what he had to confer with Lady Isabella about. It was none of her business, of course, and she had no intention of inquiring. The problem for her was that her attraction to and affection for Lord Rockwell were growing. It was a most troubling development.

  * * * * *

  “Ohhhh,” Isabella groaned as she held her head in her hands. She turned to the maid and snapped, “Close that curtain a bit. It is far too bright in here.”

  Halsten handed Isabella a cup of black coffee and pulled a chair alongside her bed where she lay propped against a mountain of pillows. “You should refrain from drinking, my dear.”

  She glared at him, but as he remained unruffled, she turned her anger upon the maid. “Stop scurrying about! Your motions have a dizzying effect upon me!”

  “Her ladyship will be in bed a while yet,” he informed the chambermaid. “You may return in half an hour.”

  Looking relieved, the maid curtsied and left.

  “Drink the coffee,” he directed Isabella.

  She stared into the cup. “Will it cure my headache?”

  “No, but it will help.”

  She took small sips.

  “Have you reconsidered your stay here?”r />
  “I am capable of caring for myself,” she retorted.

  “Your current condition begs to differ.”

  “I have no intention of consuming the same quantity of wine, if it pleases you.”

  “I shall rest easy when you are home safe with your father.”

  Her petulance faded and she looked at him with more appreciation. “Are you truly concerned with my welfare?”

  “Yes, especially as you have shown yourself to be careless and irresponsible.”

  She made an aggravated sound.

  “I reiterate my warnings of last night: Lord Devon is not suitable company and the Chateau Follet no place for a lady.”

  “Are you not being hypocritical, Halsten? Do you consider yourself suitable company?”

  “I would not have brought you here.”

  “And Miss Sherwood? Is she no lady? Is that why you have no qualms with her?”

  He felt unexpectedly angry. “Leave her be. She is not the subject of our discussion.”

  “Then why have you not counseled her to leave Chateau Follet?”

  His conscience stirred uncomfortably. That the accusation of hypocrisy should come from an immature source made it no less true.

  “Have you your honor still?”

  Her eyes doubled in size at his boldfaced question.

  “It is none of your affair,” she fumed.

  “I pray you did not surrender your maidenhead to Lord Devon. It is far too precious for that idiot.”

  “I have not! My honor is quite intact.”

  “But you were planning to gift it to Devon.”

  She flushed, and were it not for the situation, he would have found her blush heightened her loveliness, even in her disagreeable state and her hair mussed from sleep.

  “Perhaps,” she mumbled, then perked up. “Would you rather I present it to you, Halsten?”

  He frowned. “I would you retain your honor until wed.”

  “My cousin informed me that losing one’s maidenhead is quite pleasurable.”

  “I would be cautious with your cousin’s advice. You are the daughter of a duke. Surely you are aware of the consequences. You have a responsibility—”

  “I did not ask to be the daughter of a Duke.”

  “Isabella, stop being childish. You have no wish to be otherwise.”

  “Perhaps I do! Perhaps I would rather be Miss Sherwood!”

  He wanted to bark at her to stop mentioning Miss Herwood. He rose to his feet in exasperation.

  “If you’ve a desire to forfeit your maidenhead,” he tried, “you could find someone more deserving than Lord Devon.”

  “Why have you such a loathing for the man?”

  “He is no gentleman.”

  “Hah! But you are?”

  “He cares only for his own pleasure.”

  “You do not give him enough credit. He has been quite considerate to me. Indeed, he admits his rakish behavior. But he says I am quite different from the others he has been with.”

  “His charms can be quite persuasive but do not be taken by such flattery.”

  “I have no reason to think him insincere.”

  It was all he could do not to roll his eyes. The conversation was not having the desired intent. He had hoped to convince her to leave Chateau Follet as soon as possible, but Isabella could not be reasoned with. He would have to pursue his other strategy.

  * * * * *

  “Riding with Lord Devon and Lady Isabella?” Deana echoed.

  Bhadra was already laying out the riding clothes for her. “His lordship will be waiting downstairs.”

  “I suppose I mustn’t keep him waiting,” Deana sighed. She had wanted to go riding again but not with additional company.

  Bhadra seemed to take extra pains with the toilette, pinning the hat multiple times to ensure it was in its proper place.

  “Thank you,” she said to Bhadra. Perhaps her smart attire would mask her lack of skill in riding.

  Perhaps.

  As handsome as she may have appeared, she could not compare to Isabella, who looked stunning in her plumed hat and fitted nankeen habit with frog and braided ornaments.

  “Miss Sherwood, how delightful that you and Rockwell could accompany us,” Lord Devon greeted, bowing over her gloved hand.

  Deana could sense the Baron tensing. If he did not like Lord Devon, why agree to go riding with them? The answer was, of course, obvious. Whatever distaste he had for Lord Devon was trumped by Lady Isabella.

  The weather was agreeable as they took their horses out. They rode a different route than the day before. Deana was not entirely comfortable riding, but fortunately the terrain they traversed was fairly easy. She envied the men for they seemed much more stable riding their horses astride. At one point their path narrowed and she found herself alongside Lord Devon with Rockwell and Lady Isabella in front of them. Lord Devon had been extolling the fox hunting about Chateau Follet and was his usual cheerful self.

  They came upon a clearing and decided to set up a picnic beneath the shade of a tree. The men spread the blanket. Deana busied herself with unpacking the wine glasses, fruits and cheese, conscious of Lady Isabella’s study of her all the while. At one point she returned the woman’s gaze and smiled. Isabella looked away.

  “I’ve brought a little reading,” Devon announced, eyes shining. “From the Follet library, a rare copy from Holland, Justine ou Les Malheurs de la vertu.”

  Deana noted the frown upon Rockwell’s countenance.

  “By that fellow the Marquis de Sade?” Isabella inquired.

  Devon waved the book. “The very one.”

  “How scandalous!”

  “Perhaps we ought to take turns reading from it. Miss Sherwood, would you do us the honor of being first?”

  He handed her the book, which she opened to an engraving of a young woman, scantily dressed, between a naked man and a woman who seemed bent on ill will. Deana frowned at the title page. Her French was very poor. She would be hard pressed to read even the shortest passage.

  “This is highly inappropriate,” Rockwell said.

  “Inappropriate?” Devon echoed. “There could be no setting more appropriate than the Chateau Follet. You are aware of Monsieur Follet’s association with de Sade?”

  “The work of de Sade is not suited for the present company.”

  Isabella, amused by Rockwell’s seriousness added, “La! Pray tell you have not become a prudish old woman, Halsten?”

  “I am sure Miss Sherwood has never read the work of de Sade. Are you not the least bit interested, Miss Sherwood?” asked Devon.

  Deana looked down at the book and admitted, despite the solemn look from Rockwell, “A little.”

  “I have not read from him either,” Isabella said.

  “There! We ought not deprive these ladies,” Devon declared.

  Rockwell took the book away from Deana. “There are descriptions in here of a graphic nature and obscenities most foul—”

  “The same are conducted within the very walls of Chateau Follet. I think you have been absent from the East Wing for too long. What is the harm in a little literary titillation?”

  “You may find the rape and torture of a girl but twelve years of age titillating, but I do not.”

  “Ah! You know the story! Do you dare admit you have read it?”

  “I have read it in its entirety. De Sade’s intent to provoke and revolt is accomplished to great effect.”

  “I refuse to believe you found no erotic qualities to the work.”

  “Lord Devon, there is a great difference between a woman who takes pleasure in punishment and one, Justine, who is subjected to the most extreme mistreatments against her will.”

  “It is merely a work of fiction.”

  “Come, Halsten, we are not children,” Isabella said.

  “Perhaps we can discuss the merits of the novel after reading from it.”

  “The two of you may do so,” Rockwell replied, “but Miss Sherwood and I will
not be joining. If naughty literature is what you seek, I would sooner read from Fanny Hill.”

  “I have that as well.” Devon pulled out another book. “Miss Sherwood, I insist you be the first reader.”

  Fortunately the book was written by an Englishman, John Cleland. Deana glanced at Rockwell, who seemed to relent.

  “Open the book to any page,” Devon instructed before laying himself down, his head in Isabella’s lap.

  Rockwell’s face darkened. Deana opened the book. Perhaps the reading would distract him from his jealousy.

  “’The young gentleman, by Phoebe's guess, was about two and twenty; tall and well limbed. His body was finely formed and of a most vigorous make, square-shouldered, and broad-chested: his face was not remarkable in any way, but for a nose inclining to the Roman, eyes large, black, and sparkling, and a ruddiness in his cheeks that was the more a grace, for his complexion was of the brownest, not of that dusky dun colour which excludes the idea of freshness, but of that clear, olive gloss which, glowing with life, dazzles perhaps less than fairness, and yet pleases more, when it pleases at all. His hair, being too short to tie, fell no lower than his neck, in short easy curls; and he had a few sprigs about his paps, that garnished his chest in a style of strength and manliness.’”

  “You read with a most delightful voice, Miss Sherwood,” complimented Lord Devon.

  Deana continued, but felt her face redden with each word. “’Then his grand movement, which seemed to rise out of a thicket of curling hair that spread from the root all round thighs and belly up to the navel, stood stiff and upright, but of a size to frighten me, by sympathy, for the small tender part which was the object of its fury, and which now lay exposed to my fairest view; for he had, immediately on stripping off his shirt, gently pushed her down on the couch, which stood conveniently to break her willing fall. Her thighs were spread out to their utmost extension, and discovered between them the mark of the sex, the red-centered cleft of flesh, whose lips, vermilioning inwards, exprest a small rubid line in sweet miniature, such as Guido's touch of colouring could never attain to the life or delicacy of.’”

  She paused. Rockwell was looking at her in interest.

  “Pray, continue,” he said.