Submitting to the Marquess

by Brown, Em Browint writing as Georgette

  Miss Sherwood entered some twenty minutes later. She spared him only a wordless glance before turning her back to him.

  “Unbutton my gown,” she directed.

  He crossed over to her and did as told. Once enough buttons were undone, he slid the short sleeves over her shoulders, caressing her smooth skin along the way. The gown fell to the floor.

  He stared at one of the exposed shoulders with a desire to press his mouth there. “There is little between—”

  Why he felt the need to explain his situation with his mistress was unclear to him, but Miss Sherwood spun around to place a finger to his mouth.

  “Did I give you leave to speak?”

  His hunger for her flared, and he moved to grab her to him, but she pushed against his chest.

  “Undress me first,” she commanded.

  Forced to delay his lust, he untied her stays and removed her hosiery, noting once again the small golden locket about her ankle. This time he removed her shift as well to reveal her body. His breath stopped as he gazed upon her glorious nakedness. There was so much to feast his eyes upon: her full and rounded breasts, the voluptuous swell of her hips, a curved and lofty ass, and thighs that begged him to sink his mouth into.

  Sensing his appreciation, Miss Sherwood turned to allow him a complete view of her. Once more he reached for her, but she stopped him again to relieve him of his own clothes. When she untied his cravat, Radcliff hoped that she would not use it upon him. It would have been cruel to deprive him of his sight of her now. It was hard enough watching her undress him without being able to touch her.

  She tossed his coat, cravat and shirt to the floor, then pushed him into a chair to assist him with his boots. His arousal sprang at her when she pulled down his trousers. Stepping away from him, she reached over to retrieve a bottle from her chest of drawers. He shivered and watched her pour a clear liquid from the bottle onto her palms. She rubbed it into his shaft gently and thoroughly. He groaned, sinking into the waves of pleasure that her ministrations sent through him.

  When she was done, she climbed on top of him and unloosened her hair. Placing her mouth an inch from his, she whispered, “Now you may ravage me.”

  It was the moment he had been waiting for. He grabbed her ribcage and brought her breasts to his mouth. He had never seen such tantalizingly large and dark areolas. He sucked a nipple and felt her arch her back towards him. She circled a hand to the back of his head and pushed his face further into her bosom. Alternating between his tongue and his mouth, he drew long lingering moans from her.

  Her reactions flamed his desire, and Radcliff wondered how long he could possibly wait before shoving himself into her. He slid his forefinger to her most sensitive spot, rubbing it till it swelled twice in size. He could feel her dampness on his legs and moved the finger between her legs, pressing into her. The soft moist flesh that enveloped his finger made his head swim. He watched her close her eyes and lean her head back as he fingered her.

  He moved both hands to her hips. He could wait no longer. He lifted her above his erection and pushed against her. She inhaled sharply at the initial contact. He longed to be inside her whole, but despite the aching of his arms, he held her and gradually eased her inch by inch onto his throbbing member.

  The feel of her exceeded all expectations. This was where he was meant to be: buried in her wet warmth.

  She ground her hips against him, but the limited space of the chair did not allow for easy movement. Her legs were already pinned tightly between him and the sides of the chair. Radcliff assisted by holding her in mid-air while thrusting his own hips upward, first with lingering control, then faster as he saw her orgasm begin to build. Her muscles clenched against him, and she bucked against him rapidly until a cry escaped her lips and her body shook from head to toe. She slumped against him to catch her breath.

  Radcliff continued to push into her, expecting his own release to follow. But he failed to spend.

  She chanced to look up at him, and he thought her saw a mischievous gleam in her eyes. She climbed off him and led him to the bed. Radcliff did not want to wait and see if she would once again shackle him to the posts. He pushed her down and pinned her body to the bed with his own. There was no way he was going to allow her a repeat of the other evening.

  He kissed her neck before claiming her mouth with his own. The softness of her lips, the taste of her palette, the give of her tongue were almost as intoxicating as her womanhood about his erection. As he searched every inch of her mouth with his tongue, he felt her hips once again move towards him. She was becoming aroused once more.

  This time he glided himself into her in one motion. One hand went to caress the smoothness of the thigh wrapped around him. The other cupped the back of her head and held it in place for him to kiss. Their bodies ground against each other in strong full motions that rocked the bed and made it cry out as loudly as she. The spasming of her body told Radcliff that she had spent once more.

  But no matter how hard he pushed himself into her or how fast, he could not commit his body to spend. He was wondering if he suffered from some form of impotence—nothing would surprise him when it came to Darcy Sherwood—when he recalled the lubricant she had applied earlier. Propping himself on his elbows, he looked into her eyes and understood.

  “You wicked harlot,” he said hoarsely and pulled out of her to examine his shaft. It was still as hard as when he first began.

  “If you are done…” she responded as she rolled onto her side as if to get out of bed.

  “Hardly, Miss Sherwood.”

  He grabbed her ankle, turning her onto her stomach, and pulled her towards him until her ass hung over the edge of the bed. He speared himself into her. She wiggled against him, in defiance or desire he could not tell but no longer cared. It was no longer about her but about his own selfish fulfillment. He thrust himself against her with a rage that made her body bounce off the bed. She was not long before spending for the third time.

  No matter how hard he tried, he could not reach his own climax. He was on a hill, always near the peak, but unable to surmount it. Miss Sherwood, on the other hand, spent a fourth and fifth time before her body became limp.

  Bathed in sweat, his limbs sore beyond belief, with dawn peering in between the curtains, Radcliff at last spent himself in a climax that was nearly as painful as it was satisfying. No bout of pugilism could compare with what he had just endured. Rolling off of her, he lay in bed on his back and cursed the day he met Darcy Sherwood.

  *****

  Lady Anne had barely set foot in Radcliff’s study before the words tumbled from her mouth. “Have you retrieved Brayten yet from that wicked harlot?”

  The English setter resting at Radcliff’s feet rose to all fours and growled at the intrusion. Radcliff glanced at his butler, who had come in behind the woman and looked on helplessly. He watched Edward saunter in and settle himself on the sofa. After dismissing his servant, Broadmoor went over the sideboard and poured a glass of sherry. He wordlessly offered it to his aunt.

  It seemed to fluster her more. Ignoring the glass, she proceeded to say, “Well, have you? I have not had a decent moment’s rest, I tell you. My nerves have been taxed beyond what any woman can bear. I fail to understand why it has taken this long.”

  “I’ll take a glass,” offered Edward.

  Giving the glass to his cousin, Radcliff made his way back to his chair at a maddeningly calm pace. He rarely had much patience for Anne. The way she endlessly ran her long strands of pearls through her fingers grated on his nerves.

  “You do not need to understand,” he told her. “Suffice it that I will obtain Brayten.”

  “Is there no way to throw that wench in gaol? How satisfying it would be to see her rot in Fleet, though it were not a sufficient hell for the likes of her.”

  Radcliff stilled a desire to defend Miss Sherwood. “I cannot say when Brayten will be back safely in our hands, only that it will. And if that is all you came to inquire of, I
bid you good day.”

  Anne stared helplessly at Radcliff. “But I—the—well! Only take care, Radcliff, that she does not cast her spell upon you.”

  With pearls flying, she whirled on her heels and left the study. Edward drew up alongside Radcliff.

  “Mama would have been far worse had she heard the rumors that I have heard,” said Edward.

  “And what have you heard?” asked Radcliff, returning his attention to the documents at his writing table.

  “That you are consorting with Miss Sherwood.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Come, come, cousin! You may speak plain to me. I know the charms of Miss Sherwood. I heard tell that she is more fun to bed than a whore. Perhaps I chose the wrong sister.”

  “And how does Miss Priscilla compare in that regard?” Radcliff confronted.

  Edward colored. “I—we never—I can only conjecture. There are not the same rumors regarding Miss Priscilla. I had best tend to Mama.”

  Radcliff watched Edward leave with misgiving. He rubbed between the ears of his dog when the butler entered again.

  “What is it, Gibbons?” asked Radcliff without looking up.

  “My lord, a Mr. Wempole is here. He says you had requested his presence.”

  Radcliff stopped writing and nodded for Gibbons to show the gentleman in. Mr. Wempole nervously fingered his hat as he entered. He was a portly fellow with a pleasant smile and spectacles that made him appear antiquated. Not exactly how Radcliff imagined a banker to look. Nonetheless, Mr. Wempole was the man he had longed to see.

  The tables were about to be turned on Miss Darcy Sherwood.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “HAVE YOU EXCHANGED Brayten yet?” Priscilla asked Darcy as the sisters sat over the dining table reviewing the pile of bills.

  “I mean to make the Barringtons suffer a little longer,” said Darcy.

  “But we need the money now, do we not? One of our accounts actually sent a collector to our door. The man said if we did not make payment, he would have to take possession of our furniture.”

  Darcy bit her bottom lip. “Perhaps I can apply to Mr. Wempole for another note. I do not think he would refuse as we would be able to repay it as soon as we return the deed to Edward.”

  Priscilla nodded. “If you think it best, Darcy. I only wish there was something I could do to assist the situation. But I fear I only make it worse. I allowed Mama to convince me to buy new clothes for Nathan as he has grown yet again these past few months. Nathan would much rather wear his old clothes and have the money go towards buying a dog.”

  “Of course.” Darcy smiled and put a hand on Priscilla. “How many times have I told you not to worry? We will be much better situated soon.”

  Though their debt continued to mount, Darcy did feel confident that their financial woes would be at an end. She had simply to see through her plan with Radcliff and in a few months, she would have had her revenge upon the Barringtons and procured an income from their family to boot.

  And then there was the unexpected pleasure of taking the Baron. Of dominating him. By the wonder she had seen in his eyes, he was not one accustomed to deferring. The thought of it brought tingling sensations to her toes and warmth to her groin. She could hardly wait to have him in her bed again that evening.

  “He hasn’t arrived yet,” drawled Cavin Richards later that evening at Mrs. T’s.

  “Whoever do you mean?” asked Darcy as she went back to arranging the chips at the faro table.

  “Your latest lover.”

  Darcy looked at Cavin, whose soft golden locks fell across glittering blue eyes. He leaned in towards her, his mouth inches from her neck, and she was reminded of what had attracted her to him before. But if there was one person who numbered as many conquests as she, it was Cavin Richards. And lately, save for Radcliff Barrington, Darcy had had little interest in taking any man to her bed. She could not say why that was—perhaps it was that she finally was settling into spinsterhood—but all prospective amours seemed dreary.

  “Why not dispense with the Baron and reacquaint ourselves?” purred Cavin.

  “I doubt Miss Treadle would approve,” responded Darcy, referring to the woman Cavin was most recently taking to bed.

  “Does it matter?”

  Darcy sighed. That was the difference between her and Cavin now. She wanted it to matter. “I know you well, Cavin. You prefer fresh meat. I would be a bore.”

  She knew that Cavin could charm almost any woman into giving up her first born. Seducing women into his bed was a sport for him. His attention rarely ever endured past a few fortnights.

  “I never complained, did I? If I recall, we enjoyed each other quite thoroughly.”

  He drew her hand to his lips and pressed his mouth to her wrist. Darcy longed for Radcliff Barrington to come.

  “We did,” Darcy agreed as she withdrew her hand. “I hope you will cherish those memories as I do.”

  “My dear, you devastate me.”

  Rising to her feet, Darcy smiled. “You will not lack in women wishing to console you.”

  Cavin returned her smile. “If you have a change of heart, pray let me know.”

  As she expected, Cavin did not take long to move on. She saw him cornering one of the serving maids whom Darcy suspected harbored feelings of jealousy towards her for having been one of Cavin’s lovers.

  When the hours passed long into the night with no sign of the Baron, Darcy gave up on his appearance and retreated to her chambers. She wondered if something had happened to him, then felt perturbed that he might have openly defied her command to attend to her every evening. He had been diligent in his duty till now. Perhaps his mistress had given him an ultimatum.

  Darcy decided she did not want to dwell on his mistress, whom she had already learned was a beauty of the first order. A painful sense of jealousy reared when she wondered if Radcliff was the same in bed with Lady Robbins as he was with her.

  “How long do you expect to continue playing James Newcastle for a fool?”

  Whirling around, Darcy found Radcliff Barrington sitting in the corner chair. Damn him, she thought to herself. When was he going to stop surprising her like this?

  “As long as he desires it,” Darcy responded, folding her arms. Her worry that something might have happened to him was replaced with irritation that he must have witnessed her latest flirtation with James Newcastle. “Not that it is any business of yours.”

  “Do not mistake me. I have no sympathy for that man,” said Radcliff. “Only that it does not please me that he should be so free with his hands upon your body.”

  “That is not your business either,” she said, inwardly pleased that he cared whose hands were upon her. “You have failed your orders, Baron. Your punishment will not be light. You may begin by removing your clothes.”

  Radcliff stood and stared down at her. “I think not.”

  Her eyes widened. In addition to disobeying her instructions, he was now openly defying her?

  “I said you will remove your clothes,” she reiterated.

  “I have no desire to remove mine until you have removed yours.”

  The insolence! thought Darcy. She returned his penetrating stare. “I give the commands, Broadmoor.”

  “Not any more, Miss Sherwood, and you will henceforth address me appropriately as ‘my lord.’”

  Taken aback by this unexpected answer, she threw back her head and laughed, then narrowed her eyes. “I will do no such thing.”

  “You will, Miss Sherwood, and anything else I ask of you.”

  She watched him withdraw a set of papers and toss it onto a table. “I had a visit from Mr. Wempole, to whom you owed twenty-five thousand pounds. That debt belongs to me now.”

  She stared at the papers. It couldn’t be. And yet she did not think the Baron was given to jesting. Trying to quell the panic lodged in her throat, Darcy said, “Mr. Wempole would not have sold you the promissory notes.”

  “I fear his bank had made some rath
er poor investments of late, and he could not carry your debt on his books any longer.”

  Her legs felt unsteady.

  “So you see, my dear Miss Sherwood,” Radcliff continued without the slightest hint of leniency in his tone, “it is you who will have to remove your clothes.”

  Darcy lifted her chin. “Well played, Baron…”

  Radcliff raised his eyebrows at her first act of rebellion.

  “…we can call an end to my conditions,” Darcy continued. “I will exchange the deed to Brayten for the sum of two hundred thousand pounds and the notes.”

  He scoffed. “I have no interest in such an exchange.”

  “Then I will sell the deed to the highest bidder.”

  “Who would buy it? No one of circumstance would purchase a deed won by a woman in a game of whist.”

  “Then my family will happily move into Brayten.”

  “There would still be the payment of the notes lest you wish to reside in Fleet.”

  Her heart began to pound at the mention of the debtor’s gaol. He wouldn’t—would he? She had thought she had seen a kinder side of Radcliff Barrington, one that even seemed responsive to her, but perhaps she had been mistaken. Perhaps it had all been a ruse to buy time. Perhaps he was as arrogant and ruthless as she had first imagined him to be. And now he could revenge himself for what she had made him endure.

  His expression was only one of determination. “I suggest you comply or it will be your punishment that will not be light.”

  With a difficult swallow, Darcy reached behind her dress and attempted to unpin it.

  “Do you require assistance, Miss Sherwood?”

  “Yes,” said Darcy between her teeth.

  “‘Yes, my lord’ would be the proper way to address a baron.”

  Her anger overtook her fear. She glared at him but managed to spit out the words, “Yes, my lord.”

  He walked over to her and undid her pins for her, then stepped back and waited for her to bring the gown down. She stood in her undergarments, feeling more naked than she had ever felt.