“Continue,” Radcliff instructed.
“I require further assistance…my lord.”
He untied her stays. She allowed it to drop to the floor where her dress had already pooled.
“The shift,” said Broadmoor. “Rip it.”
“What?” exclaimed Darcy.
“I will buy you a new one, but this one you will rip from your body.”
Darcy hesitated.
“Now, Miss Sherwood.”
Biting back a retort, she grabbed the worn fabric and pulled. But it failed to tear.
“Come here,” ordered Radcliff after her third failed attempt.
He grabbed the shift near her midsection, twisted it in his fist, and tore it in one easy jerk. She felt the cool air hit her skin as if for the first time and gasped.
Throwing the tattered shift on the floor, Radcliff stood back to survey her, obviously satisfied with what he saw.
“You have seen it all before, my lord,” Darcy said through gritted teeth.
“You will speak when spoken to, Miss Sherwood.”
She glared at him again. “I protest being treated like a child.”
He cupped her chin swiftly in his hand and bent his head to look deep into her eyes. “I take it you wish to be punished?”
Her heart was pounding, but the area between her legs had begun throbbing at his nearness.
“Trust me,” he said, “I would take great pleasure in providing you the set down you so graciously provided me…”
He moved his hand from her chin and ran his knuckles gently down her throat and past the curve of one breast. After brushing past her navel, he combed the curls at the base of her pelvis with his fingers.
“…and perhaps you will as well.”
Darcy shuddered. Her mind shouted at her to regain control of the situation, but her entire body had already become sensitized to his touch.
“Lie down on the bed,” Radcliff ordered.
This was not her, Darcy thought to herself as she obeyed wordlessly. The Darcy Sherwood she knew never took commands from men—least of all from a Barrington!
But she did not even struggle as he stretched her arms overhead and clasped the shackles about her wrist.
“I have a score to settle with you, Miss Sherwood.”
She watched anxiously—and curiously—to see what he would do next. When he spread her legs apart, she softly groaned. Her body screamed for him to touch her in her most private places. He breathed in the scent of her, and she felt a little embarrassed that he must surely have noticed the moisture there. The last thing she wanted was for him to think that she enjoyed his command over her.
But her body was to betray her for it jerked wildly when he ran his tongue along her. Darcy pulled at her chains. She had to do something. She could not allow him to accomplish his objective and achieve mastery over her in this manner.
“Stop!” she exclaimed, bringing her thighs together. “What is it you want?”
With a devilish smile and a gleam in his eyes, he replied, “Payback, my wicked harlot.”
“I will make you regret this tenfold,” she threatened.
“My dear, you are in no position to do anything except enjoy what I am to do to you.”
He untied his cravat and grabbed one of her ankles. She resisted, though she knew it to be futile. He tied one leg to the bedpost and reached for her torn shift to tie the other leg to the other bedpost. She lay, each limb tied to a corner of the bed, splayed for the world to see.
With her thus immobilized, Radcliff returned to his task. Once again he ran his tongue against her. Darcy shivered. He teased her with his tongue, occasionally dipping into her slit to taste the thin honey there, sending waves of pleasure through her. She pushed her groin closer into his face, but he pulled back. The loss of his touch was like the loss of air.
Darcy opened her eyes and looked at him. She supposed he would deny her in the same fashion she had denied him.
It was going to be a long night…
CHAPTER EIGHT
DARCY WATCHED IN DREAD as the Baron sat himself casually into an armchair that he had pulled to the foot of her bed. She flushed, all too aware of how lewdly she was exposed to view. She had had no compunction the prior night over her nakedness before him, but it was an entirely different matter when she was compelled to be on display for him. He directed a blatant stare between her legs and grinned when he met her gaze.
He held up a book—the one from her end table.
“Robert Owen,” he noted of the author and glanced back at her. “A far cry from the works of de Sade.”
“Does it surprise you that a harlot should have diverse literary interests?” she asked archly.
“No. It surprises me a harlot spends much time reading at all,” he replied blandly.
The slight curl at the corner of his mouth suggested he was jesting with her, but she fumed nonetheless.
“Owen is quite the radical,” he continued.
“If by that you mean he possesses compassion for his fellow man, then a radical he is.”
“Compassion is requisite to mankind, but his proposed reforms are suspect.”
“Of course you would think so. You are not among the unhappily situated poor,” she spat, then realized he must have read Owen to have made the statement he did.
He thumbed through the essays and must have found the passage she had marked for he read it aloud. “‘Children are, without exception, passive and wonderfully contrived compounds; which, by an accurate previous and subsequent attention, founded on a correct knowledge of the subject, may be formed collectively to have any human character. And although these compounds, like all the other works of nature, possess endless varieties, yet they partake of that plastic quality, which, by perseverance under judicious management, may be ultimately molded into the very image of rational wishes and desires.’”
He tossed the work back onto the table. “Why does that passage interest you?”
“Why are you unbearably meddlesome?” she returned as she tried to devise a way out of her current situation.
As he rose to his feet, he unbuttoned his waistcoat. She shivered, then cursed silently as she realized her body wanted him near. It should not. Not like this.
Shedding his waistcoat, he loosed his cravat as he approached the bed. Visions of his naked form from the night before danced in her head. She had enjoyed feasting her eyes on the hard sinews of his arms and legs last night and had intended to caress that expansive chest, those broad shoulders, the tapered hips, the hard arousal. But now she was at his mercy and knew not what he intended.
He sat down on the bed next to her.
“No one has ever called me meddlesome,” he contemplated as if her words meant something to him.
“Then perhaps you don’t know enough people.”
He smiled and raked his gaze over her body. A warmth pulsed between her thighs. She wanted to scream at him to stop looking and either touch her or leave her be.
“Would you believe,” he asked, “that if I intrude, it is out of compassion and a desire to see to the welfare of others?”
“Ha! A Barrington has no notion of compassion.”
He cupped a breast and she tried her best not to whimper.
“Compassion, Miss Sherwood, would not have dictated what you did to me last night and the night before.”
His thumb brushed past her nipple, already hardened from her nakedness. He rolled the nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and despite her best effort to block out the sensation, she could feel herself growing damp. She hoped he would avenge himself by leaving her alone.
“Compassion,” he reiterated, “would insist I not tease your body…”
His hand slid down past her belly to cup her between her legs. She stifled a groan when he found her wetness.
“…that I not torment you…”
He began to fondle here there.
“…arouse you…”
He lowered his mouth an
d took in a breast. She quivered against him.
“…tantalize you…”
Desire built swift and fast within her. She closed her eyes, wanting to sink into the sensations he created, no longer caring that she was not the one in control.
“…but leave you unfulfilled…
He withdrew his touch. Her eyes flew open and she sucked in her breath. Would he do unto her as she had done to him? Would he leave her aroused but deny her relief? Of course he would. She might have done the same.
She watched him rise from the bed, but then he settled himself between her legs. Lowering his head, he tongued her where his hand had been.
I cannot allow myself to be aroused, Darcy thought. But the battle between her mind and her body was a desperate one. He still stroked a lust that the former could not combat. She strained against her bonds. Her release was near.
“Please…” she whispered when he pulled away. “Please…let me spend….”
When he only looked at her expectantly, she added, “…my lord.”
He plunged back between her legs. She spent with a new release of wetness, soaking the sheet beneath her. She throbbed in every extremity of her body.
Broadmoor unbuttoned his pants and knelt on top of the bed. He slid into her easily. They groaned in unison.
He lightly kissed her nipples and pulled at them lightly with his mouth as he kneaded a breast with his hand. She returned his caress by pushing her hips up to his. Her motions were limited by her bonds and weariness, but the need to spend again was stronger.
Seeing her struggle against her bonds with renewed vigor, Broadmoor pushed himself deeper and harder into her. Their bodies bucked against each other until she came with an intensity that nearly lifted her off the bed. He followed with his own orgasm, groaning and shuddering on top of her.
After a brief rest, he pulled his weight off her, untied all her bonds and wrapped her in his arms. She settled her face in the crook of his neck and released a contented sigh before the feeling of dread returned.
Damnation. He had shown more compassion than she would have to him.
*****
“What do you know of Robert Owen?” Radcliff asked Lord Pinkerton, a kindly fellow who had been a dear friend of his father’s, as they sat in one of the rooms in Brooks’s.
“Eh?” Lord Pinkerton returned, having dozed off in his chair near one of the multi-paned windows.
“I procured today a copy of A New View of Society,” Radcliff explained.
“Don’t know much about Owen. Some sort of philanthropist, is he not?”
“Yes.”
He had attempted to read the third essay, but could barely finish a paragraph before his thoughts were interrupted by visions of Miss Sherwood. Her body was incroyable. Supple in all the right places: the breasts, thighs, and arse. Not at all like the spindled forms of the other women he had bedded. And his body responded to her with disconcerting force. At times, he wondered if he could control himself.
The way she spent was glorious. The way she felt divine. He remembered breathing in her scent as they lay in her bed. She had fallen asleep in his arms, and though her hair was tickling his nose, he had dared not stir for fear that he would rouse her. He had stayed, not wanting to leave. When at last she had rolled away from him—for which his aching arm was grateful—he had shed his clothes and climbed back into bed with her.
In the morning, he had gotten out of bed and picked up the Owen essays. But every time Miss Sherwood stirred in the bed, his arousal perked. He had given up reading and returned to her. When her eyes fluttered open, he rolled on top of her. She did not protest. Quietly, they made love with slow and deliberate motions. Again and again.
She had spent for him several times before protesting that she needed some coffee and breakfast.
And still it was not enough for him.
“Shall we see what fare is being served today?” Lord Pinkerton asked Radcliff.
“Nothing new, I presume,” Radcliff answered.
Lord Pinkerton frowned. “Right. I swear I am tempted to join Watier’s, though my wife no doubt is pleased the plainness of the meals here keeps this in check.”
He patted his ample stomach.
“If you will excuse me,” Radcliff said, rising, “I shall pass on the repast.”
“Don’t blame you. Why the sudden interest in Robert Owen?”
“My character has been called into question by a follower of his.”
“Someone dared call into question your character? Who here would do such a bloody thing?”
“She is not a member here.”
“She?” Lord Pinkerton’s indignation turned into amusement. “How delightful. Do I know her?”
“I think not.” Radcliff motioned for the attendant.
“Well then, tell me more about her, lad. I think I should like to know her.”
Radcliff hesitated. He had known Lord Pinkerton since he was in leading strings, but he could not bring himself to speak of Miss Sherwood to his friend. In part because he wanted her all to himself. But also because identifying her would place her in too prominent a role in his life. She was far too consequential already.
“She is no one of significance,” Radcliff answered as he took his hat and cane from the page.
“No significance?” Lord Pinkerton echoed, pointing to the Owen essays Radcliff held. “As well read as you are, I fair cannot remember when a woman has induced you to read political philosophy.”
Miss Sherwood had induced a number of things he had not thought possible, but Radcliff deflected the accusation with one of his own. “I think you know more of this Owen fellow than you let on, Pinkerton.”
“A friend of mine wanted me to invest in his mill, New Lanark.”
“And have you?”
“I’ve no interest in mills. Perhaps for the children. I have more of an interest now, I must say.”
Radcliff smiled and tipped his hat, then left before his old friend could ask more questions. Though a twinge of guilt tugged at him for not having been completely forthcoming with Pinkerton, he felt invigorated, ready to scale the tallest mountain and ford the widest sea. He had command of the current state of affairs between him and Miss Sherwood. He could force her hand and retrieve Brayten at any moment now, but then he would have no reason to see her. And he had no wish to terminate their association. Not when she had given herself to him as she had the other day. And had done it willingly despite the hostility she clearly bore towards him.
The strength of her hostility disconcerted him. Granted, he had spoken the most unsavory things of her, but he had not anticipated she was the sort to care what a man she barely knew thought of her. A small voice—he knew not from where—women would no doubt call it an instinct—nagged at him whenever he tried to reason what he failed to understand.
When he returned home, he summoned Gibbons. He would silence that nagging voice once and for all.
“Swifter needs a good run to work out his restlessness,” Radcliff said as his setter pawed at him.
“Yes, my lord,” Gibbons acknowledged. “I shall take him to Hyde Park.”
“I’ve a different park in mind.”
Taking the reins of his curricle, Radcliff drove it toward the parish where the Sherwoods lived. He had had his secretary investigate everything there was to know about the Sherwood family from their residence to their creditors. He suspected at this time of day, Miss Sherwood would already be at the gaming hall.
But it was not Miss Sherwood he sought.
He pulled the curricle up before the two-storied abode where the Sherwoods lived.
“Ask for Miss Priscilla,” Radcliff informed Gibbons and watched as a maid answered the door from across the street.
Gibbons returned to inform him that none of the family were home. Swifter tugged at his leash, eager to leave.
“We’ll wait,” Radcliff said.
“Out here, my lord?” Gibbons inquired.
“Yes.”
He did not explain to Gibbons that he only wanted to see Miss Priscilla and did not want to risk encountering the elder Sherwood sister. He wanted to see for himself the character of the younger sister, and he sensed too much a protective nature in Miss Sherwood. He predicted she would want to interfere too much.
Luck was with him for after half an hour of waiting, he saw a young woman approaching. A little boy skipped alongside her, tarrying every other step and earning a light admonishment from her not to dawdle. Her eyes had aged, but she was otherwise as lovely as she had been five years ago when Edward had taken a fancy to her. His gaze fell to the boy next, and his heart went cold, the nagging voice that had plagued him triumphant.
Here then was the explanation for Miss Sherwood’s hostility towards the Barringtons. The boy was Edward’s, plain as day. They shared the same impetuous chin, the same streaks of brown amidst the blond hair, and the same charcoal eyes that signified all the Barrington men. Even Gibbons, who had been with the Barringtons since Radcliff’s birth, started at the obvious familiarity.
Radcliff doffed his hat as he approached her from across the street. “Miss Priscilla.”
The sun was setting and she did not recognize him at first, but when recognition dawned, she grabbed the boy by the arm and attempted to scurry past him. He blocked her path.
“Miss Priscilla, I mean no harm,” he assured her.
“My sister is not here,” she replied curtly as the boy looked on with inquisitive eyes.
He noticed she moved to put herself between him and the boy.
“What a marvelous dog!” the boy exclaimed when Swifter came up to meet the newcomers, dragging Gibbons in tow. “Can I pet him?”
“He is friendly,” Gibbons responded.
Miss Priscilla looked on helplessly. With the boy consumed by Swifter, Radcliff took his opportunity.
“Edward,” Radcliff said to her alone. “The boy is Edward’s.”
Fear watered her eyes, making her delicate features appear even more fragile. Even so, he needed her to answer him. He waited until, lowering her head, she nodded.
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