Submitting to the Marquess

by Brown, Em Browint writing as Georgette

  “Is it that apparent?” Darcy asked with a wry smile, suddenly aware that she had been twisting and pulling at her rings and bracelets—baubles that she had borrowed from Lady Worthley and were unaccustomed to wearing.

  “You have already set tongues a waggin’. I daresay you are creating a stir to match the tales of Lord Byron and his sister!”

  When the carriage pulled up in front of the home of Lord and Lady Pinkerton, Darcy took a deep breath to quell a desire to retreat back to the comfortable familiarity of her gaming hall. It had been years since she had attended a ball of this magnitude. Was this the sort of anxiety that young maidens felt upon having their first introduction at Almack’s?

  She felt a reassuring squeeze upon her hand from Henry.

  “Remember,” he said, “you are the infamous Miss Sherwood!”

  Darcy laughed and felt a little more emboldened. She was able to enter the vestibule with head held high. She knew her appearance, at least, would not want for anything. Priscilla, more adept at the needle, had assisted her with her gown, spending hours for the past few days altering an old dress and sewing an overlay of gold filigree. At the last moment, Darcy opted for a spray of water that molded the gown to her body.

  Mathilda had had her maid apply rollers to set Darcy’s hair in larger curls, which was then partially piled atop her head and accented with a simple gold headdress. The only thing that needed to be purchased was a pair of gold sandals—the most lavish article that Darcy had ever bought—and a pair of gloves.

  Upon her entrance in the ballroom, Darcy nearly faltered. The room had dozens of the largest chandeliers she had ever seen. The silk wallpaper could hardly be noticed behind the brightness of all the candelabras that adorned its walls. Garlands of flowers had been draped along the length of the room and decorated the marble statues that guarded the entry. She had never seen anything so magnificent, not even in the early days when her father entertained invitations of this pedigree.

  What seemed like a collective gasp—of surprise, dismay, and disapproval—met her ears. Darcy reminded herself to breathe and to keep her chin up. She heard Lady Worthley explaining to her host and hostess that her niece was unable to attend and as a result she was pleased to introduce Miss Darcy Sherwood as her companion.

  “A pleasure,” said Lord Pinkerton, a distinguished gentleman near fifty but whose eyes sparkled like one much younger.

  His wife looked on with obvious displeasure.

  After thanking the Pinkertons, Darcy moved into the ballroom, following Lady Worthley and Henry. She tried to ignore the whispers, some spoken in hushed tones and others spoken with deliberate audibility, but began wondering if she had made a mistake in coming. Was it not childish of her to indulge her jealousy of Lady Robbins?

  She saw Penelope first and felt a sense of gratification upon seeing the woman’s widened eyes. For a moment she did not care how juvenile her motivations in coming might have been.

  “Diana, what are you attempting?” pointedly asked a well-dressed woman to Lady Worthley.

  Lady Worthley lifted her eyepiece. “Where are your manners, Louisa? Left them at home alone with your son? I don’t suppose his bedrest had anything to do with the duel he supposedly was not involved in?”

  “She is quite a marvelous woman,” Darcy whispered to Henry later while his grandaunt was talking to a friend.

  “Yes,” Henry acknowledged, “in a duel between her tongue and the sharpest sword available, I would lay odds in her favor!”

  While no one else dared address Lady Worthley as Louisa had done, it was clear many were avoiding her.

  Darcy could feel the weight of all the stares upon her as if an elephant stood upon her shoulder. Seeing the backs of people’s heads as they refused to make eye contact with her was no better. Even the men she recognized—men who tripped over their feet to attend to her at the gaming hall—hesitated to greet her in the presence of their mothers, sisters, and wives.

  Sighing inwardly, Darcy again felt it to be a mistake that she had come and put the kindness of Lady Worthley to task. What had she hoped to accomplish? To make Penelope jealous? Surely the silent rebukes that Darcy was being handed would only serve to satisfy Penelope.

  Lady Robbins was only part of the reason. It had more to do with Broadmoor. And after all the effort to come, the man was not even here.

  “Darling Darcy, what an occasion!” exclaimed Cavin Richards. “I thought you shunned social functions such as this.”

  Darcy let out a relieved breath. At least there was one person here who seemed delighted to see her. She allowed him to raise her hand to his lips.

  “You know each other?” asked Lady Worthley with lifted brow.

  “Lady Worthley, it is an honor,” returned Cavin with a low bow. “I have heard the most wondrous things of you.”

  “And I the most scandalous words of you. Now be off with you.”

  “Only if Darcy promises the first dance to me.”

  Darcy started. Dancing. Of course there would be dancing. Somehow that fact had escaped her.

  “Miss Sherwood has too many admirers to be promising anyone a dance,” Lady Worthley answered for Darcy.

  “Then perhaps you, Lady Worthley, would do me the honor of taking a turn about the floor with me?” asked Cavin with a disarming grin.

  “Hrmph,” Lady Worthley responded, though it was clear she was not untouched by Cavin’s charms. “It has been ages since I have danced. Make your mischief elsewhere.”

  “I relent for now,” Cavin said, “but you have not seen the last of me.”

  He gave them a wicked wink before departing.

  “That one is trouble,” Lady Worthley said to Darcy.

  “I know it already,” Darcy replied.

  Cavin was the least of her worries. It was the dancing that concerned her. It had been ages since she had danced—at least any formal dancing beyond a few twirls about Mrs. T’s with partners who were in truth too tipsy to be dancing.

  As if reading her mind, Henry said, “I make a poor dance partner.”

  “You have no need to worry,” Darcy assured him, “I have no desire to seek a dance partner. Given the reception I have received this evening, I doubt anyone else will be seeking my hand for a dance.”

  She hoped she was right.

  *****

  “Diana Worthley must be mad as Bedlam bringing that wicked harlot here!” exclaimed Anne Barrington to her nephew.

  She had dragged her daughter, Juliana, a young woman who had had her come out the year before, the length of the ballroom to make her displeasure known to Radcliff.

  Radcliff had arrived late and missed the dinner, but the topic on everyone’s tongue for hours seemed to be Miss Sherwood. Having just returned from Sussex but a few hours earlier, he had had little desire to attend the ball, and only his friendship with Lord Pinkerton obligated him. He had contemplated making a brief stop at Mrs. T’s to see Darcy, never imagining that she would be here.

  “I knew Diana to indulge that grand-nephew of hers,” Anne went on. “You know what they say of him.”

  “The Viscount Wyndham?” asked Juliana. “He is most flawlessly dressed!”

  “Juliana! Never you mind that one. Future Earl or not, I would never choose to invite him.” Anne turned to Radcliff. “What devilry do you think that hussy is about?”

  Glancing toward the center of the ballroom where Miss Sherwood was being twirled about by Rutgers, Radcliff replied in a bored tone, “At the moment, dancing.”

  “She means to insult us further!”

  Following her uncle’s gaze, Juliana thought aloud, “She looks quite regal.”

  Radcliff had to agree with Juliana. He had always found that Darcy carried herself with a dignity he had initially interpreted as aloofness, but tonight, perhaps in defiance to all those who would shun her, she walked with an aura of majesty as if she, and not the others, deserved to be here. Only once or twice did he glimpse uncertainty in her eyes.

&nbs
p; The first instance was when she faltered in the quadrille. He had noticed no one dared approach her for the first few dance sets and had been tempted himself to ask her for a dance. But he wanted to observe her from afar and determine what her motivation might have been in coming. Was there truth to Anne’s concerns?

  It was Lord Pinkerton who shocked his guests and paved the way by being the first to ask Darcy for a dance. Darcy had appeared content to simply watch the others dance, but she clearly could not refuse the host. Others followed with their requests.

  She was not the best of dancers, Radcliff noticed, and looked, at times, painfully out of practice. The waltz was the worse. She and her partner had to make their way to the outskirts of the masses flying by to collect their footing and regain their position in time to the music. Nonetheless, she remained throughout her movements, as Juliana noted, regal.

  Regal and provocative. Radcliff did not doubt that half the cocks in the room must have stirred upon seeing her. Even from halfway across the room, he could tell that the outline of her nipples were made visible by the way her dress—she might as well have been naked given the lightness of the material—clung to the contours of her body. His first impulse had been to approach her and cover her with his coat. It disturbed him that so much of her was on display for he had certainly not authorized this show. Her body belonged to him.

  “Well, Radcliff?” Anne asked. “What do you mean to do with that hussy?”

  Narrowing his eyes at his aunt’s imperial demand, Radcliff replied, “Ask her to dance.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  WHILE ANNE ATTEMPTED to digest if his words were in jest, Radcliff bowed to his cousin, and strode over to Darcy. He had had enough of watching other men with their hands upon her.

  “I should dearly like to give my feet a rest,” Darcy was saying to the assembly of men about her as she sat down next to Lady Worthley, who sat observing the spectacle while fanning herself. “And the waltz is clearly my weakest dance.”

  “It depends on your partner,” Radcliff interjected.

  She raised her eyebrows. He could not tell if she was pleased to see him or not.

  She shook her head. “No one can make me appear to dance the waltz well.”

  Ignoring the snickers, he held out his hand and returned, “Prove me wrong.”

  She looked at his hand and hesitated.

  “Miss Sherwood said that she means to rest a while,” one of the young men informed.

  Radcliff kept his stare trained on her until she met his gaze. It was not a request he had put to her but a command.

  With reluctance, she rose to her feet. “Very well. Care to make a wager of it, my lord?”

  Her last two words wrenched his insides. He wanted no more than to sweep her off her feet and carry her someplace to ravish her.

  Brazen little tart, he thought to himself. Even as she submitted to him, she sought to have the upper hand.

  “A hundred guineas,” Radcliff proposed. Knowing full well she could not afford such a price, he added, “in exchange for two dances.”

  She smiled in triumph. “Done. You part with your money too easily, Baron.”

  “Who will judge the winner?” one of the young men asked.

  Radcliff stared hard at Darcy. “Anyone you please, Miss Sherwood.”

  His confidence jolted her. She could easily have selected from the eager men who would have liked nothing less than to see Radcliff fail, but her sense of fair play compelled her to turn to Lady Worthley.

  The woman’s gaze landed on Radcliff, and he felt a strong sense of disapproval from those mature eyes.

  “Very well,” Lady Worthley assented. “You best be off for the music has begun.”

  He led Darcy to the dance floor and encircled her waist without ceremony. She would see that she belonged in his arms and his alone.

  She resisted when he pulled her body close enough to his that her nipples grazed his chest.

  “Surely this is not an effective position?” she hissed.

  “On the contrary, the closer you are to me, the less likely you will step on my feet as you did with the poor lad you danced the first waltz with,” he explained. “Step back on your right foot when we start.”

  Before she had time to respond, he stepped towards her and swept her into the stream of dancers moving clock-wise about the ballroom. The waltz was a difficult dance with women who turned into pudding in a man’s arms, but Darcy’s rigid frame allowed him to maneuver her easily about the floor.

  “Keep your eye to me and not your feet,” he instructed, wanting her to relax and relinquish control. “Trust me.”

  To his surprise, she agreed. Her steps became more fluid and a small smile spread across her face as she began to enjoy the dance. Radcliff smiled in return. The music ended all too soon for him. He did not want to release her from his arms.

  “Well, my dears,” greeted Lady Worthley when Radcliff had escorted Darcy back to her seat, “this was no easy task you gave me, but I fear, Miss Sherwood, that you owe the Baron two dances.”

  “Those dances will have to wait,” a voice said behind him, “for he is promised to me for a few sets.”

  Penelope. He felt a possessive hand upon his arm as he turned to his mistress, whom he had near forgotten was even here.

  “I beg your pardon for having eluded you the entire evening thus far,” Penelope said. “I simply had too many friends to visit with before I could contemplate dancing, but now that I have dispensed of my duties, I am quite at your disposal for the rest of the night.”

  Radcliff bit back and retort and turned back to Miss Sherwood.

  But she was gone.

  *****

  “How charitable of you to ask her to dance,” Penelope said.

  Radcliff barely heard her words as he scanned the crowd and spotted Darcy leaving the ballroom with Lod Wyndham. Why was she always in that man’s company?

  “But I think it time you bestow some of your generosity elsewhere,” Penelope continued. “It has been weeks since I saw you last—not since the day your aunt paid us a most unexpected visit. I recall we left some business unfinished?”

  “Do you mean to tell me that your other lover has not entertained you well enough?” Radcliff asked brusquely.

  She furrowed her brow into a frown.

  “I have known for some time, Penelope,” he revealed upon glimpsing the panic in her eyes.

  Penelope laughed nervously. “Well, we are peas in a pod, then? Only your tastes are a bit more peculiar. I could never be as free with my standards…Is it because she holds the deed to your cousin’s estate?”

  “I see that Cavin Richards is headed our way,” Radcliff noted as he disentangled her fingers from his arm. “I am sure he can satisfy your next dance set.”

  Leaving her to her lover, Radcliff headed in the direction where Darcy and Henry had disappeared. He had always suspected theirs might have been no mere friendship, despite what he had heard of Henry’s proclivities. There were certainly those who went with either sex.

  The evening being warm, there were many guests who had taken themselves into the dimly lit but well manicured garden. It was a source of pride for Lord Pinkerton, who had imported flora from all parts of the world and retained the garden maze that had been all the rage in the last century. The discreet couples ambled near the steps in plain view of their chaperones. The more mischievous couples ventured into the maze.

  Radcliff headed to the maze.

  Lord Pinkerton once boasted it could take a novice days to find his or her way out of the intricate shrub-lined alleys, but delights in the form of statues, fountains, and benches greeted almost every turn and dead-end. Radcliff knew his way about only after having spent countless hours in the maze since childhood.

  After first encountering one couple giggling behind a bush and another in a quarrel, Radcliff rounded a secluded corner and found Darcy sitting by herself on a bench. She was gazing up at the sky with her back to him. In this part of the
maze, only the light of the moon and stars served as illumination. A small breeze moved the faint tendrils of hair at the base of her neck. He was almost reluctant to disturb her peace.

  “I hope you did not think you could escape payment?” he asked quietly. “You owe me two dances.”

  “I never welch on a debt, Baron,” she responded without turning around.

  He approached her bench. “Where is the future Earl of Brent?”

  She shrugged. “In the garden somewhere. What is your interest in him?”

  Radcliff pressed his lips together. Her nonchalance was maddening.

  “None at all,” he replied, “only that I find his manners wanting for leaving a young woman alone in a dark garden.”

  “Henry and I have been friends since we were children,” she said, finally turning to look at him. “He knows that I can fend for myself. I am no helpless maiden.”

  “Only friends?” Radcliff could not contain the jealousy that crept into his tone.

  “Henry was one of the few who cared to be in my company.”

  The warmth with which she clearly regarded the Viscount both softened Radcliff’s feelings toward Henry and enflamed his jealousy. The young man’s companionship with Darcy was still far too cozy for comfort.

  He sat down next to her on the marble bench, facing the opposite direction. Even with all the flowers in bloom, he could smell the light musk of her perfume. He would have preferred she wore no scent at all for he favored her natural fragrance.

  “Still, he should not have left you,” Radcliff maintained as he leaned towards her and said in a low voice. “A man could easily come upon you with intents of mischief.”

  She looked at him with a playful smile. “But then I should scream so that all in the garden would hear me.”

  Radcliff wrapped a hand about her neck, unable to resist the lure of her. “And by the time anyone could work their way through the maze to aid you, the crime would already have been committed and the assailant fled.”