Submitting to the Marquess

by Brown, Em Browint writing as Georgette

  She poured herself a fourth glass for a part of her deep within doubted that he would prove as much the antidote as she had hoped. Finishing her wine, she readied herself for Cavin.

  The hallway was starting to sway before her eyes as she made her way up the staircase. Perhaps she should not have had that final glass, but it felt pleasant.

  “Beggin’ pardon,” Cavin said behind her, “I could not extricate myself from the company as easily as I thought.”

  “Meaning you wanted to play another round of hazard,” Darcy clarified for him.

  Cavin grinned as he swept her hand to his lips. “I am all yours, ma cheri. You look every bit as enchanting as the day I met you.”

  “I drew the lower card—you’ve no need to flatter me.”

  “I know,” he said in a husky voice and stared into her eyes in manner that would have made any other woman swoon. He reached out a hand to cup her cheek before bringing her head to his. His lips brushed hers lightly, teasing her of what was to come. It differed from the deep and probing kisses from Radcliff. With Cavin, lovemaking was like the art of fencing. He advanced, then retreated, then advanced again to keep the other forever guessing.

  Now his kiss deepened, forcing her lips apart for his tongue. They stumbled against the door of her bedroom. Darcy allowed him to guide the dance for she was unsure if she could coordinate her body if she tried. He opened the door without removing his mouth from hers and backed her into the room. A lamp was already lit—an odd occurrence—but this was to be no ordinary night.

  After tossing his hat aside and peeling off his coat, he pulled up the hem of her dress and petticoat and lifted her by the thighs. She wrapped her legs around his waist. Now she remembered. But what she wanted was to be done with it all. She fumbled to untie his cravat while he carried her towards the bed. Perhaps, if she employed her skills well, she would have him spending shortly. And Cavin always fell asleep afterwards.

  “God, it has been too long,” he mumbled as he kissed her neck and his favorite spot behind the ear.

  Despite herself, Darcy arched her back. Perhaps she should enjoy the moment, the wine suggested. She stared up at the ceiling as he trailed his mouth down to bite a nipple through her bodice. The room gently rocked before her as she struggled with what to do.

  Lose yourself in Cavin and forget about Radcliff, one voice offered.

  Absent-mindedly, she reached down and stroked his erection through his trousers. It seemed her mind could not complete a thought. She could not remember when wine had had such a strong effect on her.

  Cavin groaned, and Darcy recognized he was about to reach the point when the fencing would be over and he wanted only one thing. She watched as he hastily took off his waistcoat and shed his boots and trousers. Cavin rarely ever bothered to undress his women, unlike Radcliff, who seemed to enjoy viewing her naked body much like one appreciating a fine painting.

  She remembered the way his eyes would light up upon seeing her. She imagined the tongue caressing her was that of Radcliff. Her body responded to the idea, and her wetness grew. What would Radcliff do next? Would he cup her buttocks as he tongued her? Reach up and caress her breasts? Would he turn her around and spank her for rebuffing him?

  A moan escaped her. A reflection of what her body longed for, though no doubt Cavin would interpret that as him. He climbed into bed and pulled her on top of him. This was his favorite position, she recalled. The effects of the wine were at their strongest, and her body felt warm, in need of contact.

  “You and I belong together, ma cheri,” Cavin said as she settled on his hips and wrapped her hand about his hard cock. “Broadmoor could not appreciate you as I can.”

  But he did, a voice inside her protested.

  “Only a fool would fail to appreciate the essence of Miss Sherwood.”

  Her heart hammered against her ribs. Had she heard correctly? She was afraid to turn around to find out.

  “By Jove, have you been here the whole of the time?” she heard Cavin say.

  And then she knew, without looking, where he was: sitting in the same chair he had occupied that first night he had surprised her in her bedroom. She felt like crumbling into little pieces. This would only confirm his opinion of her as a wanton harlot. She turned her head to the side and saw him from the corner of her eye. He was looking at Cavin, his knuckles white.

  “Damn near scared me half to bloody death,” Cavin continued.

  “That would not be my intention,” Radcliff replied in a tone that suggested he considered such an unintended prospect a happy consequence nonetheless. He turned to leave.

  Darcy felt her internal organs cringe. She was tempted to speak, but what could she say? Cavin, however, had no problem with words.

  “Care to join us?” he asked.

  Darcy felt her eyes bulge from their sockets. She could sense Radcliff’s body tensing and hoped that he could contain his desire to strangle Cavin.

  “Merely jesting, ole chap,” Cavin said, swinging his legs off the bed. “I take it you came to have a word with Miss Sherwood in private.”

  “What I had to say is unimportant,” Radcliff returned as he turned to leave without the barest glance in her direction.

  It was just as well for she wanted nothing more than to disappear into the earth.

  “Hold yourself,” Cavin insisted, glancing between the two of them. He stood on his feet. “I know you don’t think me much of a gentleman, Broadmoor, but I know my priority with Miss Sherwood. Worry not, you’ve not interrupted anything—yet.”

  Collecting his coat, he turned to her and raised her hand to his lips. “Adieu, ma cheri. Let us say you owe me a song and call our wager even.”

  Darcy blinked her eyes. Dear Cavin! She had not thought such selflessness in him. Gratefully, she watched him depart.

  Now she had to face Radcliff alone, and the look on his face was far more daunting than she had ever seen.

  But he made it somewhat easier for her when he said, “I see you did not wait long to return to your old ways.”

  She swung her legs off the bed and caught him staring at her bare ankle before her gown fell back into place. The wine in her gave her courage. “La, sir, what did you expect from a harlot?”

  If she could make it to the door…but the threshold seemed twice as far in her current state of inebriation. And the damn thing kept moving its position.

  She stumbled. He caught her. She jerked herself from his hold.

  “Unhand me,” she hissed. “Lest you wish to pay for the privilege of your touch.”

  A muscle rippled along his jaw. Without word, he swept her into his arms and strode to her bed. He dropped her unceremoniously onto it.

  “And what did Richards pay?” he growled, pinning her body beneath his.

  She struggled beneath the weight of him but was hampered by both the wine and his strength.

  “Nothing,” she answered truthfully, convinced that that would send him away in a fury.

  It did not, though fury flamed in his eyes. “You belong to me.”

  The bloody arrogance! She thrashed harder, but his mouth clamped down upon hers, forcing her lips open. He pressed down upon her hard. Her attempts to scream became muffled. And she was lost. Lost beneath the force of it. He delved deep as if he intended to leave his mark, as if he meant to claim her through the kiss. She felt her determination slipping and arousal taking its place. But as much as she wanted to, she would not kiss him back. She could not give him that satisfaction.

  When at last he allowed her a breath, she spat, “I wouldn’t lay you at any price.”

  “Indeed? You would forswear my touch—and how it makes you feel?”

  She chanced to look into his eyes and became more desperate to escape. But his mouth descended once more and pressed its heat to her throat.

  “Forswear my kisses…” he said into her neck. His hand grasped a breast. “Forswear my caress…”

  She could not hold back a moan. He lifted the hems of
her dress and petticoats, but she did not try to stop him. Her body knew what it wanted: him. And when his fingers met her wetness, he would know it, too. As his digits strummed her arousal, his lips joined with hers. This time she returned the kiss, grinding her hips against his hand. The wine had dulled the sharpness of her senses even as it fueled her desire. It was not long before he had her body jolting and shuddering against him.

  Quickly he shed his coat and unbuttoned his pants. His arousal was hard as flint. He did not enter her gently or gradually. He speared his shaft into her and buried himself to the hilt. She gasped, but the power of his desire, the depth of his jealousy excited her. At least he lusted for her, even if he could not love her enough to marry her. She bucked against him with as much vigor as she could muster in a show of anger to match his.

  The bed rattled and struck the wall. Her cries and his grunts filled the room. Her breasts swung uncomfortably beneath him. He pushed her legs up to her chest to penetrate even deeper. She dug her fingers into his flesh and braced herself for the violent orgasm that blasted through her with the force of a cannon. Groaning low, he thrust fast and furious and roared with his own release. He fell on top of her, his breath coming hard, his hair dampened with sweat.

  As her body reassembled itself from its shattered state, through the haze, she exalted in the feel of his weight atop her.

  She would blame the wine, she decided. Surely he could see that she was foxed. If she had her wits about herself, she would not have let this happen. Even though it had felt beyond wonderful.

  *****

  His fury gone, only tenderness filled its place as Radcliff collected her in his arms. He kissed the perspiration on her nose, swept his lips across her closed eyes. Surely she understood how she belonged to him. That they belonged to each other.

  He kissed her through her hair. “Be mine, Darcy.”

  She opened her eyes and turned to him. “Your what? Your mistress? Your whore?”

  Her tone made him wince.

  “I spoke of it before,” she said. “I am no man’s mistress.”

  “Because you’ve a wish to return to Richards?”

  It was not what he had meant to say, but he could not help the anger that leaped into his throat.

  She scrambled out of bed and began desperately looking for something. Pulling out a chamber pot, she heaved into it.

  “I have matters to attend,” she said, hastily donning a shift and throwing her dress on top sans a corset.

  He watched her leave and cursed himself for a fool. He had allowed the sentimental words of Juliana and Pinkerton to cloud his rationale. And so he had sought out Miss Sherwood to make one final overture, only to find her lifting her skirts to Cavin Richards. He could easily have broken Richards’ neck in twain in his jealousy. How he had managed to contain his fury surprised even him.

  There was no returning here, he realized. A dagger through the heart would have been less painful than the prospect of never seeing her again, but he could not bear to watch her playing the coquette or taking another man to bed. Grabbing his coat, he strode out of her chamber. And out of her life.

  “Leaving so soon?” a voice behind him asked as he walked past the card room downstairs.

  It was the last voice Radcliff would have wanted to hear. He turned to face Richards, trying his best not to find some way to call Cavin out so that he might have the chance of running a blade through the man.

  Cavin ignored the angry glare directed at him and took some snuff. “Reckon she may change her mind.”.

  Radcliff felt the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. He had no desire for a tête-à-tête with Cavin.

  “About being your mistress,” Cavin provided-

  That Richards somehow knew the reason for his visit only incensed Radcliff more.

  “She took you to bed willingly,” continued Cavin.

  Either the man was oblivious of the wrath he was incurring in Radcliff or was simply choosing to ignore it. Radcliff decided it was best to leave before he cuffed Richards on the jaw.

  “I had to wager a hundred shillings for the privilege.”

  Remembering Darcy’s words from before, Radcliff stopped and pulled out some money to toss onto a table.

  “You can wager fifty shillings less next time,” he said before walking out.

  *****

  “I lost the courage to do it,” Darcy explained to Henry as they sat in the box with Lady Worthley, who was accompanying an ailing friend who adored the opera. Lady Worthley was not nearly as enamored of operas and had asked Darcy and Henry for company.

  “Then you mean to have the child?” Henry asked as he lifted the opera glasses to his eyes to scan the crowd for an interesting face—or body.

  Darcy shook her head. “I could not. And yet I could not bring myself to ask for it. He said he would only require ten shillings for the visit.”

  “He’s a bloody thief.”

  “It doesn’t have to be a bastard,” Henry piped up after they had walked in silence for a while. “I could marry you. Then you wouldn’t have to put yourself at risk with that sham of a physician.”

  Darcy smiled and put a hand on her friend’s arm. “Harry, a friend more true than you could not be had, but I would be of no use to Mrs. T as a married woman.”

  “No need to work at Mrs. T’s once I am Earl of Brent. I will have an income of over ten thousand pounds per annum.”

  “But it may be years before you are Earl. Till then you have not enough to support two additional persons. And what will become of Priscilla and Nathan?”

  “Perhaps my father would increase my allowance. Daresay he would be happy to have a marriage that would put an end to the rumors he pretends not to hear. You and I would make the perfect husband and wife, Darcy, as surely you would not mind my lovers and I would not mind yours. Or perhaps we could trade our lovers every now and then.”

  The gleam in his eyes brought both laughter and tears for Darcy.

  “Your father would not approve of your marrying someone of my sort,” she said. “The Earl of Brent, no matter what his proclivities, could ensnare a much better wife than I would be. But I do appreciate the thought, Harry. With all my heart I do.”

  They walked, her arm encircled about his, almost as if they were husband and wife.

  “Perhaps I should have a word with Broadmoor,” Henry thought aloud.

  “Don’t you dare,” Darcy responded quickly. “He and I have done with one another.”

  Henry sighed for the both of them. He paused before saying, “You don’t suppose I would have a chance with him?”

  Darcy laughed again. “I don’t think he was ever partial to you. I suspect he thought us lovers.”

  “Well then, I can prove that wrong!”

  Darcy shook her head. “What an incorrigible man you are, Harry.”

  “And you love me for it.” He lifted her hand to his lips.

  “Be careful, Harry. I may fall in love with you and decide to marry you afterall.”

  Henry merely grinned. They wound their way around the block back towards the gaming hall. A wistful comfort settled about Darcy. This was the life she knew. Henry, Mathilda, and the patrons of the gaming hall were the people she knew. For a brief moment her world had crossed with that of Radcliff Barrington, but like planets aligned before the sun, they would eventually part their separate ways.

  And it was better that way.

  *****

  Trying his best to suppress a yawn, Radcliff shifted in his seat as the strains of Orfeo and Euridice filled the opera house. He was not as interested in early classical music and had not thought Juliana to be either, but he had agreed to escort his cousin to the performance nonetheless. He found shortly upon arriving that indeed it had not been the compositions of Christoph Willibald Gluck who held her interest but that of a young man sitting in the box next to them.

  He seemed a decent fellow, though he did not possess as high a station in life as Radcliff would have liked fo
r Juliana—Anne would disapprove without a second glance at the young man—but where one stood in the eyes of the ton mattered less to Radcliff. He allowed Juliana and the young man, Robert Gibbons, to have their moment during intermission. Radcliff stood far enough from the couple as not to intrude upon their conversation, feigning interest in what Mrs. Trindlewood and her daughter had to say.

  Mrs. Trindlewood was quite amiable, but there was a nervousness about her. It seemed to Radcliff there was a hushed anxiety among many people he knew. He felt as if many glances were cast his way. He caught the eye of Juliana, and she seemed to look upon him with concern. He managed to extricate himself from Mrs. Trindlewood and approached Juliana and young Gibbons.

  “Good day to you, sir,” Robert greeted.

  “Thank you, and a good evening to you,” Radcliff responded.

  Robert flushed as he realized he had referenced the wrong part of the day.

  “Shall we to our seats?” Radcliff asked Juliana.

  Her eyes were gleaming and he had never known her smile to be so wide. Then it had gone well despite the look of concern she had had earlier.

  “Robert is a bit of a composer himself,” Juliana told him. “He met Mozart.”

  “I was a mere boy,” Robert said. “But his music did inspire me.”

  “I rather wish we were listening to one of his operas tonight instead.”

  Robert nodded. “Although, it can be said that Gluck paved the way for Mozart.”

  “Indeed. Perhaps you can tell me more of Mozart,” Radcliff offered. “I am partial to Brooks’s. Have you ever been?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then I should be happy to extend you an invitation as my guest.”

  Juliana made a sound somewhat like a puppy, and Robert pumped Radcliff by the hand numerously. When they had all returned to their boxes, Juliana grasped Radcliff by the arm.

  “My dearest cousin!” she cried. “How can I ever thank you?”

  “Delay your gratitude. I have not yet given him my blessing,” Radcliff said. “I thought at one point you were not enjoying your tête-à-tête?”