Submitting to the Marquess

by Brown, Em Browint writing as Georgette

  Darcy nearly flew over the writing desk with the second slap.

  “And your impudence….”

  Her knees shook with the force of the third and fourth strikes. Her arse burned with the spanking, but a smoldering ache was building between her legs.

  “Do not question me again, Miss Sherwood,” Radcliff told her and added another whack for good measure.

  He reached beneath her to discover her wetness had begun to slide down her thigh. Darcy suppressed a whimper.

  He instructed her to lie across the writing table on her back and reached down to the floor and picked up the shift, which he tore in twain. With each half, he tied her legs to the legs of the table so that the softest parts of her flesh were exposed to view. With her dress, he bound her wrists together and pulled her arms over her head, securing them to the remaining two legs of the table.

  The damn thing—the table and the manner in which she was stretched across it—was exceedingly uncomfortable. Silently, Darcy cursed Radcliff and promised herself she would make him pay for this.

  His gaze traveled the length of her body from her toes to the elbows on either side of her head. She saw a facial muscle twitch along his jaw. He ran a hand languidly from her knee and up her thigh. Darcy caught her breath when his fingers grazed her belly button and cupped a breast. She shivered when his thumb passed over her nipple. She hoped he would touch her again. She was sure to spend quick if he did.

  But to her dismay, he stepped away, saying as he surveyed her, “Most delectable, but I have at present an appointment to keep.”

  Darcy felt the air sucked from her. She opened her eyes and looked at him as if through a haze. Had she heard him correctly? But then she watched in horror as he put on his gloves.

  “Oh, please…” she whispered through parched lips.

  He raised an eyebrow. He was going to make her beg, she realized. So be it. She needed to spend as if her life depended upon it.

  “Please…take me,” she whimpered.

  “Why?”

  The question went screaming through her mind. She was going to go mad if he didn’t make her come soon.

  “Because I desire it…because you have made me desire it…”

  “How much?”

  “I crave it immensely…desperately…” she said through her blurred thoughts. “No one makes me feel as you do.”

  “No one?”

  “No one,” she confirmed. “No one can bring such delight…my body longs for your touch…”

  “Is it mine to do as I please?”

  “Yes, yes, my body is yours. Yours alone. Radcliff … take me now.”

  He smiled and planted a tender kiss upon her brow. Grabbing the letter he had been writing earlier, he donned his hat and said, “In due time, my love.”

  Her eyes widened in panic. She gave him a wild look. He was not going to leave her bound to the writing table?

  “Ring for my servants if you require anything,” he offered before closing the door after him.

  Her desire ached with emptiness, and she attempted to will herself to spend. He had left her on the worst precipice she had ever known. Darcy struggled against her bindings. Good God, what if a servant walked in? She struggled harder.

  The minutes dragged on. But all she could do was wait.

  *****

  It had killed him to leave her there, her quivering body tied to his writing table. Radcliff wanted nothing more than to help her achieve the greatest ecstasy her body could know. But it was true that he had an appointment.

  She would hate him for this. But it was worth it to hear her utter her desire. Yes, yes, my body is yours. Yours alone.

  She would not believe him if he told her that he suffered with her. His arousal had strained against him from the moment she attempted to tear her dress. If it could speak, it would have howled in rage against him for not allowing it to sink into her wetness. It had taken every ounce of restraint when he had witnessed that clear honey glistening down the length of her and onto the surface of the writing table.

  But she would understand now that she was his and could only be his. And he knew now, more than ever, that he was hers and could only be hers.

  “Miss Sherwood’s horse and vehicle are still here,” his perplexed butler explained to Radcliff upon his return.

  “Yes, I know,” Radcliff said briskly as he tossed his hat and gloves to the man. He could wait no longer. He had to have her.

  He opened the door to his study and was relieved and guilt-ridden to see her still tied to his writing table. She was struggling against her bindings liked a caged animal. Hoping he had not tied her bonds too tightly, he silently promised her that he would make it up to her—for the rest of his life. He sauntered over to inspect her.

  She was wetter than ever.

  Thank God, Radcliff thought. His assumption had been correct. When he met her eyes, which were casting daggers at him, he gave her his best devilish grin. Still defiant. And he would have it no other way with Darcy Sherwood.

  “I know you, Radcliff,” Pinkerton had told him, “need someone as bloody cocky as yourself.”

  She was perfect for him, Radcliff concluded as he stared at her beautiful bound body. In wit, passion, honesty, and flesh, his match—and better. It was time to bring her to the rapture she deserved.

  He reached between her legs and stroked her. Her body responded like a well-tuned instrument. She had been hanging on the edge of spending for so long that it did not take her long to climax. Spasms erupted throughout her body. Her body would have arched off the table if not for her bonds.

  Before she completely recovered from her orgasm, Radcliff undid her bonds and flipped her over onto her stomach. With her breasts flattened by the desk and her arse hanging deliciously off the edge of the table, he drew out his length and pushed it into her. Having been deprived of her for so long, it felt as if he were entering her for the very first time.

  It felt sublime.

  After only a few well drawn thrusts, he had Darcy riding her second orgasm. His orgasm came with a blinding fury. His thighs shook as he pumped himself into her once, twice, thrice. He felt like collapsing on top of her, but he knew she must have been sore from being tied to the writing table. Collecting her body in his arms, he carried her over to the sofa. She breathed what sounded like a contented sigh and leaned her head against him. This, too, felt sublime.

  He massaged her arms and kissed her eyelashes. He murmured into her hair, “This is merely the beginning, my dearest Darcy.”

  She tensed and seemed to awaken from her daze. “Your condition was that I submit to you here and now. The ‘now’ has passed, my lord.”

  “If you recall I had two conditions.”

  “Two conditions?” she echoed apprehensively. “What is the second?”

  “That you give your hand to me in matrimony.”

  At first she only blinked, then she looked at him as if he were playing a cruel jest upon her.

  “I want you for my own, Miss Sherwood,” Radcliff explained.

  “But…what of being your mistress?”

  “You refused me.”

  Still confused, Darcy asked, “But you think I would accept an offer of marriage instead?”

  “Well, I hadn’t planned on it being an offer,” Radcliff said. “My appointment, you see, was to secure the minister and leave notice with The Times. The banns will be read this Sunday.”

  Her eyes widened. Radcliff could not tell if she was appalled or impressed.

  “Do you mean to refuse me a second time?” he asked when she had not spoken.

  “What of Nathan?”

  “He, your sister, and your stepmother will be provided for. If they choose to live in London, I will find them a townhome. If they prefer the country, there is my primary seat or my secondary estate near Brighton.”

  “You won’t take Nathan from Priscilla then?”

  The relief and hope in her voice made him feel like a rotten cad. He responded brusquel
y, “Of course not, though I had to do something to command your attention—and force your hand.”

  She shook her head. “You are the most arrogant and abominable man.”

  “So you’ve said.”

  “And if I were to decline?”

  Radcliff clenched his jaw, and his features darkened. “It is not an option. Do you realize that you could be with child? I will not have another bastard to the Barrington name.”

  Her eyes widened but she looked away quickly—too quickly.

  “Good God,” Radcliff exhaled. He grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her to him. “Are you with child?”

  She looked at him in protest, but no words came.

  “That settles the matter then,” he said grimly. “Thank God I set an early wedding date.”

  Was that relief lighting her face? Happiness? Then horror filled her eyes as she uttered, “I would be Mrs. Barrington!”

  Radcliff could not resist a half smile. “Yes, the fourth Baroness Broadmoor.”

  “But why?”

  “You disappoint me, Miss Sherwood. I took you for a clever woman, but it would seem obvious, even to the dumb, that I adore you. I adore you body and soul. I want to be the only man to command pleasure from you. I want to bring you joy in all its forms from the moment the sun rises to the moment the moon sets. And I wish it for the rest of my life.”

  He could see tears welling in her eyes. It was nearly his undoing.

  “And I believe,” he continued, “that you bear some affection for me as well.”

  “A little,” she acknowledge with a wry smile.

  He kissed the tear that slid down the side of her face before capturing her mouth was his. Unlike the fierce kisses of desire, this one was tender and bespoke the love he felt for her.

  “Darling Darcy,” he murmured into her hair and pulled her close. The ton be damned for nothing could make him feel this contented, this complete, as she.

  “I have a condition of my own, Baron,” said Darcy as she pulled away to look up at him.

  “Indeed?”

  Her eyes gleamed with mischief at him. “You must submit to me on our wedding night.”

  Radcliff considered for a moment. “Very well, Baroness, and you will be mine through the honeymoon.”

  Darcy shook her head. “I don’t think I shall ever become accustomed to being addressed as a Baroness. Priscilla would…Priscilla will wonder what has become of me! I should speak with her at once—oh! My clothing!”

  Radcliff offered her his coat. “You shall pen a letter to your sister, and I will have my servant deliver it post-haste. As for the dress, one of my maids can sew it well enough for you to depart in it.”

  Flushing, she accepted the coat. The blush in her cheeks made her look angelic. Radcliff stared at her. How was it possible that she could look so damned attractive even in his clothing?

  “It will take some time to mend the dress. What are we to do till then?” she inquired.

  “I would like to ravish you once or twice more,” Radcliff responded as he adjusted his cock, “though I will require a brief respite. What does my lady recommend to pass the time?”

  She gave him a smile that thrilled him to no end.

  “Have you a deck of cards, my lord?”

  TEMPTING A MARQUESS

  CHAPTER ONE

  “WELL, YOUR WICKED COUSIN deigns to show, does he?” Mrs. Grace Abbott asked of her daughter, Mildred, as she looked across the ballroom at a gentleman who had turned many a head by his appearance.

  Knowing the question to be more of a statement, Mildred, a practical young lady of four and twenty, made no reply as she fanned herself to keep from perspiring overmuch, which she was wont to do in crowded spaces, during uncommonly warm summer evenings, whenever she fretted, and if she should have on one too many layers of clothing. All four of these aspects conspired against her tonight, and the moisture would certainly ruin the many applications of powder her mother, declaring that Mildred’s complexion showed too darkly in the summer months, had insisted upon.

  As the occasion for the ball was Lady Katherine d’Aubigne’s fiftieth birthday, Mrs. Abbott had also insisted Mildred wear the shawl that her ladyship, Mrs. Abbott’s esteemed sister-in-law, had gifted Mildred last Christmas. Mrs. Abbott never failed to consider how she might curry the favor of her ladyship, the hostess of the evening’s soiree.

  Mildred adored Lady Katherine, but for once, her attention was more fixed upon her cousin, the Marquess of Alastair. She had hoped he would be in attendance and had thought of little else on the carriage ride over. Yet, now that she beheld his tall and imposing form, her nerves faltered and she wondered that she had the courage to speak to him, though she had never before felt intimidated. She was not one given to asking for favors from anyone, let alone the marquess, but she was in some desperation tonight.

  “I heard he had been dallying with some chit from the bourgeoisie,” Mrs. Abbott continued. “I would have thought, once he had come into the marquessate, that he would forsake his rakish ways. It is a shame, for the former marquess was an upstanding man.”

  “You ought not speak ill of Alastair, Mama,” Mildred said. “He has been quite generous in providing for my dowry.”

  Mrs. Abbot sniffed. “Well, it was the only proper thing to do as he can well afford it and the two of you are cousins.”

  Though her mother, whose older brother had married Lady Katherine, needed no reminding, Mildred replied, “Cousins by marriage only.”

  “Cousins, nonetheless.”

  “The marquess is under no obligation to assist us, even if his aunt married Uncle Richard.”

  “No obligation? We are family!”

  Sensing that her mother was determined to see Andre d’Aubigne, the Marquess of Alastair, in poor light, Mildred offered no further comment. Nothing short of his lordship offering his hand to Mrs. Abbott’s daughter would improve the woman’s perception of him. If such a miraculous event as a proposal should come to pass, Mrs. Abbott would have gladly forgiven all his imperfections.

  “I suppose your father should introduce George to your cousin.”

  Mildred stiffened at the name of her fiancé, an uninspiring and officious man. But despite their connections to the d’Aubigne family, Mrs. Abbott, being the fourth daughter, and Mr. Abbott, a fifth son with no entailment to speak of, could not be particular. Mildred had had few suitors since her come-out. With a figure slightly plump and a face more round than oval, she had only the brightness of her eyes and the shape of her nose to recommend her countenance.

  “I doubt Alastair will stay long enough for introductions,” Mildred thought aloud. She knew her cousin favored gaming hells over social gatherings of any sort.

  Mrs. Abbott scowled. “Well, I shall have to find your papa and ensure that he introduces George as soon as possible. George is quite eager to meet your cousin.”

  “Yes, he is,” Mildred affirmed. She rather suspected that, if they had not any relation to the d’Aubigne family, George Haversham would not have proposed.

  She had made a grievous error in accepting his hand yesterday. The proposal had come as a surprise, and she had convinced herself that she ought not fall into the same habits as her mother in refusing to see the better qualities of a man. She should be grateful that a man had offered for her at all.

  But last night, sleep had eluded her. The prospect of marriage, and all the obligations that accompanied that institution, had roused desires that she had worked hard to suppress for the better part of the year. They were wanton, unbidden desires, and they persisted despite the shame she felt at not having had the fortitude to keep her virtue. Her discovery by one she revered had, surprisingly, set her at ease with these yearnings. Nevertheless, as her parents had grown more anxious regarding her prospects of matrimony, Mildred had resolved to keep her secret wantonness at bay.

  But it called to her often.

  As the night wore on, she began to consider that spinsterhood did not appear all
that unfavorable next to marriage with Haversham. She did not wish to be a burden to her parents, but if she should never marry, she decided that she could find employment as a governess or a lady’s companion. Lady Katherine would assist her.

  She had first considered appealing to Lady Katherine but loathed to trouble her ladyship with her woes. As it would be most unseemly for her to call off the engagement, it remained for Haversham to retract his offer or fail to come to terms with the marriage settlement.

  For that to happen, she needed Lord Alastair.

  As soon as her mother had left in search of her father, Mildred rallied her nerves, dotted her brow with her handkerchief, and prepared to speak to the Marquess. But first, she was beset by three of her peers eager to ask after her cousin.

  “Which dance do you think Lord Alastair most partial to? Does he fancy cotillions?” asked Helen.

  “Alas, I do not think him partial to dancing of any sort,” Mildred replied.

  “But he must dance!” remarked Jane. “There is such the shortage of men with so many off to fight Napoleon. It would be so very impolite of him not to dance.”

  “I think you overestimate my acquaintance with him, but I would hazard that he would wear the label of rudeness as easily as he does the label of rake.”

  “How is it you are even able to talk to him?” asked Margaret. “He always appears quite put out at being spoken to.”

  Mildred was tempted to say that the Marquess must feel sorry for her, but he himself would protest that his selfish nature would not accommodate so generous a sentiment as pity.

  “Millie, will you not sing my praises to him?” Jane asked. “I am your oldest friend. Perhaps you can mention that Henry Westley has taken an interest in me.”

  “I should be a better friend by not calling his attention to you,” Mildred replied. “Surely you know his reputation?”

  “My brother said the Marquess came very near to a duel once,” Helen noted.

  “How exciting!” Margaret sighed.