Submitting to the Marquess

by Brown, Em Browint writing as Georgette

  She put her head in her hands. What an impression she must have made to the guests at the dinner table! Especially to Lord Devon. He must think her a blundering idiot. What if no one wished to partner with her? How embarrassed would she be to have that happen in front of Alastair? Oh, this was turning into quite a mess! Perhaps she should leave the château with him.

  But if she should be fated to become Mrs. Haversham, this was her last chance to know the pleasures of the flesh, to understand that look of rapture upon Lady Katherine’s countenance when she recalled her past at Château Follet. Lady Katherine had facilitated a rare and precious occasion and would be disappointed if such a gift were not made use of. Not seeing her time through here would disappoint Lady Katherine.

  As Bhadra dressed her, Mildred reasoned that Alastair would soon forget her in favor of other company, such as the beauty who had sat beside him at the table. His roguish nature would prevail, and he would tend to his own interests. He could commend himself for making an attempt at propriety, but what more could he do? He would not wish to oppose Madame Follet.

  Mollified, Mildred turned her thoughts to Lord Devon. Did she dare hope that he would choose her for a partner? She marveled that he seemed to have taken an interest in her, but would his attentions last beyond dinner, especially after he had had the chance to converse with other, lovelier women?

  Mildred studied herself in the mirror. She was not striking, but neither was she homely. And she possessed other qualities that must improve her presence, even if her countenance and figure were of middling beauty.

  What was it that Alastair had said? That no man would pair with her? In the past, his bluntness rarely ruffled her, but this one hurt. It was her own worst fear made verbal. And while it was a good possibility that no man would take an interest in her beyond making polite conversation at the dinner table, Alastair need not have been so cruel.

  Upset that her thoughts had turned once again to her cousin, Mildred started pacing before Bhadra had finished fixing her coiffure.

  Lady Katherine had seemed confident that she would find a partner. Perhaps her ladyship had made an arrangement with Madame Follet? But what if she had not?

  Mildred reviewed herself in the looking glass. Perhaps if she applied a little more rouge, her appearance would be improved enough to interest the likes of Lord Devon?

  No, she needed more than rouge. She needed a lovelier gown, but she had soiled her best dress.

  Realizing she was thirsty gave her an idea. She would dampen her gown. The women at the French courts had started such a practice. No man could fail to take notice.

  “Remove all but one of the petticoats,” she told Bhadra, hardly believing what she was about to do. She wondered what her cousin would think, then reminded herself it mattered not. She did not require his approval, nor would he wish to be bothered for it. His vehemence had surprised her.

  “Pay him no heed,” she told herself, then told Bhadra of her wishes.

  She shivered after water had been applied to the whole of the gown. It was not the most comfortable of sensations, but the effect was provocative, even upon an imperfect form.

  “You look lovely, miss,” Bhadra said.

  “Thank you.”

  Mildred drew in a fortifying breath, though her nerves, dancing erratically within her, could not be easily calmed. When she felt she had enough command of herself, she headed back down to the dining hall.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  WITH ANOTHER CURSE, Andre made his way back to the dining hall, where he took his place once more beside the redhead. She seemed pleased at his return and gave him her whole attention. He attempted to reciprocate, but as her conversation was not the cleverest—she confined herself to marveling at the repast, commenting upon the château decor, and other subjects he found rather tedious—he tried to appreciate her other qualities. She had a slender form, a complexion of alabaster that required no powder, and a lovely cleavage about her lace-trimmed décolletage.

  But his attention kept wandering to the other end of the table, where Millie had previously sat next to Lord Devon.

  “You say you prefer the town over country?”

  Andre turned to Miss Hollingsworth. “Your pardon?”

  “The town,” she said. “I take it you prefer the many forms of amusement available in London: theaters, clubs, or gaming halls.”

  He glanced once more toward the other end of the table. Millie had not returned yet.

  “Though I suspect, for men, the countryside also holds much appeal in the way of hunting and fishing. We women are less fortunate. We must prefer the town for its superior offerings of entertainment and shopping, yet the streets can be so dirty and the air so polluted. If you were of the gentle sex, would you say London’s benefits outweigh its objections?”

  Finding her question far too inane, he made no reply.

  At that moment, Marguerite returned. He was glad to see that Millie still had not. Perhaps his cousin had come to her senses after all. She could remain in her room the rest of the night till Katherine returned to retrieve her in the morning.

  “Surely you must have a preference?” Miss Hollingsworth persisted.

  “I should prefer the Château Follet,” he answered, hoping to conclude this particular tête-à-tête and reminding himself that soon it would not matter that he found her dialogue dull. All that mattered was how lovely she would look sans clothing.

  “Above all,” he added with a subtle smile.

  She flushed, and her brows rose with interest. “I, too, am partial to Château Follet above all other places.”

  Now his brows rose with interest. He had hoped to meet a woman so inclined.

  “Have you been here before?”

  “Twice. And you?”

  “More than twice.”

  “Then you must be quite experienced.”

  Desire glimmered in her eyes, causing warmth to rise through his loins.

  “Ah, Miss Abbey!” he heard Lord Devon remark.

  Turning, Andre saw his cousin returned to the dining hall—and nearly fell from his chair.

  What the devil had she done to her gown?

  The fabric clung to her curves, outlining the swell of her hips and adhering to her thighs. She had wet the dress in the fashion of French harlots. Every eye was ogling her—especially those of Devon, who sprang to his feet to pull a chair for her. Millie smiled and thanked him.

  Andre felt his jaw tighten. He looked at Marguerite, but she was busy chatting with her other guests. He looked back toward Millie, who conversed with Devon with an air of ease. Devon was leaning far too closely toward her.

  “I had hoped to meet a man of experience upon my trip here.”

  Andre turned to Miss Hollingsworth. What the devil had she said?

  “How long do you stay?”

  “Three nights,” he replied before glancing once more toward Millie and Devon.

  Would Devon truly choose to pair with Millie for the evening? There were plenty of women to choose from, and who might happily receive the company of Lord Devon. The son of an earl, Devon had breeding, a charming smile, and the most stylish clothing that Saville Row had to offer. He could have his pick of women, most of whom were more attractive than Millie, but he seemed intent upon her. Rockwell had said the man could sniff out a virgin a league away.

  Andre started, for something touched his knee. It was Miss Hollingsworth. She was cutting the quail upon her plate, but a small smile hovered over her lips. He should be much encouraged by this, but his first thought was whether or not Devon had his knee similarly pressed to Millie’s beneath the table.

  It ought to be no concern of his, Alastair reminded himself. Millie had decried his interference. He had had no hand in this foolishness Katherine and Millie engaged in. He was not responsible for his cousin’s virtue.

  It was too much the coincidence. Katherine knew of his plans to be at Château Follet, had quaintly requested that he take someone into his concerns, and, lo a
nd behold, here was his cousin. Was it a test to see if he would make good on the birthday present?

  He was not afraid to disappoint his aunt, especially if he was being set up. But what of Millie? She had seemed genuinely horrified to see him. She was far too good for Devon. What if the cad should hurt her? She would surely learn her lesson then and think twice of disregarding her cousin’s counsel in the future.

  If the worst should come to pass, she and Katherine had no one to blame but themselves.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  LORD DEVON’S LOOK of appreciation as he eyed her over from head to toe was all Mildred required to shore her resolve to see her night through at Château Follet, regardless of her cousin’s presence.

  During the remainder of dinner, she had caught the solemn stare of Alastair more than once and determined that she would stop looking his way. If she were to enjoy herself, she had to pay him no heed. He would surely forget her soon enough, especially as that scarlet beauty beside him clearly took an interest in him, as most women were wont to do.

  “You have not touched your pudding,” Devon remarked.

  “In truth, I am too nervous to eat very much,” she answered, though she could not recall the last time she had passed on dessert.

  “Ah, that is to be expected your first time here,” he said with reassurance.

  She returned a grateful smile.

  “Perhaps another glass of port will ease the nerves?” he offered, waving at one of the footmen.

  Mildred felt the gaze of her cousin upon her but resisted looking at him. She hesitated at a second glass, for she had already consumed a full glass of wine and was not accustomed to partaking of more, but Devon was already instructing the footman to refill her glass.

  Devon held up his own glass. “To an unforgettable first time.”

  She clinked her glass to his before putting it to her lips. Perhaps the glass of port was precisely what she needed. She was surprised at her present disquiet, especially after she had so firmly declared her intention of staying to Alastair.

  She finished the glass of port, and from Devon’s look of surprise, she must have done so rather quickly.

  “The port is far better than the pudding,” Devon acknowledged.

  Blushing, she replied, “Yes, it is a very fine port.”

  When Devon made to gesture again for the port, she stayed him, placing a hand upon his arm. “No, no. I will not be seen as a glutton, particularly upon my first visit.”

  “Madame Follet would welcome your gluttony and be happy to have the offerings of her cellar so enjoyed.”

  She chanced to look Alastair’s way and found him staring in her direction. Blast it. She would have thought him lost in the brilliant, thickly lashed eyes of the redhead by now. Realizing her hand still rested upon Devon, she quickly withdrew and straightened in her chair. Devon looked to where she had gazed.

  “Do you know that man?” Devon asked.

  She waved a dismissive hand. “Hardly.”

  “It seemed he followed you when you left the table.”

  Though she had no appetite for food, she decided to take a large spoonful of pudding. “He felt obliged, as my cousin, to see that I was well.”

  Devon’s brows shot up. “Your cousin?”

  Having no desire to talk of Alastair, she replied quickly, “By marriage. And we are scarcely in the same company.”

  “How coincidental that you should both be here then.”

  “Yes, it was completely unexpected.” And unwanted.

  Devon looked down the table toward Alastair.

  “Perhaps I will have another glass of port,” she declared to draw his attention.

  She accomplished her goal, for he seemed quite happy to supply her with more wine. She did not consume the third glass with quite the same thirst, for she could start to feel the effects from the first two glasses of wine, the chief benefit of which was that she ceased to mind Alastair and fixed upon Devon’s increasing charms.

  After dinner, everyone retired to an assembly room adorned with paintings, replicas of works such as The Nude Maja by Francisco de Goya y Lucientes, and Venus of Urbino by Titian. More wine was served by maids and footmen, scantily dressed in the costuming of ancient Egyptians. Millie tried unsuccessfully not to stare at the abundant amount of flesh revealed, wondering if she would ever have enough nerve to parade in front of others with her midsection and the entire lengths of her arms bared. Or, if she were of the other sex, to expose the whole of the chest. She had always liked that part of a man. It was so very different from that of her sex. The width, the taut ridges, were as pleasing to her eye as anything.

  The wine having increased her bravado, she found herself commenting to Devon, “Do they not feel chilled?”

  “They are accustomed to their state of dress,” he answered.

  Mildred realized she felt quite warm despite the dampness of her gown. She also felt light in the head and a little unsteady.

  “Would you care for a seat, Miss Abbey?” Devon inquired.

  How attentive of him, she thought to herself, pleased that he had not yet left her side. She greatly hoped that he would choose her.

  “How are the couples selected?” she asked after sitting down on a settee.

  Devon sat beside her. “Well, those that did not arrive with someone may choose from the unattached. At present, we are to circulate and acquaint ourselves with each other and, hopefully, find someone with whom we should like to pair.”

  “Ah, well, you are kind to keep me company, but do not let me stay you from befriending the others here.”

  “In truth, I have no interest in seeking other company.”

  She found herself bereft of words and lost in the shimmer of his beautiful blue eyes. She could hardly believe her fortune! But perhaps he did not mean to imply he preferred her company? Yet, what else could he have intended with those words? Did she dare press for a supporting statement? How she wished she had not partaken of so much wine that she could think more clearly!

  “Miss Abbey, may I have a word?”

  She looked up to see Alastair standing before them with his hand outstretched, and she was not so inebriated that she could not know from the firm set of his jaw that she was better off not taking his hand.

  Sensing her hesitation, Devon rose. “Good sir, I do not think I have the pleasure of your acquaintance? I am the Viscount Devon, my father the Earl of—”

  “And I am Alastair,” her cousin replied, staring coolly at Devon.

  Devon bowed. “A pleasure. Is this your first visit to Follett?”

  “No, and if you will pardon my intrusion, I mean to have a word with Miss Abbey.”

  Mildred wanted to refuse, but the tone in his voice suggested that it was perhaps unwise to do so. She turned to the frowning viscount and could see that he wished to object, but his sex was not immune to the command that Alastair exuded.

  “I shan’t be long,” she assured Devon before rising and accepting her cousin’s arm.

  She allowed herself to be led to the other end of the room and braced herself for battle.

  “Have you lost all discretion?” he asked when they had put some distance between them and the other guests.

  She would have pulled her arm from him, but he kept it.

  “If you mean to scold me,” she replied, “I would spare your breath and time for a more worthy pursuit.”

  He pressed his lips into a line. “Lord Devon is not to be trusted.”

  “Yes, you had warned me of his charms.”

  “A sinister disturbance lurks behind his pretty manners.”

  “You are well acquainted with him then?”

  “It is not necessary for me to be well acquainted with him.”

  “Then you have no specifics, and no evidence to criticize a man you barely know.”

  “I require none. I am inclined to dislike him.”

  They both looked back toward Devon, who was now in conversation with the beautiful redhead.
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br />   “You are inclined to dislike everyone,” Mildred responded with some exasperation, for she wanted to return to Lord Devon and did not like how tightly her arm was trapped against Alastair.

  “You are ready to give your trust to a man you just met?”

  “I understand that Madame Follet does not extend her invitations to merely anyone.”

  “She is not immune from making mistakes.”

  “I am willing to take that chance.”

  His countenance darkened. “You are willing, then, to award a man who may prove to be a cad your maidenhead? Once given, it cannot be recalled.”

  She flushed and tried once more to disengage her arm. When the effort proved fruitless, she stared him square in the eyes and said, “That honor has already been bestowed on another!”

  His eyes widened in surprise, and she felt a small triumph in being able to astonish the man. A maid presented them with her tray of wine glasses, and Mildred reached for one.

  “You have had enough of that,” Alastair growled. To the maid, he said, “A glass of water or lemonade for the mademoiselle.”

  After the maid had left, he turned back to Mildred. The shock had not left him.

  “You are no longer a virgin?” he asked.

  “You see, I am more suited to Château Follet than you think.”

  “But who—with whom—?”

  “That is none of your affair.”

  “I can make it my affair.”

  “I do not presume to ask the names of the women you have deflowered.”

  His nostrils flared. “I do not defl—”

  “Perhaps you could make it known to Haversham that I am no longer in possession of my honor? For certain he will not wish to marry me then.”

  “That is the wine talking. When you have come to your senses, you will see what a preposterous notion that would be. I know you would not shame your family in such a way. Despite what Katherine or Marguerite might have said to you, coming to Château Follet carries great risk for you. And you have worsened it by befriending a suspect man and allowing him to intoxicate you!”