Submitting to the Marquess

by Brown, Em Browint writing as Georgette

He paused to look at her but then continued to pull her toward the exit.

  "I protest!" she cried. "If I were Miss Hollingsworth, you would not treat me in such a brutish manner."

  "Indeed, and you are not Miss Hollingsworth, as you say."

  She resisted his tugging. “You think me a simpleton, naïve and innocent. You insist on this characterization of me, but it is not the truth. I have engaged far more than you know, than I have divulged."

  "I doubt that what you have done compares to what occurs here at the château. What you fancy might be curious goings-on here are far more daunting when experienced in the flesh."

  She attempted to free her arm from his tight grasp. "But I wish to experience it! All of it!"

  “All?”

  She looked to the bronze figures upon the table. “Yes, all.”

  " You wish to take a man’s member into your mouth?"

  "I have tasted of it before."

  He stopped. "I don't believe you."

  "I most certainly have. You see, there is a side of me you do not know. No one knows save Lady Katherine. She came upon me once with the stablehand. She saw my prurience. Thankfully, she did not condemn me for it. Everyone else sees me as this plain, boring spinster-in-the-making. But there is more to me than meets the eye. It is not a part of me I exalt. Till Lady Katherine had come upon me, I was much ashamed of these wayward desires, but they have strength unto themselves. And this is my last chance to explore them, to better understand them. You know not how relieved I was to think that perhaps I am not such the rare deviant. And now that I am to wed Haversham, I shall never be able to satiate this fiery thirst! This was my last and only chance."

  Her bottom lip trembled, and tears seemed to come from nowhere, threatening to spill profusely from her eyes. She looked away, not wanting Alastair to see the glisten in her eyes. It was enough that she had bared her soul to him. Merciful heavens. She had said a great many things to him just now. What precisely had she said?

  Silence permeated the air between them as she attempted to contain the trembling that had taken hold of her.

  “Then let us proceed with this wish of yours.”

  She looked at him, perplexed. “Pardon?”

  “This last chance of yours. Let us make the most of it.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  TO HIS CONSTERNATION, his heart was not as black and impenetrable as Alastair would have preferred, and Millie’s words had struck an oddly tender part. He had not discovered the darker side of his desires in the same manner as she. He had begun to find congress with the regular strumpet or opera dancer a trifle uninspiring. After Katherine had introduced him to Château Follet, a new realm of indulgence had opened to him.

  He knew not what he would have thought of himself if he had harbored such inclinations before his introduction to Château Follet. He doubted he would have been as critical of himself as Millie was of herself, but hers was a superior character. He had sensed it, and though this new part of her was a shock to him, he still stood by his initial assessment of her qualities.

  He would never have suspected her capable of a bold prurience, but her response to this discovery of herself was quite what he would have expected. Here was an upstanding young woman who attempted to live up to the expectation of family and society. These lustful and naughty proclivities must have come as quite the horror to her, and were he a man better skilled with words, he would have assured her there was naught to be ashamed of. But finer speech did not come readily to him.

  So he kissed her.

  Her lips were soft beneath his. He held the side of her head as he moved over her mouth. At first, perhaps too startled, she did not move. She put a hand to his wrist but did not pull him away. He brushed his lips over hers several times before lifting his head to view her.

  Her eyes, glistening with tears and the remnants of the port, were wide. He had never before taken note of the soft brown coloring in her eyes. It was quite a lovely hue. And though the flush across her nose was perhaps not so complimentary, the redness would dissipate when she was done weeping.

  He groaned to himself. He was going to regret this. Greatly. But for him to retreat now would deal an unnecessary blow. The night had been difficult enough for her.

  “What—what do you mean?” she asked, quivering. Her eyes possessed the same glassy brightness that most of her sex had after a kiss.

  “You’ve a wish to indulge in the offerings of Château Follet, do you not?”

  “Y-Yes.”

  “We are both of us without partners.”

  She continued to stare at him rather stupidly.

  He sighed. “As I do not trust anyone with your honor, I will assume your introduction to Château Follet myself.”

  She was silent.

  “Of course, if you would rather not…” He half hoped she would balk and force him to rescind his offer, but she did not, and remained in thought.

  “As we are cousins,” he added.

  “Not by blood,” she said, lowering her eyes, her hand still upon his wrist.

  Hell and damnation. He could not recall a more absurd attempt than what he had just engaged. But Millie might yet come to her senses. The port would wear off…

  She looked up at him. “It is a strange offer, but you are both gracious and kind, Alastair.”

  Her countenance had brightened, and he was pleased to see it. He returned a wry smile. The adjectives of “gracious and kind” had not been applied to him before—not by the intelligent and reasonable. Relief waved over him. She had come to her senses.

  “I am sorry your evening was not what you had wished,” he said.

  “But, thanks to you, it may be salvaged in part.”

  He blinked.

  “Did I mistake your offer?” she asked when he said nothing.

  “I thought you meant to decline it.”

  “No! I meant to accept it. Unless…you did not mean what you said?”

  “Not at all,” he replied gruffly. “I merely thought you had perhaps found it too awkward a proposition.”

  “It seems you find it awkward, my lord.” She withdrew her hand from him. “You need not worry, Alastair. I will not compel you. I know I am not the most comely of maids.”

  A stronger oath went through him. He grabbed her and crushed her to him. She emitted half a yelp before his mouth descended upon hers, his lips harshly roving over hers. His hand went into her coiffure, yanking her head back by the hair.

  “If we are to proceed, I will have none of your impudence,” he growled. “You will abide by all that I say. Fail me and the evening shall be at an end.”

  She nodded.

  He shook his head. A goddamn stablehand.

  Still hoping that time would fade her intoxication, and hence her fearlessness, he said, “First, let us first finish your survey of the art.”

  They came to a set of engravings under the title De omnibus Veneris Schematibus.

  "What are these?" she asked.

  He translated the Latin for her. "The Sixteen Pleasures. These are recreations. The original edition was destroyed by the Catholic Church."

  "Who was the creator of the original?"

  “Marcantonio Raimondi, who supposedly based his images upon the paintings of Giuilio Romano.”

  "And here I thought you had little affinity for anything beyond cards and horseflesh."

  "When I was at Oxford, a number of fellows attempted a printing of the engravings along with Aretino's sonnets. Both made quite the round amongst the students till the dean discovered them and threatened expulsion of anyone caught with the scandalous material."

  Mildred studied the first engraving, Paris et Oenone, depicting the Grecian couple in carnal embrace beneath a tree. Lying with her back against the tree, Oenone had one leg between the legs of Paris and her other wrapped about his hip. The second engraving, Angelique et Medor, drew even closer study from Mildred. Set against a woodland background, Medor, naked, lay upon the ground, while Angelique, als
o naked, attempted to sit atop him, her hand between her legs holding his member to guide it into her.

  “Are they from Greek mythology?” Mildred asked, her voice husky.

  “They are characters from the Italian epic Orlando Furioso by Ludovico Ariosto,” Andre answered.

  "I do not know it."

  “Angelica was an Asian princess at the court of Charlemagne. She fell in love with the Saracen knight Medoro, and eloped with him to China.”

  "Is this position of theirs comfortable?"

  Andre supposed the port lent her courage or she would not possess such ease in asking such a bold question of him.

  "You would have to ask them," he deflected. This was not the sort of conversation he had ever imagined having with his cousin.

  She wrinkled her nose at his response. "Have you ever performed this position?"

  He started and began to think twice about evading her questions, lest she make him pay with more audacious queries.

  “Have you?” she prompted.

  He stared at her. He saw that she intended no impudence for curiosity sparkled in her eyes. He answered, “Yes.”

  “And was it uncomfortable?”

  “Not for me.”

  “And what of the woman?”

  He tugged at his cravat for it grew warm about his neck. “I have heard no complaints before.”

  She turned to look once more at the engraving, and he was glad to have her probing eyes off him.

  “Is it enjoyable?”

  Perhaps, if she intended to have a great many questions of this nature, it was not wise to continue their survey of the art.

  “Yes,” he replied, hoping she would not require elaboration.

  “For both parties?”

  “Yes.”

  “How can you be certain of hers?”

  “I am.”

  “But how?”

  He rubbed his temples. “From her cries of pleasure. In fact, it is quite a desirable position for the woman if her legs possess the stamina.”

  “Indeed? How so?”

  “I have only anecdotal evidence, but I draw my conclusion from the many repeated requests for this position.”

  She appeared deep in thought, then moved to the third engraving of a satyr and nymph. A mound at the foot of a tree served as a chair for the nymph to sit upon while the satyr prepared to spear his member into her womanhood. To Andre’s relief, she asked no questions of this engraving.

  “This is not unlike the second,” she remarked of the fourth engraving, Julie Avec Un Athlete, in which the man was upon hands and feet, but with the body turned upward as if to form a table top with the chest and torso, while the woman straddled him, “but appears much more difficult.”

  “I have not attempted this position in its exact form,” he said hastily.

  The fifth engraving made Mildred straighten. “Surely this is not possible? Not a for a sustained period.”

  He said nothing as he looked upon the engraving, Hercule et Dejanire. Hercules stood upright holding Dejanire in his arms, his erection buried inside her.

  “You do not contradict me,” she noted. Her eyes narrowed. “You have done this position.”

  Many times, he thought to himself.

  “Is this position superior in enjoyment?”

  He turned to face her, wanting an end to her queries. “A definitive principle cannot be stated. Your enjoyment will differ from mine and even those of other woman, just as the preference for hues and fashion varies in your sex.”

  Satisfied, she moved on to the engraving, Ovide et Corine.

  “I suspect this a more common position,” she said of the couple in bed. Corine lay upon the legs spread and Ovide between them.

  Upon moving to Mars et Venus, she said, “Though I have tried this position as well.”

  The two gods were locked in nude embrace upon a bed. Mars lay against the pillows with Venus upon her knees, settling atop his tall erection.

  “Good God, how many times has the stableboy given you a gown of green?” Andre asked.

  She made no reply but laughed at the next engraving. “This I very much doubt would be comfortable for the woman.”

  In Bachus et Ariane, Bachus stood holding Ariane, upside down with her face planted in the pillow upon the ground, by the legs.

  “It looks as if he intends to use her as a wheelbarrow!” Mildred said.

  “It is one of the more difficult positions to sustain,” he admitted as he recalled his first attempt.

  “You have tried this one as well? Is there naught you have not attempted?”

  Remembering that she had not answered his earlier question, he began, “This stableboy—”

  She waved a dismissive hand. “I am done with him. He no longer works for your aunt.”

  Andre would have to have a word with Katherine about her employment decisions.

  “I wish I had your liberty to attain such experiences,” she said as she glanced through the rest of the engravings. Most were variations of the first several they had seen.

  Her statement prompted him to ponder a society in which women had similar freedoms to men to pursue their passions. As women possessed the same desires as men, and to the same depths, though most would not exhibit the truth of it as readily as his cousin did, there was much sense in removing the shackles that burdened the gentler sex.

  “I think Angelique et Medor to be my favorite,” Mildred pronounced. “I should like to try this position. May we?”

  He turned to her with a frown. Though the engravings had provoked a warmth inside him, and though he had begun to see that Mildred was not as plain as he had first thought her, he was not prepared to ravish her.

  But then he noticed the unevenness of her breath, her parted lips, and the blush in her cheeks. The primal in him stirred.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  HE WAS HESITATING, she saw. Was it because she had not the beauty of Miss Hollingsworth? Did propriety, a quality which, till tonight, she would have doubted to reside in his bosom, stay him? But then, why had he kissed her? The pressure of his lips still lingered. His offer had taken her completely by surprise, and if he had not wanted her to accept, he ought not have kissed her. She understood now why so many of her sex delighted in his presence. They knew what he was capable of.

  She had known it, too, but as she knew she would never receive his attention in that way, she had suppressed her acknowledgment of these qualities in Alastair. And because he had many faults that she did not admire, she had chosen not to see his seductive qualities. They might as well have been cousins by blood.

  Alastair was right. If she had been in full command of her faculties, if her reservations were not thawed by the port, she would not have allowed this to come to pass. She would not be standing before him in a room full of naughty art, propositioning him.

  Alastair narrowed his eyes. “This stableboy. How many times have you lain with him?”

  She frowned at the stall. “What does it matter?”

  “How many?” he demanded.

  “More than once.”

  His pupils constricted, and a muscle along his jaw rippled.

  “But not more than thrice,” she added with exasperation.

  In disbelief, he exclaimed, “Thrice?”

  “The first instance should count not, as the act could not be completed. I think my cries frightened him. His, er, entry hurt more than I thought it would.”

  Alastair shook his head. “Where is the little bleeder now?”

  “Do you suggest that you would have done differently than him? You, who have lifted the skirts of any number of women—how many have you taken into your bed?”

  “I have never deprived a woman of her maidenhead.”

  “The Marquess of Alastair has scruples? Dear me, what have you done with my cousin?”

  She yelped when he closed the distance between them and gripped her arm. “Take care, Millie, my tolerance of your insolence wears thin.”

  “I was mer
ely calling out your hypocrisy. Would you truly have hesitated to tumble a willing maiden?”

  He released her, perhaps in acknowledgment of her point.

  “I would you did not hesitate now,” she said more quietly. The art had provoked a roiling tension in her body, and she wanted release. “Perhaps we could…retire to your bedchamber?”

  He stared at her, and she could not make out his expression save that his earlier anger might have dissipated. His pupils had dilated.

  “If you had not wanted the boldness you now possess,” he replied, “you would not find yourself engaged to Haversham.”

  She acknowledged this to be true. “As such, I am now in some desperation, and desperation breeds courage.”

  “Or foolhardiness.”

  She waved a dismissive hand, impatient to address the longing inside her. “Let us say I am determined.”

  “That you are.”

  If she were not awash in port and desire, she might have thought her cousin to speak with a dash of admiration.

  “We are a long way from my bedchamber,” he said, his voice slightly husky.

  “Do you intend to retract your offer?” she asked, upset by his delays. “You would not with my father, but perhaps you are less inclined to integrity because I am a woman?”

  His hand circled the back of her neck, drawing her in close. She gasped at the tightness of his grip. Perhaps her desperation did engender foolishness. She had already tried his patience. Why was she choosing to provoke him further? Poking a sleeping tiger with a stick might be a wiser act.

  “I think what you truly desire is a sound spanking,” he said near her ear.

  A shiver went through her. She swallowed with difficulty before responding, “Did I vex you? I thought you cared not a wit what accusations are thrown at you?”

  He released her. A grin seemed to tug at one corner of his lips. She tried not to stare at his mouth and recall how delicious his had felt upon hers.

  “Indeed,” he declared, crossing his arms. “Let us commence that which you desire. There is no need to waste time retiring to a bedchamber.”

  She furrowed her brow. What did he mean?

  “We do not require a bedchamber and have more than we need here.”