Submitting to the Marquess

by Brown, Em Browint writing as Georgette

  The footman returned, and Mildred braced herself to receive the news that the Marquess was indisposed, but the servant said, “If it pleases you, miss, you may await his lordship in the parlor down the hall.”

  She released the breath she had been holding and answered, “Yes, of course.”

  She followed the footman to the parlor. After he had left her alone, she sauntered about the small but nicely appointed room. She had not the patience to sit upon the sofa in the middle of the room. Why, of a sudden, did she feel nervous? It was silly. She was merely going to thank him.

  She had only felt such nerves one other time with her cousin. It was the night she had approached him at his aunt Katherine's birthday to request his assistance in getting out of her engagement with Haversham. She did not often find him as intimidating as others would.

  But there was no denying that the nature of their relationship had changed since that fateful night at the Château Debauchery. Not only had she lifted her skirts to him, she had done so in the most wicked and wanton fashion.

  To keep her mind from straying into the past, she studied the baroque longcase clock in the corner, wandered to the hearth to warm her gloved hands at the fire, and viewed herself in the looking glass above the mantel. She was glad she was comely enough such that Alastair had capitulated to her desires. She had fancied that perhaps he had even desired her a little, enough to be aroused, though she had heard that his sex required little in the way of arousal and could be titillated by the prospect of congress with any woman, even if she was not the most striking.

  “What is amiss?”

  She whirled about to face her cousin. Now that he was in closer proximity, he appeared more imposing. She tried not to recall how strong and heavy his body had felt against her.

  “Nothing,” she answered, gratified that his voice had carried more concern than was his custom.

  “Then why are you here, Millie?”

  Now he sounded displeased.

  “I came first to thank you,” she said, refusing to be intimidated by his mood. “Father said that Haversham departs for Scotland on the morrow.”

  “Good riddance. May I suggest that you pick your next husband more carefully?”

  “Of course. I rather think that I shall not be accepting any more proposals for some time.”

  He made no reply, and she suspected that he desired to return to the card tables, but she could not leave without addressing her other request.

  “I would have written a letter to express my heartfelt thanks, but I was uncertain when it would reach you, and I did not think that it would have adequately communicated the sincerity of my gratitude.”

  “No thanks are necessary.”

  Knowing the best manner of thanks she could provide at the moment was allowing him to return to his cards, and perhaps the two beauties that awaited him, Mildred could not resist staying him for just a minute. “But you will have it, nonetheless, for it is the proper and polite response to express gratitude where it is due.”

  “And when have you known me to care for what is proper and polite?”

  She grinned. “I will do what is right and bestow my thanks. You may choose to receive it however you wish.”

  “Consider yourself acquitted of any further obligation. What is your second reason for coming, and I daresay I hope there is not a third?”

  “Worry not. I do not plan to keep you long, and you may return to your vices soon. I have but a simple request.”

  He raised his brows. “Another request?”

  She flushed, realizing she had imposed upon him rather often of late. “It shall be my last.”

  “I pray it so or it might become a habit.”

  Ignoring his rudeness, she forged on. “I should dearly appreciate it if you were to return my dowry to the original amount of two thousand pounds—or even less.”

  He stared at her.

  “I know not what my father might have said,” she continued, “but two thousand pounds was more than kind.”

  He crossed his arms. “Never before have I encountered anyone whom it is so difficult to bestow money to. You spoke of what is proper and polite. It would be proper and polite of you to accept my donation and be grateful for it.”

  “I am grateful for your generosity but would not encroach upon it further.”

  “Alas, it is not for you to do so. Your father has accepted the new dowry on behalf of your family.”

  “Well, of course he did!”

  “Because anyone of middling intelligence would.”

  She drew in a sharp breath, then saw a glimmer in his eyes that allowed her to release her breath. “Alastair, you have been more than kind, but four thousand pounds is beyond the pale. I do not merit such a sum.”

  “There are plenty of unworthy women with far larger dowries than you.”

  She suppressed a scowl. “But why the need to increase the amount?”

  “Because you merit better than Haversham.”

  “But four thousand pounds will attract every Tom, Dick and Harry.”

  “That is not my problem, Millie.”

  “But you—” She forced herself to take a breath. How the man tried her civility!

  “You are a clever girl. I expect you will learn the art of rejecting your suitors without badly wounding their hearts—or pride.”

  “I’ve no wish to. Dealing with Haversham was enough for me.”

  “Millie, you have made several requests of me, and I have no desire to encourage further requests from you. Thus, my answer is no.”

  Her mouth hung agape before she landed upon another strategy. “If that is your position, then you shall have to suffer my gratitude and many, many expressions of it—and often—profusely—for such a level of generosity deserves praise and—”

  To her surprise, he drew up before her, and the air surrounding them suddenly constricted.

  “Are you threatening me?” he growled.

  Her heart palpitated rapidly. His proximity left her without words.

  “If we were at Château Follet right now…” he began.

  She quivered at the unnamed possibilities. Though she had told herself that one too many glasses of wine had contributed to the amorous affect her cousin had upon her, the truth was rather different, as evidenced by the melting sensation she currently felt.

  Seeing that he had silenced her, he retreated a pace. “Are we done, Millie?”

  Never had gathering words proved so difficult, but she managed a “yes.”

  Pulling her shawl tighter about her, she made for the doors.

  “Wait.”

  The command sent her hurling back to that night at Château Follett, when she had followed his directives in delicious delight. Her heart still beating rapidly, she dared not look at him, not wanting him to see the effect he had upon her.

  “How did you arrive?” he inquired.

  She turned around only after she had enough composure in hand. “I walked here by foot.”

  He looked toward the window. The skies outside had begun to darken. “The hour is late. You should take my carriage.”

  “Thank you for the offer, but I am not daunted by the distance home.”

  “Did you come alone?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Then you will take my carriage.”

  “I enjoy walking.”

  The cool air would help dampen the warmth swirling inside her.

  He gave her a penetrating stare, and for a moment, she thought he might finish the thought he’d had earlier and specify a punishment for her refusal. “I will not require my carriage for some time,” he said, removing any last obstacle to her acceptance. “Time enough for my driver to take you home and return.”

  “Very well,” she declared. Then, wanting to reclaim a little of her pride, she dared to irk him. “I accept your hospitality. Let it not be said that the Marquess of Alastair lacks kindness.”

  His countenance darkened, and he grumbled, “Consider yourself fort
unate, Millie, that we are not at Château Follett.”

  His words took her breath once more. She wanted a ready retort but could not conjure one. She watched him open the doors and call to a footman to have his carriage ready.

  “Good night, Millie,” Alastair said before heading back to the card room.

  She was glad he did not tarry to keep her company while she waited for his carriage. His presence rattled her more than she liked. Now that he had mentioned Château Follett, there was no holding back from venturing there in her mind.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ALASTAIR FAVORED THE BLOND, though it mattered little which of the two lightskirts he selected to fuck in the grounds behind the gaming hall. Miss Woodwin—or perhaps it was Woodwiss; he could not remember nor cared to remember—gasped as he pinned her against the building with his body.

  “Your lordship,” she breathed, “you are presumptuous.”

  Despite the dim lighting from a half-clouded moon, he could see the sparkle of desire in her eyes. She had been brushing her body against his all evening; brushing his forearm as she reached for a card; tapping his shoulder to inform him of his turn, though he had known bloody well each time it was his turn; and bumping into his leg beneath the table whenever she shifted in her seat.

  “Am I?” he returned, cupping her chin and lifting her gaze to meet his. “Would you rather I take my leave?”

  Her lips parted but returned no words. He already knew the answer, and had asked his question to curtail any protests she felt obligated to feign. Her bosom heaved beneath him, and when the silence continued, he lowered his mouth to take her lips. He could taste and smell the three glasses of port she had consumed. A gentleman would have hesitated to press his advantage with an inebriated woman. But she had known precisely what she did, having begun her flirtations before the first glass, the port providing her a ready pretext for her later actions.

  And Alastair was no gentleman.

  Were it not for his status in polite society and his endowments in form and countenance, no woman of reason would wish to tempt him. And, in general, he found their sex rather wanting in judgment. He had thought his cousin, Millie, whose uncle had married his aunt, to be an exception. But she had surprised him by accepting the proposal of a rather stupid fellow, from which she then suffered buyer’s remorse and sought his intervention to dissolve the engagement.

  Millie surprised him in more ways than one. He remembered how astonished he had been, sitting at one end of the dining table at Château Follet, to see her at the other end. She must have seen him enter the dining room, for she had been in some haste to depart the table, running into a maid carrying a tureen of gravy. He had followed her out and found her, soaked in gravy, hiding behind a sofa in the drawing room.

  He had intended to sacrifice his own plans to partake of the carnal merriment at the Château Follet to see her safely away from the den of debauchery, but she had stubbornly refused. He could not believe that his aunt, though she had been the one to introduce him to Château Follet, would have facilitated Mildred's participation. It had been the most confounding night, one in which the proprietress, Madame Follet, in finding him and Millie at odds, dared accuse him of sanctimony. Never before had he been so vexed by their sex. He had implored them to be reasonable:

  “Marguerite, pray be reasonable. You do Miss Abbott no favors by permitting her to stay.”

  “Andre, she is my guest, not yours. Your aunt—”

  “Katherine is far too enamored with this place and in want of discretion.”

  Marguerite arched her slender brows. “Andre, this is most unlike you. And because we are good friends, I will dare to say that I find your position rather selfish.”

  She astounded him. She deemed him selfish when he was willing to sacrifice his long-awaited weekend at the château to protect his cousin?

  His look of vexation did not daunt Marguerite. She continued, “Oui. You have partaken readily of the pleasures here but would deny the opportunity to another?”

  He tried a different approach. “I ask you, as a friend, I beg of you to see the soundness of my actions.”

  “Your aunt is my friend as well, and I am loath to disappoint her.”

  They had all lost reason, he decided. All three women. Women he had hitherto thought sensible—especially Millie.

  “I do not mean to disparage you or the château, Marguerite,” he said, unrelenting, “but it is not worth the risk for Miss Abbott.”

  “Sir, you presume too much on my behalf,” Millie said.

  Marguerite put a gentle hand upon his arm. “It is trés amusing to see you fret in the manner of an old woman, but I assure you that all will be well.”

  His vexation trapped all words. If she were not the hostess, he would have a few choice words for her.

  Marguerite turned to escort Millie from the room, but he stopped them. Addressing Millie, he said, “Do not be a fool. I am willing to chaperone you home, but I may not be so generously inclined later.”

  She straightened. “I thank you for your kind offer, Alastair, but it is not necessary.”

  His nostrils flared. The chit should be grateful for his selfless gesture!

  “Stop such idiocy, Millie. You do not fully comprehend what transpires here.”

  “I have been well informed by both your aunt and Madame Follet.”

  “And the wiser course would be for you to reconsider!”

  “How is it the wiser course for me but not for you?” she cried.

  “Are you truly asking such a daft question? I had thought you more sensible than that.”

  She flushed with indignation. “I intended to draw attention to your hypocrisy with my question.”

  “It is not my hypocrisy but that of society’s. The consequences fall much more harshly upon the female sex.”

  “But here at Château Follet, the sexes are equal,” declared Marguerite. “It is a quality you appreciate, mon chéri, and benefit from.”

  “But how will Millie benefit?”

  “In the same manner you do, but of course.”

  “That is different.”

  “How?”

  Why were these women asking such ridiculous question? Did they truly require him to state the obvious?

  “Certain ruin awaits her if she is discovered.”

  “That has yet to happen with a guest.”

  “She won’t like it here.”

  Millie breathed in sharply. “Surely that is for me to determine.”

  “I assure you this is no place for you. My dear aunt has not been here in some time and forgets the nature of the acts here would appall you.”

  “I am not easily frightened or appalled.”

  “Millie, don’t be a dolt.”

  “I object to your condescension, sir!”

  “It is for your own good. You know no one here. What man do you expect will pair with you?”

  He saw her eyes widen and regretted the harshness of his words, but it was warranted if he was to talk sense into her.

  She looked ready to attack him or cry. “You think no one will desire me?”

  “That is not what I said.”

  “It is what you meant!”

  He fumed because her accusation was not entirely untrue. “The men here—their expectations are different.”

  Her bottom lip quivered. “If I am not selected, then I will take pleasure in watching others.”

  Her response stunned him into silence.

  “Andre, I protest,” Marguerite intervened. “Miss Abbott has a right to be here as much as you do, and I dare say, if you do not leave her be, I shall have to ask you to leave.”

  If not for his promise to grant Katherine's birthday wish, in which she, fearing for his loneliness, had requested that he take the concerns of someone in hand, he would have left Millie to her own devices, would have let her suffer the consequences of her foolishness.

  Or would he? The memory of the Viscount Devon still made his blood boil. He could
not have, in good conscience, allowed Millie to be his prey. Any inaction on his part was tantamount to feeding a defenseless hare to a hawk. Millie had thought the man charming, but Alastair would sooner trust a thief.

  And so he had granted Katherine's request and would see to Millie’s safety, but she had thwarted his intentions to lock her in her chambers for the night, away from the clutches of Lord Devon.

  Alastair had thought he could convince Millie to be reasonable. The pleasures of Château Follet were not worth the risk to her honor. But she had surprised him yet again by revealing that she was no longer in possession of her virtue. He had been flabbergasted at the time, but, upon reflection, he found the revelation rather intriguing. Few people surprised him.

  “Something amuses you, your lordship?” Miss Woodwiss asked.

  He started.

  “I think that the first smile you have displayed all evening,” she commented, visibly pleased with the prospect of being the source of his pleasure.

  Recalling himself, he gave a half growl and closed her mouth with his. The less she talked, the better. He ground his erection against her. Thinking back on Château Follet had doubled his ardor. A shiver went down his legs as he recalled one of their most memorable exchanges after he had taken her.

  “But I had hoped to take your member,” she said.

  “Millie, did you think we were engaged in something other than congress?”

  “Into my mouth.”

  His eyes steeled, and he pressed his lips into a firm line. “I will not degrade you further.”

  “But there is titillation in degradation, is there not? Is it not supremely wanton and wicked to take that man’s part and place it where nature had not intended?”

  “Millie, the hour is late.”

  “Do you not enjoy the act?”

  “Millie, I will not allow you to browbeat me into this.”

  “Browbeat? No. I merely wish to entice you. I have received some instruction in this and am no novice.”

  He shook his head. “Good God, Millie. When I discover this wretch who has turned you…”