Submitting to the Marquess

by Brown, Em Browint writing as Georgette

  “No, but neither are you always forthcoming with the truth.”

  Smiling, he kissed her forehead. “Good night, Georgina.”

  He could tell she did not want an end to their dialogue, but she knew better than to goad him.

  “She is not like the Farringtons,” Georgina said.

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “And she is no Miss Summers.”

  “Definitely not.”

  She pouted her lips at his irritating concurrence.

  “M’dear, if I knew not better, I’d vouch you had developed some affection for the Countess,” Phineas remarked, making Georgina the subject.

  “She was kind to me,” Georgina defended.

  “Perhaps she lacks discretion.”

  “Are you suggesting she ought not have spoken with me?”

  “Consorting with you does not improve one’s reputation, does it? Now, as you are my sister, I am obligated to…”

  After emitting an indignant gasp, Georgina whirled on her heels and left him standing on the threshold alone. He let out a breath of relief. He had no wish to discuss the Countess further with Georgina. Not until he had more lucidity of his own.

  * * * * *

  Lady Athena had him kneel before her once more. Phineas suspected she did not like her men to tower above her. She pushed her breasts into his face and commanded him to suckle her teats. He readily complied. There was an odd energy in Lady Athena tonight, almost an urgency, but he felt ready to take advantage of it. As he fit as much of one fleshy orb as he could into his mouth, he sensed her eyes closed behind her mask. Her body had relaxed, allowing him to guide the motions. Tonight was the night. He would win Lady Athena at last.

  Her costume was unusual, though fitting to her nom de plume. In her layers of translucent linen, she appeared almost virginal but for the golden mask and helmet. He liked the way the straps of her sandals wound around her lower leg. Lady Athena could wear almost anything, and he would find it enticing. If he could coax her out of her garments, he would have attained no small victory. Her attire was a source of power for her.

  He sensed her desire building as he nipped and sucked a nipple. She let out a low moan and arched her bosom into his face. Gently, he placed his hands upon her hips to aid in her balance. He increased the vigor of his suckling to distract her from his right hand, which he drifted down her thigh as his fingers began to collect the thin fabric separating him from her flesh. When he had pulled up the hem to her thigh, he slipped his hand beneath the chiton.

  Her own hands were wound through his hair. She grasped him tightly whenever he sucked with too much vehemence. He reached his thumb between her thighs and slid it between the folds to connect with the nub of flesh there. Slowly he circled his thumb against her pliant flesh. Suppressing his own urges, he focused on teasing the now swollen nub with light strokes. She lifted a leg and placed her foot upon the stool next to him, allowing him better access to the forbidden treasure. Victory was indeed in sight.

  He could smell her desire, feel it coating his thumb as he slid the digit against her, graduating from tender caresses to a more aggravated fondling. Her body quivered at his ministrations. Her breath grew uneven. He brushed his thumb rapidly across her clit. Lady Athena was a slow burning furnace—perhaps from a lack of frequent orgasmos. Her desire built steadily but slowly. Nonetheless, he would sooner die from exhaustion before she reached her climax. And hers was nearing. He could tell from the straining of her body and the uncontrollable gasps escaping her lips.

  Suddenly she had her hands upon his shoulders and shoved him away. She stumbled back and took in a deep but haggard breath. Startled, he wondered if perhaps she had spent without him knowing. He knew many women who achieved small climaxes, sometimes in advance of a grand climax. But Lady Athena did not have the look of a woman satisfied.

  After she had collected her breath, she straightened herself.

  “You are not without skill, Hephaestus,” she said with a slight tremor despite her best attempts to appear regal. “But we are done.”

  “Done for the evening, Lady Athena?” he inquired.

  She shook her head. “Done.”

  The finality in her tone needed no further clarification. Taking up her riding crop, she strode out of the alcove without further word.

  “Ah, Phineas, you are even better than your repute,” sighed Penelope as she collapsed into her bed an hour later.

  Still hard, he lay beside the proprietress and gazed at the canopy above her bed.

  “She didn’t say a word,” he murmured as he stroked his hardness. His thoughts of Lady Athena had not left him once as Penelope collected upon her wager. She was not the sort to inspire desire in him, but fortunately, one of his talents lay in his ability to command an erection whenever needed.

  “Were you expecting an adieu of some kind?” Penelope asked.

  “She was near to spending,” he said.

  “Are you sure? It is not always easy to know with a woman.”

  “I know,” he disputed. “It was as if she feared to spend.”

  “You had her as near to it as anyone from what I saw.” Her hand wandered between her legs. “But our Lady Athena is a mystery.”

  “I have not done with her.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, mon cherí, but Lady Athena has never been known to alter her mind.”

  “There is always a way.”

  “I would be happy to put up another wager,” Penelope murmured as she fondled herself more intently.

  Unlike Lady Athena, Penelope did not take long to begin her ascent. Seeing that she was aroused once more, he positioned himself between her spread legs and thrust himself inside of her. Her cunnie lacked the tightness of bodies less traversed, but her muscles inside were strong, and she used them well against his shaft. Soon she was spasming beneath him as her cries echoed off the walls. He pulled out of her after she had settled into a contented stupor.

  Phineas contemplated pleasuring himself till he spent but chose instead to leave his erection unattended and went to collect his garments.

  “Come again soon,” Penelope murmured.

  Phineas said nothing. He had received a note from Phillipa indicating she would be spending some time at her sister’s outside of London, but that her sister would not be at home, leaving her alone and in want of company. He decided he would relieve Miss Summers of her loneliness.

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE DRIVER OF THE post-chaise had given Gertie a skeptical look when he realized she was traveling sans an abigail but seemed somewhat appeased when she named her destination, figuring there was ample pay to be had. Lowry House could not spare a maid for her trip to Dunnesford, and Gertie preferred to be alone. The weather seemed to know her mood and matched it with grey skies and drops of rain.

  Sarah had seemed out of sorts the past few days as well, Gertie recalled. Her sister-in-law was crosser than usual and seemed to turn a frequent and suspicious eye towards her. Gertie had no desire to speculate what she had done this time to merit Sarah’s hostility and had kept her head down as if she was not aware of Sarah’s scrutiny.

  “Have you heard from Lord Barclay?” Sarah had finally asked after aimlessly viewing the latest edition of The Lady’s Magazine.

  “Wh-why should I have heard from Lord Barclay?” Gertie had responded. She had not even ventured to visit the orphan asylum for fear of running into the man.

  The Dowager raised an eyebrow from the sofa where she sat with her embroidery.

  “I ask because you were seen in his company.”

  “He—he insisted on escorting me home,” Gertie replied, hoping Sarah was not referring to that night at Vauxhall.

  “Why are we discussing that man?” Belinda inquired.

  “I heard the servants say that he has sent many a correspondence to Gertie,” Sarah offered.

  But I have not lifted my skirts beneath him, Gertie thought to herself.

  Belinda turned her disapproving eye upon
Gertie. “Why are you corresponding with such a man?”

  “It was my refusal to grant him an audience that prompted him to write me so often,” Gertie explained. “The Barclays wished to confer upon our properties.”

  Belinda snorted. “We will have nothing to do with that horrid family. They are a menace to polite society.”

  Not able to obtain the intelligence she desired, Sarah became even more irritable. Only Alexander had seemed to be in good spirits, having secured an offer for Sarah’s hand from Mr. Rowland. Sarah had burst into tears at the announcement, but when Gertie attempted to console her, she had bared her fangs and thrust Gertie aside.

  The rain came down in heavy sheets. The chaise lumbered awkwardly through the mud. It would take thrice as long to reach Dunnesford in these conditions. Gertie wondered if her portmanteau would survive the rain for she could not remember the driver covering her belongings. She heard the man curse as one side of the carriage sunk into the mud. The driver cracked the whip above the horses, but the mud clung tenaciously to the chaise. Gertie shook her head. Fate was having no pity upon her.

  The whip cracked once more. This time the chaise lurched forward but without one of its wheels. The vehicle tipped towards its side, tumbling Gertie into the window. The driver let out a string of oaths. Shaking off the knock to her head, Gertie managed to climb out the carriage door and into the pouring rain. Her feet disappeared into the mud as she stepped off the carriage. She pulled her cloak tighter about her shoulders, a fruitless endeavor for the mud was seeping into her petticoats from below.

  “Lost ‘er wheel,” the driver told her, stating the obvious.

  “What can I do to help?” she asked.

  “If I holds the chaise, yer ken slip the wheel on.”

  She nodded and reached for the wheel, realizing afterwards that she should have removed her gloves before reaching into the mud.

  The driver grabbed the axel and lifted it as high as he could while Gertie attempted to push the wheel back into place. But the driver could not lift the carriage high enough. Nor could Gertie lift the large and heavy wheel. In her attempt to do so, she landed herself in the mud. She wiped the splatter from her face with her sleeve.

  “Thar be an inn not half a league from ‘ere,” the driver informed her.

  “I take it you’ll be needing assistance,” a voice from the rain said.

  A shiver went through her bones at the sound. Impossible, she told herself, but when she turned, despite the rain clinging to her eyelashes, she saw a bay she recognized. Upon its owner sat Phineas Barclay. As with her, he was sodden from head to toe, but no doubt he did not appear nearly as wretched. His valet, also upon a bay, traveled beside him.

  “Good sir,” the driver greeted, “could yar man assist us? We’ve lost ‘er wheel.”

  “Yes, I can see that,” Barclay replied. “Francis could lend you a hand, but you’ll not travel far on a wheel without its collet and split pin.”

  The driver looked around him and frowned. He began to wade through the mud in search of the missing parts.

  “I should take the lady to the nearest posting inn and will leave you my man Francis.”

  “We were faring well enough,” Gertie replied, then realized the stupidity of her statement.

  Barclay raised a skeptical eyebrow.

  “Very well,” she relented, though she preferred to brave the rains with her driver and Francis.

  Barclay held out his hand. She put her dirtied glove in his and allowed him to hoist her onto his horse before him. She realized her muddied garments would soil his finer clothes, but he should not have offered to take her if he worried of the effect. It was damnably uncomfortable riding side saddle with a man already upon the horse. Even worse that the man should be Lord Barclay. She could not position her body in such a way to avoid having her rump from fitting against his crotch—and when she tried, she nearly fell off the horse.

  “Perhaps it would be best if one of us walked,” she suggested after he had caught her by the waist to keep her from slipping off.

  “You would have us tarry longer in the rain?” he returned.

  Gertrude pressed her lips together. There was naught to say unless she wished to reveal how uncomfortable he made her feel.

  Barclay urged his horse into a cantor. The movement caused her to bump into him incessantly. At one point the wet and sagging feathers of her bonnet caught him the mouth.

  “How coincidental that you should have happened upon us,” she said to distract herself from the jostling of her body against his. “One would think you were following me, Lord Barclay.”

  “I am visiting a friend in Hampton. And what has put you on this wet and rainy path, Lady Lowry?”

  “I, too, am visiting a friend—the Marchioness of Dunnesford.”

  She longed to ask why he had kissed her that night at Vauxhall, but he behaved as if it had not happened. Perhaps it had been an impulsive act and one that he regretted. If he had sooner forgotten what had happened, she should have no wish to bring up the matter. She resorted to a safe subject—the weather.

  “Do you suppose the rain will let up soon?” she asked.

  “Hard to predict. If it does not, we shall be much delayed to our respective destinations. The roads will not be traversable.”

  She frowned at the prospect. When they reached the Four Horse Posting Inn, a modest two storied building with a thatched roof, the rain seemed to be coming down even harder. Barclay assisted her off his horse. With her skirts sodden down into the very last petticoat, Gertrude felt as if she were dragging along something twice her weight.

  “A room for my lady and an abigail to assist her,” Barclay informed the innkeeper.

  “Come, my lady, we shall put your things up by the fire, shall we?” said the innkeeper’s wife, Mrs. Pettigrew. She had a ruddy but cheerful face.

  Gertrude removed her bonnet and cloak, which Mrs. Pettigrew hung before a blazing fire.

  “You best shed your garments afore you catch a chill,” Mrs. Pettigrew commented.

  “My articles are with the chaise, and perhaps no drier than I am,” Gertie said. “I shall sit by the fire and dry myself.”

  Not long after the driver and Barclay’s valet arrived at the inn. The wheel had been fixed, but the roads were in no condition for travel.

  Gertie went through her trunk in her small but tidy room upstairs. To her relief, not all her articles were soaked in rain. She found a dry pair of stockings, her high-necked chemise, corset, and a gown of blue with long sleeves and a wide sash of gold.

  “You could borrow a few of my petticoats,” Mrs. Pettigrew offered.

  The innkeeper’s wife was shorter and stouter, but Gertie welcomed the opportunity to step out of her sodden apparel. Mrs. Pettigrew had one of her scullery maids wash the mud-stained gown, stockings, and shoes.

  “Thank you. You have been most kind,” Gertie said when she had donned her new attire.

  “Such beautiful thick tresses you have,” Mrs. Pettigrew said. “Alas, I’ve not much skill in dressing.”

  Mrs. Pettigrew had attempted to pin all of Gertie’s wet hair atop her head, but the heavy hair would not stay in place easily and leaned lopsided to one side of her head.

  Mr. Pettigrew knocked on the door. “Your husband awaits in the parlor and asks if you will join him in a meal?”

  “He’s not my hus–” Gertie began, then wondered at the propriety of her traveling alone and having arrived with a man not her husband.

  “I made a pigeon pie—fresh baked this morning,” Mrs. Pettigrew said.

  Gertie considered her hunger and decided to go downstairs. The innkeeper had set a nice table with Mrs. Pettigrew’s meat pie, bread, cheese, potatoes with butter, and stewed apples.

  Lord Barclay stood before an inviting fireplace. Like her, he had changed into drier clothes. His wet hair had been pulled back and tied at the neck with a black ribbon. His dark blue waistcoat was astonishingly simple considering its owner, but a
s always, he wore it well over his linen of billowing sleeves. She glimpsed him in deep thought and felt a surprising tenderness as she admired his profile. Something about the way he looked then made her want to cradle him in her arms. Then her growling stomach caught his attention.

  “Ah, Countess,” he greeted, approaching her and offering his arm. He seemed genuinely pleased to see her.

  She allowed him to lead her to the table and pull a chair for her. After sitting down, he filled her glass.

  “To a better journey than we have had,” he said as he raised his glass.

  Gertie drank to that. The wine was surprisingly smooth, and she took another sip.

  “What a delightful inn we have stumbled upon,” she said as she dug her fork into Mrs. Pettigrew’s pie. “How fortunate we were to have been near it.”

  “I suppose…” she added, “that I should be grateful for your arrival.”

  He looked at her over his glass of wine. He sat to the side of his chair, one leg crossed over the other.

  “You’ve no need to thank me, Countess. I suspect I was the last person you desired to see upon the road.”

  She flushed at the truth of his statement. She reached for the bread and pulled off a large piece. “The circumstances surrounding your arrival were a trifle trying. I think naught but the appearance of the sun should have made me happy. But I thank you for your assistance. Were it not for you and your valet, my driver and I might still be stuck and the chaise unfixed.”

  He seemed to smile to himself as he took a sip of his wine.

  “You find humor in our situation, sir?” she asked.

  “Do you always do what you deem you are obligated to do?”

  She stopped chewing her bread as if she had tasted a worm. “You speak as if that were a disapproving trait?”

  “It is admirable to some extent, but confess: you had no desire to thank me.”

  She stared at his handsome but aggravating façade and considered the prospect of dining alone in her room, but she was far too hungry to leave the table.

  “What does it matter what I desire?” she returned. “You came to our aid, and it is only proper that I thank you for it.”