Submitting to the Marquess

by Brown, Em Browint writing as Georgette

He stared at her in disbelief at first. A ray of hope bloomed.

  “With a wooden paddle to boot,” she added.

  He chuckled. “I would gladly receive it from your hand, madam. You may take a flogger and whip me within an inch of my life if you wish.”

  “You know quite well I could do no such thing.”

  “You could make me pleasure you every night while forbidding me to spend.”

  Her eyes appeared wet with new tears as she replied with a lifted chin, “P-Perhaps I will.”

  “Dearest Trudie,” he murmured, cupping her face in both his hands. He brushed his lips over hers, felt her breath tremble beneath his mouth. She was divine. He crushed his lips over hers, not realizing how famished he was till he tasted of her. He kissed every part of her mouth, taking mouthfuls, delving deep into the orifice to quench the lust flaming through him.

  She was timid at first, but then her reservations gave way like a breached dam. She returned his kiss with equal vigor, equal desperation, equal longing. They consumed one another till the need to breathe necessitated a pause.

  “Are you certain you want this?” he murmured atop her lips before kissing his way down her neck.

  She arched into him, making the blood rush to his groin. “Yes, Leopold, yes.”

  As his mouth caressed her throat, her collar, his hands reached behind her for the pins. Frustrated that he could not find them all, he grasped the bodice of her gown and tore it from her. He picked her up, set her against the wall, and locked his mouth to hers once more. His tongue dove into her mouth over and over. He molded his body to hers, seeking the ample curves he had come to find enchanting. His hardness pressed into her belly. It seemed she pressed back.

  Resisting the urge to flip up her gown and take her then, he turned her around to face the wall so that he could untie her skirts and petticoats while he kissed the nape of her neck. The muslin pooled upon the ground. He reached around her hip to cup her mound through her shift, the only barrier to that most delightful flesh. He rubbed the shift between her legs and was rewarded with a moan. Soon he could feel dampness upon the garment. He thrust his hips at her, a promise of what was to come. She ground herself into his hand.

  “Patience, my love,” he whispered into her ear.

  She shivered but stayed herself from further movement. Stepping back, he unlaced her stays, then reached for those succulent breasts. He squeezed the orbs through the shift.

  “You wish to make me suffer, sir?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then why will you not ravish me?”

  Emotion soared through him, causing his groin to tighten. At that moment, he could not have been more in love with Trudie. He yanked the shift down, baring her body. He was relieved to see she still possessed more fullness than most women. He palmed a buttock, digging his fingers into the succulent flesh. She released a satisfied grunt.

  “It would please me greatly to grant your request, my love,” he said.

  He most likely surprised her with the force and swiftness with which he drew her to the bed.

  “My god, you are a sight, Trudie,” he groaned, raking his gaze from her neck to her supple thighs. He caressed with hands and mouth every inch of her loveliness before settling his hand between her thighs.

  He parted the moist lips below, eliciting a moan, almost a whimper. He smiled as his hand drifted further down and beheld her heaving chest, her nipples hard and ripe. His fingers walked through her folds, finding the slit between and circling it, as his lips pulled a nipple into his mouth. Trudie gasped loudly as his fingers entered her, pressing inside of her. His tongue dragged slowly across her nipple. He slid his fingers out, circling her entry, resisting the urge to press back inside. He teased her as she stared into his eyes, imploring him to enter her again.

  “Soon, my love,” he growled. “First, I must taste your sweetness.”

  Lowering his head between her legs, he took in her heady aroma. He parted the lips to her paradise and tongued her there, causing her to shudder. Her thighs brushed against the side of his head. He teased her gently at the base of her entrance, circling it with her tongue before entering, twisting inside of her before withdrawing. She gave a load moan and clutched the bedclothes. He pushed deeper into her, making her gasp. Over and over he worked his tongue upon her, in her, building her pleasure. He dragged his tongue through her wet valley and to that delightful condensation of sensation. He took that swollen nub into his mouth as he sank two fingers into her wet heat.

  Her body sprang against him as she uttered something loud and unintelligible. Then, as her back arched, her hips rose against his mouth hard, while he continued to suckle her bud of pleasure, and then she dropped to the bed as his fingers curled, sliding out from inside of her for a brief moment before driving back into her once more.

  “Oh, Leopold!” she cried.

  He exalted at the cry of his name. His fingers slipped in and out of her wetness easily. She shifted below him, left and right, up and down. He did his best to contain her while at the same time freeing the carnal within her. His mouth tiring, but his commitment unwavering, he was driven to break her, to feel her submit to him wholly and completely. He listened for the hunger to take her, for her climax to claim her as his fingers and tongue wrought rapture through her.

  Minutes later, her body bucked and shivered as her moans turned into cries. The moment was before him and he did not demur, intent on delivering an ecstasy that would leave no doubts that she desired him, needed him. She arched off the bed, thrusting into his mouth while his fingers drove deep inside her.

  “My God, My God!” she cried.

  He rode her out, licking, sucking, his fingers gliding in and out of her, feeling her nectar flow around him. When it seemed she could endure no more, he eased his ministrations and withdrew his fingers. He drank in the sight of her as she melted into the bed, a blush gracing her cheeks, her eyes bright and dilated. His own arousal pressed painfully against his trousers, but he let her have a moment of calm as he removed his coat, waistcoat, and cravat.

  “I suppose you have proved your point,” she murmured with lowered lashes. “I am a wanton little harlot.”

  “And I would have you in no other way, my love,” he growled as he climbed over her. He kissed her, pressing into her mouth all the desire pent up within him. She returned his kiss, which fueled his ardor even higher.

  He rolled her atop him and pulled her legs up so that she straddled him. Cupping the back of her head, he shoved his tongue between her lips. His hips thrust at her, his hardness seeking her wet heat.

  To his surprise, she reached for the buttons of his fall. He would not release her mouth, but she managed to undo a few. When he could no longer deny the craving between his legs, he allowed her to undo his fall completely and helped her to free his shaft. Before he could object, she had lowered her head and engulfed his erection.

  Bloody hell…

  It was the most marvelous sensation, the exquisite rapture humbling him. Dear, dear Trudie.

  “You must use me for your pleasure,” he managed to whisper, though every nerve begged for her to cradle his erection in her mouth and never let go. He pulled her off him.

  “Come,” he said, “ride me as one rides a steed, as you had done at Château Follet.”

  He lifted her hips, held in place with one hand while he straightened himself, then guided her gently down. Her eyes widened as the head of his rod pierced her folds. Gripping both her hips with both hands, he settled her further down him. Her lips parted as her tight tunnel swallowed him. When she had taken his length, he ground her against his pelvis. Her eyes rolled toward the back of her head.

  He drew in a long breath to steady himself. If he allowed himself, his pleasure would burst through within minutes. Gradually, he lifted her hips so that she slid up his length before he pressed her back down. After several minutes, she found his rhythm and moved with him. Her breath quickened, her brow furrowed. “My God, you are marvelous
,” he breathed.

  Her gasps grew louder and more frequent. He thrust his hips more vigorously at her, seeking to bury himself as deep within her as he could, his sight filled with her bosom, the large orbs bouncing up and down. The sound of wet flesh slapping upon flesh filled the room with her gasps and cries.

  “Leopold…” she cried before her body erupted into shudders.

  He rammed himself into her, bucking against her as she flexed and quaked about him. The tension coiled within him shot through his shaft as he felt her body ready to collapse. Holding her aloft, he thrust into her until his desire had completely drained into her before allowing her to crumple atop him. They lay, breast to breast, breathing hard, their perspiration mingled together.

  “Your pardon,” he said when they had both collected their breaths. “I ought not have spent, but I can pleasure you still…May I?”

  Turning her head, she looked at him. “Are you asking permission of me? Is that customary for masters at Château Follet to question their students?”

  “Very little is customary at Château Follet.” He paused to search her countenance. “Do you—would you—wish to continue the lessons we had started at Château Follet?”

  Her lashes lowered, and the ensuing silence was agony to him. She looked up at him. “Yes.”

  His heart raced anew. “Then you no longer wish for a divorce?”

  “It was agreed that you would grant it to me only if I prevailed against what you deemed my true nature.”

  “It is one matter to succumb to the carnal that resides in all humans, another to willfully desire it, and to desire it with me.”

  “I desire it, Leopold.”

  No statement had ever sounded sweeter to him. “Then you mean to forgive me?”

  She spoke with a tremor. “I suppose I do.”

  He caught her hand in his tightly, hoping that his shaft would recover soon that he might claim her once more, and ease the bursting of his heart through the heat of congress. He kissed her hand.

  “I vow, as your husband, to indulge your every desire, to bring you relentless pleasure, and to cherish and love you, my love, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do us part.”

  Her eyes glimmered. She pressed his hand in return. “This, too, shall be my vow, dear Leopold.”

  With his free hand, he cupped her chin and raised her lips to meet his. As he kissed her, drinking in the happiness that Trudie was his wife and he her husband, he silently acknowledged Château Follet, grateful and excited that they might find many occasions to return.

  AN IMPROPER PROPOSITION

  Reader Advisory

  This story is extremely steamy.

  Read only if you like your heat levels HOT, HOT, HOT!

  CHAPTER ONE

  MRS. ADELINE HERWOOD DISPENSED a good deal of advice that Deana would graciously attend then disregard; but on this night, as Deana sat at her favorite card table in one of London’s lesser known gaming halls, she wished she had heeded her mother and ceased frequenting the gaming hall. For standing at the threshold of the card-room was the Baron Rockwell, looking every bit as handsome and dapper as when she had last set eyes upon him some twelvemonth ago. Dressed in a formal tailcoat, silk brocade waistcoat, and top hat, he must have arrived straightway from the opera or Drury Lane. He entered with that quiet command, vaguely aloof, that she had first attributed to arrogance. If he knew that he turned heads, he showed no evidence of it, at ease with the weight of many a pair of eyes, mostly of the fair sex, upon him.

  Heart hammering, Deana busied herself with collecting the cards at her table. How sharply her body had reacted to his presence, every nerve leaping to attention, as if their affair had been but yesterday. She prayed he would not notice her, though for weeks after their brief liaison she had looked for him every night at the gaming hall. How often had she recalled that night her body had thrilled beneath his hands? How often had she lain awake taut and in need of release, yearning for his touch? She did not fancy herself in love with Rockwell—well, perhaps a little—but he had ignited a flame that could not be easily quelled. Though she could not imagine any other man could have the same effect upon her, she had concluded that it was best to put him from her mind. If she were fortunate, she would never have to set eyes upon him again.

  But, as ever, Lady Luck proved a capricious friend.

  Deana shuffled the cards. Once. Twice. Thrice. Like a rabbit alert to a predator approaching, she heard a friend of Rockwell come to greet him and indulged a small sigh of relief. The clock had struck midnight a few minutes ago, and the crowd at the gaming hall had not thinned. In her unassuming olive-colored muslin, she could have blended into the walls. Even if he discerned her, he was not likely to approach. He had not sought her out since their one and only night together. It was clear he had finished with her and had no desire to renew their acquaintance.

  “Here, now, do you intend on shuffling the whole night long, Miss Herwood?” one of the patrons at her table inquired.

  With a practiced hand, she swiftly dealt everyone at the table their cards, then poured herself a glass of port as she stole a glance in Rockwell’s direction. He had taken a seat at the dice table, his back to her, though she easily recognized his lean and tall form, accentuated by the tight and exquisite cut of his coat. The lovely Brianna Walpole sat beside him, fluttering her lace fan and thick eyelashes. Deana finished her off her wine in one swift intake.

  But how silly of her to feel the slightest hint of jealousy when she had no claims upon him. That a woman of her modest situation had ever attracted the attentions of the Baron Rockwell was an anomaly. She had made an earnest effort, as Mrs. Herwood and her sister-in-law, Lydia, often implored, to find a man of modest situation but sufficient enough in funds to secure the financial well-being of the Herwood women.

  “I cannot suffer another collector at our door,” her mother had declared for the fifth or sixth time in a sevenmonth that morning.

  Deana poured herself another glass of port before collecting the cards. One of the men at the table stood up in exasperation after his loss, followed by another. She contemplated retiring for the evening but had won three hands in a row. A few more hands and she might indulge in a bit of lace trim for one of her old frocks. Her mother and Aunt Lydia had persuaded her that if she added a few more enticements, she might better attract a prospective husband.

  “Miss Herwood.”

  She looked up from the cards and into a pair of intense brown eyes beneath trim dark brows. How was it he could appear more striking than before?

  Calmed in part by the port she had consumed, she greeted him in a civil and even tone, “Lord Rockwell.”

  Turning her gaze from his face—in particular those lips that had so forcefully and lushly taken hers once upon a time, she resumed shuffling the cards. To her dismay, he took one of the seats recently vacated, across from her. Brianna took the other chair beside him.

  “They are playing brag at this table,” Brianna pouted, her rosy lips pursed together. “It be my least favorite game. You must take pity upon me, Lord Rockwell, and offer me your assistance.”

  He acknowledged the request with a slight inclination of his head, and Deana suspected he was honoring the first part of Miss Walpole’s request. Deana had little time to triumph over her earlier jealousy for he turned his gaze next upon her. He held her stare briefly, but in those seconds, her heart beat in her ears. She could not tell if he was pleased to see her, though surely he would not have sat at her table if he disdained her presence? Did he seek her company? He had done so once before, but in such an indistinct manner that she would never have known his intent but for his scandalous offer to her.

  I would have you in my bed, Miss Herwood. For one night, I will take my pleasure of you, after which, your debt to me will be acquitted in its entirety.

  Her hands began to shake in recollection of that fateful loss to him at vingt-et-un. She finished shuffling the cards
and took another drink from her glass.

  “It be two quid to play,” she informed the newcomers.

  The ante was nothing to the Baron Rockwell, whose family had ties to the East India Company and had made their wealth off the sugar trade long before the West Indies began to dominate the market. Miss Walpole, however, hesitated, and Deana, who had never merited the slightest attention from the lovely Brianna, felt a small twinge of pity. She knew too well what it felt like to be low in the way of funds.

  “But let us start with a guinea,” she amended.

  Brianna happily retrieved the requisite amount from her reticule and turned her large eyes upon Rockwell. “Your presence has brought me such luck, your lordship. We must not part ways this evening.”

  Deana would have been more than relieved to have Lord Rockwell depart with Miss Walpole in tow. His presence made it difficult to concentrate, and as she had discovered before, she needed her wits about her with this man. She dealt everyone their cards, then stole a cursory glance at the Baron. It proved a poor move for she found herself in his stare.

  “Bet or fold?” she asked when she had found her breath, silently admonishing herself for letting him unsettle her so. It was unlikely that she had an equal and similar effect upon him. In fact, he might have easily forgotten their brief affair altogether. His last and only communiqué with her had been a short note accompanied by the gift of a porcelain elephant with ruby eyes. Despite being proud of her sensibleness, she had kept the elephant like a sentimental schoolgirl until circumstances had forced her to pawn the treasure.

  Watching as he put in two more crowns without word or expression, Deana reminded herself to proceed cautiously with his lordship. No doubt he had played his share of teen pathi whilst in India, and she would not wish to wind up in the same situation she had found herself a year ago.

  Or would she?

  She squirmed subtly in her seat, remembering the delicious ache between her legs, the sizzle of his caresses. To quell the heat fanning through her body, she turned to Miss Walpole.