He was not at all the reason she had put on her best frock. The bright blue with lace trim at the décolletage lent color to the dullness of her hair and plain brown eyes. Though mostly parsimonious with her rouge and powder, she paid more heed to the ample use of cosmetics to draw attention to the few features she considered fine: her high cheekbones and unblemished complexion.
Her luck that evening proved unexceptional. She won at brag and lost at piquet. All the while she would glance at the entry of the card-room, wondering if Lord Rockwell would make an appearance. The bottle of port tempted her throughout the evening, but she was mindful of Lord Rockwell’s admonishment. She had no wish to provide him another opportunity to reprove her.
She was in the midst of a run at faro when Rockwell appeared. She fumbled her chips. Though Miss Walpole was quick to approach him as the page assisted him with his hat and gloves, he made no secret that the object of his gaze was one Deana Herwood. He did not look pleased. Deana wondered if she had offended him. No doubt accustomed to women flattered by his propositions, he must have taken exception to her rejection of him.
“I think I shall take a respite,” she informed the other players before taking her leave.
She went to the dining hall to gather her thoughts. Of course she could not hide from him all evening. What if he intended to frequent the gaming hall with regularity? A distressing thought indeed. What would she do then? Patronize another gaming hall? But why should she forsake her grounds to him? She would simply have to find a way to ignore him, a task she knew to be easier said than done. Picking at the food upon her plate, she wondered why she had ordered beefsteak when she knew she had no appetite?
“May I?”
As she was sitting, Lord Rockwell seemed to tower over her. He was alone with no Miss Walpole in sight. He had a hand upon the back of the chair opposite her, and she could not help but admire his long deft fingers. Those fingers had once fondled her most intimate parts in the most delectable manner…
Snapping her attention away from his hand, she replied, “As you wish, but I am nearly finished here.”
He eyed the uneaten beefsteak, potatoes and turnips. Without word, he took a seat at the small table. He ordered a Madeira. She should have rebuffed his request to join her. Alas, she had not her best wits in his presence.
“I am sorry to have offended you, Miss Herwood.”
She blinked several times. Though she merited his apology, she had not expected a man of his standing would offer it to someone like her.
“Indeed,” she answered, unsure of how to handle the surprise as she mindlessly moved the vegetables around on her plate.
“I had thought, perhaps mistakenly, there to have been favorable sentiments from our last proposition.”
She looked him square in the eyes. “My lord, that was a year ago. Do you suppose I have little more to attend than to wait for you to appear at a moment’s notice to proposition me?”
He bristled. “Of course not.”
“Hmmm. I am not entirely convinced,” she murmured.
His brows shot up, but then he met her grin. “Careful, Miss Herwood.”
There was a salacious quality to his warning, and she decided further conversation would not prove safe. She rose to her feet. “I appreciate and accept your apology, Lord Rockwell. Shall we be friends?”
She extended her hand as an olive branch. He looked at it, took it in the warm grasp of his long fingers, and brought it to his lips. She nearly gasped. The kiss was brief, but her whole body lit up. Her heart palpitated twice as fast.
“Friends, Miss Herwood.”
She smiled wanly, then left the dining hall as quick as she could for she doubted she could put two words together. She paused in a deserted hallway and forced herself to take a deep breath.
A page came up to her. “Pardon, miss, be you Miss Herwood?”
She nodded.
“This come by courier.”
He handed her a small note and left after receiving his tip. Deana opened the note. It was from her Aunt Lydia bidding her to come home for Adeline had fallen gravely ill.
CHAPTER THREE
“NERVES,” THE DOCTOR EXPLAINED. “Has she been under strain or duress?”
Deana glanced through the open bedroom door at her mother, who lay in bed with eyes closed, a furrow upon her brow.
“Nothing more than customary,” Deana replied. “She seemed well enough yester evening when I left. Though we did have that visit from the collector this morning, I wonder that would be all? Aunt Lydia?”
Her aunt kept her gaze lowered. “We did receive a notice by courier—just after you had left, Deana. If the rent is not received within a sennight, we must seek other accommodations.”
Deana paled. “But I thought we had been granted a stay?”
Lydia shook her head. “Your mother received a letter last week that we have exhausted the reprieve. If we do not pay all that is owed, we shall, in short, be thrown out.”
“How did I not know this?”
“Your mother wanted your attentions focused, er, elsewhere.”
“This is grave indeed,” the doctor said. “Your mother is in no condition to be moved. Have you no funds at your disposal?”
It would take an incredible streak of luck at the gaming hall to amass the amount needed. They had long since exhausted the kindness of family, mostly distant, and friends, which had grown fewer and fewer. She knew of only one man for whom the sum would be no hardship. Perhaps Lord Rockwell would take pity upon her once more, but how could she expect his generosity when she had rebuffed him the other night? She doubted she had the courage to approach him. The thought of asking for his charity made her cringe inside. Pride won over pragmatism.
“I am sorry for your circumstances,” the doctor said, “but to keep from worsening your mother’s state, you must not cause her further distress.”
“What are we to do?” Lydia cried, wringing her hands, after the doctor had left.
“Fear not, a solution will avail itself,” she assured her aunt.
But she very much doubted her own lie.
* * * * *
Putting down his pen, he leaned his head over the back of his chair in his study and closed his eyes. He did not like the consternation he felt. He would do well to forget Miss Herwood—as he had intended a year ago. She had made it clear she wanted nothing beyond a chaste friendship with him. And it was just as well. He had a duty to Lucille and the barony. Perhaps it was time he renewed his efforts to seek a wife.
Yes, he would forget Miss Herwood once and for all this time.
“Miss Herwood, my lord.”
Halsten sat at attention to face his steward. “Pardon?”
“A Miss Herwood is here to see you.”
“Show her in.”
He strode to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of sherry. This was most unexpected. Remembering how discreet she had been with her first visit here in the dead of night, he wondered what could have brought her to see him in the light of day?
“Lord Rockwell.”
He turned to see her standing at the threshold, the veil of her bonnet pulled low over her face, but he could make out her bottom lip. The thought of taking that mouth in his warmed his loins. He threw back the sherry.
“Miss Herwood.”
He noticed the tight manner in which she clutched her reticule.
“May I offer you a glass of port?” he asked.
Her mouth quirked to the side. “I thought you disapproved of my drinking?”
“When done to inebriation.”
“I seldom…It would seem you are witness to the moments when I have become a little intoxicated. A coincidence, I wonder?”
She was mocking him. The imp. He suppressed a smile.
He gestured for her to take a seat upon the settee. “To what do I owe this pleasure, Miss Herwood?”
Hesitating, she took a deep breath. Her bosom rose, and the image of her breasts displayed before him fl
ashed in his eye.
Still standing, she replied, “I came to discuss your invitation.”
He wanted to close the distance between them and lift the veil to reveal her face, which he would cup between his hands, tilting her mouth up so that he could descend upon it and cover it whole. Instead he continued to stand next to his armchair, patiently waiting for her to elaborate. He had already begged pardon for his transgression. Surely she did not come all this way to seek further apology?
“I am, perhaps, possibly,” she continued, “interested, rather, amenable, to accepting the invitation to the Chateau Faux.”
Her voice had lowered but he had strained and heard every word.
“Chateau Follet,” he corrected. What had initiated this turn of events?
“That is, if you are still extending the invitation?”
Her obvious anxiety tugged at something within him. She had a tight grasp upon that reticule of hers.
“Sit, Miss Herwood.”
She did not move.
“Please,” he added more gently.
She sat herself on the edge of the settee as if she might need to leap to her feet at any second. He seated himself across from her.
“The Chateau Follet is also known by its guests as the Chateau Debauchery,” he explained and studied her for her reaction, but it was difficult to determine whilst the veil remained over her face. She did not flinch, so he continued. “Madame Follet is the hostess. Her late husband was acquainted with the Marquis de Sade.”
“Ah,” was all she said as if to indicate that that explained everything. “Are you trying to dissuade me?”
God, no. He would whisk her there this instant if he could.
“There are activities at the Chateau not for the faint of heart. You need not engage in the activities, but I want you to be completely aware of what you are agreeing to.”
“Do any of these activities put me in danger or harm me in any way?”
“I would ensure your safety.”
“Then I am satisfied. I place my trust and confidence in you, Lord Rockwell.”
The full weight of her gaze was upon him, as if daring him to betray that trust.
“And I have one condition,” she continued. “I agree to go with you to this Chateau for the sum of a hundred pounds.”
He sat in stunned silence, realizing she spoke with too much conviction to be jesting. She was deliberately choosing to prostitute herself? He leaned back in his chair, giving himself a moment to process the situation. How he wished she would remove that damned veil. He liked seeing her eyes. He could discern much through them.
“You’re in need of funds, Miss Herwood,” he stated the obvious. He could not help but be disappointed that that was the motivation for her presence.
Her back stiffened. “Do you accept my offer, Lord Rockwell?”
In a bloody instant, the carnal in him responded. Instead, he asked, “What happened to the Indian elephant?”
She shifted in discomfort. “It was a generous gift, your lordship. Alas, I found it necessary to pawn it.”
The confession did not surprise him, and he regretted his question as it clearly distressed her. He wondered how desperately she needed the money. If he were truly generous, he would simply grant her the sum she needed. Certainly there was a pitch of desperation in the way she spoke. But then he would lose the opportunity to take her to Chateau Follet.
She must have interpreted his quiet as disinclination and said, “Surely a hundred pounds would not cause you grief?”
As if to accentuate her point, she looked about his study with its large bay windows, silken walls, velvet curtains, Persian rugs, polished tables, and richly upholstered seating.
“Not at all,” he replied, recalling he had offered her more—much more—in the past. He would have easily agreed to her current proposition for a larger sum. No miser, he was not cavalier with his money save when it served a specific purpose or helped him achieve something he very much wanted.
And he wanted Miss Herwood.
He wanted her bent over a chair, tethered to the bedposts, or writhing beneath him. Only after he had had his fill of her could he truly hope to release her hold on him. Feeling his erection stretch, he crossed one leg over the other.
“And I should require the sum in advance,” she stated evenly but in one breath.
He raised a brow. She was desperate indeed. “You are in some haste, Miss Herwood?”
“If I were, it would be no affair of yours.”
Still wanting to understand the exact circumstances prompting her request, he contemplated whether or not to insult her pride with further inquiry. “Having placed your trust and confidence in me to protect your personage, you do not trust me where money is concerned?”
She reset her grip on the reticule. If he could, he would toss the annoying article.
“I appeal to your charity.”
The noblesse oblige in him would have him give her the money without condition. But he could not deny the visceral part of him. What if this were his last chance with Miss Herwood?
“Are you in a precarious way, Miss Herwood?” he asked flatly. He knew she kept to herself for the most part and respected that she was not one to indulge in pity. What little he understood of her and her family he had gleaned from others or his own observations. But if she was in danger, such knowledge might sway his decision.
She had the impudence to let out an exasperated sigh. “Lord Rockwell, you had solicited me. I am at a loss with regards to this interrogation.”
“Because it is obvious it is not my charm that compels you.”
This time she had the decency to flush.
“Then you underestimate yourself, my lord,” she murmured.
She was playing the coquette, but he had to suppress the rising desire to reach over and manhandle her.
“Are we agreed to the proposition at hand?” she pressed.
“Lift your veil.”
Apparently taken aback by his authoritative tone, she hesitated.
“If you are to come to Chateau Follet, you must be willing to please me in every manner.”
He waited patiently for his statement to sink in. She pulled the veil off her face. He drank in the sight of her. She was more comely than she assumed. Even if she had not the long lashes or narrow shoulders desired by most women, she had an intelligent brow and a decent glow to her complexion.
“I would be a poor businessman if I advanced the whole without collateral,” he stated as he eyed her response carefully.
“Half then?”
He had one more test for her.
“Come hither—and put down the damned reticule.”
Her eyes widened slightly. She was on her guard, but she did as told and went to stand before him. He appraised the length of her from his seat. Without warning, he grabbed her by the arm and pulled her onto his lap. His mouth covered hers. After a moment of surprise, her lips parted for him. He tasted of her mouth and delved his tongue into its warm wetness. When he felt a return pressure, he released her back onto her feet.
Noblesse oblige had never possessed the upper hand, and it was vanquished for good by the kiss. The scent of her—a mixture of the lavender soap she used and the Darjeeling tea she drank—continued to linger in his nostrils, despite their distance. The blood was pumping in his veins, and especially his groin.
“Does that mean you accept my proposition, my lord?”
“Indeed, Miss Herwood.”
She emitted a small breath of relief.
Rising, he went to his writing table and began to pen their agreement. “When do you wish to depart?”
“When I have received the initial payment?”
“I can have it sent to your address tomorrow.”
She nodded and picked up her reticule. He was satisfied to see that she was a little flustered. Signing the agreement with flourish, he melted the wax over a candle and affixed his seal.
“I will make all the arrangements
necessary and send further instructions by messenger. You need only prepare your person and a valise.” He held the agreement out for her. “Our agreement simply states that I owe you the balance when you have completed three nights at the Chateau Follet, and that disclosure of our arrangement to anyone entails an additional payment of five hundred pounds.”
“That was unnecessary, but thank you.” She took the agreement.
He rose. “Allow me to see you—”
“I do not require an escort to the door.”
He watched as she pulled the veil over her face. It was unnecessary to conceal her identity when she had given her name to his steward, but perhaps she intended to hide her embarrassment.
“Until tomorrow then, Miss Herwood.”
“Until tomorrow.”
He sat back down only after she had departed. Her words hung in the air, ringing with promise. There had been no hint of dread in her tone and none in her kiss. That she did not despair at his touch had made his mind. As he had suspected but begun to doubt, she had not forsaken all desire for him. He had not asked the obvious question, in part because he had no wish to dissuade her from her proposition, but she could have simply asked him for a grant or loan sans any condition to go to Chateau Follet. It pleased his vanity to think it was because she wanted to go with him.
With renewed vigor, he looked to finishing the letter to Lucy that he might then turn his mind to spending the next three days—and nights—with Miss Herwood.
CHAPTER FOUR
COULD THE BARON ROCKWELL have been more maddening? Deana fumed as she walked away from his townhouse, the ghost of his kiss still burning her lips. Why did he sit there impassive, as if he had limited interest in seeing his own invitation fulfilled? Recalling the brief but forceful manner in which his mouth had claimed hers, she imagined he could not have been entirely indifferent. A small surge of triumph lifted her heart. He had, most importantly, agreed to her proposition.
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