She wished the kiss had lasted longer. It had been quite unexpected and equally jarring when he had returned her to her feet, almost as if she were a fruit and he was merely assessing whether she had spoiled. Perhaps he wanted to ascertain if he could still find her pleasing? But if he had not known, why proposition her to begin with? She might have accepted him the first time. The kiss affirmed to her that she had and still desired him, to degrees beyond all else she had desired. Bereft of his touch, her body felt out of sorts.
The Chateau Debauchery.
She shuddered with anticipation, a heady mix of giddiness and fear. And she was to spend three nights at such a place with him. What had he said about the activities there?
Not for the faint of heart.
She recalled way he had commanded her in his secret room adjoining his drawing room. He had only tied her to the bedpost before ravishing her. She had never expected to find pleasure from being bound, and the intensity of the experience had amazed her. She would have done it again, done near anything he commanded. But could she withstand more debauchery?
And who besides Lord Rockwell would be a guest at the Chateau? She would have asked him more about the Chateau had she not been in such haste for him to accept her proposal. He had certainly asked enough questions of her, as if he were conducting a bloody inquisition. Was it merely a meddlesome nature? It would be no easy matter spending any night with the man.
You must be willing to please me in every manner.
What the devil did he mean by that? The realization sank in that she would be at his mercy in an unfamiliar place, among unfamiliar people, to engage in unfamiliar acts of debauchery. She had been quick to place her trust in him because she required the funds, but perhaps that would not prove prudent? He had mentioned the Marquis de Sade. Was the Chateau Follet intended to be a replica of the Château de Lacoste? She shuddered again.
Having arrived home, she let herself in and went upstairs to look upon her mother. Mrs. Herwood lay in her bed asleep. How pale and weak she appeared. Deana sighed, knowing she was a great disappointment to her mother.
“A woman with no funds and passing beauty cannot be particular,” Adeline had advised her on many occasions.
Though Deana did not disagree, she had not been able to bring herself to apply more effort to men she had little interest in. While she may not have much to recommend, she did possess intelligence, health, and a fair disposition. Surely that merited some standards in selecting a husband? But perhaps it was selfish of her not to have made the sacrifice regardless.
Her aunt approached. “What are we to do?”
“I am to see a distant relation,” Deana replied, “one that father helped in a significant way years go. I understand he is now a man of some means and intend to call upon him tomorrow.”
“Who is this relation?”
“He lives in the country. I must prepare that I can travel as soon as possible.”
Lydia nodded, perhaps accepting the lie easily for the truth might have depressed her. Deana turned quickly to avoid further questioning and headed into her own room. For the health of her mother, she had no option but to follow through with her plan. She had to tolerate the queasiness, ignore the doubts, and bear the consequences. Her destination, or perhaps her destiny, was clear.
She pulled the portmanteau from under her bed and began to pack for her journey to Chateau Follet.
* * * * *
The carriage Lord Rockwell had provided her pulled up before a posting inn just outside of London. The footman assisted her from the vehicle. Deana could not help but wonder how many women the man must have performed a similar service for. Did the Baron invite many women to the Chateau Follet?
What did that matter? she chided herself.
Expecting her, the innkeeper showed her to a private room where a marvelous repast of cheese, bread, ham, meatpie, cooked apples, tea, and burgundy had been spread upon the table.
“His Lordship desires that you not wait for him,” the innkeeper told her, “but to partake as much as you please.”
Too nervous to eat earlier, Deana now found herself famished. As soon as the innkeeper left the room, she removed her bonnet, broke off a piece of bread and stuffed it into her mouth. She looked at the tempting bottle of burgundy. Rockwell would surely scold her if she poured herself a glass. Well, she intended to keep her wits about her at this Chateau Follet. She spooned a hefty serving of the cooked apples onto her plate and speared a slice of ham with her fork. The food tasted delicious.
“I’m pleased to see you have an appetite.”
She looked up to see the tall form of Lord Rockwell at the threshold. Having just taken a large bite of cheese with bread, she could not respond. She could only marvel at how rugged he looked in his riding clothes. His polished boots, slim-cut coat and extremely tight buckskin breeches showed off an impressive physique. She swallowed the food. Perhaps she would require the burgundy after all.
“Miss Herwood,” he said, bowing over her hand.
He seemed in a more jocular mood than usual. She felt more at ease.
After handing his crop, hat and gloves to the innkeeper, he took a seat at the table. “The courier informed me the advance had been received?”
“Yes, thank you. Your instructions were fairly minimal.”
He poured two glasses of the burgundy. “Why trouble you with more than you need to know?”
She stared at the glass he offered.
“In moderation,” he explained.
She accepted the glass. “Am I to expect that you shall dictate the amount of wine I may consume?”
“Precisely.”
His answer startled her for she had meant her question rhetorically. She recalled his statement about indulging him.
Casually he crossed one leg over the other. Once again he seemed to read her mind. “The rules at Chateau Follet are simple. Please me and you shall be rewarded. Do not and there will be consequences.”
She took a deep breath as his statements sank in. “And how would I please you?”
“By following my directions at all times.”
“I am to be your servant.”
He frowned. “No. My demands shall not include those that I would request of a valet or maidservant—unless I deem it appropriate.”
She could not help an unladylike snort. “A servant in the guise of a guest.”
Little fires lighted his eyes. “I do not spank my servants for their misdeeds, Miss Herwood, or bring them to spend.”
Her cheeks warmed. Yes, there were benefits to pleasing his lordship.
“I have only three simple imperatives I wish you to observe at all times,” he continued. “First, you will not flirt with any of the other male guests at the Chateau.”
“Jealous?”
His jaw tightened. “Whilst we are at the Chateau, you are wholly mine.”
To her surprise, she felt comforted by his statement. “You need not worry, Lord Rockwell. As you may have observed, I am not the most accomplished coquette.”
“A distinguishing trait given your company at the gaming hall.”
“What are your other decrees?”
“Second, you will consume no more than one glass of wine per day without my permission.”
She had no interest in becoming inebriated while at the strange and unknown Chateau, but she bristled at the rule all the same.
“And?” she prompted with a twinge of exasperation.
“Last, but most importantly, you will inform me at any time when you feel any unease with what transpires at Chateau Follet.”
“Ah, such as my sentiments regarding your second rule,” she could not help quip.
Abruptly he leaned over and grasped her chin, pulling her to him. “Be careful, Miss Herwood. I could require much more of you.”
She stared into his gaze. The air around them crackled with tension. She wanted him to kiss her again. He was so close it would not require much for their lips to graze, but he let h
er go and sat back in his chair.
“Do you require all your female guests to follow these three rules?” she inquired, feeling a little petulant at not having been kissed.
He broke off a slice of bread and cheese for himself. “The second is unique to your situation. The first one enforces a level of discipline that I prefer to have in a place as unpredictable as Chateau Follet, and I always articulate the third rule. I am allowing a great deal of leniency as this is your first visit to Chateau Follet.”
“Indeed?” She wondered how many women he had invited to the Chateau more than once, though the answer should not matter to her at all.
“You will observe there are women—and men—whose partners at the Chateau dictate every term: when and if they can speak, whom they may speak to, what they may wear, what they may eat—”
“And when to use the chamber pot, too?”
Nonplussed, he spread butter on his bread before replying, “If it suits them.”
She churned this new bit of information in her head.
“They do not speak unless spoken to,” he continued. “They are certainly never insolent or questioning; they conduct themselves in a respectful manner at all times, their behavior serving as a reflection of their partner.”
“With such onerous conditions, why would anyone wish to participate in such practices?”
“Some would consider such conditions liberating.”
“Liberating? In what perverted sense of the word?”
His look made her feel as if she had rushed to judgment, but what rational person would not think as she did?]
“To be freed to experience.”
“To be treated as a child,” she countered.
He chewed his food evenly as he contemplated her. She found herself mesmerized by the movement of his jaw. Good God. The man was arousing even in the most ordinary of movements. Recalling her perturbation that he was the one disclosing, or engaging, in these monstrous activities yet she was the one left feeling overbearing, she asked him, “Have you engaged in such activities?”
After finishing his swig of wine, he met her gaze. “Yes.”
Despite her elevated concern, a dark, visceral heat pooled in her loins. She found herself simultaneously drawn and repelled. Had it been any man other than Lord Rockwell, she would have fled at what he had described. She imagined him giving her permission to use the chamber pot. How was it possible that could be provocative?
And yet it rather was.
“Only my interest lies purely in venery,” he added. “I have no desire to control how someone conducts their lives otherwise.”
She gave him a dubious look.
“It may be hard for you to fathom now, Miss Herwood, but there are many facets to the carnal, and what you may deem one person simply lording over another, the one who submits finds such dominion titillating. It is all done for the pleasure of the latter.”
She was quick to pounce. “Is that what some say to defend their actions?”
“Did I not please you before?”
The heat swelled between her thighs. She reached for her glass of wine, though it was quite possible the alcohol would inflame her more. “It does not please me that you wish to dictate whom I may consort with or how much wine I may consume.”
“At present, no,” he agreed. “But you will think differently in time.”
She was taken aback by the confidence in his assertion. “There appears to be a paradox. I am to be punished for not following your rules, yet I may object to your rules at any moment?”
“You are free to leave Chateau Follet at any time. I will not hold you hostage. Nor will I compel you to endure that which you truly believe you cannot. Are my rules so heinous that you wish to overturn them now, or would you be willing delay your verdict until you have further experience of them and extend me your trust?”
How was she to respond when he phrased it thus?
“Very well,” she acquiesced.
Too distracted by the tension swirling in her lower body, she could not recall the other questions she had wished to ask. She shifted in her seat. Would she be able to survive three nights at Chateau Follet? He had indicated he would not control her every action save for the rules he had specified, but then why tell her that he had controlled others thusly? Was she too critical? Or could she, too, find such domination as he had described liberating and…pleasurable?
When she looked back at him, she found he had stopped eating and was staring at her.
Unsure how to respond, she informed him, “I have no maidservant with me.”
“As per the instructions you received, an abigail will be provided for you at the Chateau.”
Of course she had remembered this fact, but she had hoped to steer him away from his disconcerting gaze of her.
“How am I to be assured the servants will be discreet?” she inquired.
“You frequent a gaming hall and worry of discretion?”
She could not suppress a scowl.
“Are you done eating?” he asked.
She considered pouring herself another glass of wine to both take advantage of her time before his rules took effect at the Chateau and thumb her nose a bit at him, but she did not indulge the childish impulse.
“I am, thank you,” she answered. “It was a lovely repast.”
He rose from the table, and she assumed they would be on their way to the Chateau, as foreign a place to her as India, only she never doubted her desire to visit the latter.
But instead of opening the door, he locked it. When he turned around, the molten look in his eyes made her heartbeat quicken in a matter of seconds. Every nerve in her body leaped to attention. She watched with acute anticipation as he sauntered back to the table. He wanted her. That was plain. The effect of that knowledge served as the headiest aphrodisiac.
With a broad brush of his arm, he swept the contents of the table to the floor. Plates, bowls and utensils clattered below. Wine spilled from the bottle. One of the glasses shattered. She stared with mouth agape and looked quickly to the door, expecting the innkeeper at any moment.
“The door is locked,” he said.
She looked once more to the floor. Her heart drummed madly, but this was hardly the place to do anything untoward.
“You’ve made an awful mess.”
“He shall be well compensated for the inconvenience.”
Rockwell pulled her to her feet. Though dampness had already begun to form between her thighs, she attempted to put some distance between their bodies and glanced once more at the door, but he did not appear bothered in the least by the setting for his amorous advances.
“Will you not wait until we have arrived at the Chateau, your lordship?” she pleaded in hushed tones as she kept an ear for the sound of footsteps approaching.
“No,” he growled as he leaned in to her. “And you’ve no wish to either.”
She felt her entire body flush. “You are mistaken. This is a most inappropriate place to...”
He circled an arm around her waist. “Miss Herwood, there is nothing appropriate about anything we do.”
His mouth seared where her neck and collar joined. She knew instantly she would lose the battle. Desire flared in her groin. As he kissed her neck, her back arched into him.
She made one final attempt. Was it not shameful that she should give into him so easily?
“The servants will wonder that we are taking so long.”
“Let them wonder,” he replied as he worked his lips and tongue against the soft spot beneath her ear.
The sensation reverberated to her extremities. He lifted her onto the table as he continued his assault about her neck. She moaned. When his mouth finally covered hers, the defeat of her reservations was complete. She allowed herself to succumb to the full weight of his kiss, glorying in the masterful way his tongue danced with hers. Her body reacted as intensely as it had a year ago, perhaps more. Desire, hot and strong, coursed through her veins. She returned his heady ki
ss, drinking in the heat and wetness of his mouth as if it were her last.
His hand pressed against the small of her back, and she could feel his desire long and hard against her hip. With his other hand, he caressed the whole of her back. Despite her layers of clothing, she marveled at his touch. There was not a part of her body that did not revel in the way he manhandled her. She kept her own motions to a minimum, sure that they would only feel awkward and inexpert compared to his.
He pushed her down and covered her body with his.
“Ah!” she cried when his tongue grazed her inner ear.
She froze at the sound of her own voice. Good heavens, the innkeeper or the servants might have heard.
“We ought to wait…” she began, feeling sheepish.
“Hush.”
With his knee, he urged her legs apart. His hand reached for her skirts.
She stayed his hand and said between heavy breaths, “I’ve not the nerve.”
She could not trust herself to be quiet. Not with the havoc he could wreak upon her.
Sitting back on his haunches, he contemplated her quandary, then began unloosening his cravat.
Distressed that he was choosing to ignore her, she sat up and said more forcefully, “They will hear.”
“Shhh,” he hushed as if calming a babe. “Open your mouth.”
As her impulse was to comply at his direction, she did. He fitted the linen between her lips and wound the fabric around her head thrice before tying the ends behind her. Her heart pounded between her ears. She had never been gagged before, and though she trusted him, the thought of not being able to speak or cry for help was alarming. How was she to tell him to stop? Bad enough the innkeeper might come upon them in a compromising state, but what would the man make of the cravat tied round her mouth?
He must have read the panic in her eyes, for he explained, “The cravat will muffle any unexpected cries that may send the servants rushing in.”
She was not mollified.
He ran a finger along the edge of the linen above her lower lip. “You are quite fetching in my cravat, Miss Herwood.”
With her mouth forced open, she found it difficult to swallow. The glint in his eyes called to that desire low and hot in her belly.
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