Submitting to the Marquess

by Brown, Em Browint writing as Georgette

  They came upon a clearing and decided to set up a picnic beneath the shade of a tree. The men spread the blanket. Deana busied herself with unpacking the wine glasses, fruits and cheese, conscious of Lady Isabella’s study of her all the while. At one point she returned the woman’s gaze and smiled. Isabella looked away.

  “I’ve brought a little reading,” Devon announced, eyes shining. “From the Follet library, a rare copy from Holland, Justine ou Les Malheurs de la vertu.”

  Deana noted the frown upon Rockwell’s countenance.

  “By that fellow the Marquis de Sade?” Isabella inquired.

  Devon waved the book. “The very one.”

  “How scandalous!”

  “Perhaps we ought to take turns reading from it. Miss Sherwood, would you do us the honor of being first?”

  He handed her the book, which she opened to an engraving of a young woman, scantily dressed, between a naked man and a woman who seemed bent on ill will. Deana frowned at the title page. Her French was very poor. She would be hard pressed to read even the shortest passage.

  “This is highly inappropriate,” Rockwell said.

  “Inappropriate?” Devon echoed. “There could be no setting more appropriate than the Chateau Follet. You are aware of Monsieur Follet’s association with de Sade?”

  “The work of de Sade is not suited for the present company.”

  Isabella, amused by Rockwell’s seriousness added, “La! Pray tell you have not become a prudish old woman, Halsten?”

  “I am sure Miss Sherwood has never read the work of de Sade. Are you not the least bit interested, Miss Sherwood?” asked Devon.

  Deana looked down at the book and admitted, despite the solemn look from Rockwell, “A little.”

  “I have not read from him either,” Isabella said.

  “There! We ought not deprive these ladies,” Devon declared.

  Rockwell took the book away from Deana. “There are descriptions in here of a graphic nature and obscenities most foul—”

  “The same are conducted within the very walls of Chateau Follet. I think you have been absent from the East Wing for too long. What is the harm in a little literary titillation?”

  “You may find the rape and torture of a girl but twelve years of age titillating, but I do not.”

  “Ah! You know the story! Do you dare admit you have read it?”

  “I have read it in its entirety. De Sade’s intent to provoke and revolt is accomplished to great effect.”

  “I refuse to believe you found no erotic qualities to the work.”

  “Lord Devon, there is a great difference between a woman who takes pleasure in punishment and one, Justine, who is subjected to the most extreme mistreatments against her will.”

  “It is merely a work of fiction.”

  “Come, Halsten, we are not children,” Isabella said.

  “Perhaps we can discuss the merits of the novel after reading from it.”

  “The two of you may do so,” Rockwell replied, “but Miss Sherwood and I will not be joining. If naughty literature is what you seek, I would sooner read from Fanny Hill.”

  “I have that as well.” Devon pulled out another book. “Miss Sherwood, I insist you be the first reader.”

  Fortunately the book was written by an Englishman, John Cleland. Deana glanced at Rockwell, who seemed to relent.

  “Open the book to any page,” Devon instructed before laying himself down, his head in Isabella’s lap.

  Rockwell’s face darkened. Deana opened the book. Perhaps the reading would distract him from his jealousy.

  “’The young gentleman, by Phoebe's guess, was about two and twenty; tall and well limbed. His body was finely formed and of a most vigorous make, square-shouldered, and broad-chested: his face was not remarkable in any way, but for a nose inclining to the Roman, eyes large, black, and sparkling, and a ruddiness in his cheeks that was the more a grace, for his complexion was of the brownest, not of that dusky dun colour which excludes the idea of freshness, but of that clear, olive gloss which, glowing with life, dazzles perhaps less than fairness, and yet pleases more, when it pleases at all. His hair, being too short to tie, fell no lower than his neck, in short easy curls; and he had a few sprigs about his paps, that garnished his chest in a style of strength and manliness.’”

  “You read with a most delightful voice, Miss Sherwood,” complimented Lord Devon.

  Deana continued, but felt her face redden with each word. “’Then his grand movement, which seemed to rise out of a thicket of curling hair that spread from the root all round thighs and belly up to the navel, stood stiff and upright, but of a size to frighten me, by sympathy, for the small tender part which was the object of its fury, and which now lay exposed to my fairest view; for he had, immediately on stripping off his shirt, gently pushed her down on the couch, which stood conveniently to break her willing fall. Her thighs were spread out to their utmost extension, and discovered between them the mark of the sex, the red-centered cleft of flesh, whose lips, vermilioning inwards, exprest a small rubid line in sweet miniature, such as Guido's touch of colouring could never attain to the life or delicacy of.’”

  She paused. Rockwell was looking at her in interest.

  “Pray, continue,” he said.

  She looked at the words. She had had no idea the novel was so explicit.

  “’Phoebe, at this gave me a gentle jog, to prepare me for a whispered question: whether I thought my little maidenhead was much less? But my attention was too much engrossed, too much enwrapped with all I saw, to be able to give her any answer.

  “’By this time the young gentleman had changed her posture from lying breadth to length-wise on the couch: but her thighs were still spread, and the mark lay fair for him, who now kneeling between them, displayed to us a side-view of that fierce erect machine of his, which threatened no less than splitting the tender victim, who lay smiling at the uplifted stroke, nor seemed to decline it. He looked upon his weapon himself with some pleasure, and guiding it with his hand to the inviting slit, drew aside the lips, and lodged it, after some thrusts, which Polly seemed even to assist, about half way…’”

  Her whole body felt warm with embarrassment. She glanced at Lord Devon, who wore a most pleased expression. His trousers had tented at the crotch. Deana quickly looked back at the book.

  “Read it…slower,” Rockwell said.

  She took in a deep breath.

  “’But there it stuck, I suppose from its growing thickness: he draws it again, and just wetting it with spittle, re-enters, and with ease sheathed it now up to the hilt, at which Polly gave a deep sigh, which was quite another tone than one of pain; he thrusts, she heaves, at first gently, and in a regular cadence; but presently the transport began to be too violent to observe any order or measure; their motions were too rapid, their kisses too fierce and fervent for nature to support such fury long: both seemed to me out of themselves: their eyes darted fires: “Oh! . . . oh! . . .. I can't bear it . . . It is too much . . . I die . . . I am going . . ..” were Polly's expressions of extasy: his joys were more silent; but soon broken murmurs, sighs heart-fetched, and at length a dispatching thrust, as if he would have forced himself up her body, and then motionless languor of all his limbs, all showed that the die-away moment was come upon him; which she gave signs of joining with, by the wild throwing of her hands about, closing her eyes, and giving a deep sob, in which she seemed to expire in an agony of bliss.’”

  “I say!” Devon exclaimed. “You are a natural, Miss Sherwood! Such emotion! Such flare!”

  Deana looked at Isabella, from her parted lips and glassy eyes, seemed to be in a daze. She looked next at Rockwell.

  “I concur with Lord Devon,” he said, his stare upon her quite intense. “Well done.”

  Suddenly she wished she were very much alone with him. The passage had aroused her, and she wanted the ability to express it with him.

  “Lady Isabella, you’re next!” Devon said. “Though it shall be n
o small feat to best Miss Sherwood’s abilities.”

  Her ladyship frowned at this and looked upon Deana as if she, and not Lord Devon, had made the offending statement.

  “But I insist you read one of my preferred passages,” Devon said, taking the book and flipping through the pages till he found what he wanted.

  Book in hand, Isabella cleared her throat.

  “‘No sooner then was this precious substitute of my mistress's laid down, but she, who was never out of her way when any occasion of lewdness presented itself, turned to me, embraced and kissed me with great eagerness. This was new, this was odd; but imputing it to nothing but pure kindness, which, for aught I knew, it might be the London way to express in that manner, I was determined not to be behind hand with her, and returned her the kiss and embrace, with all the fervor that perfect innocence knew.

  “’Encouraged by this, her hands became extremely free, and wandered over my whole body, with touches, squeezes, pressures, that rather warmed and surprised me with their novelty, than they either shocked or alarmed me.

  “’The flattering praises she intermingled with these invasions, contributed also not a little to bribe my passiveness; and, knowing no ill, I feared none, especially from one who had prevented all doubt of her womanhood by conducting my hands to a pair of breasts that hung loosely down, in a size and volume that full sufficiently distinguished her sex, to me at least, who had never made any other comparison ...’”

  In her attempt to outdo her predecessor, Isabella tended toward the dramatic. Her voice was sultry, but she read with such exaggerated emphasis that her performance overpowered the words.

  The imagery that danced in Deana’s mind surprised her. She had never imagined a woman being fondled by another woman before. She felt extremely flustered.

  “I vow I have never enjoyed the work more,” Devon declared when she had finished reading. Lust flamed in his countenance as his gaze fell upon Deana.

  “I think I should like to stroll near the stream to stretch my limbs,” Deana said, rising to her feet. She had a great need to cool the heat in her body and wished she had brought a fan to aid in that effort.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  WITHOUT SEEKING AGREEMENT, Miss Herwood began walking in the direction of the stream. Halsten did not like the way Lord Devon had eyed her and did not blame her for wishing an escape.

  “Do not stop, my dear,” Devon instructed Isabella. “More delights await.”

  Isabella began reading once more. Halsten decided to join Miss Herwood and caught up with her at the stream.

  “What say you to the work of John Cleland?” he inquired after they had walked apace in silence. He had noticed her flush earlier and was curious to know her thoughts.

  “He is a rather talented writer. Few details escape him. He, well, he creates a vivid picture,” she answered with some unease.

  He glanced back towards the picnic. They had walked out of sight, but he had no desire for Devon or Isabella to show up unexpectedly if he were to initiate anything with Miss Herwood. Bad enough that Devon was in the company of Isabella. He had no wish for Devon to be further interested in Miss Herwood.

  “Have you an interest in reading more of Fanny Hill?” he asked, steering the discussion away from a topic that would have his shaft bursting.

  “Yes. But I would not read of de Sade.”

  He nodded. “The images of de Sade are far more dark and savage.”

  “That the heroine is but twelve is most disturbing.”

  “Devon would not be so dismissive if he had a daughter of his own.”

  “Or a sister?”

  The hairs on his neck stood on end. The mere thought of Lucille suffering anything of what Justine had endured was enough to drive him mad. He quickly changed the direction of discussion.

  “As a work of political philosophy, there is much to be said for de Sade. His work is undoubtedly provocative.”

  “Then I would read it but for one overbearing Baron who believes the constitution of the fair sex too weak to bear the imagery.”

  He stiffened. “I have faith in your constitution, but I cannot say the same for Lady Isabella. Hers is more delicate.”

  “Ah.”

  She turned away from him, and he could not read her expression. He sensed a coolness in her demeanor. He tried to improve it with praise.

  “You read extraordinarily well. The work is much improved through the quality of your voice.”

  She turned to look at him, and he sensed the distance had melted.

  “I was relieved to be reading English. My French is not nearly as good.”

  “You were aroused by what you read.”

  She blushed. Her loveliness had somehow grown from a year ago. He wanted nothing more than to reach for her, but if he did, he was unsure he could stop himself from taking her upon the pebbled ground. Or maybe he could pin her against a tree, her legs wrapped about him.

  “As was Lord Devon,” she murmured.

  His jaw clenched. He would have her refrain from ever uttering that name.

  “If you’ve a strong desire to read more Cleland, I can procure you a copy of Fanny Hill.”

  “Hopefully in less than two day’s time, I will have a hundred pounds from you. I do not require more than that.”

  Their remaining time together sounded awfully short of a sudden. He had to have her soon. And all to himself. The ride and picnic with Devon and Isabella had been his own doing so that he could keep an eye upon Isabella.

  “We have walked a ways and should return.”

  They turned around and headed back to the picnic. There was no more talk of de Sade or Cleland. He admired the comfort of their silence. He knew far too many women who felt the need to fill a void with chatter.

  When they came upon Isabella and Devon, he sensed something amiss. Isabella was staring into her glass of wine, her mouth twisted as if she had stomach ache. There was moisture in her eyes, and her hair was a bit mussed. Devon was lounging an arm’s length from her, reading from Justine.

  Dear God.

  Halsten fisted his hand. It was all he could do not to take the riding crop and whip the man into oblivion.

  “Let us return to the Chateau,” he said.

  They packed their articles. Isabella had the deportment of a shy little girl as she wordlessly went to stand beside her horse. He went to assist her in mounting, leaving Devon to do the same for Miss Herwood. Isabella winced as she sat upon the horse. He steeled himself and said nothing.

  Isabella was silent the entire ride back. Devon prattled on about inane matters, addressing most of his comments to Miss Herwood, who listened politely and occasionally voiced her acknowledgment of what he said.

  “I think a nap would do me good,” Devon said after their horses had been seen to the stables. “Proper rest is required for the nighttime activities at Follet.”

  He bid them all adieu in the foyer and headed off to the East Wing. Halsten looked between Miss Herwood and Lady Isabella, whose eyes remained downcast. Fortunately, he saw Bhadra from the corner of his eye.

  He called to the maid, “Bhadra, please escort Miss Sherwood to her chambers and assist her with her riding habit.”

  After seeing Miss Herwood off with Bhadra, he turned to Isabella. “May I escort you to your room, m’lady?”

  Isabella placed her hand in the crook of his arm and they walked wordlessly to her room.

  “Isabella, are you well?” he asked after he had seated her upon the settee and rang for the maid.

  She nodded.

  He took a fortifying breath. “Did Lord Devon hurt you?”

  She shook her head, then abruptly looked up at him. “I did not expect it to hurt so. It was nothing at all like what Cleland described.”

  He tried to temper his anger at Devon for even the most tender of lovers could not grant a painless penetration of the hymen. He remembered the one and only time he had been with a virgin, a young Indian maid. She had shrieked so loudly, he had
been frightened out of her. Then she had taken to such fits of sobbing as to convince him that he was surely the most miserable bastard alive.

  “Are you bleeding much?” he asked gently.

  “I have not determined, but there is a viscous moisture there.”

  Lord Devon’s seed. The thought made him sick.

  “A bath will cleanse and refresh you,” he told her. “Then you should consider returning to London.”

  “By myself?”

  “Madame Follet will relinquish one of her maids to accompany you.”

  Isabella was quiet. He sensed some reluctance on her part but decided not to pursue further discussion as she was still recovering from the shock of losing her maidenhead.

  “Some rest after the bath would be beneficial,” he said as the chambermaid appeared.

  He took Isabella’s hand and kissed it before taking his leave. She rewarded him with a wan smile.

  “Does it—does it improve?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And will it be as blissful as what was described in the novel?”

  “That depends on a great many variables, my lady.”

  “Oh.”

  “Isabella.”

  “Yes?”

  “If you should require anything, if Lord Devon should impose upon you the slightest discomfort, I am at your disposal.”

  She smiled. “Thank you, Halsten.”

  He bowed and left her room. In the hallway, he paused and considered seeing to Miss Herwood, but first he marched to Lord Devon’s room.

  “I say!” Devon protested when Halsten entered without knocking. “A little politeness would be much appreciated!”

  Devon had taken off his coat and boots. His valet was assisting with the cravat. Halsten dismissed the valet, who as if sensing something amiss, scurried away.

  “I did not think you so desperate as to require a virgin for company at Chateau Follet,” Halsten began.

  Devon straightened. “I had no idea Isabella was a virgin. She certainly did not conduct herself as if she were.”

  “Was it not obvious? Or were you so lost in your own passion that you could not notice?”