Priscilla glanced at Darcy in surprise. “I thought you meant to return the deed?”
Darcy took a bite of her stale bread and chewed it vehemently as the image of the Baron Broadmoor flashed before her eyes. “In due time.”
“Return it?” gasped Mrs. Sherwood. “Why should we wish to return such a prize? What folly! Indeed, no price could compensate us for the wrong they’ve done to our family!”
“Mama, I am content that the past remain in the past.”
“We have a right—your son Nathan—has a right to that land!”
“But it is Darcy that has won it.” Priscilla turned to her sister with eyes of regret. “You have born the burden of my mistake. It was my fault—”
“No,” Darcy stopped her. She stared hard at her half sister. The two could not look more unalike—one was fair with delicate features, the other dark and dramatic—but Darcy had always felt naught but love for Priscilla. She had cherished playing the little mother to her younger sister. “Edward had the opportunity to do right by you and Nathan, and he chose not to because of that dreadful cousin of his.”
“His cousin Radcliff? How do you mean?”
“I only just—the man himself admitted as much to me.”
“He came to see you? Oh, Darcy, do be careful! I have only heard stern things said of him.”
“Did he try to take Brayten from us?” asked Mrs. Sherwood apprehensively.
“He does not frighten me,” Darcy answered, “nor shall he reclaim the deed so easily.”
“What do you mean?” Priscilla asked.
Avoiding her sister’s worried question, Darcy said, “Do not fret, Priscilla. You imagine yourself—and Nathan—a burden when he is a blessing in our lives. In truth, it is the debt of our dear Papa that weighs upon us—though we do not aid ourselves by continuously purchasing items that we can ill afford. And you may think the gaming hall a terrible place, but I quite enjoy it, I assure you. As for Radcliff Barrington, he is of no consequence.”
She spoke with greater confidence than she felt where the Baron Broadmoor was concerned, but Darcy had no intention of sharing her plans with either Priscilla or her stepmother. She admired her sister’s ability to forgive, but she herself desired only to avenge her family upon Radcliff Barrington. He would regret he had ever crossed swords with Darcy Sherwood.
*****
“Do you suppose Jonathan Banks will allow me the pleasure of his company this evening?” Henry wondered aloud to Darcy.
Darcy looked across the card room at the young gentleman in question flirting with one of the female patrons. “Are you sure he can be persuaded?”
“He has yet to discover his true nature, but he can be persuaded. Most assuredly.” Henry turned to see who had just entered the room. “That one, I have a distinct feeling, can not be persuaded.”
Glancing up from the checks she had collected from the last round of faro, Darcy saw the tall form of the Baron Broadmoor. Her heart quickened its beat, and she could not help but admire how the tailoring of his clothes enhanced his impressive figure. The cutaway of his dark blue coat revealed a broad chest encased in a buff waistcoat and immaculate linen. The tall standing collar reached into his lush black hair and was wrapped with a cravat that would have met the approval of Beau Brummel.
She had half expected the Baron not to come, that he would laugh off or simply refuse her ultimatum. From the frown on his face, it was clear he was unhappy to be here. Good, she thought to herself. He would soon be unhappier still.
“Another round, Miss Sherwood! The night is young!” cried one of the bettors.
“Soon enough,” answered Darcy as she met the gaze of the Baron, “but first I mean to take a respite in the dining hall.”
A number of men quickly offered to escort her, but Darcy kept her eyes on Broadmoor. He met her challenging look and presented his arm. His intent stare could easily have been mistaken for determination, but Darcy knew better. She accepted his arm with a satisfied smile.
“Gentleman, actions speak louder than words,” she explained before allowing Broadmoor to lead her towards the dining hall.
“How many poor fools have you led to ruin at your faro table?” asked Broadmoor.
“Is that your best attempt at polite conversation?” Darcy returned as he pulled out a chair for her at one of the more private dining tables. No doubt he desired to be seen by as few people as possible.
“My impression is that polite conversation is the least of your interests here.”
“Ah, yes, we do our share of gambling here as well. I am sure you have noted that this is a gaming house?”
“Is that all it is?” he replied with a cocked eyebrow.
Darcy narrowed her eyes at him. He sat opposite her with his arms crossed, casually leaning against the back of his chair. His posture struck her as arrogant. But even with his mouth curled in a derisive smirk, he was disconcertingly attractive. It was unjust that such a horrible ogre could possess such devilishly handsome features.
“What are you implying, Baron?”
“The men…the women…”
“We are not a priggish establishment. Men and women are free to enjoy each other’s company, but we are not a brothel.”
“Indeed?”
He poured a glass of wine for her from the bottle that had been set at their table. Darcy observed how his fingers curled about the neck of the bottle and was reminded of how strong they had felt when he had grabbed her yesterday. She wondered if those hands were capable of a different kind of touch…if they could stroke as well as grasp…but her thoughts were soon shattered by his next question.
“Is what you do so different from that of a harlot?”
She stared at him in almost disbelief. The gall of this man! But she managed to smile as if she were an amused mother who had just heard her young child say something precocious.
“A whore lies with a man for money,” she explained before leaning in and continuing in a conspiratorial tone, “I lay men for the enjoyment of it.”
Seeing that she had him speechless, she settled back in her chair with satisfaction. “Make no mistake, Baron, as much as I enjoy the carnal pleasures, I lay only men who may please me. Only no man has managed to please me for long. Which is why I am no courtesan. I prefer my freedom to choose as I please. I am not now and will never be any man’s mistress.”
“As such, you do very well for Madam Tillinghast,” responded Broadmoor, “though it also helps when the dealing boxes are gaffed.”
Darcy thought she had mastered the situation, but his words had the effect of completely dispelling her complacency. She bit her tongue—in anger as much as to prevent herself from unleashing a string of invectives.
“Our tables are honest, sir,” she said between clenched teeth.
“And the dealers?”
Darcy could not resist jumping to her feet. His raised eyebrow suggested that he was playing her, but nonetheless, he had uttered words that could not be taken lightly in a gaming house. Had she been a man, she would have called him out.
“More honest than some of our patrons,” Darcy said, almost quivering with anger. “Though in some cases, cheating would be quite unnecessary on our part. Your cousin, for example, could not win a hand were the game rigged in his favor!”
“Did you not wish to partake of any refreshments?” he called to her after she had turned to leave.
Even that simple question served to ignite her indignation. What was it about him that grated her nerves like no other? she wondered as she stormed out of the dining hall.
“My dear!” Henry exclaimed when she collided with him in the hallway. “You look as if you’re ready to take someone’s head off.”
“I am!” Darcy admitted. “Would you believe what that pompous Baron Broadmoor dared accuse me of? He said…oh, it should not matter. Nothing a Barrington says should ever matter to me.”
“I take it this Barrington is even worse than his cousin for I have never seen yo
u this livid. It is not a becoming color on you, my dear.”
“Harry, he is far worse than Edward! He is easily the most detestable man I have ever met!”
For the rest of the evening, Darcy refused to engage anymore with the Baron. She did not even wish to make eye contact, though she could not refrain from glancing at him when she thought he wasn’t looking. As much as she wanted to embarrass him further, her infuriation had melted her plans for the Baron—at least for now.
You may have won this round, Darcy silently told the man, but tomorrow will see my reprisal two-fold.
Thinking of ways to humiliate the man improved her outlook. Still, she took an early leave of the evening and retired to the bedroom that Mathilda had set up for her long ago so that Darcy would not have to travel through the streets of London at night.
Back in her room, Darcy rang for the abigail that she shared with Mathilda and began to unpin her hair, trying not to think of the Baron Broadmoor and how she could possibly have found him attractive. The intensity of his stare when first she saw him had intrigued her, and it had been some time since any man had caught her attention. She fancied he had not been immune to her charms, but alas, how wrong she had been!
After ringing for the abigail for the third time, Darcy realized she was to have no help undressing for the evening. She removed her gown and with some difficulty managed to disengage her corset. She stepped out of her chemise and into her nightgown. Her hair had already been released from its chignon and fell thickly over her shoulders. She climbed into bed and was about to blow out the candle when a voice jolted her upright.
“Tire of all the amusement already?”
Darcy looked into the semidarkness to see the Baron sitting in a corner chair. Had he been here this whole time? His cravat had been loosened and a small part of his chest could be seen above his shirt.
Her eyes narrowed. “Are you in the habit of stealing into the rooms of ladies?”
He snorted. “Is there a lady present?”
“Get out,” Darcy seethed, trying not to think about how much of her undressing he might have witnessed.
He stood up and advanced towards the bed. “But how unkind of you to rebuff one who is but attempting to be, as you demand, an ardent suitor.”
“I expected a gentleman suitor.”
“Perhaps I am not gentleman where you are concerned. Nor do you deserve a gentleman.”
“Pray do not fancy that you can seduce me. I shall ring for the servants.”
“And will they come?”
Despite her anger, Darcy paled in the flickering candlelight. She had no doubt that the impudent abigail was simply ignoring her.
The Baron had reached the bed. He scowled down at Darcy. “What did you expect bringing me here and into such company?”
Darcy turned from him and pretended to settle into her pillows, “Do as you will, but I will bid you good night.”
To her dismay, Broadmoor slid into bed next to her. “You asked me to play my role convincingly.”
“You disturb my sleep, Baron.” It sounded stupid, but it was all she could think to say.
Undeterred, Broadmoor slipped a hand down her nightgown and reached for her breast. Darcy stopped his hand.
“How dare you take such liberties?” she gasped harshly, but her body had already begun to warm at his touch.
“From what I understand, others have taken far more liberty than this.”
“Only by those who can please me,” Darcy responded evenly as she shoved his hand back to him.
“And you think I could not?”
Darcy glared at him. He took her silence as a challenge and reached underneath the covers. His hand grazed her ankle. She started but was overcome by both curiosity and desire to see what he would do next. His hand trailed lightly up her calf and underneath the hem of her gown. She should stop him before he went beyond her calf, but when his fingers brushed the back of her knee, she could not find words. His hand continued lightly up the length of her thigh. When his fingers reached the nest of curls between her legs, she lost a breath.
He was looking at her, but the best she could do was to still any expression in her face. Her mind had been enveloped by the throbbing in her lower body. It yearned for him to continue. After a brief delay, his forefinger slipped to that most exquisite nub of flesh, teasing it to life.
Perhaps she had had more wine than she intended. Or perhaps it was because it had been too long. Though she had not been above bringing herself to satisfaction, it differed from the touch of a man. Somehow, the larger fingers, more imprecise, managed to flare greater sensations. And despite herself, they were beginning to flame with each stroke. Without knowing, she released a soft, almost imperceptible moan, as she lost the will to resist the desires of her own body.
Sensing her surrender, Broadmoor dipped his fingers into her wetness and began a rhythmic stroking of her now engorged bud. Darcy sank into the pillows and closed her eyes, allowing his caresses to draw her deeper and deeper into that familiar and ironic pleasure—a yearning that satisfied, a craving made more intense with each attempt to satiate. His fingers plied her with teasing tenderness, then increasing earnest as her climax began to build. This was madness, she knew, but all rational thought had been pushed aside. Despite herself, she cried out softly in her release.
His fingers slowed but did not stop their caress. Darcy kept her eyes closed as she savored the satisfaction of a craving met. The Baron was no novice lover, though she should not be surprised that this was the case. Even the most pious gentleman could entertain lovers, provided they were discreet, and still maintain their status as a gentleman. It differed quite unfairly for women.
“I take it that pleased my lady?” asked Broadmoor.
“A little,” Darcy murmured.
“We must be sure then.”
His strokes skimmed her arousal. Darcy shuddered. She should put a stop to this. Should she not? Was he not the man she loathed above all others?
But her body was to betray her once more as the desire between her legs flared anew. He had slipped a finger inside her even while he kept his thumb circling against her. For a moment she tensed as her mind struggled to gain dominance. It lasted briefly. When he intensified his touch, she found herself heading to a climax even higher than before. Her entire body shook. She lay with her eyes closed, soaking in the afterglow. And before she could rouse herself from her state of relief and bliss, she fell asleep.
When she awoke half an hour later, she was alone with no trace that Broadmoor had been present save for the lingering wetness between her legs. She imagined the smug satisfaction that must be on his face at having seduced her. Well, if he meant to play the game that way, she had her own cards in store for the proud Baron.
CHAPTER FIVE
RADCLIFF THREW THE cold water onto his face and took a ragged breath as it dripped from his hair back into the basin. It failed to wash away the memory of her. The feel of her. The scent of her. The sound of her. Those soft lilting moans echoed even now in his ears, causing the blood in his groin to throb. He was surprised at the intensity of his desire given that he had already relieved his arousal twice since arriving home late last night.
He felt a mixture of shame and triumph. Never in his life would he have thought it possible of himself to enter into a woman’s bedchamber without her knowledge and then refuse to leave. But there was no denying that there was something about Miss Sherwood that ignited a brazenness he never knew existed. Something that had nothing to do with her reputation as a harlot of sorts, but everything to do with the way she looked at him.
He had not intended to catch her undressing last night. Surprised that his customarily high sense of decency had not compelled him to excuse himself the moment she began untying her ribbons, he had sat in the dark corner of her room unable to take his eyes off her. He had watched the dress as it fell down her shoulders and past her rounded hips, glimpsed her bare stomach and naked breasts, and was then briefly t
reated to the curvature of her derriere before her nightdress descended from overhead.
His only thought at first had been to make her as uncomfortable as she had made him. If she desired him to act her suitor, so be it. He would play the part to her great unease. That he should force his company upon her was of her own doing. And, he thought with satisfaction, it was clear she did not completely revile his presence.
She had not seemed overly furious—perturbed, yes, but not frightened by his presence. He had half expected her to scream or attempt to ring for the servants. But when she displayed such nonchalance, he found he could not resist. He had to touch her. Had to please her. Had to teach her a lesson.
It surprised him how intoxicating her reactions were. He would have easily spent the entire night bringing her to spend time and time again had she not fallen asleep. He had been grateful that she had for he was beginning to doubt his own ability to curb the lust that had welled up in his body. His hand ached to touch her again.
Radcliff threw another handful of water at himself before reaching for the linen. After a shave and change of clothing, he went down for his breakfast.
“Any word from Wempole?” he asked his secretary as he consumed the ham, toast, eggs, and beans as if he had not eaten in days.
“No, my lord,” responded the gentleman, “but I am told he will back in London in a few days.”
After breakfast Radcliff decided to pay another visit to his cousin, who had taken leave of London shortly after his embarrassing loss to Miss Sherwood but was reportedly back in town.
“Wake him,” Radcliff instructed the butler, who had opened the door and explained that his master was still asleep.
Radcliff waited five minutes, then took himself into Edward’s bedchamber.
“Fiend seize it…” grumbled the young man in bed as he peered at Radcliff through half closed eyes, his soft brown hair tousseled about his boyish face. He was still in his dressing gown and beneath the bed covers. “It’s not even noon yet.”
That Wicked Harlot (A Steamy Regency Romance Collection Book 2) Page 4
