Radcliff tossed open the curtains, flooding the room with light.
“I came to inform you,” he began as he sat in a chair opposite his cousin’s bed, “that I am placing your accounts—including Brayten—in a trust till you are deemed responsible enough to assume their command.”
Edward sat up. “I say! That is most unnecessary, Radcliff!”
“You shall have an allowance of three thousand a year.”
“Three?! That is hardly enough to sustain a man.”
“Provided you refrain from stepping foot into Mrs. T’s or any other gaming hell.”
“I shan’t agree to this.”
“You will if you expect me to secure the return of Brayten.”
“And since when do you serve as my guardian?” sniffed Edward indignantly.
“Since you lost your estate to Miss Sherwood,” answered Radcliff, though he felt himself in part to blame for not having taken a more active role in Edward’s development since the last time he had intervened in the matter of Priscilla Sherwood.
As if reading his cousin’s mind, Edward ventured with some hesitation to say, “I had thought perhaps to speak with the sister of Miss Sherwood…”
Broadmoor raised an eyebrow.
“…as she did hold a tendre for me once.”
“I thought you had said she was madly in love with you.”
“Yes, well…”
“And that she meant to ‘even the score’ against you,” Radcliff continued “It is clear to me the sentiments Miss Sherwood holds towards you. I can only imagine it worse with Miss Priscilla.”
“Oh, but Priscilla is quite different from Darcy.”
Radcliff crossed his arms. “Indeed?”
Edward looked away quickly. “I meant, well, they are both, er, indiscriminate as regards their lovers. Prime articles they are. I am quite grateful that you, er, helped me to realize that my youthful fancy to Miss Priscilla was greatly misplaced—but I think Miss Sherwood…well, she is in part descended from savages.”
“Have you any idea who the father of the boy is?”
Edward colored and shook his head. “Haven’t the foggiest.”
Radcliff stood and surveyed his cousin with mixed emotions. “I suggest you leave any correspondence with the Sherwoods to me.”
“If you think it best, Radcliff. Will you be attending Lady Pinkerton’s dinner tonight?”
“I have…another engagement,” replied Radcliff and took his leave before Edward decided to ask what that engagement was.
Naturally, it involved Miss Darcy Sherwood.
When Radcliff arrived at Mrs. T’s later that evening, he found her laughing at something James Newcastle had whispered in her ear. Radcliff felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Why should it bother him that she flirted with the buffoon? Still, he could not repress a sudden desire to grab Newcastle by the collar and toss the man out on his head.
There was not a seat to be had near Miss Sherwood, so Radcliff entertained himself at one of the other faro tables from which he could keep on eye on her. It was not easy for one of the women at his table, decidedly tipsy, kept leaning in towards him, soliciting his advice on which card to play. She was not as drunk nor as stupid as she pretended to be, and he had little tolerance of women who felt the need to be inane in the presence of men.
He felt her hand upon his thigh beneath the table and was about to say something offending when he saw that the men around Miss Sherwood had risen to their feet. Leaving his ante on his table, Radcliff strode over to Miss Sherwood who had declared her intention to head to the dining room.
“Are you in need of an escort?” he asked.
She stared at him with a peculiar glint in her eyes. “If I grant you that privilege twice in two nights, people will think I play favorites. I never have favorites, Baron.”
She turned and took the arm of James Newcastle, who grinned idiotically from ear to ear.
“May I join your table then?” Radcliff persisted, satisfied that Newcastle’s smile turned quickly into a frown.
“Perhaps another time.”
It was not the last of her rejections that evening. He played the part of the attentive suitor, but she rebuffed his offer to get her a glass of wine as well as his request for a round of piquet. She kept him at bay all evening, and all he could do for the most part was watch her from afar. It was becoming difficult to bear, in part because she was succeeding in her efforts to humiliate him—something the Baron was not accustomed to feeling—but also because images of the prior evening kept returning to him. He realized he was lusting after her like some predator that could smell but not taste its meat. It made him feel more animal than man.
He decided he had done his best that evening at being one of her supplicants and turned his focus away from Miss Sherwood. He had a glass of wine and played a few rounds of hazard. Occasionally he glanced her way, and once or twice their gazes met across the dim and smoky room. She had something in store for him, he felt. But the hours dragged on, and Radcliff was falling asleep in the armchair that he had favored at his first visit to Mrs. T’s when the page handed him a note from Miss Sherwood.
It was a simple command for him to come to her chambers.
The blood began to pound in his head. Looking around, he saw that most of the patrons had retired for the evening. Only a few piquet players and a drunken couple who had fallen asleep against each other on the sofa remained. Folding the note, he quietly headed to the hall and up the stairs to her room.
“You have a terrible habit of entering without knocking,” Miss Sherwood informed him from where she sat without turning to look at him.
Seated at her vanity before a mirror, she continued to brush out her hair. Radcliff had never seen hair such as hers. The curls were tight and full, framing her head on all sides save where a headband secured them from falling into her face. She wore only her undergarments, stockings, and shoes.
“Unlace my stays,” she said as she coiled her hair to her neck with one hand, exposing her back.
With more composure than he felt, Radcliff walked over to her and wordlessly did as she bade. When he had loosened the ties, he stepped back and stared at the sensuous curve of her shoulder blades, wondering how she would react if he pressed his mouth between them. The light of the few candles in the otherwise dark room glowed enticingly upon her skin.
She stepped out of her stays and pulled up her skirts. Kicking off a shoe, she propped one foot upon a padded footstool before saying, “Undo my stockings.”
It was her gaze as much as the extended leg that almost had him undone, but he knelt down beside her without much expression and reached for her garter. He thought he heard her inhale sharply when his fingers grazed her thigh. His hand was so close to her womanhood. He needed to bend only a little further to be able to look up her petticoats. He breathed in what he could of her.
With a simple release, he untied the garter and gently slid the filmy stocking down her leg and past her toes. He noted they were unpainted. He had expected the toes of a harlot would be painted.
She propped her other leg up before him. He inched the stocking down and could not resist pressing his lips to her inner thigh. As he pulled the stocking down with one hand, he caressed the flesh made bare with the other. He thought he heard her emit something similar to a soft purr, but once he had drawn the stocking off, she moved quickly from him.
He stood to look at her. The stare she fixed upon him had the effect of rooting him to the spot while emboldening him at the same time. He watched as she shed her petticoat and stood only in her shift—a flimsy material in need of repair in certain areas and through which he could see the shadow of her body. He had an urge to rip the garment off her to see what he had only glimpsed for a few seconds the night before.
Standing near the post at one corner of the bed, she lifted her chin—an act that seemed to dare him to approach her. Radcliff needed no encouragement. Shedding his coat, he strode towards her. Hi
s body yearned to press itself against her.
“You make it difficult for one to be a gentleman, Miss Sherwood,” he said as he looked down at her, his face inches from hers.
“Are you a gentleman?” she challenged.
“In the presence of a proper lady, without question.”
“Are you suggesting that I am not a proper lady?”
Radcliff raised an eyebrow. “How many proper ladies do you know invite men to their boudoir and command them to undress them?”
She smiled. “Would you prefer that I were a proper lady?”
Hell, no, was his initial thought as he dropped his gaze away from her eyes and down to her lips, her collarbone, and the tops of her breasts.
“Surely the exalted Baron Broadmoor would not favor a tramp?” she continued. “A harlot? A lowly creature that crawls with its belly to the earth?”
A muscle rippled in his face, and he now felt flushed for another reason. That he had no response for her only made him angry.
“Hang being a gentleman,” he said before he cupped the base of her head and forced her lips to his.
This was her aim, he knew. She had won and he succumbed. But he could no longer stave off the painful tightness between his thighs. Every inch of his body cried out for her as he greedily moved his mouth over hers. Her lips hung so sweet and soft beneath his. He delved his tongue into her mouth for a deeper taste.
With his free hand, he grasped a breast through the shift. The heavy orb felt made for his hand. He massaged it with his fingers and brushed a thumb across her nipple. The little nub instantly hardened. He circled his thumb around the pebble while his mouth continued to devour her. He slid the hand away from her breast and down her side to the small of her back. Pulling her to him, he molded his body to hers.
When he felt her kiss him back, his head began to swim. He was about to lose his last shred of propriety and ravish her in a most ungentlemanly manner when he heard her urging him to lie down. Unaccustomed to being told what to do—especially in the midst of lovemaking, Radcliff pulled away to look at her and verify that he had heard correctly.
“Lie down,” she repeated as she gently pushed him around the edge of the bed and onto the mattress.
He lay on his back and watched her crawl on top of him. His arousal was throbbing like never before. He grabbed both her breasts as she reached above his head and kissed them through her last article of clothing. He circled his tongue around one nipple. She jerked slightly at the touch. If she didn’t remove her shift soon, he was going to rip it from her.
He was about to pull the neckline of the shift down past one breast when she grabbed his hand away and pulled it past his head. She snapped something about his wrist. When he looked up to see what she had done, she had pulled his other arm up and done the same.
Shackles! The woman had shackles attached to the posts on the bed. Radcliff pulled at the binds. They rattled but remained in place. By the time he looked back at her, she had already undone his cravat with a speed that would have astounded Beau Brummel’s valet.
“I believe one good turn deserves another,” she told him with a small mischievous smile as she began to slowly unbutton his shirt.
Radcliff was still too stunned to respond. What did this woman intend to do to him? he wondered as he watched her lower her head over his chest. She blew lightly upon a nipple before licking it. His erection sprang back to attention. She swirled her tongue against the nipple and blew at it once more. The moisture cooled against her breath and hardened it.
She ran her tongue back and forth against the nipple, pressed her mouth around it and sucked. Radcliff groaned. His nipple had never received so much attention before. He closed his eyes but they flew open an instant later when he felt her pulling at his nipple with her teeth. His groan was now of a different nature as she alternated between caressing the nipple with her tongue and biting it.
He wanted her to stop—and didn’t. To his surprise, he found the flashes of pain arousing.
She had managed to unbutton his trousers during this time, and Radcliff felt a surge of desire and relief when she pulled out his length and fingered it lightly before fisting it in her hand. Radcliff would have doubled over if he were not lying down. He pulled at the shackles to no avail.
Fear suddenly gripped him. He was at her mercy and vulnerable in a way he had never thought to be. He could have misjudged her character completely. She could exact a most terrible revenge with him in such a defenseless position. What if she were mad enough to do it?
But his fear was quickly replaced by arousal when she pressed her tongue against his shaft. She slid her tongue up and down his length and over the tip. When at last she encased him entirely in her mouth, he felt that it might even be worth the prospect of castration to be able to spend inside of her.
It felt extraordinary to have her warm wet mouth about him. He could not resist lifting his hips to push himself further into her mouth, but she pulled away.
“Release me,” Radcliff said. “Release me. I shall make it worth your while.”
“There is nothing you can offer me worth my while,” she replied with an edge.
“If I recall, you were not adverse to my touch last night.”
His response seemed to unsettle her. She pressed her lips together. “I give the commands here.”
She grabbed him harshly. Radcliff grunted. He looked at her, willing her to read his mind: when she was done, he was going to repay her in kind—with interest.
“If this is how you treat all your lovers, I wonder that they remain such devoted admirers of yours,” said Radcliff.
“They always return for more—as will you.”
She slid away from him and off the bed. Perplexed, he watched as she strode out of the room. The door to the inner room closed behind her. Where the bloody hell was she going? He heard water being poured. The minutes passed as his body, having been brought to the precipice but not over it, hung in aggravation. Closing his eyes, he cursed. How long did she intend on leaving him here?
When she returned, he saw that her skin was damp, perhaps from a bath. He waited eagerly for her to approach the bed, but instead she reclined herself on the settee and retrieved a book from the end table. His eyes widened in disbelief when he realized she meant to ignore him. The wretched jade!
Forcing down the anger that boiled inside of him, he said, “A work of the Marquis de Sade?”
She gave him a tight smile. “A fair guess. We tramps and harlots do favor the literature of libertines and wantons. I myself prefer the story of Juliette.”
He knew she mocked him but could not resist accepting her statement as truth. “The amoral sister. How appropriate.”
“Who would not prefer the path of Juliette over that of her sister? Justine strives to be virtuous and is chastised. Vice is rewarded. It is an irony that is all too prevalent in life.”
Her last words bore an edge, and her eyes clouded over with a mix of anger and sadness. For a moment, Radcliff forgot his own discomfort and wished he could wipe away her pain. How was it this harlot could provoke such charitable emotions when he ought to feel nothing but disdain and animosity?
He softened his tone, surprising himself. “In yours?”
She looked at him sharply, but he saw the flash of wistfulness before her defenses rose. Her chin lifted in defiance. “Yes. Favorably so.”
Her response warned him not to succumb to pity. He had sensed from the beginning that this Miss Sherwood was a proud one, but he saw through her pride.
“You don’t believe that—not completely. Or you would not be the daughter of Jonathan Sherwood.”
He realized too late that he had gone too far. They were not on such terms for him to utter such a statement, but he could not recall his words, and to explain that he meant no malice— indeed, he perceived Jonathan Sherwood to have been a decent, albeit improvident, fellow—would only worsen the awkwardness.
Her eyes flared with anger. “My father is w
orth the lot of you.”
Silence descended between them. He sank his head into the bed and stared at the ceiling. He was shackled—naked—to a harlot’s bed, and yet he felt as if he had wronged her. This was beyond belief.
“Your father was a good man,” he commented, wishing he had something more reassuring to say.
“He was,” she said defensively.
“Sometimes you can glimpse into a man’s soul through his smallest actions,” Radcliff prodded. “I did not know your father, but I saw him once, after a poor performance at the gaming tables, give his last shilling to a pauper in the streets.”
“Yes, Papa was always generous to a fault.”
The sadness in her tone twisted like a knife in his gut.
“And proves the story of Justine,” she finished, putting an end to any glimpse of vulnerability.
Radcliff refrained from pointing out that amorality and recklessness were two different qualities.
“Then you are determined to be a Juliette?” he inquired.
This time her smile was wide. Swinging her legs off the settee, she stood and dropped her book. Pulling her shift down her shoulders, she allowed the garment to fall from her body. His arousal sprang to life in an instant at the glory of her nakedness. Her skin was perfect. Not a blemish, a freckle, a vein, or mark could be found. He wondered if the smoothness of it, the relative lack of hair upon her legs, was due to her dark heritage. How she differed in strange but beautiful ways!
“Why not?” she replied as she sauntered toward him. “Would you prefer a Justine?”
The words were stuck in his throat, but he would not have disputed her even if he could speak. With his gaze, he devoured her form, from the downy curls at the apex of her pelvis to her voluptuous areolas. Somewhere in his mind he contemplated the injustice for both the Justines and Juliettes of the world, but he was too consumed with desire to pursue the discussion.
Miss Sherwood, too, seemed to have no interest in further dialogue. She climbed on the bed and knelt before him, flaunting her nudity so close to his body he thought he would go mad if she did not touch him soon.
That Wicked Harlot (A Steamy Regency Romance Collection Book 2) Page 5
