That Wicked Harlot (A Steamy Regency Romance Collection Book 2)

by Georgette Brown

  The last he saw of her was her eyes—was that desire burning in them?—before his vision was taken from him by the neckcloth she tied over his eyes. He could hardly believe it. He had been tied to a bed and was now blindfolded with what was his own cravat. His valet would be shocked wordless to know how the linen was currently being used.

  Deprived of his sight, Radcliff felt every inch of his body come to life. He felt her hand brush against his inner thigh and nearly jumped out of his skin. The hand now wrapped itself around his arousal. It did not take long for the ministrations to take effect. He had been close to spending a few minutes ago, and a climax once more quickly loomed for him.

  And went.

  The hand had ceased its motions. Radcliff could only wonder at what had made her stop. He could hear her breathing, feel the heat of her body near. Why had she changed her mind? He had been so close to spending. He desperately needed her, and only her, to bring him to fulfillment.

  After minutes that dragged on like hours and after he began to think that she was going to leave him bound and unfulfilled for the night, he once again began to receive her attentions. She enveloped him with her mouth, taking him so deep he felt her throat. Expertly, she drew her mouth up and down his shaft, wrapping it with her tongue, bringing him again to the brink with ease.

  And denial.

  Radcliff groaned as he realized at last her designs for the evening. Repeatedly, she brought him close to his climax but never over it. She had an uncanny ability to sense that slim moment right before the ascent to fulfillment. On his fourth time down the dead-end path, he roared in frustration. The pressure was building painfully. Perspiration lined his forehead. His abdominal muscles were sore.

  It was the most maddening experience to be so tantalizingly close to an orgasm always out of his reach. He no longer dared hope nor attempted to will his body to spend. His body belonged to her. And when he came to that conclusion, she finally had mercy upon him and pressed a finger to his perineum. His body exploded in a blinding orgasm that rocked him to the core and jerked so violently he nearly brought the posts of the bed to collapse upon him.

  And though he could not see through his blindfold, he could have sworn that her lips curled in a smile.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE SLIVER BETWEEN the curtains was just wide enough for the sun to slide through onto his eyes. Radcliff awoke to find that he was not in his own bed. Having undergone a marathon of sweet torture, his body felt sore. He had slept as if recovering from an arduous physical task.

  Since the shackles had been removed, Radcliff was able to sit up. Looking around himself, he saw that he was alone save for a note beside him. The instructions were simple: he was to return to the gaming hall that evening. Radcliff ran a hand through his hair. He was unlikely to survive many nights if they were all similar to the one he had just experienced.

  He wondered many times later that day if he should call Miss Sherwood’s bluff. She was no fool, that much he knew. She must realize that she was better off with a cash settlement than the deed to Brayten. He thought about renewing his initial offer of a hundred thousand pounds. If she accepted, they could put an end to this madness between them.

  But he didn’t.

  Instead, he found himself back at Mrs. T’s later that evening. He played the part of the dutiful admirer, and once more Miss Sherwood rejected his attentions. This time, however, the note from her was not an invitation upstairs but instructions for him to return tomorrow. He should have been relieved but instead he felt disappointed.

  The following evening was more of the same. It was becoming difficult to watch her flirtations with all the other men. The more he saw of her, the more he wanted to be with her—even if it meant enduring another night like his first. But Miss Sherwood proved more evasive every successive night.

  “Wooing her won’t get you Brayten,” one gentleman said as Radcliff attempted to distract himself with a game of whist. “Have you offered her money in exchange for your cousin’s property?”

  What a novel idea, Radcliff thought to himself sarcastically but responded with “Who said I was attempting to retrieve Brayten?”

  “Indeed,” acknowledged another player at the table. “Miss Sherwood needs no such adornment to entice, eh?”

  Radcliff looked over at the faro table where Miss Sherwood stood with her usual throng of players and admirers. He clenched his jaw upon seeing one of the gamers attempt to place his hand about her waist. Miss Sherwood firmly pushed the hand away but much more nicely than Radcliff would have if he had been standing next to the man.

  “I think Miss Sherwood may favor me with her attentions tonight,” said the man seated next to Radcliff at the whist table.

  The hairs on the back of Radcliff’s neck stood up. He looked sharply at the man and found it hard that Miss Sherwood would want to be with the dandy.

  “Told me yesterday that I should have the honor of dining with her today,” continued the dandy as he stroked the billowing white waterfalls that served as his cravat.

  “Care to wager that privilege for fifty guineas?” Radcliff asked.

  “Not at all. Guineas can be won any day, but a moment in Miss Sherwood’s company is not as easily had.”

  Radcliff did not pursue the matter, and they continued their round of whist betting only guineas. In each new round, however, Radcliff raised the ante. Whist was not a game he played as often, but Lady Luck was favoring him tonight. Soon the dandy was down to his final guinea, having lost three hundred to Radcliff. After dabbing a lace handkerchief to his brow, the dandy agreed to wager his dinner with Miss Sherwood.

  As she had promised, Miss Sherwood later accepted the arm of the dandy to the dining hall. Radcliff watched them leave the gaming hall together and waited a few minutes before following. He found them seated at a table in the more remote part of the room.

  “These are the buckles favored by all the pinks of the ton…” the dandy was explaining to Miss Sherwood.

  Radcliff approached the table and bowed politely. “May I have the pleasure of dining at your table?”

  “I fear there is only room enough for two,” answered Miss Sherwood with equal politeness.

  “Then pray take my seat, sir,” offered the dandy. He rose to his feet and apologized, “Miss Sherwood, I beg your pardon and hope, if I may dare, that we renew our conversation. Perhaps tomorrow?”

  Miss Sherwood frowned as she watched Radcliff take the place of her prior dining partner. “Tomorrow is spoken for.”

  Sighing, the dandy left the two alone.

  “Did you threaten him?” she asked, arching a brow.

  “Not at all,” Radcliff replied. “He surrendered the privilege in a hand of whist.”

  “I shall henceforth not make the mistake of promising anyone such a privilege in advance.”

  “That will not be necessary. How long do you think you can keep up this charade, Miss Sherwood? Have you not made a sufficient fool of me?”

  “I have only begun to repay the favor you provided my family,” she answered grimly before putting a fork and knife into the steak that had been served her.

  Radcliff felt a desire to pursue the matter with her, but decided that discussing what was clearly a painful history would only anger her further, and he had no wish to infuriate her more. Quite the opposite. No matter how justified he felt in doing what he had done with Priscilla and Edward, he wished somehow that it were less painful for her.

  “You have taken the place of your father,” he realized as he studied the way she kept her shoulders proud and straight. “You are the head of your family. The provider.”

  “My father had no sons.”

  “It is no small role to fill.”

  For a brief second, he thought she might let down her guard, but she did not.

  “My father was not the most adept at providing,” she pointed out.

  “But he has your respect nonetheless—and abiding love.”

  She swallowed even th
ough she had not taken a bite of food.

  “You were close to your father, I take it?” he continued.

  “How do you know?”

  “I noticed the other evening you wear a locket bearing his initials about your ankle—an uncommon place for such a bracelet.”

  Miss Sherwood blushed. “I wear it there that I might resist the urge to wager it if I should find myself in a desperate situation.”

  “I wish I had had such a connection with my father. I knew little of mine, but he was not the munificent sort. My father spent most of his time in London while my mother and the children stayed at the seat.”

  “Do you have brothers and sisters then?”

  “I have one sister. She is married to a Count and has two children. They prefer the country this time of year.”

  “How old are the children?”

  “The boy is five and the girl two.”

  “Five? That is the same age as my nephew Nathan.”

  Her face brightened as she spoke about her nephew. Radcliff was content to let her speak, enjoying the affectionate and animated way in which she relayed all of Nathan’s escapades and attempts to be a good person.

  “He is five, but seems much older in so many ways,” she sighed as she finished the last mouthful of steak.

  Radcliff stared at the empty plate in some astonishment. She followed his gaze and grinned.

  “I am not the sort of delicate woman who eats only small birds and sweetmeats,” she explained. “I prefer a good cut of beef-steak at any time.”

  Radcliff returned her grin. “I must admit I have never found beef-steak quite so sensuous.”

  “You should watch me eat an orange,” she returned playfully.

  “Broadmoor! By Jove, are you, too, a fan of Mrs. T’s these days?”

  Stemming an urge to glare at whoever was interrupting this rare moment between him and Miss Sherwood, Radcliff looked up to find the cousin of his mistress approaching.

  “Penelope was remarking to me yesterday how she has not had a visit from you in over a fortnight,” Alastair Robbins continued. “Says she is beginning to feel more like a wife than a mistress. Ah, Miss Sherwood, beggin’ your pardon.”

  Alastair’s surprise was poorly feigned. Radcliff knew the remarks were purposeful. It had once been rumored that Penelope and Alastair were lovers when Penelope’s husband was still alive. Despite her current situation with Broadmoor, Alastair never wavered in his loyalty to her.

  “Not at all,” said Miss Sherwood as she rose. “We were finished. Gentleman, I must return and preside over the faro table at this time. No need to escort me.”

  “Has you on a short leash on account of Edward, eh?” Alastair asked as they both watched her leave. “Pity your fate lies in the hands of one such as her.”

  Radcliff stood, towering over the shorter man, and fixed a cold stare down at Alastair.

  “It is a leash no shorter than the one Penelope keeps about you,” Radcliff said before taking his own leave.

  The mention of his mistress had no doubt ruined any chance he had of receiving an invitation upstairs from Miss Sherwood. For the rest of the night, she did not even glance in his direction once. That she seemed to only favor the company of her friend Wyndham was no consolation, even though Radcliff had the suspicion that young Wyndham was more interested in men than the fair sex.

  After losing a few rounds at hazard, Radcliff went to collect his hat and gloves, thinking he should have gone home hours ago, when the page handed him a note. It was from Miss Sherwood.

  When he refolded the note, he looked up to see the page grinning from ear to ear. The young man was clearly aware of what the contents of the note implied.

  “If you please, you may follow me, m’lord,” said the page.

  Radcliff followed the young man to Miss Sherwood’s room, though he knew full well its location after having bribed a serving maid—one that clearly had no love lost towards Miss Sherwood—that first night. He tipped the page, half wondering if the lad would return to pin an ear to the door.

  Miss Sherwood entered some twenty minutes later. She spared him only a wordless glance before turning her back to him.

  “Unbutton my gown,” she directed.

  He crossed over to her and did as told. Once enough buttons were undone, he slid the short sleeves over her shoulders, caressing her smooth skin along the way. The gown fell to the floor.

  He stared at one of the exposed shoulders with a desire to press his mouth there. “There is little between—”

  Why he felt the need to explain his situation with his mistress was unclear to him, but Miss Sherwood spun around to place a finger to his mouth.

  “Did I give you leave to speak?”

  His hunger for her flared, and he moved to grab her to him, but she pushed against his chest.

  “Undress me first,” she commanded.

  Forced to delay his lust, he untied her stays and removed her hosiery, noting once again the small golden locket about her ankle. This time he removed her shift as well to reveal her body. His breath stopped as he gazed upon her glorious nakedness. There was so much to feast his eyes upon: her full and rounded breasts, the voluptuous swell of her hips, a curved and lofty ass, and thighs that begged him to sink his mouth into.

  Sensing his appreciation, Miss Sherwood turned to allow him a complete view of her. Once more he reached for her, but she stopped him again to relieve him of his own clothes. When she untied his cravat, Radcliff hoped that she would not use it upon him. It would have been cruel to deprive him of his sight of her now. It was hard enough watching her undress him without being able to touch her.

  She tossed his coat, cravat and shirt to the floor, then pushed him into a chair to assist him with his boots. His arousal sprang at her when she pulled down his trousers. Stepping away from him, she reached over to retrieve a bottle from her chest of drawers. He shivered and watched her pour a clear liquid from the bottle onto her palms. She rubbed it into his shaft gently and thoroughly. He groaned, sinking into the waves of pleasure that her ministrations sent through him.

  When she was done, she climbed on top of him and unloosened her hair. Placing her mouth an inch from his, she whispered, “Now you may ravage me.”

  It was the moment he had been waiting for. He grabbed her ribcage and brought her breasts to his mouth. He had never seen such tantalizingly large and dark areolas. He sucked a nipple and felt her arch her back towards him. She circled a hand to the back of his head and pushed his face further into her bosom. Alternating between his tongue and his mouth, he drew long lingering moans from her.

  Her reactions flamed his desire, and Radcliff wondered how long he could possibly wait before shoving himself into her. He slid his forefinger to her most sensitive spot, rubbing it till it swelled twice in size. He could feel her dampness on his legs and moved the finger between her legs, pressing into her. The soft moist flesh that enveloped his finger made his head swim. He watched her close her eyes and lean her head back as he fingered her.

  He moved both hands to her hips. He could wait no longer. He lifted her above his erection and pushed against her. She inhaled sharply at the initial contact. He longed to be inside her whole, but despite the aching of his arms, he held her and gradually eased her inch by inch onto his throbbing member.

  The feel of her exceeded all expectations. This was where he was meant to be: buried in her wet warmth.

  She ground her hips against him, but the limited space of the chair did not allow for easy movement. Her legs were already pinned tightly between him and the sides of the chair. Radcliff assisted by holding her in mid-air while thrusting his own hips upward, first with lingering control, then faster as he saw her orgasm begin to build. Her muscles clenched against him, and she bucked against him rapidly until a cry escaped her lips and her body shook from head to toe. She slumped against him to catch her breath.

  Radcliff continued to push into her, expecting his own release to follow. But he failed to s
pend.

  She chanced to look up at him, and he thought her saw a mischievous gleam in her eyes. She climbed off him and led her to the bed. Radcliff did not want to wait and see if she would once again shackle him to the posts. He pushed her down and pinned her body to the bed with his own. There was no way he was going to allow her a repeat of the other evening.

  He kissed her neck before claiming her mouth with his own. The softness of her lips, the taste of her palatte, the give of her tongue were almost as intoxicating as her womanhood about his erection. As he searched every inch of her mouth with his tongue, he felt her hips once again move towards him. She was becoming aroused once more.

  This time he glided himself into her in one motion. One hand went to caress the smoothness of the thigh wrapped around him. The other cupped the back of her head and held it in place for him to kiss. Their bodies ground against each other in strong full motions that rocked the bed and made it cry out as loudly as she. The spasming of her body told Radcliff that she had spent once more.

  But no matter how hard he pushed himself into her or how fast, he could not commit his body to spend. He was wondering if he suffered from some form of impotence—nothing would surprise him when it came to Darcy Sherwood—when he recalled the lubricant she had applied earlier. Propping himself on his elbows, he looked into her eyes and understood.

  “You wicked harlot,” he said hoarsely and pulled out of her to examine his shaft. It was still as hard as when he first began.

  “If you are done…” she responded as she rolled onto her side as if to get out of bed.

  “Hardly, Miss Sherwood.”

  He grabbed her ankle, turning her onto her stomach, and pulled her towards him until her ass hung over the edge of the bed. He speared himself into her. She wiggled against him, in defiance or desire he could not tell but no longer cared. It was no longer about her but about his own selfish fulfillment. He thrust himself against her with a rage that made her body bounce off the bed. She was not long before spending for the third time.

  No matter how hard he tried, he could not reach his own climax. He was on a hill, always near the peak, but unable to surmount it. Miss Sherwood, on the other hand, spent a fourth and fifth time before her body became limp.