Bathed in sweat, his limbs sore beyond belief, with dawn peering in between the curtains, Radcliff at last spent himself in a climax that was nearly as painful as it was satisfying. No bout of pugilism could compare with what he had just endured. Rolling off of her, he lay in bed on his back and cursed the day he met Darcy Sherwood.
*****
Lady Anne had barely set foot in Radcliff’s study before the words tumbled from her mouth. “Have you retrieved Brayten yet from that wicked harlot?”
The English setter resting at Radcliff’s feet rose to all fours and growled at the intrusion. Radcliff glanced at his butler, who had come in behind the woman and looked on helplessly. He watched Edward saunter in and settle himself on the sofa. After dismissing his servant, Broadmoor went over the sideboard and poured a glass of sherry. He wordlessly offered it to his aunt.
It seemed to fluster her more. Ignoring the glass, she proceeded to say, “Well, have you? I have not had a decent moment’s rest, I tell you. My nerves have been taxed beyond what any woman can bear. I fail to understand why it has taken this long.”
“I’ll take a glass,” offered Edward.
Giving the glass to his cousin, Radcliff made his way back to his chair at a maddeningly calm pace. He rarely had much patience for Anne. The way she endlessly ran her long strands of pearls through her fingers grated on his nerves.
“You do not need to understand,” he told her. “Suffice it that I will obtain Brayten.”
“Is there no way to throw that wench in gaol? How satisfying it would be to see her rot in Fleet, though it were not a sufficient hell for the likes of her.”
Radcliff stilled a desire to defend Miss Sherwood. “I cannot say when Brayten will be back safely in our hands, only that it will. And if that is all you came to inquire of, I bid you good day.”
Anne stared helplessly at Radcliff. “But I—the—well! Only take care, Radcliff, that she does not cast her spell upon you.”
With pearls flying, she whirled on her heels and left the study. Edward drew up alongside Radcliff.
“Mama would have been far worse had she heard the rumors that I have heard,” said Edward.
“And what have you heard?” asked Radcliff, returning his attention to the documents at his writing table.
“That you are consorting with Miss Sherwood.”
“Indeed?”
“Come, come, cousin! You may speak plain to me. I know the charms of Miss Sherwood. I heard tell that she is more fun to bed than a whore. Perhaps I chose the wrong sister.”
“And how does Miss Priscilla compare in that regard?” Radcliff confronted.
Edward colored. “I—we never—I can only conjecture. There are not the same rumors regarding Miss Priscilla. I had best tend to Mama.”
Radcliff watched Edward leave with misgiving. He rubbed between the ears of his dog when the butler entered again.
“What is it, Gibbons?” asked Radcliff without looking up.
“My lord, a Mr. Wempole is here. He says you had requested his presence.”
Radcliff stopped writing and nodded for Gibbons to show the gentleman in. Mr. Wempole nervously fingered his hat as he entered. He was a portly fellow with a pleasant smile and spectacles that made him appear antiquated. Not exactly how Radcliff imagined a banker to look. Nonetheless, Mr. Wempole was the man he had longed to see.
The tables were about to be turned on Miss Darcy Sherwood.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“HAVE YOU EXCHANGED Brayten yet?” Priscilla asked Darcy as the sisters sat over the dining table reviewing the pile of bills.
“I mean to make the Barringtons suffer a little longer,” said Darcy.
“But we need the money now, do we not? One of our accounts actually sent a collector to our door. The man said if we did not make payment, he would have to take possession of our furniture.”
Darcy bit her bottom lip. “Perhaps I can apply to Mr. Wempole for another note. I do not think he would refuse as we would be able to repay it as soon as we return the deed to Edward.”
Priscilla nodded. “If you think it best, Darcy. I only wish there was something I could do to assist the situation. But I fear I only make it worse. I allowed Mama to convince me to buy new clothes for Nathan as he has grown yet again these past few months. Nathan would much rather wear his old clothes and have the money go towards buying a dog.”
“Of course.” Darcy smiled and put a hand on Priscilla. “How many times have I told you not to worry? We will be much better situated soon.”
Though their debt continued to mount, Darcy did feel confident that their financial woes would be at an end. She had simply to see through her plan with Radcliff and in a few months, she would have had her revenge upon the Barringtons and procured an income from their family to boot.
And then there was the unexpected pleasure of taking the Baron. Of dominating him. By the wonder she had seen in his eyes, he was not one accustomed to deferring. The thought of it brought tingling sensations to her toes and warmth to her groin. She could hardly wait to have him in her bed again that evening.
“He hasn’t arrived yet,” drawled Cavin Richards later that evening at Mrs. T’s.
“Whoever do you mean?” asked Darcy as she went back to arranging the chips at the faro table.
“Your latest lover.”
Darcy looked at Cavin, whose soft golden locks fell across glittering blue eyes. He leaned in towards her, his mouth inches from her neck, and she was reminded of what had attracted her to him before. But if there was one person who numbered as many conquests as she, it was Cavin Richards. And lately, save for Radcliff Barrington, Darcy had had little interest in taking any man to her bed. She could not say why that was—perhaps it was that she finally was settling into spinsterhood—but all prospective amours seemed dreary.
“Why not dispense with the Baron and reacquaint ourselves?” purred Cavin.
“I doubt Miss Treadle would approve,” responded Darcy, referring to the woman Cavin was most recently taking to bed.
“Does it matter?”
Darcy sighed. That was the difference between her and Cavin now. She wanted it to matter. “I know you well, Cavin. You prefer fresh meat. I would be a bore.”
She knew that Cavin could charm almost any woman into giving up her first born. Seducing women into his bed was a sport for him. His attention rarely ever endured past a few fortnights.
“I never complained, did I? If I recall, we enjoyed each other quite thoroughly.”
He drew her hand to his lips and pressed his mouth to her wrist. Darcy longed for Radcliff Barrington to come.
“We did,” Darcy agreed as she withdrew her hand. “I hope you will cherish those memories as I do.”
“My dear, you devastate me.”
Rising to her feet, Darcy smiled. “You will not lack in women wishing to console you.”
Cavin returned her smile. “If you have a change of heart, pray let me know.”
As she expected, Cavin did not take long to move on. She saw him cornering one of the serving maids whom Darcy suspected harbored feelings of jealousy towards her for having been one of Cavin’s lovers.
When the hours passed long into the night with no sign of the Baron, Darcy gave up on his appearance and retreated to her chambers. She wondered if something had happened to him, then felt perturbed that he might have openly defied her command to attend to her every evening. He had been diligent in his duty till now. Perhaps his mistress had given him an ultimatum.
Darcy decided she did not want to dwell on his mistress, whom she had already learned was a beauty of the first order. A painful sense of jealousy reared when she wondered if Radcliff was the same in bed with Lady Robbins as he was with her.
“How long do you expect to continue playing James Newcastle for a fool?”
Whirling around, Darcy found Radcliff Barrington sitting in the corner chair. Damn him, she thought to herself. When was he going to stop surprising her like this?
“As long as he desires it,” Darcy responded, folding her arms. Her worry that something might have happened to him was replaced with irritation that he must have witnessed her latest flirtation with James Newcastle. “Not that it is any business of yours.”
“Do not mistake me. I have no sympathy for that man,” said Radcliff. “Only that it does not please me that he should be so free with his hands upon your body.”
“That is not your business either,” she said, inwardly pleased that he cared whose hands were upon her. “You have failed your orders, Baron. Your punishment will not be light. You may begin by removing your clothes.”
Radcliff stood and stared down at her. “I think not.”
Her eyes widened. In addition to disobeying her instructions, he was now openly defying her?
“I said you will remove your clothes,” she reiterated.
“I have no desire to remove mine until you have removed yours.”
The insolence! thought Darcy. She returned his penetrating stare. “I give the commands, Broadmoor.”
“Not any more, Miss Sherwood, and you will henceforth address me appropriately as ‘my lord.’”
Taken aback by this unexpected answer, she threw back her head and laughed, then narrowed her eyes. “I will do no such thing.”
“You will, Miss Sherwood, and anything else I ask of you.”
She watched him withdraw a set of papers and toss it onto a table. “I had a visit from Mr. Wempole, to whom you owed twenty-five thousand pounds. That debt belongs to me now.”
She stared at the papers. It couldn’t be. And yet she did not think the Baron was given to jesting. Trying to quell the panic lodged in her throat, Darcy said, “Mr. Wempole would not have sold you the promissory notes.”
“I fear his bank had made some rather poor investments of late, and he could not carry your debt on his books any longer.”
Her legs felt unsteady.
“So you see, my dear Miss Sherwood,” Radcliff continued without the slightest hint of leniency in his tone, “it is you who will have to remove your clothes.”
Darcy lifted her chin. “Well played, Baron…”
Radcliff raised his eyebrows at her first act of rebellion.
“…we can call an end to my conditions,” Darcy continued. “I will exchange the deed to Brayten for the sum of two hundred thousand pounds and the notes.”
He scoffed. “I have no interest in such an exchange.”
“Then I will sell the deed to the highest bidder.”
“Who would buy it? No one of circumstance would purchase a deed won by a woman in a game of whist.”
“Then my family will happily move into Brayten.”
“There would still be the payment of the notes lest you wish to reside in Fleet.”
Her heart began to pound at the mention of the debtor’s gaol. He wouldn’t—would he? She had thought she had seen a kinder side of Radcliff Barrington, one that even seemed responsive to her, but perhaps she had been mistaken. Perhaps it had all been a ruse to buy time. Perhaps he was as arrogant and ruthless as she had first imagined him to be. And now he could revenge himself for what she had made him endure.
His expression was only one of determination. “I suggest you comply or it will be your punishment that will not be light.”
With a difficult swallow, Darcy reached behind her dress and attempted to unpin it.
“Do you require assistance, Miss Sherwood?”
“Yes,” said Darcy between her teeth.
“‘Yes, my lord’ would be the proper way to address a baron.”
Her anger overtook her fear. She glared at him but managed to spit out the words, “Yes, my lord.”
He walked over to her and undid her pins for her, then stepped back and waited for her to bring the gown down. She stood in her undergarments, feeling more naked than she had ever felt.
“Continue,” Radcliff instructed.
“I require further assistance…my lord.”
He untied her stays. She allowed it to drop to the floor where her dress had already pooled.
“The shift,” said Broadmoor. “Rip it.”
“What?” exclaimed Darcy.
“I will buy you a new one, but this one you will rip from your body.”
Darcy hesitated.
“Now, Miss Sherwood.”
Biting back a retort, she grabbed the worn fabric and pulled. But it failed to tear.
“Come here,” ordered Radcliff after her third failed attempt.
He grabbed the shift near her midsection, twisted it in his fist, and tore it in one easy jerk. She felt the cool air hit her skin as if for the first time and gasped.
Throwing the tattered shift on the floor, Radcliff stood back to survey her, obviously satisfied with what he saw.
“You have seen it all before, my lord,” Darcy said through gritted teeth.
“You will speak when spoken to, Miss Sherwood.”
She glared at him again. “I protest being treated like a child.”
He cupped her chin swiftly in his hand and bent his head to look deep into her eyes. “I take it you wish to be punished?”
Her heart was pounding, but the area between her legs had begun throbbing at his nearness.
“Trust me,” he said, “I would take great pleasure in providing you the set down you so graciously provided me…”
He moved his hand from her chin and ran his knuckles gently down her throat and past the curve of one breast. After brushing past her navel, he combed the curls at the base of her pelvis with his fingers.
“…and perhaps you will as well.”
Darcy shuddered. Her mind shouted at her to regain control of the situation, but her entire body had already become sensitized to his touch.
“Lie down on the bed,” Radcliff ordered.
This was not her, Darcy thought to herself as she obeyed wordlessly. The Darcy Sherwood she knew never took commands from men—least of all from a Barrington!
But she did not even struggle as he stretched her arms overhead and clasped the shackles about her wrist.
“I have a score to settle with you, Miss Sherwood.”
She watched anxiously—and curiously—to see what he would do next. When he spread her legs apart, she softly groaned. Her body screamed for him to touch her in her most private places. He breathed in the scent of her, and she felt a little embarrassed that he must surely have noticed the moisture there. The last thing she wanted was for him to think that she enjoyed his command over her.
But her body was to betray her for it jerked wildly when he ran his tongue along her. Darcy pulled at her chains. She had to do something. She could not allow him to accomplish his objective and achieve mastery over her in this manner.
“Stop!” she exclaimed, bringing her thighs together. “What is it you want?”
With a devilish smile and a gleam in his eyes, he replied, “Payback, my wicked harlot.”
“I will make you regret this tenfold,” she threatened.
“My dear, you are in no position to do anything except enjoy what I am to do to you.”
He untied his cravat and grabbed one of her ankles. She resisted, though she knew it to be futile. He tied one leg to the bedpost and reached for her torn shift to tie the other leg to the other bedpost. She lay, each limb tied to a corner of the bed, splayed for the world to see.
With her thus immobilized, Radcliff returned to his task. Once again he ran his tongue against her. Darcy shivered. He teased her with his tongue, occasionally dipping into her slit to taste the thin honey there, sending waves of pleasure through her. She pushed her groin closer into his face, but he pulled back. The loss of his touch was like the loss of air.
Darcy opened her eyes and looked at him. She supposed he would deny her in the same fashion she had denied him.
It was going to be a long night…
CHAPTER EIGHT
DARCY WATCHED IN DREAD as the Baron sat himself casually into an armchair that he
had pulled to the foot of her bed. She flushed, all too aware of how lewdly she was exposed to view. She had had no compunction the prior night over her nakedness before him, but it was an entirely different matter when she was compelled to be on display for him. He directed a blatant stare between her legs and grinned when he met her gaze.
He held up a book—the one from her end table.
“Robert Owen,” he noted of the author and glanced back at her. “A far cry from the works of de Sade.”
“Does it surprise you that a harlot should have diverse literary interests?” she asked archly.
“No. It surprises me a harlot spends much time reading at all,” he replied blandly.
The slight curl at the corner of his mouth suggested he was jesting with her, but she fumed nonetheless.
“Owen is quite the radical,” he continued.
“If by that you mean he possesses compassion for his fellow man, then a radical he is.”
“Compassion is requisite to mankind, but his proposed reforms are suspect.”
“Of course you would think so. You are not among the unhappily situated poor,” she spat, then realized he must have read Owen to have made the statement he did.
He thumbed through the essays and must have found the passage she had marked for he read it aloud. “‘Children are, without exception, passive and wonderfully contrived compounds; which, by an accurate previous and subsequent attention, founded on a correct knowledge of the subject, may be formed collectively to have any human character. And although these compounds, like all the other works of nature, possess endless varieties, yet they partake of that plastic quality, which, by perseverance under judicious management, may be ultimately molded into the very image of rational wishes and desires.’”
He tossed the work back onto the table. “Why does that passage interest you?”
“Why are you unbearably meddlesome?” she returned as she tried to devise a way out of her current situation.
That Wicked Harlot (A Steamy Regency Romance Collection Book 2) Page 7
