As he rose to his feet, he unbuttoned his waistcoat. She shivered, then cursed silently as she realized her body wanted him near. It should not. Not like this.
Shedding his waistcoat, he loosed his cravat as he approached the bed. Visions of his naked form from the night before danced her head. She had enjoyed feasting her eyes on the hard sinews of his arms and legs last night and had intended to caress that expansive chest, those broad shoulders, the tapered hips, the hard arousal. But now she was at his mercy and knew not what he intended.
He sat down on the bed next to her.
“No one has ever called me meddlesome,” he contemplated as if her words meant something to him.
“Then perhaps you don’t know enough people.”
He smiled and raked his gaze over her body. A warmth pulsed between her thighs. She wanted to scream at him to stop looking and either touch her or leave her be.
“Would you believe,” he asked, “that if I intrude, it is out of compassion and a desire to see to the welfare of others?”
“Ha! A Barrington has no notion of compassion.”
He cupped a breast and she tried her best not to whimper.
“Compassion, Miss Sherwood, would not have dictated what you did to me last night and the night before.”
His thumb brushed past her nipple, already hardened from her nakedness. He rolled the nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and despite her best effort to block out the sensation, she could feel herself growing damp. She hoped he would avenge himself by leaving her alone.
“Compassion,” he reiterated, “would insist I not tease your body…”
His hand slid down past her belly to cup her between her legs. She stifled a groan when he found her wetness.
“…that I not torment you…”
He began to fondle here there.
“…arouse you…”
He lowered his mouth and took in a breast. She quivered against him.
“…tantalize you…”
Desire built swift and fast within her. She closed her eyes, wanting to sink into the sensations he created, no longer caring that she was not the one in control.
“…but leave you unfulfilled…
He withdrew his touch. Her eyes flew open and she sucked in her breath. Would he do unto her as she had done to him? Would he leave her aroused but deny her relief? Of course he would. She might have done the same.
She watched him rise from the bed, but then he settled himself between her legs. Lowering his head, he tongued her where his hand had been.
I cannot allow myself to be aroused, Darcy thought. But the battle between her mind and her body was a desperate one. He still stroked a lust that the former could not combat. She strained against her bonds. Her release was near.
“Please…” she whispered when he pulled away. “Please…let me spend….”
When he only looked at her expectantly, she added, “…my lord.”
He plunged back between her legs. She spent with a new release of wetness, soaking the sheet beneath her. She throbbed in every extremity of her body.
Broadmoor unbuttoned his pants and knelt on top of the bed. He slid into her easily. They groaned in unison.
He lightly kissed her nipples and pulled at them lightly with his mouth as he kneaded a breast with his hand. She returned his caress by pushing her hips up to his. Her motions were limited by her bonds and weariness, but the need to spend again was stronger.
Seeing her struggle against her bonds with renewed vigor, Broadmoor pushed himself deeper and harder into her. Their bodies bucked against each other until she came with an intensity that nearly lifted her off the bed. He followed with his own orgasm, groaning and shuddering on top of her.
After a brief rest, he pulled his weight off her, untied all her bonds and wrapped her in his arms. She settled her face in the crook of his neck and released a contented sigh before the feeling of dread returned.
Damnation. He had shown more compassion than she would have to him.
*****
“What do you know of Robert Owen?” Radcliff asked Lord Pinkerton, a kindly fellow who had been a dear friend of his father’s, as they sat in one of the rooms in Brooks’s.
“Eh?” Lord Pinkerton returned, having dozed off in his chair near one of the multi-paned windows.
“I procured today a copy of A New View of Society,” Radcliff explained.
“Don’t know much about Owen. Some sort of philanthropist, is he not?”
“Yes.”
He had attempted to read the third essay, but could barely finish a paragraph before his thoughts were interrupted by visions of Miss Sherwood. Her body was incroyable. Supple in all the right places: the breasts, thighs, and arse. Not at all like the spindled forms of the other women he had bedded. And his body responded to her with disconcerting force. At times, he wondered if he could control himself.
The way she spent was glorious. The way she felt divine. He remembered breathing in her scent as they lay in her bed. She had fallen asleep in his arms, and though her hair was tickling his nose, he had dared not stir for fear that he would rouse her. He had stayed, not wanting to leave. When at last she had rolled away from him—for which his aching arm was grateful—he had shed his clothes and climbed back into bed with her.
In the morning, he had gotten out of bed and picked up the Owen essays. But every time Miss Sherwood stirred in the bed, his arousal perked. He had given up reading and returned to her. When her eyes fluttered open, he rolled on top of her. She did not protest. Quietly, they made love with slow and deliberate motions. Again and again.
She had spent for him several times before protesting that she needed some coffee and breakfast.
And still it was not enough for him.
“Shall we see what fare is being served today?” Lord Pinkerton asked Radcliff.
“Nothing new, I presume,” Radcliff answered.
Lord Pinkerton frowned. “Right. I swear I am tempted to join Watier’s, though my wife no doubt is pleased the plainness of the meals here keeps this in check.”
He patted his ample stomach.
“If you will excuse me,” Radcliff said, rising, “I shall pass on the repast.”
“Don’t blame you. Why the sudden interest in Robert Owen?”
“My character has been called into question by a follower of his.”
“Someone dared call into question your character? Who here would do such a bloody thing?”
“She is not a member here.”
“She?” Lord Pinkerton’s indignation turned into amusement. “How delightful. Do I know her?”
“I think not.” Radcliff motioned for the attendant.
“Well then, tell me more about her, lad. I think I should like to know her.”
Radcliff hesitated. He had known Lord Pinkerton since he was in leading strings, but he could not bring himself to speak of Miss Sherwood to his friend. In part because he wanted her all to himself. But also because identifying her would place her in too prominent a role in his life. She was far too consequential already.
“She is no one of significance,” Radcliff answered as he took his hat and cane from the page.
“No significance?” Lord Pinkerton echoed, pointing to the Owen essays Radcliff held. “As well read as you are, I fair cannot remember when a woman has induced you to read political philosophy.”
Miss Sherwood had induced a number of things he had not thought possible, but Radcliff deflected the accusation with one of his own. “I think you know more of this Owen fellow than you let on, Pinkerton.”
“A friend of mine wanted me to invest in his mill, New Lanark.”
“And have you?”
“I’ve no interest in mills. Perhaps for the children. I have more of an interest now, I must say.”
Radcliff smiled and tipped his hat, then left before his old friend could ask more questions. Though a twinge of guilt tugged at him for not having been completely forthcoming with Pinkerton, he fe
lt invigorated, ready to scale the tallest mountain and ford the widest sea. He had command of the current state of affairs between him and Miss Sherwood. He could force her hand and retrieve Brayten at any moment now, but then he would have no reason to see her. And he had no wish to terminate their association. Not when she had given herself to him as she had the other day. And had done it willingly despite the hostility she clearly bore towards him.
The strength of her hostility disconcerted him. Granted, he had spoken the most unsavory things of her, but he had not anticipated she was the sort to care what a man she barely knew thought of her. A small voice—he knew not from where—women would no doubt call it an instinct—nagged at him whenever he tried to reason what he failed to understand.
When he returned home, he summoned Gibbons. He would silence that nagging voice once and for all.
“Swifter needs a good run to work out his restlessness,” Radcliff said as his setter pawed at him.
“Yes, my lord,” Gibbons acknowledged. “I shall take him to Hyde Park.”
“I’ve a different park in mind.”
Taking the reins of his curricle, Radcliff drove it toward the parish where the Sherwoods lived. He had had his secretary investigate everything there was to know about the Sherwood family from their residence to their creditors. He suspected at this time of day, Miss Sherwood would already be at the gaming hall.
But it was not Miss Sherwood he sought.
He pulled the curricle up before the two-storied abode where the Sherwoods lived.
“Ask for Miss Priscilla,” Radcliff informed Gibbons and watched as a maid answered the door from across the street.
Gibbons returned to inform him that none of the family were home. Swifter tugged at his leash, eager to leave.
“We’ll wait,” Radcliff said.
“Out here, my lord?” Gibbons inquired.
“Yes.”
He did not explain to Gibbons that he only wanted to see Miss Priscilla and did not want to risk encountering the elder Sherwood sister. He wanted to see for himself the character of the younger sister, and he sensed too much a protective nature in Miss Sherwood. He predicted she would want to interfere too much.
Luck was with him for after half an hour of waiting, he saw a young woman approaching. A little boy skipped alongside her, tarrying every other step and earning a light admonishment from her not to dawdle. Her eyes had aged, but she was otherwise as lovely as she had been five years ago when Edward had taken a fancy to her. His gaze fell to the boy next, and his heart went cold, the nagging voice that had plagued him triumphant.
Here then was the explanation for Miss Sherwood’s hostility towards the Barringtons. The boy was Edward’s, plain as day. They shared the same impetuous chin, the same streaks of brown amidst the blond hair, and the same charcoal eyes that signified all the Barrington men. Even Gibbons, who had been with the Barringtons since Radcliff’s birth, started at the obvious familiarity.
Radcliff doffed his hat as he approached her from across the street. “Miss Priscilla.”
The sun was setting and she did not recognize him at first, but when recognition dawned, she grabbed the boy by the arm and attempted to scurry past him. He blocked her path.
“Miss Priscilla, I mean no harm,” he assured her.
“My sister is not here,” she replied curtly as the boy looked on with inquisitive eyes.
He noticed she moved to put herself between him and the boy.
“What a marvelous dog!” the boy exclaimed when Swifter came up to meet the newcomers, dragging Gibbons in tow. “Can I pet him?”
“He is friendly,” Gibbons responded.
Miss Priscilla looked on helplessly. With the boy consumed by Swifter, Radcliff took his opportunity.
“Edward,” Radcliff said to her alone. “The boy is Edward’s.”
Fear watered her eyes, making her delicate features appear even more fragile. Even so, he needed her to answer him. He waited until, lowering her head, she nodded.
Radcliff took a deep breath. “What’s his name?”
“N-Nathan,” she murmured.
“And how old is he?”
“Five.”
“Does he like to fetch?” Nathan inquired of the dog.
Gibbons nodded, and Nathan went in search of a stick to throw to the dog. Swifter, sensing a potential playmate, followed at his heels.
“He adores dogs,” Miss Priscilla explained.
The two Sherwood sisters possessed the same father, but there was little to indicate they were related. One was fair and angelic, the other dark and sultry.
Radcliff watched as Nathan found a stick and threw it for Swifter to catch.
“He needs clothes,” he observed of the boy’s ill fitting apparel.
“He has clothes,” Miss Priscilla furnished.
Ah, there was the similarity, Radcliff noted of her lifted chin and proud tenor.
“Better clothes,” Radcliff clarified. “I will have Gibbons take him to the tailor tomorrow.”
She shook her head. “We’ve not the money for a new suit of clothes.”
“There is no need for your money.”
She furrowed her brow.
“I will take care of it.”
She hesitated, “It is kind of you, but—”
“I insist.”
“I should consult with Darcy—”
“No. Do not let her know I came to see you.”
He could see her perplexed and softened his tone. “Your sister is a proud one. She would not wish to accept a gift from me, but the boy is in need of better attire.”
“Yes, alas, it is not for want or attempt that he has not better.”
“I know.”
A small smile lighted her face at his acknowledgement, and he felt confirmed that he had done right to sever the relationship between her and Edward. Not for Edward’s sake. But for hers.
“But he is happy,” she informed him. “A better son I could not ask for.”
He saw the love in her eyes as she watched her son. “Why did you not come to me?”
“You disapproved of my relationship with Edward from the start.”
“True, but I would never have allowed Edward to shirk his responsibility.”
She protested that she was quite comfortable with her situation and would not seek Edward’s involvement now.
Radcliff offered no comment, but he was not satisfied with how things were.
“Darcy and I have done well enough raising him,” Priscilla added.
“That you have,” Radcliff conceded. “You and your sister have proven to be remarkably capable women. Nathan appears a healthy and amiable young man. My compliments to you.”
“What do you intend with Darcy?”
The question caught him off guard, but he met her gaze. “As long as the deed to Brayten is returned to us, you may rest assured that no harm will come to your sister.”
The answer clearly did not mollify her, but she did not pursue the matter further, for the time being.
Nathan, followed by Swifter, ran up to them. “He is a grand animal!”
Radcliff smiled at Nathan. “I can see you’re better able to keep up with Swifter than my man Gibbons.”
“Indeed, my lord,” Gibbons agreed.
Nathan’s eyes widened. “Are you a lord, sir?”
“Would you like to take my dog out for his daily constitutionals?” Radcliff offered.
The boy’s mouth dropped. “Would I? Every day?”
“Every day.”
“Most certainly, your Grace!”
Radcliff refrained from correcting the boy’s address. “Gibbons will give you our address. We’ll expect you at ten each morning.”
“Mother! Mother! Did you hear?” Nathan exclaimed.
“Yes, yes,” Miss Priscilla laughed.
He danced away from them in his exuberance. Swifter chased after him, barking.
Radcliff turned back to Priscilla and pulled out his purse. “Here
. Take it. Purchase some books for Nathan. A boy his age should be well read. If there is anything else you wish to provide him, you have but to inform me. Only you must promise not to speak a word of this to Dar—to Miss Sherwood.”
“But how will I explain the new clothes and books?” Priscilla demanded.
“You are, no doubt, a clever woman and will surely think of a proper response.”
She was a charming and refined young woman, Radcliff reflected to himself later after they had bid adieu. He could easily see how Edward had fallen for her, though he himself had initially thought her rather simple and humdrum. She had matured elegantly despite her situation in life.
He, however, preferred the rough edges that the elder Sherwood sister possessed and even her temper for it came from a passion that could burn large and high. Darcy Sherwood was full of contrasting manners. She was exotic, enticing and challenging.
“A nice young man that Nathan Sherwood,” Gibbons ventured to say. “He has his father’s eyes.”
Gibbons had been with the family long enough to have earned the right to speak it. Radcliff ground his jaw as he thought about Edward. He could only imagine how callous his family must have appeared to the Sherwoods. No wonder Darcy Sherwood hated all Barringtons with a vengeance. No wonder she had no desire to return Brayten. And he could not fault her for it.
He wanted to rush over to the gaming hall and apologize to her. On behalf of his family and for his own part. For the harsh words he had spoken of her. He winced recalling all that he had said to her. But he had to proceed with caution. He had no wish to jeopardize what he had with her. He could not yet guess how she would react. Even if he were to apologize, was it too late? Would she able to forgive him?
CHAPTER NINE
“YOU APPEAR PARTICULARLY radiant this evening, m’dear,” complimented Henry to Darcy. “And yet I do not find our divine Baron has arrived yet?”
“He had to tend to an ailing friend,” Darcy answered as she prepared a table for faro.
“And you let him?”
“How could I not? I am no ogre. And I no longer hold the trump card—at the moment,” Darcy added.
“Are you sure you wish to ‘hold the trump card’?”
That Wicked Harlot (A Steamy Regency Romance Collection Book 2) Page 8
