She almost knocked one of the maidservants over in her haste. She dared not look back.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“ARE YOU NOT having breakfast, Darcy? You look pale. Are you feeling ill?” inquired Mathilda as she sipped her favorite morning beverage of hot chocolate.
Her lack of appetite could be attributed to the nausea she felt upon waking, but Darcy felt the culprit could equally lie in the restless night she had had. Despite her best attempts to clear her mind, he permeated her thoughts like water through a sponge.
Her body felt empty without his touch. When she had thought of how forcefully he had taken her or how tender had been his kiss, her hand had crept to her mons. But even after bringing herself to spend, sleep persisted in eluding her.
“He asked me to be his mistress,” Darcy revealed as she stared into her coffee and stirred it for no reason.
“What? His money must make him daft. He suffers delusions if he thinks you would even entertain the notion for the slightest second. Even I would not lay with him, and I am nearer his age than you. Only yesterday he had the effrontery to complain to me of his gout…”
“Not James Newcastle. The Baron Broadmoor.”
“Oh,” Mathilda frowned. “And how did you answer?”
“That I am no man’s mistress.”
“A sensible answer.”
“Then why do I feel as if I have been in error?” Darcy responded, poking at the holes in her crumpet. “No doubt many other women would be delighted to be his mistress.”
“Yes, and no doubt they will have their turn,” Mathilda stated as she spread more jam on her toast. “You know how men are. It is even worse when they take a wife.”
“But Radcliff is no Cavin Richards.”
Mathilda raised her eyebrows. “It’s ‘Radcliff’ now, is it? Well, I would agree he differs from a lot of the men here, but why should you give up your freedom and the attentions of many to be devoted to just one?”
Of course Mathilda was biased: she had no interest in losing Darcy. Fear of losing freedom was only partly the answer. Darcy was more concerned with dignity. It was true she was a nobody in his world, and yet she could not help but long for more.
“I must say that the amount of time you have spent with him has not been good for business,” Mathilda added. “Word has spread that you and Broadmoor are lovers. You know servants can never keep their mouths shut if their lives depended upon it. Only fools like Newcastle remain oblivious. Nonetheless, I should hate to have to find a replacement.”
Her words shocked Darcy. Mathilda had never suggested she needed anyone but Darcy. In fact, Mathilda had often remarked that Darcy aged so well that she could work in the gaming hall till she were fifty and still be able to attract men young and old.
There was an edge in Mathilda’s tone that Darcy had never heard before. She had noticed that attendance at the gaming hall had dipped somewhat but had not realized it was dramatic enough to concern Mathilda.
“I have been distracted from my occupation,” Darcy acknowledged.
“Well, never you mind what has passed. It may be prudent, however, to sever your ties with the Baron.”
The mere thought pained her, though she had considered that route herself as she had tossed in her bed last night.
“Afterall,” said Mathilda with a mouthful of toast and jam, “it isn’t as if you were in love with the fellow.”
No, it wasn’t, Darcy thought to herself, or was it?
*****
The realization struck her with all the force of a battleship in full sail. She was in love with Radcliff.
It was absurd. Irrational. Foolish.
And true. Darcy concluded with a heavy heart that Mathilda was correct. Unless she intended to be his mistress, there was no reason to continue their affair. It was a path that could only end in pain and misery. She knew already that she could not bear the thought of Radcliff with another woman.
Best to move on with their own lives.
Even Henry, more a romantic than she or Mathilda, conceded that was the wise decision and offered his carriage when Darcy opted not to wait another day.
“You can’t just walk up to his home willy-nilly,” Henry explained. “If you mean to hand a man a rejection, do it bang-up with style.”
Radcliff Barrington’s residence in Grosvenor Square was a simple but stately Georgian townhouse. When Harry’s carriage pulled up before it, Darcy had to quell her desire to ask the coachman to turn around and bring her back to Mrs. T’s. Instead, she told the man to wait and mounted the front steps of the house with legs that felt as unsteady as those of a centurian.
A chary eyed butler greeted her at the door. When she gave her name and asked for the Baron, the man gave no indication of surprise or disapproval. Darcy wondered if he would require her to wait outside the door, but he invited her in and asked that she wait in the anteroom. He indicated a settee, but Darcy was too nervous to sit. She distracted herself by examining the pastoral paintings on the walls.
Perhaps Radcliff would not be in, she thought almost hopefully. The butler dispelled any reprieve when he returned to announce that his lordship would see her in the study.
Taking in a deep breath, Darcy followed the butler. The deed to Brayten was tucked in her sleeve, reminding her that she had a mission to see through. It would not be easy, but they would all be better for it upon completion.
Radcliff was standing behind his writing desk. In the comfort of his own home, dressed somewhat informally in a white shirt, satin vest, and beige pants, he seemed to Darcy particularly handsome. She had always liked his sense of fashion—in line with the pinks of the ton but never ostentatious to qualify as a fop.
“Miss Sherwood, to what do I owe this pleasure?” he asked and gestured to a seat.
Darcy shook her head, wishing she could read his emotions. Was he glad that she had come? Displeased? Surprised?
“You plan a short visit, I take it,” he noted. “Would you care for a glass of port nonetheless?”
“No, thank you,” she answered. “I came to offer the deed to Brayten in exchange for the promissory notes that you hold and a sum of fifty and five thousand pounds.”
The words tumbled from her mouth for she feared if she did not speak quickly, the words would catch in her throat and never come out.
“Is that all?”
“It totals the amount that Edward had initially owed.”
“Yes, I noticed the tidy sum.” He went to the sideboard and poured a glass of wine before turning back to face her. “What if I refuse?”
“Then I will have to turn your family out of Brayten,” Darcy responded with difficulty and saw his face cloud over.
“I see.”
Watching him speak in such methodical even tones when she felt besieged by all manner of emotions, Darcy almost preferred that he were furious.
“I can offer you much more as my mistress,” he said.
“Yes, but I have no interest in being your mistress,” she uttered.
“You drive a hard bargain, Miss Sherwood. What is it you want?”
To be yours and yours alone, and for you to be mine and mine alone.
“Would five thousand pounds a year for you and your family suffice?” he pressed.
“And how long would that last, my lord? Until you lost interest in us?” asked Darcy. She shook her head when she saw he meant to protest. “Even if you promised an eternity, I cannot be bought. There is no amount you can name that would induce me to relinquish my freedom.”
“You prefer to toil in that gaming hell?” he asked in disbelief.
“I prefer not to have to answer to one man.”
His gaze bore into her, and she saw his eyes flame. “Because you favor having more than one lover?”
Darcy wanted to disappear into the earth, but she forced some words from her mouth. “That is a consideration…”
He grabbed her suddenly by the arms with the same intensity he had done the day they met
. “Do you mean to say that I am not man enough for you?”
She had never heard such harshness—she would have expected him to want to tear off her head if it were not for the tortured undertones that she could hear beneath the surface of his anger. How she wanted to reassure him that no one made her feel the way he did. Even now all she wanted to do was yield into his embrace, wanted his lips on hers, wanted him inside of her.
But she lowered her gaze away and murmured, “Did you not once call me a harlot, Baron? I did not then nor now dispute—”
Abruptly he let her go and stepped away from her. There was pain in his eyes, and at that moment she would have preferred a dagger in her chest than to see that emotion in him.
“I thought…” he said, his voice hoarse and hollow.
“That you were different? That I was different?” Darcy finished for him. She shook her head and drove the last nail in the coffin. “No, my Baron Broadmoor. Ours was an amusing romp. But my interest now lies in our trade. I believe my offer is more than fair.”
She wanted to melt into the center of the earth and disappear. A part of her wanted to assure him that she did not refuse him lightly, but her pride would not allow her to admit that or that she had been hurt by the fact that she could not be more than a mistress to him.
“The fifty-five thousand pounds will have to be paid in installments,” he said, pulling the notes from his desk.
She had never heard his voice ring so hollow. “I understand.”
“I will work out the terms with my accountant and forward them to you for approval.”
“Thank you.”
She pulled out the deed to Brayten. Her stepmother had thought it such a blessing, but it had proved a bane. She held it out to Radcliff as she took the promissory notes. His eyes searched her face, but she wanted only to flee from him as soon as possible. They exchanged the parchments, but Darcy felt no gain, only loss.
“Darcy…”
“I bid you good day, Baron,” Darcy said quickly over the lump that threatened to cave her throat in. She whirled on her heels and rushed out of Broadmoor House before he could hear the sound of her heart breaking.
*****
“Only fifty-five thousand pounds?” cried Mrs. Sherwood. “But Brayten is worth far more than that!”
“Yes, but in our hands it cannot command any sum,” Darcy explained as she looked out the kitchen window at the setting sun. She would have to hurry to make it to Mrs. T’s before nightfall.
“But I had settled on a new apartment for us—one in Berkeley Square.”
“Mother!” Priscilla chided as she rinsed the dishes from supper. “Fifty-five thousand pounds is an amount I would never have dared to dream, but we cannot afford such luxuries as living in Berkeley Square. You must rescind the agreement.”
“No,” said Darcy, siding with her stepmother for the first time. “It is time we sought a better neighborhood for Nathan—and ourselves. Perhaps a small apartment…”
“But we still have other debts to discharge. I was able to hold off the collectors today—they were prepared to take our furniture—only I begged them on whatever kindness existed in them to spare us a few more days.”
“And I promised the mantua maker that I would pay her in a timely manner,” added Mrs. Sherwood.
“And I suppose there is the matter of the tutor as well,” said Darcy. “Nathan seems quite taken with him.”
“Yes,” said Priscilla. “Mr. Davis told me that Nathan has a mind that seems starved for knowledge for he drinks in whatever his tutor instructs.”
“Then we must keep this Mr. Davis. I know not what income you are able to bring in, Priscilla, but I cannot imagine it to be enough to cover the payment of the tutor.”
Darcy sat down at the kitchen table as she tried to add up all the expenses. She felt weak and had not slept well since her visit to Broadmoor House.
“Are you feeling ill?” Priscilla asked. “You look pale.”
“Yester night was long,” answered Darcy dismissively.
“Will you have to return to Mrs. T’s tonight?”
“Nathan will require more than what Brayten has procured for us. I want the best for him. I wish to afford him any opportunity that life has to offer.”
“For now he only wishes for a dog.”
Darcy smiled. “He told me all about the Duke today and the man’s dog. I should like to meet this kindly gentleman someday. When do you expect to see him next?”
Priscilla dropped a dish. “I—his appearances at the park are haphazard—I would not venture to guess.”
“Can we at least afford more than the occasional maid?” Mrs. Sherwood bemoaned.
“Perhaps. Let us discuss the matter tomorrow. I had best be on my way.”
She kissed her sister and stepmother. The activities at the gaming hall might distract her mind from continually wandering back to Radcliff and how she might never again feel his touch. Her body ached in response, punishing her for depriving it of the greatest pleasure it had ever known.
Despite her hope, the hours at Mrs. T’s wore on without providing much comfort, the cards in front of her barely better than a blur. She kept expecting to see Radcliff walking in.
“Damn good beef-steak tonight,” Henry said as he licked the juice off his fork.
The clock in the dining hall chimed eleven times.
“You’ve not touched yours,” Henry noted of the plate before Darcy. “Never thought to see you rebuff a delectable cut of beef.”
“I’ve not had much of an appetite these past few days,” Darcy said.
“A sure symptom of being in love,” Henry remarked softly.
“I would sooner have fallen in love with you, Harry, for all the good it does me.”
“Lose the bosom and grow a—ahem—and I would be at your feet in seconds.”
Darcy laughed. “I do love you, Harry.”
“And I you, my dear. You’ve no notion how many times I wish you were a man.”
“Life would be much simpler were that the case.”
“Only I would still be insanely jealous of all the men that went your way. Now eat your steak like a good boy.”
Darcy glanced at the meat and felt a pitching sensation in her stomach. She brought a hand to her mouth.
“I think not.”
Henry frowned, then reached for her plate and set it down in his own place. “Can’t let it go to waste.”
“I miss him, Harry.”
“I know it,” Henry answered with a mouthful of steak. “You have been melancholy and pale. You move about rather listlessly, you refrain from eating.”
“I had breakfast,” Darcy pointed out.
“Aye, and nearly heaved it back onto my shoes.”
“Yes, Priscilla did that once to me when she was a few months with Nathan…”
Henry stopped cutting into his steak and looked up abruptly at her. Darcy stared back with the widened eyes of a doe not knowing which way to turn.
“Dear God…” Henry breathed.
Darcy shook her head as if that alone could ward off the reality. But it permeated her nonetheless. The symptoms were too similar to what Priscilla had experienced. She was with child.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
IT WAS PAST two o’clock in the morning and all but a handful of men remained in the card room at Mrs. T’s. Not surprisingly, the remaining patrons sat at a table around Darcy. She laughed at their yarns and batted her lashes at their compliments. It was difficult to tell if she had partaken of a little too much wine.
One man brazenly circled his hand about her neck and pulled her mouth to his. Instead of recoiling, she returned his kiss. As she did so, another reached over and fondled her breast. She did not recoil from him either.
This was too much for the other three men. They each wanted a part of her. Soon all five sets of hands were upon her, groping her through her thin dress. She broke off her kiss with the first patron but her mouth quickly found another. They ripped the dr
ess and undergarments from her until her breasts, belly, and legs were laid bare.
To better access her body, they lifted her onto the card table. Ten separate hands kneaded her breasts, pinched her nipples, caressed her thighs, squeezed her buttocks, and separated her legs. Darcy thrust herself into their ravenous grasps. She moaned in delight as one pair of hands separated her legs and reached towards her mons. A finger disappeared into her. She shuddered and begged for more. A second finger was shoved into her. A third. A fourth.
Two men attached their mouths to each of her nipples while their hands dove into their own pants. The fourth man climbed on top of the table, straddling her, pushed her breasts around his shaft and began thrusting himself between the two orbs. The man who had been fingering her removed his hand and replaced it with his shaft. They each began to spend, hollering their climaxes. She bucked against the table with her own. She screamed for more…
Radcliff woke from the dream to find his sheets damp with sweat and his erection painfully stiff. He grabbed himself and brought himself to spend. But while it relieved the pressure, it failed to wash away the feelings of emptiness, pain, anger and jealousy—remnants of both the dream as well as her visit.
How could she have refused him? He had mulled that question over a hundred times. At times, he wondered if he had done something wrong. At times, he blamed her for being what his aunt had considered her all along. A leopard does not change its spots, Anne might say. At least Darcy did not ask for nearly what she had demanded the first time they had met. He would have given her more than she asked.
Though that was little consolation. Radcliff would have almost preferred not to have the deed to Brayten in his hands. What should have been a moment of triumph was the most bitter experience of his life. It took all his strength to hand over those promissory notes. He wanted to strangle her. He wanted to kiss her with maddening desperation. He wanted to hold her and never let go.
But she would not have him. She had made that clear. He had been a dalliance. One mere chapter in her catalog of lovers.
That Wicked Harlot (A Steamy Regency Romance Collection Book 2) Page 13
