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

by Georgette Brown

  If she could make it to the door…but the threshold seemed twice as far in her current state of inebriation. And the damn thing kept moving its position.

  She stumbled. He caught her. She jerked herself from his hold.

  “Unhand me,” she hissed. “Lest you wish to pay for the privilege of your touch.”

  A muscle rippled along his jaw. Without word, he swept her into his arms and strode to her bed. He dropped her unceremoniously onto it.

  “And what did Richards pay?” he growled, pinning her body beneath his.

  She struggled beneath the weight of him but was hampered by both the wine and his strength.

  “Nothing,” she answered truthfully, convinced that that would send him away in a fury.

  It did not, though fury flamed in his eyes. “You belong to me.”

  The bloody arrogance! She thrashed harder, but his mouth clamped down upon hers, forcing her lips open. He pressed down upon her hard. Her attempts to scream became muffled. And she was lost. Lost beneath the force of it. He delved deep as if he intended to leave his mark, as if he meant to claim her through the kiss. She felt her determination slipping and arousal taking its place. But as much as she wanted to, she would not kiss him back. She could not give him that satisfaction.

  When at last he allowed her a breath, she spat, “I wouldn’t lay you at any price.”

  “Indeed? You would forswear my touch—and how it makes you feel?”

  She chanced to look into his eyes and became more desperate to escape. But his mouth descended once more and pressed its heat to her throat.

  “Forswear my kisses…” he said into her neck. His hand grasped a breast. “Forswear my caress…”

  She could not hold back a moan. He lifted the hems of her dress and petticoats, but she did not try to stop him. Her body knew what it wanted: him. And when his fingers met her wetness, he would know it, too. As his digits strummed her arousal, his lips joined with hers. This time she returned the kiss, grinding her hips against his hand. The wine had dulled the sharpness of her senses even as it fueled her desire. It was not long before he had her body jolting and shuddering against him.

  Quickly he shed his coat and unbuttoned his pants. His arousal was hard as flint. He did not enter her gently or gradually. He speared his shaft into her and buried himself to the hilt. She gasped, but the power of his desire, the depth of his jealousy excited her. At least he lusted for her, even if he could not love her enough to marry her. She bucked against him with as much vigor as she could muster in a show of anger to match his.

  The bed rattled and struck the wall. Her cries and his grunts filled the room. Her breasts swung uncomfortably beneath him. He pushed her legs up to her chest to penetrate even deeper. She dug her fingers into his flesh and braced herself for the violent orgasm that blasted through her with the force of a cannon. Groaning low, he thrust fast and furious and roared with his own release. He fell on top of her, his breath coming hard, his hair dampened with sweat.

  As her body reassembled itself from its shattered state, through the haze, she exalted in the feel of his weight atop her.

  She would blame the wine, she decided. Surely he could see that she was foxed. If she had her wits about herself, she would not have let this happen. Even though it had felt beyond wonderful.

  *****

  His fury gone, only tenderness filled its place as Radcliff collected her in his arms. He kissed the perspiration on her nose, swept his lips across her closed eyes. Surely she understood how she belonged to him. That they belonged to each other.

  He kissed her through her hair. “Be mine, Darcy.”

  She opened her eyes and turned to him. “Your what? Your mistress? Your whore?”

  Her tone made him wince.

  “I spoke of it before,” she said. “I am no man’s mistress.”

  “Because you’ve a wish to return to Richards?”

  It was not what he had meant to say, but he could not help the anger that leaped into his throat.

  She scrambled out of bed and began desperately looking for something. Pulling out a chamber pot, she heaved into it.

  “I have matters to attend,” she said, hastily donning a shift and throwing her dress on top sans a corset.

  He watched her leave and cursed himself for a fool. He had allowed the sentimental words of Juliana and Pinkerton to cloud his rationale. And so he had sought out Miss Sherwood to make one final overture, only to find her lifting her skirts to Cavin Richards. He could easily have broken Richards’ neck in twain in his jealousy. How he had managed to contain his fury surprised even him.

  There was no returning here, he realized. A dagger through the heart would have been less painful than the prospect of never seeing her again, but he could not bear to watch her playing the coquette or taking another man to bed. Grabbing his coat, he strode out of her chamber. And out of her life.

  “Leaving so soon?” a voice behind him asked as he walked past the card room downstairs.

  It was the last voice Radcliff would have wanted to hear. He turned to face Richards, trying his best not to find some way to call Cavin out so that he might have the chance of running a blade through the man.

  Cavin ignored the angry glare directed at him and took some snuff. “Reckon she may change her mind.”.

  Radcliff felt the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. He had no desire for a tête-à-tête with Cavin.

  “About being your mistress,” Cavin provided-

  That Richards somehow knew the reason for his visit only incensed Radcliff more.

  “She took you to bed willingly,” continued Cavin.

  Either the man was oblivious of the wrath he was incurring in Radcliff or was simply choosing to ignore it. Radcliff decided it was best to leave before he cuffed Richards on the jaw.

  “I had to wager a hundred shillings for the privilege.”

  Remembering Darcy’s words from before, Radcliff stopped and pulled out some money to toss onto a table.

  “You can wager fifty shillings less next time,” he said before walking out.

  *****

  “I lost the courage to do it,” Darcy explained to Henry as they sat in the box with Lady Worthley, who was accompanying an ailing friend who adored the opera. Lady Worthley was not nearly as enamored of operas and had asked Darcy and Henry for company.

  “Then you mean to have the child?” Henry asked as he lifted the opera glasses to his eyes to scan the crowd for an interesting face—or body.

  Darcy shook her head. “I could not. And yet I could not bring myself to ask for it. He said he would only require ten shillings for the visit.”

  “He’s a bloody thief.”

  “It doesn’t have to be a bastard,” Henry piped up after they had walked in silence for a while. “I could marry you. Then you wouldn’t have to put yourself at risk with that sham of a physician.”

  Darcy smiled and put a hand on her friend’s arm. “Harry, a friend more true than you could not be had, but I would be of no use to Mrs. T as a married woman.”

  “No need to work at Mrs. T’s once I am Earl of Brent. I will have an income of over ten thousand pounds per annum.”

  “But it may be years before you are Earl. Till then you have not enough to support two additional persons. And what will become of Priscilla and Nathan?”

  “Perhaps my father would increase my allowance. Daresay he would be happy to have a marriage that would put an end to the rumors he pretends not to hear. You and I would make the perfect husband and wife, Darcy, as surely you would not mind my lovers and I would not mind yours. Or perhaps we could trade our lovers every now and then.”

  The gleam in his eyes brought both laughter and tears for Darcy.

  “Your father would not approve of your marrying someone of my sort,” she said. “The Earl of Brent, no matter what his proclivities, could ensnare a much better wife than I would be. But I do appreciate the thought, Harry. With all my heart I do.”

  They w
alked, her arm encircled about his, almost as if they were husband and wife.

  “Perhaps I should have a word with Broadmoor,” Henry thought aloud.

  “Don’t you dare,” Darcy responded quickly. “He and I have done with one another.”

  Henry sighed for the both of them. He paused before saying, “You don’t suppose I would have a chance with him?”

  Darcy laughed again. “I don’t think he was ever partial to you. I suspect he thought us lovers.”

  “Well then, I can prove that wrong!”

  Darcy shook her head. “What an incorrigible man you are, Harry.”

  “And you love me for it.” He lifted her hand to his lips.

  “Be careful, Harry. I may fall in love with you and decide to marry you afterall.”

  Henry merely grinned. They wound their way around the block back towards the gaming hall. A wistful comfort settled about Darcy. This was the life she knew. Henry, Mathilda, and the patrons of the gaming hall were the people she knew. For a brief moment her world had crossed with that of Radcliff Barrington, but like planets aligned before the sun, they would eventually part their separate ways.

  And it was better that way.

  *****

  Trying his best to suppress a yawn, Radcliff shifted in his seat as the strains of Orfeo and Euridice filled the opera house. He was not as interested in early classical music and had not thought Juliana to be either, but he had agreed to escort his cousin to the performance nonetheless. He found shortly upon arriving that indeed it had not been the compositions of Christoph Willibald Gluck who held her interest but that of a young man sitting in the box next to them.

  He seemed a decent fellow, though he did not possess as high a station in life as Radcliff would have liked for Juliana—Anne would disapprove without a second glance at the young man—but where one stood in the eyes of the ton mattered less to Radcliff. He allowed Juliana and the young man, Robert Gibbons, to have their moment during intermission. Radcliff stood far enough from the couple as not to intrude upon their conversation, feigning interest in what Mrs. Trindlewood and her daughter had to say.

  Mrs. Trindlewood was quite amiable, but there was a nervousness about her. It seemed to Radcliff there was a hushed anxiety among many people he knew. He felt as if many glances were cast his way. He caught the eye of Juliana, and she seemed to look upon him with concern. He managed to extricate himself from Mrs. Trindlewood and approached Juliana and young Gibbons.

  “Good day to you, sir,” Robert greeted.

  “Thank you, and a good evening to you,” Radcliff responded.

  Robert flushed as he realized he had referenced the wrong part of the day.

  “Shall we to our seats?” Radcliff asked Juliana.

  Her eyes were gleaming and he had never known her smile to be so wide. Then it had gone well despite the look of concern she had had earlier.

  “Robert is a bit of a composer himself,” Juliana told him. “He met Mozart.”

  “I was a mere boy,” Robert said. “But his music did inspire me.”

  “I rather wish we were listening to one of his operas tonight instead.”

  Robert nodded. “Although, it can be said that Gluck paved the way for Mozart.”

  “Indeed. Perhaps you can tell me more of Mozart,” Radcliff offered. “I am partial to Brooks’s. Have you ever been?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then I should be happy to extend you an invitation as my guest.”

  Juliana made a sound somewhat like a puppy, and Robert pumped Radcliff by the hand numerously. When they had all returned to their boxes, Juliana grasped Radcliff by the arm.

  “My dearest cousin!” she cried. “How can I ever thank you?”

  “Delay your gratitude. I have not yet given him my blessing,” Radcliff said. “I thought at one point you were not enjoying your tête-à-tête?”

  “Oh, that.” Juliana released him and looked away. “It was of no consequence.”

  He sensed an uneasiness from her, but put up his quizzing glass to take another look at Robert, who sat with his mother, father, and two brothers. His gaze wandered past their box, and he stiffened.

  It couldn’t be.

  It was.

  Darcy Sherwood. She was sitting with Wyndham, Lady Worthley, and an older woman he could not name.

  Despite her worn and slightly dated gown, she looked beautiful. Different. Fragile. Her hair had been set in curlers and arranged on top of her head and fixed with a jeweled hairpiece. But he was reminded of how much he liked her hair loose and even unruly. He was filled with a sense of loss that he would most likely never again see her hair tumbling in disarray about her. He wondered what brought her to the opera house.

  “Cousin?”

  Juliana’s voice came to him as if from the end of a tunnel.

  “I take it you have found Miss Sherwood.”

  Radcliff lowered his eye piece.

  “That explains the look of concern I have been receiving all evening,” he stated, “and what has set the tongues to twitter. One would think the gossips have tired of it all by now.”

  Juliana bit her lower lip. “That and…”

  “And?” He fixed a daunting stare at her as he lifted his brows.

  “It is said that she will wed the Viscount Wyndham.”

  Blood drained from him. To where, he knew not. When he recovered from the unexpected blow, he was besieged by a multitude of feelings. Anger. Jealousy. Pain. Loss. She was lost to him forever. His worst fear come to life. Only he had not put words to that fear for he had never conceived that she would marry, given that she had refused his offer.

  Only his had not been one of matrimony.

  The Viscount Wyndham. Well that was not quite the surprise given their obvious friendship. And the man would come into substantial wealth when he became the Earl of Brent. He had at times thought with confidence that Wyndham only cared for his own sex, but this proved otherwise. It was said that Wyndham had a lover.

  This would not do. Nathan Barrington could not be brought up in a household filled with debauchery.

  Radcliff signaled for the page. He scrawled a note and told the man to deliver it to the Viscount Wyndham.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “WHAT DO YOU MEAN, Priscilla? How can that be?” Darcy asked in disbelief despite the obvious agony in her sister’s eyes.

  “I received this by courier today,” Priscilla explained and handed over a letter.

  The seal, though broken, was clearly that of the Baron Barrington. Darcy took the letter and scanned its contents.

  Dear Miss Priscilla Sherwood,

  It has come to my attention that young Nathan is not being afforded the advantages worthy of a Barrington. He is at a critical age when great care must be attended to his upbringing. I mean to cast no aspersions on the care you have provided him thus far, but there are limits to what your family can offer him. As such, Nathan should be retained in my custody to ensure that he receives the full breadth of what is due to him.

  Your servant,

  R. Barrington

  It was brief and very much in the style of Radcliff. Even the bold but elegant handwriting could not have been formed by any hand other than his.

  “Worthy of a Barrington?” Darcy recited from the letter, confused. “Does he believe Nathan to be Edward’s then?”

  Priscilla colored. “He is certain.”

  But surely he would have mentioned such knowledge, Darcy thought but then recalled Radcliff’s growing interest in Nathan throughout their conversations. Then there was the suspicious matter of Nathan’s new clothes and books…

  “The tutor,” Darcy said quickly, “the clothes…was Rad—was he providing those?”

  Priscilla nodded with guilt.

  “But how did he come to know? Did you speak to him?”

  “He came upon us in the park,” Priscilla explained. “Quite by accident—I think. Though it was rather strange that he should be at our park of all places. But wh
en he saw Nathan—you know the resemblance Nathan bears to Edward—it became quite plain, I think.”

  “How is it you have not told me this?” Darcy cried as a dozen thoughts whirled and collided in her mind.

  “He swore me to secrecy. For what reason, I know not, though I imagine it had something to do with his association with you…”

  This time it was Darcy who colored.

  “Have you fallen in love with him?”

  Priscilla would have done better had she slapped Darcy across the face with all her might.

  “You have, haven’t you?” Priscilla persisted.

  “It matters not,” Darcy replied, then wished she had not spoken so sharply when she glanced a pained look in her sister’s face. “Forgive me, Priscilla, I should have confided in you—as you should have confided in me. I told myself that I wished to protect you, Nathan, and mama from the scandal.”

  “We do not live on a separate continent, dear sister. We heard rumors almost from the beginning. But even were it not for the gossip, it was plain on your face how you felt—at least to me.”

  Darcy felt tears pressing against the back of her eyes as she received her sister’s sympathetic smile.

  “I suppose,” Darcy said, “I was too mortified. Imagine two Sherwood sisters both falling for a Barrington!”

  Darcy could see the tears in Priscilla’s eyes as well. Without word, Priscilla threw her arms about Darcy.

  They drew strength from each other, and when Priscilla pulled from the embrace, she said with half a laugh, “Those Barrington men are such horrid creatures, are they not?”

  “Yes,” Darcy answered but there was no jest in her voice as she recalled the letter she held. “’Worthy of a Barrington’…typical Barrington arrogance! For five years they did not lift a finger for Nathan—did not deign to acknowledge his existence—and now they wish to take him from us?”

  “Had I known him better…” Priscilla began, “He seemed to have such a wonderful rapport with Nathan…and when Nathan so adored his dog…”