Submitting to His Lordship (6 page)

“My God,” he breathed upon discovering the fair amount of wetness there and looked at her with a satisfied grin.

With a soft groan, she pleaded with her eyes to make quick the deed. But he stroked her with the back of his forefinger with maddening languor, gently nudging that nub of flesh with his knuckle. She wanted him to stop, resume their travel and escape this inn that she hoped she would never have to see again for she did not think she could look the innkeeper in the eye knowing what she had done on one of his tables.

She could push him away but the beautiful sensations fanning through her body stayed her hand. He circled her clitoris, wet and slippery from the juices of her own desire. Her toes curled inside her slipper. Pushing all thoughts of the innkeeper from her mind, she concentrated on that familiar and welcome ascent. She gasped when he slipped a finger into her quim. He slid the digit in and out, making her pant.

Her mouth felt dry against the linen, but there was no turning back, not without a great deal of anguish. She wanted to spend. At his hands. Upon this table. He slid a second finger into her, and her muscles grasped at him, greedy for more of him to be inside of her. At last he quickened his motions. She gripped the table and writhed beneath him, her movement stymied by his weight. Tremors shot down her legs. She was nearing the climax.

He eased his pace. Her eyes flew open.
God, no
. He could not be so cruel as to stop now? She arched her hip into his hand.

“Do you wish to spend, Miss Herwood?”

She nodded vociferously.

“It would be my pleasure to oblige.”

He resumed his divine ministrations. She groaned every time his thumb struck her clitoris. It was as if a day and not a year had passed. He still knew how to touch her, knew her most sensitive spots. The tension inside of her mounted. She squeezed her eyes shut against the impending onslaught. When he twisted his fingers and stroked the small anterior area of her cunnie, she came undone, her spasms rocking the wooden table beneath her.

Her gag muffled her cries, though she could not be sure how effectively. The world swayed about her, and she had to close her eyes to calm herself. Only when her breathing had slowed to a normal pace and she had returned from where he had catapulted her did she open her eyes. She was met immediately with a gleam in his. She saw that he still had a bulge in his breeches. Surely it was his turn to be satisfied?

He offered her a hand and pulled her up, then untied the linen and unwound it from her mouth. Next he held out his handkerchief, a lace-edged monogrammed finery. She gazed at it quizzically.

He leaned in toward her ear and explained huskily, “You are quite wet, Miss Herwood.”

She flushed to the roots of her hair and took the handkerchief, hesitating as she held the silk fabric. A fine rag for an indelicate task. Under his watchful eye, she pressed the handkerchief to her inner thigh. After she was done, she smoothed her skirts over her legs. He took the handkerchief from her and returned it to his waistcoat pocket. After assisting her from the table, he went to stand before the mirror above the fireplace to retie his cravat. His restraint contrasted sharply with the impatience he had evidenced earlier when he had cleared the table and lain her across it.

Crouching to the floor, she attempted to clean the mess and replace the items onto the table.

“We’ve desecrated the table. The least we can do is tidy the place,” she explained when he turned to look at her.

He gave up on returning the cravat to its prior glory and knelt to assist her. Oddly she relished sharing the task with him.

When they had cleaned the floor as best as they could, he offered her his arm. “Come, the Chateau Follet awaits.”

Chapter Five

HALSTEN RODE HIS BAY ALONGSIDE the carriage, keeping a watchful eye for highwaymen. Their stops at the following posting inns were not as rousing as the first. He could see Miss Herwood growing weary with the travel, but she made no complaints. That he had managed to withhold himself from ravishing her at the first inn was a wonder to himself, though he had had no premeditation of doing anything shameless. But sensing her arousal as she sat across the table from him, he would have had an easier time staying a wolf from a thick slab of raw beefsteak than contain his lust. His cock had strained painfully against his breeches, especially after witnessing the delightful way in which she spent, but he wished to ease her into their time together and not give her reason to retreat.

It had not proved difficult to ascertain what exactly had prompted her to seek him. His initial payment to her was less than a fourth of what she had asked for, but it was sufficient to stay her landlord and secure an additional six month for the Herwood women. In his visit to the lessor early that morning, Halsten had also requested that he be informed if the Herwoods were to fall behind on their rent payment again. That a man of his station had an interest in the Herwood family was enough to make the landlord think twice about harassing the women again. Halsten was glad that Miss Herwood had had the wherewithal and the temerity to request a far greater sum to ensure the security of her family for a reasonable amount of time. Her uncertain situation concerned him.

At dusk they came upon the Chateau Follet. Built in the early 18
th
century and laced with a baroque cornice, the structure had three stories with two pointed towers serving as bookends of the perfectly symmetrical façade. The steep hip roofs of zinc contrasted with the ivory stones. One would have thought the Chateau plucked straight from the French countryside. It stood nestled among mighty oak trees and low hills verdant from the recent rains.

He had sent his valet, Jonathan, ahead of them to ensure that all was ready when they arrived. When the carriage pulled up, they were quickly greeted by the servants. Dismounting, he went to assist Miss Herwood from the carriage. As she alighted, she gazed in awe at the chateau.

“It’s beautiful,” she murmured. “The windows are magnificent.”

“The bane of Monsieur Follet,” he noted wryly. “He could not curse the window tax enough till the day he died.”

He led her up the front steps to where a young Indian abigail waited.

“You are in good hands with Bhadra,” he said and felt Miss Herwood’s arm tense.

“Allow me to show you to your room, m’lady,” Bhadra said warmly with only a hint of accent.

Miss Herwood withdrew her arm from his and followed the maid inside. Halsten watched the two women until they were out of sight. Some anxiety on the part of Miss Herwood was to be expected, but she did not lose her poise. Having observed her and knowing her history, he could not help but admire her quiet dignity in the face of life’s challenges. He wondered whether he would have her forbearance if similarly situated.

After his horse had been seen to, he went to pay his respects to the proprietress, Marguerite Follet. He was admitted into the library, where he found Madame Follet sprawled upon a settee before the fireplace, gently swaying a fan of ostrich plumes. At her feet sat a beautiful young brunette reading aloud from a book of Shakespeare sonnets. Upon seeing Halsten, Marguerite unfurled a slender arm. He crossed to her and pressed her hand to his lips.

“Has Madame taken an interest in the Bard of Avon?” he queried, amused, for despite the vast quantity of books in the room, Marguerite had never been known to read any of them.

She waved a dismissive hand. “Penelope here has a
belle voix
. She could read from anything and make it sound lovely.”

From the gleam in her eyes, he deduced Marguerite had other interests in Penelope beyond the young woman’s exquisite voice. She smiled at Penelope, who closed her book and politely withdrew from the room.

“She’s young,” he remarked of Penelope.

Marguerite raised her finely shaped brows. “Do you imply I am too old for her?”

“You, madame, could rival women half your years.”

Appeased, she admitted, “Penelope is twenty years younger. A
jeune fille douce
.”

“Have you done with men then?”

She sighed. “Not done but a trifle bored, though less now that you have arrived. Where have you been, Halsten? Has it been years since you were here last? I thought you had married. To some Viscountess.”

“She would have been shocked and, with her delicate constitution, taken ill if she knew my prurient interests.”

“Then who have you here?”

“A novice—”

Marguerite pursed her lips. “I had the Earl of Blythe here not too long ago with a
novice
. Fell in love and married the chit.”

“I assure you that is not my arrangement, nor my intention.”

“Are you shunning marriage?”

“Not at all, but it is incumbent that I seek a suitable match, not only for Rockwell but for Lucy. I will not diminish her prospects.”

“But you are willing to risk scandal by patronizing my chateau.”

He bowed. “My lady always was quick of wit.”

“I will not dissuade you further. Bring your novice to me that I may meet her when she has settled in.”

He kissed the hand that she held out for him and took his leave. As he closed the doors of the library behind him, he contemplated the unexpected news regarding the Earl of Blythe, a notorious rake. Blythe had a bit of a reckless streak, and Halsten doubted any woman could rein him in for long. And while Halsten and the Earl may have shared a mutual interest in the Chateau Follet, they would not share the same fate.

* * * * *

Deana had had no specific expectation of what to find upon arriving at Chateau Follet, but she did not imagine an inviting abode. Despite its moniker as the Chateau Debauchery, the dwelling was tastefully furnished, its servants pious and polite, and there was no evidence that the most wanton activities occurred within its walls.

She studied the small slender abigail, her long dark hair wound in a braid down her back. The woman had large almond shaped eyes, which she kept focused before her. Deana could discern nothing from her.

“This be your chamber, m’lady,” Bhadra said.

Deana stood stunned at the threshold. The room was breathtaking. A large bed of carved ebony comprised most of the room. The linens and plush pillows of vibrant orange and deep red with gold detailing flamed the imagination and spoke to passion. A beautiful vanity of engraved ivory and tortoiseshell with shiny brass handles, coupled with a painted chair in the Mughal tradition, was equally exquisite. The armoire with its intricate floral design and bold colors was unlike any furniture she had ever seen. An intricate jali surrounded the window, tapestries covered the walls, and above the fireplace stood a vase of peacock feathers and a large mirror framed with geometric motifs. She imagined she stood in a palace in Jodhpur or an equally exotic place.

“His lordship requested a bath be drawn,” Bhadra informed. “I shall assist m’lady with her toilette.”

Deana ceased gaping at her surroundings and replied gently and a little awkwardly for perhaps the maid thought her the wife of Lord Rockwell. “I am not of nobility. Miss Herwood will do.”

“Yes, m’lady,” Bhadra replied with understanding.

“This is my, er, first visit here.”

“Yes, m’lady.”

Sensing Bhadra was anxious to execute her responsibilities, Deana allowed the abigail to assist in undressing her.

Additional maidservants brought a bathtub, which was set before the fireplace, and poured in the steaming water. What a luxury to have a bath filled to the brim with hot water! Bhadra helped her settle in while others took her clothes—she supposed for cleaning. She blushed thinking that the quality of her garments was not likely what they were accustomed to handling.

The bath felt
wonderful
. She would not have minded relaxing hours in the tub, but Bhadra had grabbed a sponge and began scrubbing her with a soap that smelled of sandalwood and cinnamon. She meant to protest that she was capable of cleansing herself, but Bhadra was intent upon her task. The bath was over all too soon, but Deana felt incredibly refreshed. Her skin tingled from the cleansing. Bhadra next applied a milky cream over her body. Again Deana felt awkward at having the hands of another woman touching her extensively, but she said nothing. She could only guess what protocol, if any, existed at the Chateau.

“My portamanteau,” she said, though it had little to offer.

Bhadra shook her head and produced a loose blouse with short sleeves and a low neck that she topped over Deana’s head. She had Deana step into a layer of petticoat, then wrapped a long strip of silk dyed from safflower about the waist before draping it over the shoulder. Deana marveled at the comfort of the strange attire, though she found the air upon her naked back disconcerting. She felt half-clothed. And without stockings her legs were completely bare.

“My stays,” Deana remembered.

“A sari does not require stays, m’lady,” Bhadra replied as she slipped a pair of beaded cloth slippers upon Deana, then gestured for her to take a seat at the vanity, which had a full complement of accessories to assist in one’s toilette.

Bhadra braided her wet hair, coiled it atop her head, and added a jasmine sprig.