SubmittingtotheRake (7 page)

“Yes, yes, but it is so much more pleasurable to succumb.”

Heloise sighed in agreement. She sat down on the bed, and
the two shared a moment of silence.

“There is no purpose in protecting me, Heloise. I had
surrendered my maidenhead a year ago.”

Now it was Heloise’s turn to be surprised. “Of your own
volition? Did you consider the consequences?”

“Did you?” Josephine retorted.

“Touché.”

“Where is the harm if no one knows?”

“I wish we had shared our confidences earlier. Perhaps all
this could have been avoided.”

“Perhaps. But then you would not have experienced the
embrace of Lord Cadwell.”

Heloise thought of the desire that had been stoked to life
by the earl. The hunger had lain dormant these years—suppressed—and she had
lamented its awakening at first. But perhaps she could exalt in its vigor
instead? Why should the thrill of it turn sour simply because she could not be
with Lord Cadwell?

Looking at her cousin, she saw that Josephine’s countenance
had softened. “I hope that someday you may forgive me, Josephine.”

“I may be cross with you still,” Josephine said, but a faint
smile tugged at one corner of her lips. “But I do prefer the Heloise I know
now.”

Heloise felt as if a boa had loosened its hold of her chest.

Josephine leaned in. “Now tell me
everything
about
the Château Follet…”

Chapter Five

Closing his eyes, Sebastian imagined the plush lips of
Heloise Merrill wrapped about his cock, the look of lust shimmering in her eyes
as he pushed his erection deeper into her mouth.

He had bound her arms behind her to call more attention to
her breasts. Naked and upon her knees, she was far too delectable a vision not
to fuck. The only dilemma was which orifice to take first. But he had taken
notice of her mouth ever since their encounter at the theater, when her bottom
lip had dropped in astonishment over something he had said. He had been tempted
then to run his thumb over her succulent lips.

Her mouth, a rose to be plundered, willingly took in his
thickness. He sawed his cock in and out of her, felt the velvet of her tongue
grazing his length, throbbed when she sucked the crown of his penis. Was there
a heaven greater than that of her moist warmth encasing him?

Wrapping a hand behind her head, he pushed her farther on to
his cock until his tip brushed the back of her throat. She gagged at first but
relaxed when he rubbed the base of her head. Soon her lips were touching the
hairs of his pelvis, her chin pressed against his scrotum. A few more thrusts
and the fire in his blood, the roiling in his sac could not be contained.

The stream of his desire shot from his cock as the screams
of the woman beneath him jolted him from his reverie.

He climbed off her before the last of his seed had emptied.
Stumbling, he leaned against the wall for support and took in a deep breath. He
was not in the Empress Room of Château Follet but the boudoir of an opera
dancer, and the woman sprawled upon the bed with her skirts thrown above her
waist was not Miss Merrill but a woman whose name he could barely recall. Three
days had passed since he had left the château and still he could not quiet the
humming in his body whenever he thought of Miss Merrill. Perhaps he should not
have dismissed her quite so soon from Château Follet. There was much he wanted
to show her, much he wanted to do with her body. Would she enjoy being bent
over the back of a chair, tied to the posts of the bed, or suspended in
bondage? He wondered which position he would most favor with her—throwing her
legs over his shoulders, pressing her against the wall, or taking her from
behind as she knelt on all fours?

The answer would surely prove to be
all of them
.

Despite having just spent, he felt desire welling once more
in his groin. He glanced at the woman, now asleep, in the bed before him. For a
moment he considered climbing back onto her, but she looked far too tranquil in
her slumber, and he suspected that pounding himself senselessly into her would
not dispel his thoughts of Miss Merrill.

An hour later he found himself at Brooks’s, but neither
cards nor drink proved an effective distraction. He longed not only for her
body but her company. There was so little he knew of her, save that Jonathan
Merrill had become her guardian upon the death of her parents. He wanted to
know what she thought of Château Follet after her experience with him? He would
like to believe that he had surpassed the depths of any encounters she had had
with previous lovers.

“Go to her
,” Marguerite had urged.

He imagined the possibilities of a second encounter with
Miss Merrill. The grounds of the château possessed a bucolic charm, and he
would have liked to take her on a stroll and engage her in a less
confrontational situation. He sensed that he could speak to her as a peer and
on a world of topics. Some women had a most annoying practice of feigning
ignorance or appearing stupid to please the vanity of the men in their company,
but Heloise was as likely to challenge him. Of course he could always silence
any argument from her by smothering her mouth with his own.

A second assignation would provide him an opportunity to
make amends for his abrupt departure from her. The look of surprise, the slight
frown of her brows had indicated her disappointment when he had taken his
leave. He had no doubt she had the fortitude to recover, though he half wished,
selfishly, that her recovery would not be too swift. He wondered if he occupied
her thoughts as much as she did his. He hoped, for her sake, that it would not
be the case. Or did he?

He shook his head. He had denied his lust in favor of honor.
To seek another meeting with Heloise would tarnish the integrity of his
noblesse
oblige
. There were others more suited to Château Follet. Perhaps he could
amuse himself by seducing Anne Wesley into retracting her unkind words. He was
confident she would sing his praises before long.

Time would ensure that Miss Merrill became but a faint
memory. If only that were what he desired.

* * * * *

The weeds resisted, and Heloise welcomed their defiance as
she tugged at them—anything to command her attention and keep her mind off
Château Follet and the Earl of Blythe. A sennight had passed and still it was
no easy matter to forget him, especially in the quiet of night. Lying in bed,
she would caress the parts of her that he had caressed. Her body longed for his
touch and the way he made her feel alive. She missed their exchanges.

But she had not heard from him since leaving Château Follet.
She knew not if he had attempted to contact Josephine. Somehow she suspected he
was done with both Miss Merrill as well as Miss Josephine.

The afternoon sun shone brightly and perspiration trickled
down the side of her face as her uncle approached her. He looked very much like
her father, only a bit more stout about the belly. She often thought how
fortunate she was that she had such a kindhearted guardian.

“Er, Heloise,” he said, peering at her through his bifocals.
He hesitated, apparently deciding not to say what he had initially intended.

Ceasing her activity, Heloise looked up at him and waited.

After clearing his throat a few times, her uncle blurted,
“How do you know the Earl of Blythe?”

Heloise felt her stomach drop. “Sir?”

“He is not a man I thought would be familiar to you.”

Avoiding his gaze, Heloise wondered how she could answer
him. This was not how she had meant to repay his kindness for taking her in,
and yet she was guilty of deception and shame. Should she confess the whole
truth and offer to take her leave? Surely he would not want to keep her in his
household after learning the truth?

“He has a…” her uncle began again, “a repute of sorts, you
know.”

“Yes, I am aware of his character,” she replied, fidgeting
with her gloves. She dug for courage to ask, “Why do you wish to speak of Lord
Cadwell?”

“He is here.”

Her breath halted sharply. “He—Lord Cadwell came to see
you?”

“He came not for me but for you.”

“Me?” she echoed. “Not…Josephine?”

“I, er, asked the same, but he was quite clear. A direct
man, this earl. In truth, his candor took me by surprise. Nonetheless, I told
him that I would not be deemed a responsible guardian if I were to countenance
your acquaintance with him. He said he quite understood my fear that I would be
feeding the sheep to the wolf, as it were, but he praised your sense of
judgment, and I had to agree. I do wish Josephine shared of your
discrimination.”

The irony of his words made her cringe.

“I leave it up to you then,” he continued, “to decide if you
will see him. If you’ve no wish to, I will send him away.”

Heloise searched his face and realized there was no anger
there.

“I will see him.”

When her uncle left, she wished she had asked him to make
the earl wait in the drawing room, that she might have an opportunity to attend
her toilette. Having exerted some effort in gardening, she must have looked as
unkempt as she had that first day at Madame Follet’s. She removed her gloves,
wiped the perspiration from her brow, and attempted to tuck her curls into some
sense of order.

But why worry of her appearance? she reasoned. She knew not
the purpose of his call. Indeed, she had not expected to see him again after his
departure from the château. But perhaps he harbored some guilt for having
seduced her? Or wished to point out that he had not seduced her but that she
had willingly given herself to him so that she had no claims upon his
conscience? Perhaps he wished once more to warn her not to meddle in his
affairs. Well, she had no intention of interfering in his pursuit of her
cousin. And she had no wish to force his hand. No one knew she was ruined, and
she trusted him not to speak of it. Though she had not been able to refrain
from thinking of him these past days, he would not know it.

Still, she could not stay her vanity from smoothing down her
gown and being dismayed upon discovering a stain. She tried to rub it out.

“Miss Merrill.”

Her head snapped up to see the Earl of Blythe standing
before her, as immaculately dressed as ever in his high polished Hessians, trim
cutaway coat with brass buttons and starched cravat.

“Your Lordship,” Heloise returned as blandly as she could,
attempting not to be unnerved by the manner in which his gaze bored into her as
she bobbed a curtsy.

Silence settled between them as he took her in. Heloise
pulled at the fingers of her gloves. It was he who had called upon her. Why did
he not speak? Afraid that he would unearth her true feelings, she kept her eyes
averted and waited unsuccessfully for him to begin the dialogue. When he did
not, she was tempted to ask him if he had come all this way simply to stare at
her.

“You have a purpose for your visit, Lord Cadwell?” she
relented at last.

He eyed her carefully. “Indeed.”

The man was insufferable. He was not making this easy for
her.

“My cousin is not here,” she informed him, tossing her
gloves into a basket with her gardening tools. She was determined that he would
not know the pain she had felt when he had left the château with only the
slightest by-your-leave. Nor would he know the anger she felt—anger that now
fueled her nerves when a part of her wanted only to flee from him that she
might shed her tears in solitude.

“I came not for her.”

Of course she knew that. Her uncle had said as much.
Nonetheless, and though she knew not the purpose of his call, she felt
gratified to hear from his own lips that he was here for her, no matter his
purpose.

“Then why did you come?” she ventured.

“Our farewell at the château was unsatisfactory,” he
answered, his voice dark.

Ah. She had suspected he had more compassion than he had
shown.

“I found it decent enough,” she lied and even managed a
small smile at him. Her response seemed to unsettle him, but her triumph was
diminished by the wretchedness she felt. She wished he would leave so that she
might properly grieve over a romance that lived only in her imagination, berate
herself for having been such a dolt, and return to being the sensible young
woman her uncle had praised but moments ago. A sensible and wiser woman.

He narrowed his eyes. “It was an abrupt
adieu
.”

“It was.” She considered as she picked up her basket, proud
that she maintained her composure, but she did not trust it to last much
longer. “But pray do not trouble yourself on that.”

She turned to leave but he grasped her wrist. Her heart
hammered violently at his touch.

“Trouble myself?” he said in a near growl. “I have only
slept fitfully these last seven nights since leaving you.”

For the first time she noticed the darkness beneath his
eyes. Had he as strong a conscience as that? Despite her anger at him, her
heart ached for his distress.

When he did not release her, she glanced toward the house to
see if her uncle might be watching. He would not approve of such familiarity
from the earl. Realizing the same, Lord Cadwell dropped her wrist—reluctantly,
it seemed.

“It was my own fault,” he said. “It was not a proper
farewell.”

Though his jaw was still tight, the look in his eyes had
softened. She faltered and could not stop her voice from quavering as she
asked, “What…what would you have considered a proper farewell, my lord?”

His gaze made the space about them intimate without his
having to stir. His response was low and husky. “Something I dare not do at
present, for I would not cause a scandal in your uncle’s garden.”

She stared at him with her mouth agape. Groaning, he glanced
toward the house, then defiantly stepped toward her, placed his finger beneath
her chin as he had done that night in the theater, and closed her mouth.