Submitting to Lord Rockwell Page 2

  His response struck her as odd, but the sofa upon which he sat appeared comfortable enough. She dropped to her knees, the wine humming in her veins. Surprise lighted his eyes but he did not move. His gaze caressed the swell of her cheek, the skin above her décolletage and, seeming to penetrate the material of her dress, the curves beneath. Her body tingled from head to toe beneath his regard. She dared to put a hand upon his knee. When he did not flinch, she glanced into his countenance and thought she saw flames in his eyes.

  “You have managed to learn the arts of a courtesan,” he observed coolly, with only the faintest hitch in his voice.

  Her heart hammered in her ears. She was a novice playing with fire. Never before had she been so bold with a man. But never before had she dealt with a man who refused to be seduced by the very woman he had propositioned.

  “You have finished neither your biscuit nor your tea, Miss Herwood.”

  “I have no need for your tea and biscuit. I am in full command of my faculties, Lord Rockwell, despite the presence of a bit of wine,” she responded.

  “Ah, Miss Herwood, how poorly you lie.”

  She would have risen, thrown her hands up in exasperation and reached for her gloves and hat, daring him to stop her from leaving, but he had cupped her chin in one hand, his forefinger lazily grazing the soft spot beneath her jaw. She fought the desire to melt into his hand and the weakening in her limbs, for she had to uphold her earlier assertion. It was no easy battle, and the wine, which had hitherto been her supporter, turned foe in this matter.

  “You contravened my command. I would have overlooked one glass of wine, but you have partaken of more, Miss Herwood.”

  Command? The word jolted her to attention and she pulled away from him. His touch rattled her senses far too much.

  “You insist upon playing my guardian, Lord Rockwell?”

  He smiled. “If that were the case, you would be splayed across my lap for a sound spanking.”

  Her mouth went dry at the thought. A small voice inside advised her to run from this man. At the very least she ought to put some distance between them, but a darker side of her was drawn to him more than ever.

  “Patience, my dear Miss Herwood,” he gently coaxed.

  Patience? Would he have her return to her seat, twiddle with the damn biscuits and wait…wait for what?

  “Have I misunderstood your proposition, Lord Rockwell? Did you not say that I could discharge my debt if I were to lie with you?”

  “I did proffer one night of pleasure.”

  “And by pleasure you meant a tête-à-tête over tea? La! How silly of me to have suspected you of more roguish intentions.”

  As she spoke, she realized a part of her would be quite disappointed if he answered in the affirmative. She rose to her feet but he grabbed her at the wrist and pulled her across him with startling deftness. How easily he manhandled her.

  “Make no mistake, Miss Herwood. I intend to take my pleasure of you,” he growled, his mouth beside her ear.

  “Then why delay, my lord?” she whispered back against his ear over the loud thumping of her heart.

  He made a low groan. Before she could react, he had pinned her against the arm of the sofa. His mouth was atop hers, crushing, claiming, punishing. She had never been kissed with such force and felt a surge of triumph. Her head swam from the heady combination of intoxication and arousal. She attempted to return his forceful kiss, but his mouth dictated the terms. He tasted of her, explored her, consumed her. She could do little but surrender to his attentions.

  When at last he released her to breathe, and the world had slowed its swirl about her head, she could not resist saying, “Patience, my lord.”

  “Patience be damned,” he returned, though the glint in his eye had her suspecting that perhaps her triumph was not as complete as she would think. What was he concealing from her?

  Chapter Two

  She did not dwell long for he captured her mouth once more in his and she was content to revel in his desire for her. He trailed his lips down her neck and her back arched of its own volition, pressing her body into his, feeling the weight of him. She had not expected that area to prove so sensitive. As if cognizant of that delicacy, he kissed her with feathery lightness, a contrast to the vehemence with which he had plumbed her mouth earlier. His hand went to the small of her back, and that too proved provocative. She felt surrounded by him.

  Desire swelled below her waist. She put her hand to the back of his neck, brushing the ends of his hair as he nestled into her neck. Forgetting her intentions to make quick her obligation to him, she allowed him to take his time caressing her décolletage and skimming the tops of her breasts. She had expected him to ravish them. In her previous encounters, the men had torn at her bodice as if they were starving babes eager to nurse, but she sensed that Lord Rockwell was no callow lover. Her nipples hardened, desiring his attention. As if sensing her precise need, he cupped a breast and grazed the nipple with his thumb. Her breath caught as a jolt of sensation shot from her nipple to the apex of her thighs. His thumb circled the nipple, rubbing the fabric of her dress into the bud until she squirmed and moaned her need for release.

  He slid his hand to her upper thigh. Would he now throw up her skirts and mount her? She found she did not dread the prospect. Indeed, the carnal yearning within her welcomed it. But instead of unbuttoning his trousers, he pulled up the hem of her dress and ran his hand along her leg. How she wished she had a better pair of stockings to present to a man who undoubtedly knew all the luxuries in life. He brushed the soft skin just above the stockings with his knuckles, his hand dangerously close to where her desire pooled hot and wet.

  She glanced into his face. His soft brown eyes gleamed in a manner that made her reconsider once more the wisdom of her intoxication. He had the upper hand in more ways than one. But she had no time to chide herself for his fingers skimmed the patch of hair at the base of her pelvis. His thumb slipped lower and teased that small but potent nub of flesh between her legs. She closed her eyes against his stare, marveling at the delicious disconcertion in her body. Lightly he fondled her clitoris, nipped it between two fingers, stroked its length ’til she was panting. Her body, now a coil that needed unwinding, strained to his touch. In response he deepened his caress. Dipping a finger into her hot wetness, he rubbed her with increasing vigor.

  Gasping, she felt herself thrown over a familiar precipice, only it felt more glorious than when she attended to her needs in solitude. She erupted in uncontrolled paroxysms against him. A cry escaped her lips. He pushed the last of the spasms from her body before easing his caress into a gentle swirling. She shuddered.

  “You spend beautifully, Miss Herwood.”

  She barely heard his words. Lost in a fog of relief and glory and the remnants of her inebriation, she allowed herself to sink into the sofa. If he wanted her to attend him, he would have to wait and acquire some of the patience he had advocated earlier.

  * * * * *

  Deana fluttered her eyes. Settled in a haze of comfort and satisfaction, she had no desire to move, but the aroma of fresh coffee called to her. She glanced down at the luxurious blanket covering her legs and felt the firm cushions beneath her. Her gaze moved to the porcelain coffee set in front of her and then across the table to the opposite sofa where Lord Rockwell sat, one leg crossed over the other, his expression soft.

  Good heavens, had she fallen asleep?

  Quickly she sat up, but the speed of her motions made the side of her head throb.

  “Coffee will aid your situation,” he offered, pouring a cup.

  Flushing, she took the hot beverage with gratitude. He was correct—she should not have come intoxicated. She noticed he was no longer wearing his banyan or any neckwear. Instead, the top buttons of his shirt were undone—a minor feature but grandly provocative. Memories of what had transpired betwixt them rushed into her mind, warming her body instantly.

  “Forgive my impoliteness for having, er, fallen asleep on
your settee,” she said more to her coffee than to him. She had never fallen asleep in a strange place before.

  “I am glad for it,” he replied. “Do you drink often, Miss Herwood?”

  She eyed him carefully. “You seem to know much about me. Do you not already have your answer, your Lordship?”

  “A gaming hell is no place for one of the fair sex to let down her guard.”

  “I am no fool nor child.”

  “Tonight being the exception?”

  She tried not to glare at him. “Though I am sure you are accustomed to women throwing themselves at you, might you allow that one would deem the situation I find myself facing rather daunting?”

  His lips curved in genuine humor and she found it hard to remain angry with him. How glorious those lips had felt upon her…

  “Miss Herwood?”

  Realizing she had been staring at his mouth, she buried her face in her coffee. What a gauche young woman he must perceive her to be!

  “Please partake of the sweatmeats.” He gestured to the berries, cheese and bread on the coffee tray.

  Though not particularly hungry, she decided to eat as a distraction and idly wondered if he had woken the servants in the middle of the night to prepare the coffee.

  He poured himself a cup and settled back into the sofa to gaze upon her. She wanted to quip about the impoliteness of staring, but the entitled would not care for comments from one such as her. Instead, she broke the silence with small talk.

  “Do you travel to India often?”

  “What do you consider often? It is no easy journey.”

  She had no definition in mind. The farthest she had ever been from London was Bath.

  “Would you venture there if it were not?” she rephrased.

  He weighed her query. “In truth, I am ambivalent. There is much to wonder at and detest of the East.”

  She tried to fathom a world she had seen only in books and an occasional painting, but in her mind danced colorful silks, teas and curries.

  “Tell me of India.”

  “Many would find her easy to disdain, but you would appreciate India.”

  “You know me well enough to make such a declaration?”

  “I merely observe the inflection when you speak and the shine in your eyes. You are not difficult to read, Miss Herwood.”

  She frowned. She was gauche and guileless?

  “Do not distress yourself. Consider it a compliment. I find it refreshing.”

  Is that what had attracted him to her table?

  “I imagine a visitor from India could find much to disdain in England,” she remarked. “For instance, certain noblemen can be quite insufferable here.”

  He grinned at her taunt. “I couldn’t agree more, Miss Herwood. More coffee?”

  She eagerly accepted, for the coffee did aid with her headache and she was beginning to enjoy her conversation with Lord Rockwell.

  “I think you are partial to India, Lord Rockwell.”

  “Indeed?”

  She gestured about the room. “You have reminders of her everywhere.”

  He followed her gaze from the elephant she had held earlier to a bronze oil lamp above the fireplace to a tapestry on the wall. The image on the tapestry was a woman wearing a golden headdress, arms stretched with a bow and arrow, astride a many-hued parrot.

  “Rati,” he explained. “Hindu goddess of love, passion and carnal pleasure.”

  Her cheeks colored. She recalled her purpose for being here and, as she had pointed out earlier, it was not for conversation.

  “How appropriate,” she murmured. “I am aware that I have not fulfilled my end of the arrangement, my lord.”

  “Not entirely. I took great pleasure in seeing you spend.”

  Her whole body flushed. She shifted under his gaze.

  The fires in his eyes flared. “I have much more planned, Miss Herwood.”

  She swallowed with difficulty the coffee she had just imbibed and felt a strong need to fan herself.

  “How do you wish to begin?” she croaked.

  “Come here,” he said, his tone gentle and commanding.

  She went to stand before his sofa. He rose to his feet. Looking down at her, he brushed a stray tendril of hair over her shoulder.

  “What does your body desire most, Miss Herwood?” he asked.

  You. At that moment, she realized that she had never desired a man as much as she did then. The embers from his recent caresses were quick to burn anew.

  “My lord?”

  “What brings you the greatest pleasure?” He slid the back of his forefinger down her neck and along her collarbone.

  “Having a romp at the tables against haughty noblemen.”

  He circled his arm around her waist and jerked her to him. She could feel his hardened cock against her hip.

  “I promise you will enjoy having lost to me, Miss Herwood.” As he held her against him, his other hand cupped her jaw and lifted her face. “You shall not soon forget this night.”

  “And what have I done to merit such a prospect?” she asked quietly, momentarily mesmerized by the depths of his eyes. Like diamonds, they reflected an inner fire.

  His thumb passed over her mouth, tugging the bottom lip down. He grazed the tip of her tongue. She caught his thumb in her mouth and sucked. Hard.

  He groaned. Removing his thumb, he replaced it with his mouth. She could taste the coffee and, beyond that, him. His mouth covered hers, his tongue probed and coaxed. Her head was spinning, she had never experienced such a full and luscious kiss. Deeper he went but in steps that assured she could follow. Not at all like her last lover, who harkened to her mind a pet dog she once had. The dear little bitch would greet her with all tongue, lapping at her face and drowning her in slaver.

  Lord Rockwell’s kiss was consuming but purposeful. His lips led hers in a heady dance that left her breathless and wanting. His cock felt like a steel rod against her. She pressed her hips to him, the carnal yearning in her body needing to connect with his. He responded by gripping her tighter, one hand cupping a buttock so that she remained molded to him. She let out a small gasp. He dropped his head and tongued the hollow of her neck. Any lingering regrets of having lost to Lord Rockwell at the card table vanished. She wanted him to take her and satiate the burning within her. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she pulled him into her. She would be content to kiss for an eternity but for the ache building within her. Her hand slid from his neck to the slight opening of his shirt.

  Abruptly he whipped her around and pinned her backside against him. The thickness of his desire pressed against her derriere. One arm circled her chest, the other her pelvis. She could have melted into his embrace. As he rained kisses along her neck, he groped a breast, kneading the flesh through her dress. Her nipple puckered beneath his touch. She wanted his other hand to pull up her skirts as he had done and fondle once more that most sensitive of parts.

  “Select a word,” he murmured as he nipped her earlobe.

  “Pardon?”

  “A word that when uttered will halt whatever I do.”

  She pondered the reason behind the peculiar request as Rati looked down upon them through half-lidded eyes.

  “My lord?”

  He brushed aside the stray strands of hair at her nape and sucked upon her neck. “Select a word and you shall understand soon enough.”

  She noticed a faint smile upon the Hindu goddess. “Rati.”

  “I like your choice, Miss Herwood.”

  He pulled away from her. She looked at him, disappointed. Had she not complied?

  Taking her by the hand, he led across the drawing room and, pulling a key from his pocket, unlocked a door she had not noticed before.

  The room she entered was dark but for two bronze oil lamps on either side of what appeared to be a low sleeping area comprised of large plush pillows, a blood-red canopy with golden tassels and orange silk curtains. It was beautiful, fit for an Indian princess. But as she widened her view,
she saw in the corner of the room a mattress adorned with only a stark white sheet. The headboard was made of iron bars like those found in a gaol. On the wall hung more implements one might find in a gaol or medieval dungeon—crops, whips, shackles and ropes.

  “Do not fear,” Rockwell said. “All that you see is intended for your pleasure.”

  “Pleasure?” she echoed in disbelief. “Are these the teachings of Rati?”

  “No. For the sinful delights of flogging, one need look no further than Fanny Hill.”

  She flushed at the thought and began to wonder if she needed to flee.

  “I presume you have never been flogged for pleasure, Miss Herwood.”

  “I have never been flogged for pleasure or otherwise,” she protested.

  “We may or may not have the opportunity tonight.”

  Her eyes widened. “Your proposition made no mention of such…errant…”

  “You asked for no specifics.”

  “What woman of sound mind could have guessed—”

  “I stated that I would take my pleasure of you. I promise that you too will enjoy every moment.”

  He spoke without hauteur and she was tempted to believe the sincerity in his tone. Needing some distance from him to process her thoughts, she walked over to one wall and inspected a cat-o’-nine-tails. She touched the leather tails. It was real and no mere plaything.

  “You have used this on other women?” she inquired.

  He walked up behind her. She tensed. His presence alone could send her judgment scattering. Already her body responded as if being called by sirens.

  “I have,” he replied.

  “And they did not dislike it?”

  “Quite the contrary.”

  She closed her eyes at his seductive voice. She wanted to trust him.

  “Surely you can forgive my skepticism,” she resisted.

  “Have I not attended you with satisfaction?”

  He ran a finger up her bare arm and she could not quell a shiver. How had her body become so sensitized to his touch?

  “What you require is beyond the norm,” she murmured.

  He rested his hand upon her shoulder, then gently began rubbing away the tension.