Submitting to His Lordship Page 7

  Miss Herwood presented a fetching picture in her riding habit. Though he had found her compelling despite her ordinary garments before, the proper attire could make a difference. Bhadra had even done her hair in more becoming fashion, pinning part of it atop her head and leaving the rest in perfect coils at her neck.

  He extended an arm. “Madame Follet requests your audience.”

  The hostess was found lounging upon her patio, partaking of grapes, like an image of Dionysius, a copy of the Lady’s Magazine upon her lap. Despite her years, Marguerite had a youthful glow and her complexion seemed to have found the fountain of youth—or at least a very convincing pomade.

  “Welcome, my dear,” she greeted Miss Herwood warmly. “I hope you found your first night comfortable?”

  “I did, thank you,” Miss Herwood replied. “Bhadra has been quite helpful and attentive.”

  Marguerite looked at Halsten. “Bhadra has been a wonderful addition to the staff. How long do you intend to stay?”

  “Three nights,” Halsten replied.

  “In the West Wing? Or do you plan to venture into the East?”

  He could feel Miss Herwood’s inquisitive gaze. “The West Wing.”

  Marguerite turned back to Miss Herwood. “My chateau is at your disposal. If there is anything you require, do not hesitate to ask it of me. If I may be presumptuous, and I often am, you are in good hands, Miss Herwood.”

  He noticed the color intensify in Miss Herwood’s cheeks and briefly wondered if he would be able to keep his hands off of her during their excursion.

  “As it is plain you intend to go out for a ride, I will keep you no further.”

  She waved them away and went back to her magazine.

  As he escorted Miss Herwood to the stables, he knew it would not take long for her to ask, “What is the East Wing?”

  He eyed her carefully. “The activities in the East Wing are more...intense.”

  She regarded him with equal care. “How intense?”

  If he were too explicit, he might frighten her. “The guests in the East Wing have been to Chateau Follet many times.”

  She waited for more information but he did not provide it.

  “We will confine ourselves to the West Wing,” he assured her.

  She looked at him squarely. “Have you been to the East Wing, Lord Rockwell?”

  He paused. “I have.”

  “Do you prefer it?”

  “At times,” he replied candidly, “depending upon the company.”

  To his relief, she changed the subject. “Madame Follet seems a lovely hostess.”

  “Did you expect otherwise?”

  “In truth I had no specific expectations, but in what manner was her husband acquainted with the Marquis de Sade?”

  Perhaps he should never have made mention of de Sade. What righteous young woman would not be alarmed by that name?

  “They were imprisoned in the Château de Vincennes at the same time, both under a lettre de cachet. Their fellow prisoner included the Comte de Mirabeau.”

  “Was Monsieur Follet a writer of erotic works as well?”

  “In truth, he wrote political essays, but his letter de cachet was the result of an affair with the wife of an influential Marquis, who claimed Follet had attempted to abduct his wife. Follet said the kidnapping was consensual, a form of titillation, and that he was liberating her from an abusive husband. She took her own life shortly after Follet was imprisoned.”

  “How very sad. Did you know Monsieur Follet well?”

  “He passed some years ago. I am better acquainted with Madame Follet.”

  He could discern her thoughts: she wondered if he and Madame Follet had been intimate. He would not have abhorred any feelings of jealousy from her, but while he could often read her mind, he was far from certain as to how Miss Herwood truly felt about him.

  “She is very comely,” Miss Herwood said. “I wonder that she has not married again?”

  “I know not her interest in matrimony, but she has not had a shortage of lovers.”

  She turned her clear eyes upon him, her gaze asking, “Are you one of them?”

  They had arrived at the stables. Two horses had been saddled, one of them carrying the picnic. He assisted Miss Herwood onto the chestnut while he took the grey. The afternoon proved temperate and their ride a pleasant one as they took the horses over rolling hills and across green fields. They found a flat area above one of the hills and set up their picnic.

  “What a lovely landscape,” she murmured as she looked out at Chateau Follet in the distance. The fresh air and minor breeze agreed with Miss Herwood.

  After setting out the bread, cheeses, and sweetmeats, he poured two glasses of wine.

  “I am allowed?” she asked wryly.

  “I have no intentions to ravish you.”

  “Why not?”

  Her forwardness had him taken aback. He handed her a glass of the wine to provide himself a second to recover. The pulse in his cock throbbed. “Are you trying to tempt me, Miss Herwood?”

  She took a sip of the wine. “And if I were?”

  He did not expect but was certainly not displeased by her show of shamelessness for it proved she felt enough at ease with him.

  “I have no reservations of baring your arse out here.”

  She quickly partook of the sweetmeats as if they could provide her a protective barrier. “Is this all part of your seduction?”

  “You propositioned me, Miss Herwood,” he reminded her.

  “And you did not require much seducing.”

  “I did not,” he acknowledged.

  “Why?”

  Her simply query was not an attempt to fish for compliments, as Miss Walpole would have done. Miss Herwood seemed genuinely mystified. He watched as she nibbled on the food, waiting patiently for his answer.

  “Or is it any skirt would do for you?” she prompted.

  “I sensed in you a spirit of adventure. Have I not alluded to this before?”

  “And what, pray tell, did you find in me that would suggest I liked my arse whipped by an overbearing baron?”

  He grinned. There were many women he found more attractive the less they spoke, but he enjoyed the repartee with Miss Herwood. “In truth, it was a wild gamble. But one that has paid off, has it not?”

  She blushed. He liked the rosiness in her countenance. Liked that it owed its appearance to him.

  She lowered her gaze. “I have astounded myself, to say the least.”

  He covered her hand with his, an instinctual move and not one he necessarily intended. “Do not be ashamed.”

  She gazed at his hand upon hers. “I am not as ‘practiced,’ shall we say, as you.”

  Retracting his hand, he helped himself to the bread. “And you have shown fortitude and adeptness despite your inexperience.”

  “How did...it start for you?”

  Vivid images danced in his mind. Silhouettes of a man and a woman behind beaded curtains.

  “It began in a bagnio in Bombay,” he related. “A Japanese sailor, Hideo, used to frequent the same. I witnessed what he did with his strumpet and how she seemed to enjoy it. She seemed happiest when he arrived and so very sullen when he departed. I began experimenting, but my hand was awkward. Hideo came upon me and the poor kanya that was my subject at the time and took it upon himself to learn me the proper skills, the most important of which is developing an acute sense of what one’s partner is feeling.”

  He eyed her carefully but saw no judgment in her reaction.

  “Do you find many women receptive to your predilections?” she asked.

  “You think me a rakehell.”

  She said nothing.

  “I was, of sorts, in my younger days in India,” he admitted. “But despite what you may think now, I do not often take women to bed.”

  “You are not a frequent guest of Madame Follet?”

  “Has Bhadra not informed you it has been some time since last I was here?”


  Her mouth fell open that he knew of their conversation. Of course he had not wasted a moment that first night before mining Bhadra for all the information she could offer on Miss Herwood.

  “How did Bhadra come to England?”

  Ah, she wanted to know his relation to the maid. But he did not mind her inquisition, though he usually had little patience for prying questions, even from Lucille, who seemed to produce a great many.

  “I brought her here,” he replied. “Her mother was my amah. Bhadra had been married less than a sixmonth when her husband died. His family wanted her to commit sati.”

  At her quizzical glance, he explained, “It is a practice wherein the widow immolates herself upon her husband’s funeral pyre.”

  She put her hand to her mouth.

  “My amah begged me to save her daughter.”

  The look in her eyes had softened as she beheld him.

  “Do not think me a hero, Miss Herwood. I do not go about the Indian countryside rescuing damsels from sati.”

  “How is this sati permissible?”

  His jaw tightened. “The Dutch and French, and the Portuguese before them, had banned the practice in their territories. But the Honourable East India Company has not seen fit to follow suit—yet. There are efforts underway to pressure the Company to ban the act.”

  She shook her head. “As you said once before, there is much one could disdain of India—as with any country, I imagine, for surely we have practices considered barbaric to others. Still, I would be no less curious to visit her.”

  Still appraising her, he stretched his long legs out before him and leaned back against his elbow. “Most women would aspire to riches, love, or beauty. You dream of traveling to India?”

  “When I was small, my father had a client who spent time in India. The gentleman gifted me a small tapestry. It was of a little Indian girl beside a peacock and lagoon. It was a most remarkable picture.”

  “The reality of India is harsher than your vision.”

  “No doubt. I cannot fathom this horror called sati. Poor Bhadra. You will forgive me, I hope, when I say I find it rather dishonorable that the Company has not outlawed the practice.”

  “Is it the place of the Company to interfere with native practices?”

  “With governance comes responsibility.”

  “It is not so simple.”

  Her eyes flared. “Are you defending—you would allow the practice of sati?”

  Her anger made her oddly appealing, and he could not resist fanning the flames a little. “There is much at stake. The Company is better off not increasing tensions with the Indians.”

  “I see. Greed trumps duty to your fellow man.”

  “And if we began imposing our traditions, enforcing British customs, you would as easily accuse us of being superior and overbearing.”

  She folded her arms. “Too late for that. You have earned those epithets already.”

  He suppressed a grin. The blood in his groin had already warmed during the previous topic. Now his cock was at stiff attention.

  “Come hither, Miss Herwood.”

  Chapter Eight

  STILL CONTEMPLATING HIS DIRECTIVE, Miss Herwood made no move. Halsten could tell she was still vexed with him.

  “For what purpose?” she asked.

  “The purpose matters not,” he replied. “It suits me to have you come here.”

  “Are you unable to bear a little criticism of your precious Company?”

  He helped himself to the strawberries to improve his patience and resist reaching over the food and wine to manhandle her. “Not at all, and it is not my Company.”

  “Are you not a shareholder?”

  “One of many.”

  “I understand your family to have been quite involved with the Company.”

  She seemed proud to demonstrate that she, like he, could acquire knowledge of the other party.

  “The third Baron Rockwell helped to set up the trading posts and factory in Surat nearly two hundred years ago,” he acknowledged.

  “You cannot abdicate responsibility simply because you are ‘one of many.’”

  He had humored her detour long enough. “Were you a troublesome little girl, Miss Herwood? You seem unable to obey orders.”

  She, too, turned to the strawberries for distraction. “Particularly from men who presume to play the role of guardian.”

  “Dominant,” he corrected. “And a few well-administered punishments, I think, would do much to rectify your defiance.”

  She squirmed and picked the greenery off the tops of the strawberries. “If you have such a penchant for being the disciplinarian, might I suggest you find a wife and have yourself a gaggle of children to tyrannize?”

  Overseeing Lucille was sufficient for the time being, but he kept that thought to himself. “Superior, overbearing, tyranny. Are there other appellations you wish to direct at me?”

  “How much time have we?” she threw back at him.

  Reaching over, he grasped her wrist and pulled her to him. “What does it say of you, Miss Herwood, that you would still consort—that you would still desire my touch?”

  He saw her bosom rise with extended breath. She blinked against his gaze, then pulled herself from his grip.

  “Contrary to what you wish to think, Lord Rockwell, I do not pine and burn at all times for your touch.”

  He raised his brows, intrigued by the challenge. “Prove it.”

  * * * * *

  Deana felt her mouth go dry despite the moist berry she had stuffed in it. She should have known she was playing with fire when it came to this man. She had no wish to go near him, but if she did not please him, he might call an end to their sojourn at the Chateau Follet and she would lose the opportunity to earn the remainder of the funds she required. What a situation she had placed herself in! She had not been four and twenty hours at the Chateau and was now facing her second ‘punishment.’

  She considered renewing their debate about the Company, but he was not likely to take the bait a second time. Indeed, she suspected he had only humored her the first time. The thought perturbed her. He could afford to humor her, as he could afford many things. She did not often bemoan the difficulties in her life—her mother and aunt did enough lamenting for them all—but she could not ignore the inequity between her situation and that of Lord Rockwell. Did he deserve his place in the world more than she? If she were in his place, she would not allow the Company to turn a blind eye to the practice of sati. How could he have the valiance to rescue Bhadra but take no action to save others from certain death? She encouraged the line of thought for it made her cross with him, and her vexation could serve as armor.

  “If you will not take my word for it,” she replied, “then that is the end of the matter.”

  “Hardly.”

  His impassiveness was maddening. She finished off her wine to indicate the picnic was at an end.

  “I have no desire to prove anything to you, Lord Rockwell.”

  “You have no wish to be gainsaid.”

  “Resorting to childish taunts will not abet you in accomplishing your objective.”

  He raised his brows once more. “M’lady has a tart mouth.” He lowered his voice. “I can think of a better use for that mouth.”

  His response had her rattled. What did he mean by that? To which she answered herself, Best not to ask. It was not like her to be so provoking. She had encountered men far more difficult than he at the gaming hell and thus had no explanation at hand for why Lord Rockwell could incite her with such ease.

  Laying back, he crossed his hands behind his head. “I have no interest in coming to get you, Miss Herwood. Simply know that the longer I wait, the greater the punishment.”

  “What sort of...punishment?”

  “I have a number of delectable options to choose from, but I think I should like the punishment to fit the crime.”

  She fidgeted with her now empty glass while stewing upon his latest statement. It was beco
ming clear that she had few choices here at the Chateau—of her own devising. Perhaps if she had been more creative, she would not have had to turn to Lord Rockwell for her salvation. Alas, there was little to be gained from crying over spilt milk. She had made her bed and should see it to its end.

  Without word, she rose and resettled herself on his side of the picnic rug. He turned to his side and fixed his gaze upon her like a predator that had its prey cornered. Her pulse quickened.

  “Satisfied?”

  “Partly,” he murmured. “Unbutton your riding habit.”

  Dread and a dash of excitement filled her to the quick. “Now? Out here? But we could be seen.”

  “So be it.”

  He must have noticed her pale for he added, “Do you see a soul beside the birds in the trees?”

  “Not at present.”

  “I had not thought to begin your punishment out here, but the riding crop is easily within reach.”

  She bit back an oath and reached for the buttons, which she undid one by one with great reluctance. Perhaps the appearance of another person would prove advantageous. Surely he would not have her continue with another present—or would he?

  “If anyone were to come upon us,” he said, “it would most likely be a guest at Chateau Follet. And chances are they will have witnessed far greater acts of lewdness.”

  She thought of the East Wing and wondered if the guests there would be fine with what they did. Did those individuals have no shame? And he one of them, she reminded herself. Of course it were easier for him for it had always been her in a state of undress.

  The wicked gleam in his eyes made her heart pound. Under his intense stare, she slid her arms from the jacket. She would do no more unless directed. He regarded her from the top down, and despite her discomfort, she felt herself growing warm about her groin. How was it she could be mortified and aroused at the same time?

  He moved to sit behind her and brushed her curls off the back of her neck. Gently he pressed his lips to the exposed area. Her skin tingled where he caressed. Oh dear, this did not bode well.