Submitting to His Lordship (9 page)

After what felt like a long time, she pried open an eye and dared to gaze at Lord Rockwell.

Chapter Seven

DESPITE THE MOLTEN LOOK in his eyes, Rockwell showed no evidence of being affected by what transpired. Deana’s gaze fell to his crotch and the bulge there. Well, perhaps not wholly unaffected. She marveled at his poise. Surely it was uncommon for a man to show more restraint than the fair sex in carnal matters? Her lack of control over her own wayward body surprised her, and yet the self-indulgence provided a most liberating feeling.

“What now, your lordship, now that you have had your way with me?” she asked.

He unrolled his sleeves and buttoned the cuffs. “Bhadra will see that you are properly dressed for our ride and picnic.”

Deana found herself chagrined by his placid demeanor. It seemed unfair that she should have been in such a state of discomposure, giving in to her basest needs, while he chose to proceed with a bloody picnic. Why would he not take her? Had he no wish to? Had she dissatisfied him in some way? She watched him retrieve his coat, studying him for signs that he might be flustered in the slightest. Her body could not have asked for a more satisfying and exquisite conclusion, yet she now felt vaguely unfulfilled.

Returning to her, he assisted her to her feet and kissed her lightly upon the hand. A shiver went through her. The simplest touch from him had such an effect upon her.

“I shall return in an hour’s time,” he informed her before walking towards the door. He paused at the threshold and looked at the crop in his hand. A devilish glimmer flashed in his eyes. “I’ve a mind not to clean it.”

Her cheeks heated. With some relief she watched him take his leave. She had much to digest. The fresh air would suit her. Yes, she looked forward to engaging in normal activities with Lord Rockwell. She pulled the blouse back over her breast and was picking up the sari just as Bhadra returned. Flushing, she covered herself with the fabric.

“I’ve an ointment for m’lady,” Bhadra said as if nothing were amiss.

The maid turned Deana around and began applying the salve upon her derriere. Deana flinched, mostly in embarrassment.

“It be only a balm of witch hazel and aloe.”

Deana noted the markings upon her arse apparently did not surprise the maid. Indeed, how had Bhadra been prepared with the ointment? Her cheeks colored to think that the maid had heard through the door what had happened or had been told by Rockwell himself. She wanted to ask Bhadra but was too mortified. In silence, she allowed Bhadra to remove the beautiful jewelry, which she placed carefully back in its case. Traditional petticoats and an English riding habit, an elegant green wool challis with velvet collars, complete with a Shako hat were produced.

“Whose garments are these?” Deana asked.

“A cousin of the late Monsieur Follet. She went into the nunnery. You and she are near identical in size. Lord Rockwell has a discerning eye.”

Deana looked at Bhadra. “Have you been acquainted with his lordship long?”

“For some years.”

“Have you always been at the Chateau Follet?”

“No.”

She felt she would appear prying if she asked too many more questions, so she allowed the maid to finish the toilette in silence.

After the soft and loose sari, the stays and chemisette were an unwelcome change, but seeing herself in the mirror, Deana had to admit the ensemble looked quite smart. She thanked Bhadra and awaited the return of Lord Rockwell.

* * * * *

Halsten grunted as his seed poured from his cock into his hand. He shook his head and leaned back into the armchair. Not what he truly desired but at least the tension would be relieved for a time. Nothing less than her cunnie would ultimately satisfy, and he had been tempted from the moment he entered her room and saw her wrapped in the sensuous fabric of the sari. The jewelry had enhanced every part it touched—her brow, her neck, her ears, the top of her hand, her long, slender middle finger. If he dressed her again with the baubles, he would kiss each spot before it became bejeweled. Of course the jewelry looked most beguiling when she had little else on. His cock twitched at the vision of her naked arse. How beautifully the marks of the crop had adorned those full and sumptuous cheeks. But he had withheld himself for he wanted the focus to be on her pleasure. His time would come soon enough.

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.”