Submitting to His Lordship (17 page)

He frowned. “I would you retain your honor until wed.”

“My cousin informed me that losing one’s maidenhead is quite pleasurable.”

“I would be cautious with your cousin’s advice. You are the daughter of a duke. Surely you are aware of the consequences. You have a responsibility—”

“I did not ask to be the daughter of a Duke.”

“Isabella, stop being childish. You have no wish to be otherwise.”

“Perhaps I do! Perhaps I would rather be Miss Sherwood!”

He wanted to bark at her to stop mentioning Miss Herwood. He rose to his feet in exasperation.

“If you’ve a desire to forfeit your maidenhead,” he tried, “you could find someone more deserving than Lord Devon.”

“Why have you such a loathing for the man?”

“He is no gentleman.”

“Hah! But
you
are?”

“He cares only for his own pleasure.”

“You do not give him enough credit. He has been quite considerate to me. Indeed, he admits his rakish behavior. But he says I am quite different from the others he has been with.”

“His charms can be quite persuasive but do not be taken by such flattery.”

“I have no reason to think him insincere.”

It was all he could do not to roll his eyes. The conversation was not having the desired intent. He had hoped to convince her to leave Chateau Follet as soon as possible, but Isabella could not be reasoned with. He would have to pursue his other strategy.

* * * * *

“Riding with Lord Devon and Lady Isabella?” Deana echoed.

Bhadra was already laying out the riding clothes for her. “His lordship will be waiting downstairs.”

“I suppose I mustn’t keep him waiting,” Deana sighed. She had wanted to go riding again but not with additional company.

Bhadra seemed to take extra pains with the toilette, pinning the hat multiple times to ensure it was in its proper place.

“Thank you,” she said to Bhadra. Perhaps her smart attire would mask her lack of skill in riding.

Perhaps.

As handsome as she may have appeared, she could not compare to Isabella, who looked stunning in her plumed hat and fitted nankeen habit with frog and braided ornaments.

“Miss Sherwood, how delightful that you and Rockwell could accompany us,” Lord Devon greeted, bowing over her gloved hand.

Deana could sense the Baron tensing. If he did not like Lord Devon, why agree to go riding with them? The answer was, of course, obvious. Whatever distaste he had for Lord Devon was trumped by Lady Isabella.

The weather was agreeable as they took their horses out. They rode a different route than the day before. Deana was not entirely comfortable riding, but fortunately the terrain they traversed was fairly easy. She envied the men for they seemed much more stable riding their horses astride. At one point their path narrowed and she found herself alongside Lord Devon with Rockwell and Lady Isabella in front of them. Lord Devon had been extolling the fox hunting about Chateau Follet and was his usual cheerful self.

They came upon a clearing and decided to set up a picnic beneath the shade of a tree. The men spread the blanket. Deana busied herself with unpacking the wine glasses, fruits and cheese, conscious of Lady Isabella’s study of her all the while. At one point she returned the woman’s gaze and smiled. Isabella looked away.

“I’ve brought a little reading,” Devon announced, eyes shining. “From the Follet library, a rare copy from Holland,
Justine ou Les Malheurs de la vertu
.”

Deana noted the frown upon Rockwell’s countenance.

“By that fellow the Marquis de Sade?” Isabella inquired.

Devon waved the book. “The very one.”

“How scandalous!”

“Perhaps we ought to take turns reading from it. Miss Sherwood, would you do us the honor of being first?”

He handed her the book, which she opened to an engraving of a young woman, scantily dressed, between a naked man and a woman who seemed bent on ill will. Deana frowned at the title page. Her French was very poor. She would be hard pressed to read even the shortest passage.

“This is highly inappropriate,” Rockwell said.

“Inappropriate?” Devon echoed. “There could be no setting more appropriate than the Chateau Follet. You are aware of Monsieur Follet’s association with de Sade?”

“The work of de Sade is not suited for the present company.”

Isabella, amused by Rockwell’s seriousness added, “La! Pray tell you have not become a prudish old woman, Halsten?”

“I am sure Miss Sherwood has never read the work of de Sade. Are you not the least bit interested, Miss Sherwood?” asked Devon.

Deana looked down at the book and admitted, despite the solemn look from Rockwell, “A little.”

“I have not read from him either,” Isabella said.

“There! We ought not deprive these ladies,” Devon declared.

Rockwell took the book away from Deana. “There are descriptions in here of a graphic nature and obscenities most foul—”

“The same are conducted within the very walls of Chateau Follet. I think you have been absent from the East Wing for too long. What is the harm in a little literary titillation?”

“You may find the rape and torture of a girl but twelve years of age titillating, but I do not.”

“Ah! You know the story! Do you dare admit you have read it?”

“I have read it in its entirety. De Sade’s intent to provoke and revolt is accomplished to great effect.”

“I refuse to believe you found no erotic qualities to the work.”

“Lord Devon, there is a great difference between a woman who takes pleasure in punishment and one, Justine, who is subjected to the most extreme mistreatments against her will.”

“It is merely a work of fiction.”

“Come, Halsten, we are not children,” Isabella said.

“Perhaps we can discuss the merits of the novel
after
reading from it.”

“The two of you may do so,” Rockwell replied, “but Miss Sherwood and I will not be joining. If naughty literature is what you seek, I would sooner read from
Fanny Hill
.”

“I have that as well.” Devon pulled out another book. “Miss Sherwood, I insist you be the first reader.”

Fortunately the book was written by an Englishman, John Cleland. Deana glanced at Rockwell, who seemed to relent.

“Open the book to any page,” Devon instructed before laying himself down, his head in Isabella’s lap.

Rockwell’s face darkened. Deana opened the book. Perhaps the reading would distract him from his jealousy.

“’The young gentleman, by Phoebe's guess, was about two and twenty; tall and well limbed. His body was finely formed and of a most vigorous make, square-shouldered, and broad-chested: his face was not remarkable in any way, but for a nose inclining to the Roman, eyes large, black, and sparkling, and a ruddiness in his cheeks that was the more a grace, for his complexion was of the brownest, not of that dusky dun colour which excludes the idea of freshness, but of that clear, olive gloss which, glowing with life, dazzles perhaps less than fairness, and yet pleases more, when it pleases at all. His hair, being too short to tie, fell no lower than his neck, in short easy curls; and he had a few sprigs about his paps, that garnished his chest in a style of strength and manliness.’”

“You read with a most delightful voice, Miss Sherwood,” complimented Lord Devon.

Deana continued, but felt her face redden with each word. “’Then his grand movement, which seemed to rise out of a thicket of curling hair that spread from the root all round thighs and belly up to the navel, stood stiff and upright, but of a size to frighten me, by sympathy, for the small tender part which was the object of its fury, and which now lay exposed to my fairest view; for he had, immediately on stripping off his shirt, gently pushed her down on the couch, which stood conveniently to break her willing fall. Her thighs were spread out to their utmost extension, and discovered between them the mark of the sex, the red-centered cleft of flesh, whose lips, vermilioning inwards, exprest a small rubid line in sweet miniature, such as Guido's touch of colouring could never attain to the life or delicacy of.’”

She paused. Rockwell was looking at her in interest.

“Pray, continue,” he said.

She looked at the words. She had had no idea the novel was so
explicit
.

“’Phoebe, at this gave me a gentle jog, to prepare me for a whispered question: whether I thought my little maidenhead was much less? But my attention was too much engrossed, too much enwrapped with all I saw, to be able to give her any answer.

“’By this time the young gentleman had changed her posture from lying breadth to length-wise on the couch: but her thighs were still spread, and the mark lay fair for him, who now kneeling between them, displayed to us a side-view of that fierce erect machine of his, which threatened no less than splitting the tender victim, who lay smiling at the uplifted stroke, nor seemed to decline it. He looked upon his weapon himself with some pleasure, and guiding it with his hand to the inviting slit, drew aside the lips, and lodged it, after some thrusts, which Polly seemed even to assist, about half way...’”

Her whole body felt warm with embarrassment. She glanced at Lord Devon, who wore a most pleased expression. His trousers had tented at the crotch. Deana quickly looked back at the book.

“Read it...slower,” Rockwell said.

She took in a deep breath.

“’But there it stuck, I suppose from its growing thickness: he draws it again, and just wetting it with spittle, re-enters, and with ease sheathed it now up to the hilt, at which Polly gave a deep sigh, which was quite another tone than one of pain; he thrusts, she heaves, at first gently, and in a regular cadence; but presently the transport began to be too violent to observe any order or measure; their motions were too rapid, their kisses too fierce and fervent for nature to support such fury long: both seemed to me out of themselves: their eyes darted fires: "Oh! . . . oh! . . .. I can't bear it . . . It is too much . . . I die . . . I am going . . .." were Polly's expressions of extasy: his joys were more silent; but soon broken murmurs, sighs heart-fetched, and at length a dispatching thrust, as if he would have forced himself up her body, and then motionless languor of all his limbs, all showed that the die-away moment was come upon him; which she gave signs of joining with, by the wild throwing of her hands about, closing her eyes, and giving a deep sob, in which she seemed to expire in an agony of bliss.’”

“I say!” Devon exclaimed. “You are a natural, Miss Sherwood! Such emotion! Such flare!”

Deana looked at Isabella, from her parted lips and glassy eyes, seemed to be in a daze. She looked next at Rockwell.

“I concur with Lord Devon,” he said, his stare upon her quite intense. “Well done.”

Suddenly she wished she were very much alone with him. The passage had aroused her, and she wanted the ability to express it with him.

“Lady Isabella, you’re next!” Devon said. “Though it shall be no small feat to best Miss Sherwood’s abilities.”

Her ladyship frowned at this and looked upon Deana as if she, and not Lord Devon, had made the offending statement.

“But I insist you read one of my preferred passages,” Devon said, taking the book and flipping through the pages till he found what he wanted.

Book in hand, Isabella cleared her throat.

“ ‘No sooner then was this precious substitute of my mistress's laid down, but she, who was never out of her way when any occasion of lewdness presented itself, turned to me, embraced and kissed me with great eagerness. This was new, this was odd; but imputing it to nothing but pure kindness, which, for aught I knew, it might be the London way to express in that manner, I was determined not to be behind hand with her, and returned her the kiss and embrace, with all the fervor that perfect innocence knew.

“’Encouraged by this, her hands became extremely free, and wandered over my whole body, with touches, squeezes, pressures, that rather warmed and surprised me with their novelty, than they either shocked or alarmed me.

“’The flattering praises she intermingled with these invasions, contributed also not a little to bribe my passiveness; and, knowing no ill, I feared none, especially from one who had prevented all doubt of her womanhood by conducting my hands to a pair of breasts that hung loosely down, in a size and volume that full sufficiently distinguished her sex, to me at least, who had never made any other comparison ...’”

In her attempt to outdo her predecessor, Isabella tended toward the dramatic. Her voice was sultry, but she read with such exaggerated emphasis that her performance overpowered the words.

“’I lay then all tame and passive as she could wish, whilst her freedom raised no other emotions but those of a strange, and, till then, unfelt pleasure. Every part of me was open and exposed to the licentious courses of her hands, which, like a lambent fire, ran over my whole body, and thawed all coldness as they went.

“’My breasts, if it is not too bold a figure to call so two hard, firm, rising hillocks, that just began to show themselves, or signify anything to the touch, employed and amused her hands a-while, till, slipping down lower, over a smooth track, she could just feel the soft silky down that had but a few months before put forth and garnished the mount-pleasant of those parts, and promised to spread a grateful shelter over the seat of the most exquisite sensation, and which had been, till that instant, the seat of the most insensible innocence. Her fingers played and strove to twine in the young tendrils of that moss, which nature has contrived at once for use and ornament.