Submitting to Lord Rockwell by Em Brown Page B

physiognomy
pleasing to the eye, a physique that knew few rivals, and a grace to his
movements and carriage. She had relived the kiss to her hand over and over
despite herself. The firmness, the gentleness with which he had held her hand
and the deliberateness in how he had released her made her quiver. Though not
uncomely herself, she would be as naïve as a schoolroom chit to think she was a
skirt of singular interest to him. There were rumors enough of the women he had
taken to bed, and undoubtedly others that had not risen to the level of
tittle-tattle.
    At the gaming hell, she drummed her fingers against the card
table before bolstering her courage with a third glass of burgundy. She played
a few rounds of faro, hoping that in the final minutes Lady Luck would spare
her the humiliation of prostituting herself for a mislaid wager. She had
assumed Lord Rockwell to be discreet, for she had not known him to confirm any
of his liaisons , but she had no guarantee of his confidence. Granted,
her patronage of a gaming hell had already diminished her repute, but word of
her lifting her skirts to Lord Rockwell would discharge any prospects for
matrimony—the only stable salvation for her family.
    “Your carriage awaits, Miss Herwood,” a footman informed
her.
    She retrieved her gloves and hat, pulling its veil low over
her face before she stepped into the carriage. By the time it pulled up in
front of Lord Rockwell’s Town home, the burgundy had calmed her anxiety and put
her in a more cheerful disposition. She had consumed three glasses of wine in
the past with no significant impacts. Despite his command that she arrive
sober, he would be no wiser. No doubt he differed little from others of his sex
and, after twenty minutes, she would find him spent, her obligation complete,
and herself returned home before midnight.
    Once inside, the butler offered to take her pelisse but she
declined. He showed her into the drawing room. Compared to her address, the
room was richly furnished and its décor stately but not garish. The gleam of
the wood and the shine of the upholstery indicated the furnishings to be new or
well cared for, unlike the few pieces her family owned or borrowed. A healthy
fire kept the room warm and the candelabras on the silken walls gave it light.
A small elephant carved from ivory caught her eye. She picked it up from the
end table and admired the detailing and its two ruby eyes.
    “Do sit, Miss Herwood.”
    She bobbled the figurine before clutching it tightly to her
chest to keep it from falling. She turned in the direction of the rich tenor.
    Lord Rockwell stood at the threshold, appearing as dapper in
his banyan as he did in full dress. Quickly she returned the elephant to its
home. The thought that she had nearly dropped what was no doubt an expensive
item made her tremble. God knew what she would owe him then.
    “Two and twenty thousand rupees,” he answered as if she had
asked the price. “It belonged to a Hindu rajah.”
    “It’s beautiful,” she murmured.
    “Sit, Miss Herwood.”
    His imperial tone contrasted with the more courteous manners
he exhibited at the gaming hell. Perhaps he fancied himself a rajah in his own
abode. Though tempted to defy him, she sat down upon a settee, noting that tea
had been set upon the table before it. He sat opposite her and poured her a
cup, which she accepted gratefully, for she would not know what to do with her
hands otherwise. She took a sip of the fragrant Darjeeling, ignoring his
penetrating gaze.
    “You’re inebriated,” he stated with a frown.
    Damn. How the bloody hell did he discern that? Caught, she opted to mask her embarrassment with childish insolence.
    “I had myself a glass,” she admitted with a dismissive
shrug, avoiding his stare by focusing on her tea. “I am no child, Lord
Rockwell, and you are not my guardian.”
    “Indeed. If I were, you would certainly not be spending your
time in a gaming hell.”
    “And if I were yours, you would