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Her aunt approached. “What are we to do?”
“I am to see a distant relation,” Deana replied, “one that father helped in a significant way years go. I understand he is now a man of some means and intend to call upon him tomorrow.”
“Who is this relation?”
“He lives in the country. I must prepare that I can travel as soon as possible.”
Lydia nodded, perhaps accepting the lie easily for the truth might have depressed her. Deana turned quickly to avoid further questioning and headed into her own room. For the health of her mother, she had no option but to follow through with her plan. She had to tolerate the queasiness, ignore the doubts, and bear the consequences. Her destination, or perhaps her destiny, was clear.
She pulled the portmanteau from under her bed and began to pack for her journey to Chateau Follet.
* * * * *
The carriage Lord Rockwell had provided her pulled up before a posting inn just outside of London. The footman assisted her from the vehicle. Deana could not help but wonder how many women the man must have performed a similar service for. Did the Baron invite many women to the Chateau Follet?
What did that matter? she chided herself.
Expecting her, the innkeeper showed her to a private room where a marvelous repast of cheese, bread, ham, meatpie, cooked apples, tea, and burgundy had been spread upon the table.
“His Lordship desires that you not wait for him,” the innkeeper told her, “but to partake as much as you please.”
Too nervous to eat earlier, Deana now found herself famished. As soon as the innkeeper left the room, she removed her bonnet, broke off a piece of bread and stuffed it into her mouth. She looked at the tempting bottle of burgundy. Rockwell would surely scold her if she poured herself a glass. Well, she intended to keep her wits about her at this Chateau Follet. She spooned a hefty serving of the cooked apples onto her plate and speared a slice of ham with her fork. The food tasted delicious.
“I’m pleased to see you have an appetite.”
She looked up to see the tall form of Lord Rockwell at the threshold. Having just taken a large bite of cheese with bread, she could not respond. She could only marvel at how rugged he looked in his riding clothes. His polished boots, slim-cut coat and extremely tight buckskin breeches showed off an impressive physique. She swallowed the food. Perhaps she would require the burgundy after all.
“Miss Herwood,” he said, bowing over her hand.
He seemed in a more jocular mood than usual. She felt more at ease.
After handing his crop, hat and gloves to the innkeeper, he took a seat at the table. “The courier informed me the advance had been received?”
“Yes, thank you. Your instructions were fairly minimal.”
He poured two glasses of the burgundy. “Why trouble you with more than you need to know?”
She stared at the glass he offered.
“In moderation,” he explained.
She accepted the glass. “Am I to expect that you shall dictate the amount of wine I may consume?”
“Precisely.”
His answer startled her for she had meant her question rhetorically. She recall
ed his statement about obeying commands.
Casually he crossed one leg over the other. Once again he seemed to read her mind. “The rules at Chateau Follet are simple. Please me and you shall be rewarded. Do not and you shall be punished.”
She took a deep breath as his statements sank in. “And how would I please you?”
“By following my orders at all times.”
“I am to be your servant.”
He frowned. “No. The term is submissive. The one who gives the commands is deemed a dominant. My demands shall not include those that I would request of a valet or maidservant unless I deem it appropriate.”
