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She would have, but she needed no reminders of him. “Our arrangement was for a hundred pounds. I require—nor wish for—anything more.”
To her surprise, he appeared rather hurt.
“Your generosity, Lord Rockwell, is beyond the pale. You have done enough for me, and I
have enjoyed my stay here beyond expectation.”
Her words seemed to cheer him. He brought her hand to his lips. “Miss Herwood, you are a woman of great exception.”
She smiled. He stared at her intensely. She withdrew her hand.
“I should prepare my valise,” she said, hoping he would leave before her composure diminished.
“Of course.”
He bowed and took his leave. Deana stared at the closed door for several minutes.
Oh dear. She missed him already.
* * * * *
Her time with Lord Rockwell had been short but intense. And as the carriage pulled away from Chateau Follet, Deana willed herself not to be sentimental.
Bhadra was uncommonly talkative, and Deana wondered if Rockwell had instructed the maid to lighten the dullness of the ride back to town. But no one could replace the company of Lord Rockwell. Memories of her time with him kept assaulting her mind—his caresses of her in the beautiful sari, the gallop on horseback, being trussed up to the bed as he ‘punished’ her, their tête-à-tête along the stream, the paddle against her arse, and the feel of him inside of her as her body came undone. She would not soon forget him.
Chapter Seventeen
TO ISABELLA’S APPARENT DISAPPOINTMENT, Halsten insisted on riding alongside the carriage for most of the way to Trent. Toward evening, he rode ahead and found a posting inn to stay at for the night.
During their dinner at the inn, Isabella prattled on about various people they knew. “Elizabeth Marley is being courted by James Thomas, of all people. She was partial to Harry, but he had his eye on that American heiress. You remember her? She had such a dark complexion. I wonder that they do not care as much for their features there?”
Halsten had no interest in conversing and idly wondered if this was what a marriage to Isabella would be like. She seemed interested that he renew his hand, and perhaps now that Miss Herwood was out of his life, he should buckle down and be done with marriage.
But, ah, Miss Herwood. What would it be like to be married to her? Would he be able to stay himself from fucking her all day long? There was so much more he could do with her. To her. His cock stiffened at the thought.
“Traveling can be dreadfully dull,” Isabella said. “Perhaps we can amuse ourselves with a game of cards after dinner?”
“We’ve a long day’s journey ahead,” Halsten responded. “An early bedtime would be best.”
He wanted nothing more than to kick off his boots in the privacy of his room and jerk his cock to thoughts of Miss Herwood. He wondered if her journey had been pleasant. He had insisted on the finer of Marguerite’s carriages and that Pierre, her favorite manservant, ride alongside the driver and footman.
“Mon dieu, only the best for your Miss Sherwood,” Marguerite had remarked as she stood before her new acquisition, a statue of Eros with wings flared wide and large like the feathers of a Peacock, his body twisted so that one could observe the countenance and the curve of the buttocks.
“The artist studied with Antonio Canova,” Marguerite continued. “Is the derriere not perfection?”
She turned and eyed Halsten. “I wonder if you have not been struck by his arrow?”
“Madame?” he responded.
“My dear Rockwell, I am une femme. I sense things. While my chateau is dedicated to carnal pursuits, its walls are not impervious to more tender feelings.”
Halsten turned to the marble statue. Perhaps he had fallen in love with Miss Herwood. He was sophisticated enough to realize his passion stemmed from more than his fleshly desires for her.
He turned to Marguerite. “The arse is perfect.”
* * * * *
The knock at the door surprised Halsten just as he was about to snuff the candle. Throwing a banyan around himself, he went to answer the door.
