Debauchery: Starter Set

Debauchery: Starter Set

EM BROWN

Published by EM BROWN, 2019.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Debauchery: Starter Set

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Lord Rockwell: Chapter One

Lord Rockwell: Chapter Two

Lord Rockwell: Chapter Three

The Rake: Chapter One

The Rake: Chapter Two

The Rake: Chapter Three

DEBAUCHERY: THE BARON

The Baron: Chapter One

The Baron: Chapter Two

The Baron: Chapter Three

The Baron: Chapter Four

The Baron: Chapter Five

A GENTLE WARNING

THESE STORIES CONTAIN BDSM elements, themes of submission and dominance, and many other forms of wicked wantonness.

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SUBMITTING TO LORD ROCKWELL

Lord Rockwell: Chapter One

DEANA COULD MUSTER NO OATH strong enough to reflect the dismay she felt when Lord Halsten Rockwell revealed his ace and queen. She glanced at her own cards, a king and a ten, to ascertain she had indeed lost. How was it possible? Rockwell had been losing all night.

You owe me fifty pounds, Miss Herwood, Lord Rockwell stated placidly as he collected the winnings in the middle of the table. It included a chit signed in her own hand.

She suppressed a glower, for she would not be dubbed bitter in defeat. It was evident from his immaculate dress—a perfectly tied cravat, a waistcoat sewn from the finest silk and a coat cut to fit his broad shoulders in tight embrace—that Rockwell had not her situation and was not in dire need of funds. She watched him replace a beautiful onyx ring upon his hand and found herself regarding his rugged fingers. She had never before paid much heed to a man’s hand—or a woman’s for that matter—but his conveyed strength, agility and even gentleness.

Dismissing the odd warmth that flared in her of a sudden, she glanced about the gaming hell for someone she might harry to lend her fifty quid. But the hour was late, the patrons at her table had left half an hour ago, and many of those remaining had debts themselves to pay. If only she had quit while ahead, but she had derived too much satisfaction from besting a man who possessed all that she did not—wealth, refined features and a quiet assurance that bordered on arrogance.

I will repay you from my next winnings, she informed Rockwell.

I have a better repayment option for you, Miss Herwood.

She raised her brows and waited patiently as he returned his purse to his coat. He looked across the card table at her. His dark-brown eyes reflected either the light of the candelabras or some inner merriment. His stare unsettled her, but not as much as what he said next.

I would have you in my bed, Miss Herwood. For one night, I will take my pleasure of you, after which, your debt to me will be acquitted in its entirety.

You would make of me a whore? she asked when she had collected her wits and realized that he did not speak in jest. No one would mistake her family for members of the ton, but neither did her status merit such an affront.

Let us have no pretentions, Miss Herwood. You relinquished your maidenhead years ago.

Her cheeks—nay, her entire countenance—flushed to know that he was privy to such confidence. Younger and more impulsive, she had surrendered her maidenhead to a man she thought would care for her. A colonel in His Majesty’s Army, he was called to service before their affair could blossom into anything of consequence. Having lost her honor, she saw no reason subsequently not to indulge in the occasional affair, but she had always proceeded with great discretion. Her family had already suffered a fall from grace when she became a regular at the gaming hell, and she would not worsen the situation with more scandal.

Holding his gaze, she replied, You overestimate the appeal of your company, Lord Rockwell. I would sooner double my obligation.

Suit yourself, he said with dispassion and rose to his feet.

She considered how many hands of vingt-et-un she would have to win to secure fifty pounds and the litany of woes she would hear from her mother and aunt should she fail to bring home any income. They were a household of women since her father passed away, and the want of a man was never more palpable than now. If she could erase a debt of fifty pounds through one act—one night—might she be a fool to pass upon such an opportunity? As Lord Rockwell’s barefaced assertion indicated, she no longer had any claim to a maiden’s honor.

But what did she know of the man? Very little. He was not a frequent patron of her gaming hell. They had perhaps shared a card table once before; he had not taken much notice of her then. She, however, had not overlooked his presence, nor the women who threw themselves his way.

He possessed a countenance she would have enjoyed studying at length, much in the way one would admire a painting or sculpture. If he favored a lass here or there, it was difficult to ascertain, though surely no mortal could resist such attentions for long. Years ago, she had heard that banns would be read betwixt him and a Spanish princess or the daughter of a Duke or some such. Admittedly, the lack of a wedding ring was one of the first things she had noted when he sat down at her table this evening.

That he was always impeccably dressed also did not escape her, but many a man spent money he did not possess in order to maintain the appearance of wealth. She would not have allowed the wager to reach the sum of fifty pounds had she not felt assured of Lord Rockwell’s finances. Unlike others, he did not flaunt his affluence. And though down by an even grander sum at one point, he showed no apprehension at the loss. How quickly thereafter the game had betrayed her!

Regardless of what she knew or thought of the man, her situation remained. If she did not accept his proposition, she was indebted to him for a significant amount of money. His demeanor suggested if she rebuffed him tonight, he would not necessarily renew his proposal.

Pray, wait.

Lord Rockwell paused and looked down at her.

I accept your offer, she informed him with eyes downcast. Honor or no, she could not look at him.

He inclined his head. You honor me, Miss Herwood.

What a ridiculous statement, she thought, as if she had accepted an invitation for a ride in the park with him.

There are rooms here reserved for more, er, amorous pursuits. Shall we retire to one of them? she inquired, meeting his gaze this time, then wishing she hadn’t. The contrast of dark intensity with the glimmer of light in his eyes disconcerted her.

That won’t do. The accommodations here are hardly adequate, he replied. My carriage shall meet you here two nights hence. The wait will deepen the anticipation.

Anticipation? His or hers? Perhaps his self-assurance was arrogance after all.

My only request, he continued with a stern tone, is that you do not arrive inebriated.

Again, she reddened. She was known to have had a glass too many on occasion, but how did this man whom she barely knew acquire such knowledge of her? And why should it matter to him what state she was in? Lest he was expecting her to perform certain acts upon him? The thought made her blush deeper.

His features softened as he lifted her hand to his lips. "Au revoir."

As she watched him depart, she began to regret her decision, for she could not attribute to indignation alone the warmth she felt spreading throughout her.

ARE YOU HEADED TO THAT gaming hell again? her aunt queried as Deana finished her supper and prepared to leave the table. You’ll never find a husband if you waste your hours there in the company of cads and rogues.

Leave her be, her mother responded. We can ill afford her not to go. It were not as if she had any marital prospects to entertain.

On that merry note, Deana ascended the stairs to her bedroom. Had she known her father would pass from an untimely failure of the heart, she would have sought matrimony earlier. While he had earned a decent income as a barrister, they had over time eaten into what savings they had, including funds intended as her dowry. If it were not for a flair and more luck than not at the card tables, she knew not how they would have fared. She had to acquit herself of her debt to Lord Rockwell or her hours at the gambling hall would be long indeed.

Struggling with her attire, she settled first on her plainest muslin, but vanity, and perhaps a subtle desire to please Lord Rockwell, led her to a simple but elegant gown of batiste. She could not deny a part of her was flattered that he wished to bed her. He had a 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