* * * * *
A full sennight had passed since her visit with Lord Rockwell and still her cheeks flushed when she recalled their assignation. For days she could not sit without feeling the flogger upon her arse.
Applying a balm to the affected area, he had murmured, “Well done, Miss Herwood.”
Despite having lost the wager, she had felt quite satisfied with herself. She had not required her safety word. Her body had been pushed to limits she had never thought possible. The whole experience had been unworldly.
With tenderness, he had removed her bonds and rubbed her sore arms as she lay against him, her body spent. And that too proved pleasurable. She would have been content to fall asleep in his arms but for the need to return before the household awoke. He had attended to her toilette with the air of a gentleman, notwithstanding what he had just done to her.
“I presume my debt to be disposed of?” she had inquired before departing.
His eyes had glimmered. “Indeed.”
“Then I bid you good evening—or good day, rather.”
“Good day, Miss Herwood.”
He had lifted her hand to his lips. The kiss had sent the embers of desire flaring and she would have been tempted to stay if he had asked her to.
“Oh that I could have a new ribbon for my bonnet. This one has lost its color and is more white than pink.”
Her aunt’s voice broke into her reverie.
Deana studied the petticoat she was mending for the fourth time. Perhaps she should have tried harder to win the hundred pounds from Lord Rockwell. She would not have minded another hand at cards with the man—and she was unsure whether she would prefer to win or lose against him.
She looked outside the drawing room window at the setting sun. It was almost the time when she would make her way to the gaming hell. The first few days she had looked for Rockwell often but he had not appeared. She could not help some disappointment at first. But why would a man like him seek her out again? He owed her nothing, not even a letter. They had said their farewell.
So she ought to turn her mind toward her customary pursuits and the constant goal of winning enough at cards to pay for the food upon their table. Her encounter with Lord Rockwell would be relegated to the past, an isolated exchange but one she would not look back upon without fondness.
“Dear, I hope it not be the creditors,” her mother bemoaned.
Engrossed in her thoughts, Deana had not heard the knock at the door. She put down her sewing.
“I shall see to it.”
She opened the door to a messenger holding a brown paper package.
“For Miss Herwood,” the young man said.
Looking at her name upon the package, her heartbeat quickened. She recognized the hand. After thanking the boy, she quickly stole upstairs. In the privacy of her room, she carefully untied the string. She peeled back the wrapping and, lying in the middle of red and orange silks was a familiar ivory elephant with ruby eyes. Heart pounding, she picked it up gently. Beneath the elephant lay a simple note.
For a most pleasurable evening.
Smiling, she returned the elephant tenderly to the silk. A pleasurable evening indeed. Losing a hand at cards had never proved more delightful.
###
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