Mastering the Marquess (Bound and Determined)

by Lavinia Kent

  This was the moment.

  She held both hands as tight as she could as she felt him position himself against her, felt the large head of his penis begin its push. He stopped then, his cock resting against her entrance. Even with her eyes still closed, she could feel the weight of his gaze, and of his question, upon her.

  She nodded again—and he slid in with a single thrust.

  Her eyes did open at that, wide.

  He was big. Bigger than she’d remembered—not that she’d ever seen him, but … Heavens. He was beginning to move, long slow measured strokes—as teasing as his earlier touches had been, and yet—yet more. She could feel her body begin to tighten about him, feel her inner springs begin to coil.

  She shut her eyes tight again and let her whole being concentrate on what was happening.

  Small gasps left her as he thrust, and she did not even try to contain them—surely even a lady, a wife, was allowed some … She couldn’t finish the thought. Sensation was taking over, and it was all she could do to keep her hands by her sides and just allow herself to be taken.

  Swanston felt her inner muscles bunch about him and wanted to scream his triumph. His lady wife was aroused—and she was pleased. Whatever she might want to feel, might think was appropriate, she could not resist this, resist him. He thrust deep, adding a slight twist to his hips, and felt that slight gasp that she could not help. He thrust again, reversing the twist, and felt it again.

  He pulled back, resisted the urge to thrust again, torturing them both. And then he pushed home—hard, giving in to the inner demons that demanded release. Again and again he thrust, feeling her tighten and release about him. His whole world became centered on their joining, on the feeling of his cock sliding though her well-moistened flesh.

  God, it felt good.

  Again.

  Again.

  His mind filled with images, all the things he wanted, all his dark desires.

  Out.

  In.

  Deeper.

  Harder.

  It was coming. He could feel it in the tightening of his balls, in the thickening of his cock, in the need to slam home, to brand her as his own—forever.

  But he held it back, counted, said limericks, did everything to distract his mind, his body. He could not come until she had. He had promised that his lady wife’s pleasure would come first, and by all that was holy it would.

  One hundred.

  Ninety-nine.

  Ninety-eight

  Extra-deep with a twist.

  Ninety-seven

  Ninety-six.

  He wasn’t going to make it. He wasn’t.

  Ninety-five.

  He heard her moan, saw her head move from side to side on the pillow, though somehow the rest of her was still.

  Ninety-four.

  “Ohhhhh,” Louisa moaned, her eyes opening and staring straight up at him.

  He was not able to see her clearly in the dim light, but as he met her gaze and held it, he could see her struggle, her refusal to let go.

  Eighty-two.

  He would hold out if it killed him. And it just might.

  Her breath was coming in gasps now, her lips parted and moist.

  Her chocolate brown eyes seemed almost to melt in the dark, the pupils huge.

  Sixty-seven.

  He felt her clench, her whole body rising toward him, although she hardly moved at all.

  Yes.

  It was going to happen.

  And then she rose again, her whole body tightening and squeezing, clenching—and her eyes looked through him, and it was in them that he saw it happen, saw her gasp at the pleasure, surrender to the mindless ecstasy. He’d never experienced anything like it—and he could hold back no longer.

  With a roar that could shake roofs, he surrendered his control, and let himself go.

  Ohhhh. This time she didn’t say it aloud—she was still shocked that she had ever screamed it—but in her mind the exclamation repeated again and again.

  That had been so … so different.

  But as good, as pleasurable as it had been—and God, it had been so much more than that—it yet was somehow incomplete.

  She missed the talk, the sharing of secrets, the intimacy that she’d shared with Charles on their one encounter. They’d spent as much time talking that night as they had on … on … on other things.

  This encounter tonight, while certainly defying all expectations, somehow left her still wanting.

  There had been that moment at the end, as her entire world came apart, that she stared up at Swanston and saw an expression on his face that she was sure mirrored her own, and that—that had been intimate. It was the one thing she’d never shared with Charles, that meeting of eyes that betrayed a meeting of minds.

  But, that wasn’t what it meant, not really. Was it? Her mind had not met Swanston’s. It had been a meeting of bodies.

  That was all.

  And yet she wasn’t as sure as she would have liked. Something had happened in those final seconds. She just wasn’t sure what.

  “How are you?” Swanston’s voice echoed from the pillow beside her, where he had collapsed after … well, just after.

  “I believe I am fine,” she whispered back, unsure of the expected response.

  “Well, that’s good,” he replied.

  “Yes, it is. And you, how are you?”

  He was silent for a moment, and she wondered if her question had been inappropriate. If only she had more experience with this whole bedding thing.

  How was he? He’d never been asked before. His lovers had always been much more interested in how he’d pleased them than in how he was. There was a basic assumption that the man always had his pleasure, was always happy.

  He’d long ago realized that was not always the case. Yes, the climax was always good, but the after … that could vary.

  Which brought him to now, to this minute. How did he feel?

  “I am fine also.” What else could he say?

  She lay still after her question. Then again, she’d lain still since he’d first entered the bed.

  He wanted to ask how this compared with sex with her previous husband, with Brookingston, but of course, such questions could never be spoken.

  “Would you like me to retire to my own room?” he asked after a moment, not knowing how else to proceed.

  “Do you normally? I do not wish to upset your routine.”

  His routine? He had to hold back a snort. Did she think he regularly brought women home? This was the first time he’d ever fucked under his own roof.

  Now wasn’t that a thought—and not a bad one.

  With a wife one could fuck at home, not that a gentleman would ever refer to it as such.

  And he supposed he could do it pretty much whenever he wanted.

  He’d been about to say that he’d return to his own rooms, but the thought of having a warm female body—of having Louisa—pressed against him throughout the night and into the morning definitely deserved consideration. “As it is our wedding night, it is probably best that I stay.”

  “Yes, I suppose that it is.” She returned to silence.

  “Is there something else that you wish to say?”

  “Yes, only I don’t know quite how to say it.”

  He heard her roll on her side toward him. “Just say it,” he said.

  “Well, I need to—to have a moment to myself and I … I don’t quite know how to ask.”

  It took him a moment. Aah, the chamber pot. Perhaps Brookingston had not stayed with her overnight and she’d never become accustomed to being heard.

  He determined that he would spend the night with her, and as often as possible.

  “Perhaps I should fetch a brandy from my chamber. I would be surprised if they’ve left more than sherry in this room.” He slipped from the bed, his nightshirt falling back into place.

  That had been easy enough, Louisa thought as she slipped back into bed. It had been hard to ask for the mome
nt of privacy, but Swanston had certainly obliged her quickly enough. She smoothed the sheets about her and fluffed the pillows—for both of them. If they were going to sleep together, they might as well be comfortable.

  This was all just so strange. First coming to live in a new house, and now sleeping with a near stranger.

  Now, that was an exaggeration. She would never have agreed to marry Swanston if he’d been a stranger; it was simply that she didn’t know him well. But what better way to get to know him than to spend the night beside him?

  Her eyes drifted closed as she imagined a lifetime of listening to somebody else breathe. It might be quite pleasant.

  The bed was warm beneath the heavy coverlet and she did not even open her eyes as she heard Swanston cross the floor and slip back into the bed. Even as his weight shifted nearby, she let her thoughts float away to those future nights.

  But as his lips settled on her neck, the scent of brandy filling her nose, and a hand slid up her waist to settle on a still swollen breast, her mind startled back to the present.

  Twice?

  Chapter Eighteen

  She was alone. It was the third time she had awoken since light first crept into the room, but it was the first time she’d been alone.

  Bacon. Chocolate. Fresh bread.

  Pushing herself up on the pillows, Louisa opened her eyes fully and looked about the chamber.

  Aah, there was a tray on the table by the window. Light blue china domes, decorated with stars, covered the plates. The china matched the room. It was an amusing thought. Did Swanston have a different pattern for each chamber? Not that he would have chosen them; men didn’t think of such things.

  Still, it was a lovely touch.

  Smiling, she slid from the bed, letting the soft white folds of her gown surround her. It was amazing that she was still wearing it after the events of the night. Although nothing had been very adventurous—nothing like that other night.

  The duke had been right: Swanston was a man of simple tastes. He liked everything quite straightforward.

  A soft giggle slipped through her lips as she considered that phrase. Yes, straightforward was exactly how her husband liked it.

  And while it might not be what she’d dreamed of after … She wasn’t going to think of that, not anymore. It was time to put the past in the past. She was married now. Swanston had been her choice, and she was going make it a good one.

  The honey wood of the floors was warm beneath her feet as she walked to the table and poured chocolate and warm milk into a cup, adding a large scoop of sugar.

  Perfect.

  She lifted a dome and found two boiled eggs set in dainty cups and a rasher of bacon. A silver toast holder stood beside. Somebody knew that a bride was apt to be hungry in the morning.

  She pulled out a cushioned chair and arranged herself so that she could stare out at the back garden as the sunshine falling through the window bathed her in its glow.

  She stretched out her legs, curling and releasing the toes. A few more sips of chocolate and she would think about preparing for the day.

  The thought stopped her. She hadn’t actually thought about what came after—and she was definitely in “after.”

  If she was at home—in her house—she’d know what to do. First, she’d go over the menu plans with Cook. Then a general review of the household accounts and a discussion of staff and affairs with Mrs. Patterson, the housekeeper. Then it would be her secretary and a discussion of invitations and correspondence. She’d follow that with a good walk in the park, a few hours of reading or needlework, and tea with friends; then she’d dress for dinner and …

  It had been a good life.

  Nibbling another bite of toast—the apricot jam really was excellent—Louisa pursed her lips.

  She didn’t suppose that life would actually be that different now. She still had to dress and she imagined she’d still have to choose what to eat. It might be more complicated in a house with a man, but she still remembered how to be sure that there was enough meat on the table and that the port decanter was full.

  Her own house did present a worry, however. She hadn’t truly considered what she would do with it once she was married. It would have to be discussed with Swanston.

  And where was her husband? She’d have to ask—after she finished her bacon.

  Riding always cleared his head. A good canter through the park as the sun was rising could take care of even the worst overindulgence. Fresh air and exercise helped cleanse the soul—or so he’d been told. This morning, however, not even a full gallop through the morning mists was clearing or cleansing.

  His head was still wrapped in cotton, his brain fogged. Swanston wasn’t even sure he could have separated up from down. And it was all his wife’s fault.

  He’d been fine the night before, known just what he was doing, and now—blast!—now he just wasn’t sure.

  If the night had been bad, been awful, he might have understood his unease. But it hadn’t been. It had been good—hell, more than good.

  He hadn’t expected to enjoy such ordinary relations much at all, at least not beyond the orgasm. He’d expected to finish up and then return to his own bed, duty complete.

  Instead he’d had a night like he hadn’t had in quite a while. He’d been randy as an old goat—and for his own wife.

  Hell.

  He had no idea what came next.

  “Slow up there, Swanston.” The cry came from behind.

  The gallop wasn’t doing anything for him anyway. Pulling the reins, Swanston slowed the horse as Duldon came up beside. “What?” He knew he sounded gruff.

  “Now that’s not any way for a man to sound after his wedding night,” Duldon responded.

  “And how should a man sound?”

  “Not like he’s been sleeping on a bed of nails and is moving to one made of tacks.”

  Swanston released a long sigh. “You do say the strangest things.”

  “Don’t try to deflect my question.”

  “I did not hear a question.”

  “Was there some difficulty last night that has you looking so haggard and gray this morning? Perhaps things did not turn up—I mean ‘out’—as expected?”

  Swanston dug his heels into the gelding, urging the beast to a faster pace. “I am not in the mood for your attempt at humor this morning.”

  “That, I believe, is exactly my point. Should not a man be cheered after his wedding night? You won the lady—and her funds. Lady Brookingston was quite a prize.”

  “Damn it, Duldon. You know better than to even suggest such a thing. And it’s Lady Swanston.”

  “It’s not exactly a secret why you married her. Everyone thinks you were most sensible—and the lady, too. I’ve not heard a single negative thing except from those gentlemen who wished to win her purse for themselves.”

  “I am not saying it’s not true, just that it’s not seemly to talk about.” Only it didn’t feel as true as it had, and he hated the thought of anyone’s thinking that he’d married Louisa for her purse. She had so much more to offer than that. There were a dozen other women he could have married if that had been all he cared about.

  “Didn’t mean to cause offense—and that’s not what I wished to discuss anyhow.” Duldon slowed his horse, forcing Swanston to do the same or appear rude.

  “Yes?”

  “I wanted to discuss your sister. Bliss. Do you know who she’s been spending her time with?”

  “I have had other things on my mind. If you’re worried why don’t you speak to my father?”

  “You know better than that.”

  Yes, he did. Swanston didn’t even know why he had said the words. His father could not be counted on for anything unless it was buying a pig for a thousand pounds in the foolish belief that it would be the start of a whole new enterprise. “What has Bliss been up to?”

  “She’s been seen on several occasions with the Countess Ormande. She has frequently left balls with the Countess, and
my understanding is that they have not always gone directly home.”

  Swanston rubbed his brow. He truly did not need this right now. “And what do you know of the Countess?” he asked, not mistaking the odd inflection that Duldon had placed on her name.

  “I believe I know the same things about her that you do—and that she seems to have no fondness for you. Although I understand you once spent quite a bit of time together.”

  Dropping his hand, Swanston stared at his friend. What did Duldon know? “I am not quite sure what you mean.”

  “Is this whole morning going to be spent on a back-and-forth of questions? You know exactly what I mean. You may keep your life discreet, as I have kept mine, but we do have several mutual acquaintances. You may not be fond of the term ‘Master,’ but I do have a taste for it.”

  Swanston could only hope he did not gape. “I was not aware that we had these things in common.”

  “One rarely is, unless one cares to be watched. Then it is a whole different matter.”

  “Yes, I suppose it is. That has never been one of my fancies.”

  “Nor mine.”

  There was silence then. What were two men to say when they had both admitted to a socially unacceptable desire for domination?

  Loosening his reins so that his horse could nibble at the grass beside the riding path, Swanston finally turned his head to stare at his friend. “Has anything definite happened between the Countess and Bliss? Do I need to take action?”

  “I don’t think anything has happened yet, but it would not be a bad idea to remove your sister from the Countess’s influence.”

  “I’d like to take a whip to the bloody woman.”

  Duldon chuckled coldly. “That is probably just what she wants.”

  Being Lady Swanston was not very different from being Lady Brookingston—at least during the day. There was still a house to run, servants to be managed, social obligations to be kept, gowns to be purchased, and accounts to be balanced. The scale was greater than she had previously known, but the tasks were quite similar. It was not an exciting life, but it was a busy and satisfying one.

  No, her days were not different.