Mastering the Marquess (Bound and Determined)

by Lavinia Kent

  But her nights … now they were something else.

  There was something quite satisfying about curling up beside one’s husband each evening. They still did not talk or touch much—other than when they were engaged in marital activities—but it was just so … so comfortable. Yes, that was the word. It was easy and comfortable.

  And the marital activities were quite comfortable, too. She’d never have thought that that was a word she’d use to describe sexual relations, but it was the right one. It was quite lovely to go to bed each night knowing that her husband would move over her and then delicious things would happen.

  It was certainly not what she’d expected as a girl when she’d been told that if she just did what her husband wished it would soon be over.

  And whatever it had been with Charles—she allowed herself to think his name for the first time in the weeks since her marriage—that had been anything but comfortable.

  “And what has you grinning like a cat with a bowl of cream?”

  Louisa looked up, startled. She’d actually forgotten that Lady Perse was there—and one did not forget Lady Perse.

  Picking up her tea, Louisa took a hurried sip. “I was thinking about my husband.” And that was true. The smile had been for Swanston, not Charles.

  “So you are pleased with your choice then, despite my reservations?” Lady Perse herself did not look entirely pleased.

  Louisa stared down into her teacup. “Yes, I rather believe I am happy.”

  “He is not too staid and dull, too dour? He is such a serious man. Whatever do you find to talk about?” Lady Perse set down her cup of tea and stared at Louisa as if trying to understand some deep secret.

  “I must admit that at first it was somewhat difficult. As you have said, Swanston is not known for being verbose, but the more time I spend with him the more we find to discuss. He has a great interest in music. I was quite surprised when he first began to comment on the libretto after we had been to the opera. I believe that he is afraid to be thought whimsical for having such an interest, but he is well informed.”

  “I never knew.” And it was clear that Lady Perse did not like not knowing.

  “I am not sure that anybody did. My husband is a man of secrets.”

  “Exactly why I wasn’t sure about the match. One never knows what one will get when one marries a man with secrets. And surprises are not always pleasant.”

  Well, hers had been so far—at least as far as her husband was concerned. “I am sure that you are right.”

  “Of course I am,” the older women answered. “I would admit, I have more experience with younger women, those entering the market for the first time, but I do believe some rules are universal.”

  It almost sounded as if Lady Perse did not wish her to be happy.

  “Did you not care for the duck? You have hardly touched your portion,” Swanston asked, setting down his knife.

  “I am just without appetite, I fear. The duck is quite good. The plum glaze is wonderful,” Louisa replied as she watched her husband lift his glass.

  “I am glad you think so. It has always been one of my favorites, so I should hate to give it up.”

  “Give it up?” She could not keep the surprise from her voice.

  “Well, with only the two of us to dinner most nights it would be a shame to serve something that you did not like. It seems silly for Cook to prepare food for just one.” Swanston put down his glass again, his gaze meeting hers and holding it.

  “But surely she cooked just for you before I arrived. How is it different now?”

  “Well, now she would need to make a separate dish to suit you as well.”

  Louisa pulled her glance from his and allowed it to wander over a sideboard filled with dishes waiting to be served. “You don’t think that I could find something to suit me in all of that, even if I did not like the duck?”

  “It simply does not need to be an issue. If you do not like the duck we will not have it.”

  “But I have already said that I do like the duck.”

  “But if you did not …” He spoke with some force.

  “But I do.” She tried to match the firmness of his tone, but feared that she failed.

  Swanston sat up higher in his chair, his chin jutting forward. “And I say that if you did not like it then it would not be served in this house.”

  Suddenly it was all too much for her and she could not hold back the giggle that leaked from between her lips; even lifting the damask napkin to cover it did not help.

  “What?”

  She let the napkin fall back to her lap. “Are we actually going to have our first fight arguing about a situation that we both admit doesn’t exist?”

  “I merely mean you to understand …” And then Swanston’s voice trailed off, and he smiled. A genuine smile—the first she had seen upon his lips that was not polite, not measured, not for show, but a genuine smile that reached his eyes and lit them.

  Something turned over in her stomach and relaxed, some tension she had not even been aware she held. “I do understand.”

  “Good.” His smile stayed. “So you will tell Cook if you do not care for something?”

  “I promise.” She placed a hand over her heart and watched as his eyes followed her movement, watched as they settled on the spot where the skin of her palm covered the bare upper curve of her breast. The moment changed from carefree to intimate. Her heart beat strong beneath her touch, her skin soft and slightly damp from the heat as the satin edging of her bodice caressed her tender flesh. She’d never been so aware of just how she felt, of what he must experience whenever he touched her in the dark of their chamber.

  It became difficult to look at him as wants began to curl deep in her belly, their fingers reaching up to seep along her limbs. She shifted slightly in her chair, still aware of the weight of his gaze.

  Taking a measured gaze, she tried to shift this mood that she did not know how to handle. “I don’t like kidneys. Everyone is always trying to tell me that if I tried them this way or that I would find them delectable. I never have. I always feel like I am eating dirt.”

  “No kidneys then.” It sounded as if he were keeping a mental list.

  “And cauliflower. I do not know why it tastes different from other vegetables but I always find it a waste upon the plate—unless it has been soaked in vinegar and sugar.”

  “So no cauliflower unless pickled.”

  Her mind worked to find something else she did not care for; she had never been a picky eater. “Haggis. I must admit I’ve never tried it, but it sounds simply awful.”

  Swanston cleared his throat, and she heard the tap of a heel upon the floor as he shifted. “I must admit to also never having tried the dish, but my brother Robert spent some years in Scotland and developed a taste for it. Still, I imagine you are safe from having it appear on the table.”

  “That is a relief.” She lifted her eyes back to his and froze. She had been wrong that the mood had shifted. His gaze was still focused on the edge of her gown, watching as each breath she took lifted her breasts and then released them. She found herself glancing down to be sure that nothing was showing that should not.

  When her eye met his again, it felt as if all the air had been sucked from the room. Heat rose under her skin, and fires grew deep within her. She clenched her thighs tight and looked away, trying not to gasp.

  She must remain the gentle wife that he desired. “And what do you not like to eat?” she asked, forcing the words between lips that fought not to tremble.

  She was killing him. It had begun so innocently, watching her hand rest upon her flesh. He knew she had meant nothing by the gesture, knew it had been the simplest of movements, a demonstration of good faith and promise.

  Aahh, promise. If only she would promise him all the things her gesture provoked him to imagine.

  If only she would touch herself, pleasure herself, only for him. He imagined ordering her to touch herself, watching as those shy fi
ngers began their exploration, slid down her belly, traipsed along her thighs.

  If only those small fingers would slip beneath the fabric of her bodice and pluck loose the nipple, would pinch it to redness and offer it to him for his pleasure.

  “I would rather talk about what I do like to eat.” He had several answers to that question ready.

  He saw her stiffen, felt her withdraw. “How will I know what to ask Cook to serve if you do not let me know your displeasures?”

  God, even the word “displeasure” caused his cock to thicken, as appropriate punishments filled his mind. He pictured making her squeeze those plump nipples until tears formed at the corners of her eyes and only his suckle could soothe her.

  He spread his legs wide, attempting to ease the ache. “I can assure you that Cook has long known what foods I do not like. You will not need to tell her, because they simply will not appear.”

  “And if I asked for something—something in particular that you did not care for?”

  He swallowed. Then you would need to earn it, to show me you were prepared to pay for causing me discomfort. But he did not say the words. They were not the words one spoke to a wife—not as he meant them. “Then I daresay I would survive.” He gestured to the laden sideboard. “As you said, I would not starve.”

  “Oh.” She looked down at her hands, which were twisting the napkin in her lap.

  He could think of uses for that napkin.

  He could tie her hands behind her back as she sat stiffly at the table, forcing her to depend only upon him for her sustenance.

  He could trail it over her bare skin, making her beg him to touch her.

  He could pull it back and forth between her legs, reveling in her cries. That thought was too much, and he shied away from it lest he embarrass himself.

  He could cover her eyes, knot it behind her hair, and … No. That thought would not do either. The thought of blindfolding her always made him feel he was headed toward an uncontrollable point—and he would never allow himself to go that far with her.

  Abruptly, he pushed away from the table. “I find that I have had enough.”

  “Is something wrong?” She was clearly startled by his action.

  “No, I have simply, as I said, had enough.” And it was true, he had had enough—enough of desiring that which he could not have, not as he wished it. He always fulfilled his wishes—deprivation was not in his nature, except when he planned for it.

  Louisa rose also. “Do you wish port? Or should I retire, summon my maid, and …?”

  The thought of his lady wife lying abed, hands pressed to her sides, eyes staring at the canopy was too much this night. It was everything he wanted—and nothing.

  A man had needs. Needs it was clear his wife could never handle.

  “No, I think I will go out this evening. Some cold air would be most bracing.”

  She glanced at the window, clearly thinking that late June was not the time for bracing air.

  He headed for the door.

  A night at Ruby’s would cure his ailment. And then he could return to Louisa, return to the confines of marriage.

  She followed him to the door, watched as the porter gave him his hat and stick. Her eyes questioned him, but no sound passed her lips.

  “I will see you in the morning, after my ride,” he said, attempting to add a touch of the ordinary in order to silence the questions he saw in her eyes, questions she did not ask.

  Still she did not speak, did not wish him farewell.

  He gave the direction to his coachman as he descended the steps.

  Looking back once, he saw her standing there, stiff and straight—and pale, so very pale.

  Chapter Nineteen

  She knew where Swanston was going. God yes, she knew.

  He was going to Madame Rouge’s.

  Hearing him direct the coachman had cut open her heart.

  How could this be happening again? Why was she not enough?

  She’d felt the flickers of fire between them at dinner. What had happened?

  Tears welled in her eyes and she worked to hold them back. She’d cried buckets of tears those first nights after learning why John had left, and it had accomplished nothing beyond leaving her eyes swollen the next day.

  No, tears accomplished little, but anger—anger might.

  How dare he leave her and head off to some … some whore! She was his wife. She’d spent the last several nights lying in his bed doing her best to be exactly what he wanted and still he left. She would not stand for it.

  Yes, fury felt much better than sorrow.

  Turning on her heels, she stomped back into the house and up the stairs to her room—yes, it was hers, not his, not theirs. And she’d be damned if he thought he would ever cross its threshold again when he was … was doing whatever it was that he could not do with her.

  Her maid, Marie, entered silently behind her and for a moment she wanted to throw something at her, to unleash all the feelings that had been building since the wedding—and, perhaps, even before. She’d pushed them down, pretended they were not there, but now they clamored to the brink, refused to be suppressed a moment longer.

  She stood stiff and straight as the evening gown was slipped from her shoulders and carried to the wardrobe. Her plain white chemise clung to her body, revealing each curve. Curves that were not good enough for her husband.

  Blast him.

  She was good enough. She was more than good enough for that slimy toad and it was time he knew it.

  “Bring me the pink silk shift,” she directed. It was the one she had purchased for her wedding night and then decided might be too much for her husband. But if he could handle Madame’s he could handle a wife dressed in deep rose silk. Or not handle her—she had no intention of letting him touch her again. From this moment on she pleased only herself.

  “And brush out my hair. I am tired of these confining braids. You can put it in a plait, but only a single one down the back—and braid it loosely. No. Just leave it undone. I am tired of feeling as if all the hairs of my head are being pulled out. And bring that other flask of perfume, the one in the blue bottle. I’ve a mind to try something different tonight.”

  The maid complied without comment, although no doubt wondering why on the one night the master was out the mistress would choose to dress for seduction.

  When the task was accomplished Louisa sat at the dressing table and stared in the mirror.

  Her eyes were large against the pale skin, her lips almost colorless, her hair full and wild about her face. She looked as if she’d seen a ghost—and perhaps she had: the ghost of the life she was not prepared to live again.

  She was done playing games.

  Or perhaps, she was simply starting a new game. But this time she was writing the rules.

  Swanston stared at the woman’s naked ass.

  It was a quite attractive ass—full, yet firm. The legs, as they stretched down from the table the woman was tied to, were long and shapely. And she was a true blonde: The curls that surrounded her rose-colored folds were pale as sunshine—and dripping with desire.

  He couldn’t see her face—a sheet of her pale hair covered it, obscuring his view and hers of him. She was probably blindfolded as well. Identities were rarely exchanged on these first encounters.

  And it was her first.

  Ruby had looked surprised when he first entered the parlor, but with only the slightest look of disappointment, she’d led him here to this room.

  “She’s new to the game, but very eager despite her nerves,” Ruby had explained. “She knows exactly what she wants, just not how to ask for it—not that we’ll allow her to ask for anything this night. I trust you will instruct her properly.”

  “Of course,” he’d answered. “Did she have any special requests?”

  “No, not beyond that she felt a great need for some firm punishment. Her eyes kept drifting to the crop, however. And I do believe I heard she’d had a not-so-discreet indiscre
tion with a groom. She is new, however, so do not push her too far. I believe she has great promise, but only if brought along slowly.”

  “Aah.”

  So here he was, staring at a most attractive ass—an ass that was his to do with as he wished—and all he found himself wishing was for it to be over.

  Before his wedding he’d been quite sure that if presented with breast and ass a man was quite happy. It did not particularly matter whose or where. A fuck was a fuck.

  So why was his cock still loose along his leg? It wasn’t exactly limp, but the response was not what he had expected.

  And he didn’t care. Had not the slightest bit of concern.

  Blast, this was not like him.

  Walking to the heavy table lined with tools, he fingered a flogger and then picked up the crop Ruby had said the woman might favor. It was long and supple, felt natural within his hand.

  Control.

  It was about control, not desire.

  He stood staring at the red paper on the wall, but could not have described the pattern.

  He turned and walked to the girl, his heavy boots sounding his trail.

  The muscles of the woman’s legs tightened and held still. Her cunny clenched.

  Anticipation. Hers, not his.

  He stood still, silent, waiting for it to build. Waiting to feel something.

  Louisa had touched her fully clothed breast and his cock had jumped. Now he stood here, where he was most comfortable—and nothing.

  Lifting the crop, he trailed it up the inside of the woman’s thighs, one side and then the other. She squirmed, but made no sound. Was she gagged or merely obedient?

  He should find out; such things were important in these games.

  That could wait.

  He ran the crop up and down her legs again, and then through the damp curls, letting her feel its length, know its touch.

  Her scent rose to him, deep and clean and musky.

  The crop lifted and fell, with hardly more force than a butterfly landing, and yet she shivered and squirmed, impatient.

  “You learn well, my little”—Ruby had said she’d dallied with a groom and let it be known—“filly.”