Mastering the Marquess (Bound and Determined)

by Lavinia Kent

  “I think so.” Louisa had felt something like that herself after the spanking, although in a greatly reduced manner. “You say that you have heard—have you never …?”

  Madame laughed, and then a knowing smile formed upon her lips. “No. It is strictly a business for me. I cannot say that I have never been curious, but I have never felt an actual desire to participate. I am not sure I would be very good at putting myself under someone else’s control. I am satisfied with much simpler, less permanent pleasures. It is why I have never planned on marriage.”

  Louisa had never thought of it in that fashion. It was true that in marriage a woman gave up all control. If she had trusted Geoffrey enough to give him herself, her money, and her future children, was it really such a big step to trust him in the privacy of their bedroom?

  “And then there is a third type of woman—and sometimes man.” Madame grew more serious. “There are some who truly crave the pain, the punishment. Women who like to be struck again and again. I must admit that I do not understand it and do not consider it particularly healthy. The Countess was one of these women—whichever side of the whip she was on. I have known women who would probably let a master kill them and not protest.”

  “And you let such things go on at your house?”

  A long sigh. “Yes and no. I do not like to, but as I have said, it is a business. I do not let things go too far in my house. I have strict rules about what is allowed and what is not. And I feel that it is safer in my house than in other locations. My rooms are watched carefully, by myself or one of my selected staff. All the rooms have peepholes and things are monitored, not as voyeurism—unless the participants desire—but strictly as a precaution. I dislike outside involvement. The authorities can be so tiresome.”

  “That makes sense.” Louisa’s mind was spinning as she tried to absorb everything Madame had said.

  “Do you wish to know anything else? In general, or about Geoffrey?”

  Louisa considered carefully. It was easier to think about general questions. “Do many couples do this? I mean not just at your house? Is it something that …”

  Another laugh. “I truly only know what happens at my house, but I expect that at least the play version of it is far more common than you think. I think the one rule should always be that you don’t do anything you truly dislike. It is one thing to try things, to push yourself when you feel a little uncomfortable, but if you find something distasteful, say no.”

  It was a fuller answer than she had asked for, but Louisa knew it was the answer she had actually sought. “And do you think that would … would be enough for Geoffrey?”

  “Only he can answer that, but from what I have seen, making you happy is what is most important to him.”

  If only she could believe that. “I do have a few more questions. If I am going to try this I need to know more, to not be so surprised at everything, although I suppose I do want some surprise left.”

  “Ask whatever you wish. If I can, I will answer.”

  Looking down at her hands, Louisa put together her list. “First, can you tell me what you do with hot wax?”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Geoffrey had taken luncheon with his father—and it had not been horrible.

  It had also given him something to think about besides his wife. These last few days of watching her recover had been hard. He was the one who’d put her in this position, who’d failed her, allowed her to be hurt.

  But he’d had enough of such thoughts. Action was better, which was why he’d visited with the duke.

  Granted, he now knew far more about llama breeding than he wanted to. And he wasn’t sure, but he might have approved the purchase of a new male and allowed that he might be let loose among the sheep on one of the northern estates.

  Did he actually agree with his father that the beasts made excellent guard animals? He was afraid that he might. It had been years, if not decades, since he’d taken the duke’s word on anything, and yet he’d found himself believing him.

  And when Bliss had come down from her room looking as if her night had been as long as his own, he had refrained from commenting, refrained from asking what trouble she’d managed to find. He hadn’t even commented that if her neckline were any lower she’d be popping right out. He’d merely looked away. There were some things no brother wished to see.

  Would Louisa care? He’d done it for her—not that he would ever tell her. Her actions had made it clear that she wished him to get along with his family, and for her he was willing to try—to try anything. It might prove challenging, but was he not a man who sought out challenge?

  He smiled to himself. That was a brave statement from a man who had just spent fifteen minutes standing at the foot of his own stairs because he did not know how to approach his own wife.

  A loud meow drew his attention to the top of the stairs. Charlie, Louisa’s cat, sat there staring down.

  “Was that an invitation or a warning, my boy?” Geoffrey found himself asking the cat.

  The cat stared down, but did not answer.

  “And why are you not in your mistress’s room, curled upon her bed? I do believe it is your prime napping hour.” Was he really talking to the cat? And how did he know that the cat was always asleep before the dinner hour? Had he truly paid that much attention?

  Charlie meowed again.

  “So you think I should get a move on?”

  “Meow.”

  Geoffrey laughed, long and hard. Yes, he was talking to the cat, and actually expecting an answer. Perhaps he was far more like his father than he knew. He didn’t even like cats.

  He placed a booted foot on the first stair, and began his journey.

  Charlie nodded his approval, and then turned and proceeded down the hall toward Louisa’s chamber.

  Was she doing the right thing? She’d been tempted to put it off a little longer, to give life more time to settle into its usual patterns. But what were the usual patterns? And hadn’t they put things off too long already? Would their lives be different—better—today if they’d talked to each other honestly from the beginning?

  There was no point in worrying. She was committed now.

  It would have been easier if she’d spent the last nights in her husband’s bed, but she’d realized quickly that he was avoiding sleep for fear of accidentally harming her—at least she hoped that was why he’d been avoiding her. It was hard to miss the discomfort he exhibited the few times they’d talked. Madame Rouge had been correct. Geoffrey did feel guilty.

  And so, Louisa had returned to her own bed to grant him a few days to come to terms with all that had happened, and herself a few days to recover. But now she was ready to return to his bed. More than ready.

  Deep breath. Deep breath.

  At least she didn’t hurt too badly anymore. Whatever magic herb Madame had given her to add to her bath had worked wonders. The backs of her legs and buttocks still ached, but everything else had become almost unnoticeable.

  Looking about Geoffrey’s bedroom, she could only hope she had gotten it right. She’d debated whether to settle herself in her own room or his. Hers represented a place of safety to her and so she’d been tempted to stage the seduction there. But she would not be cowed. And perhaps he would be more comfortable in his own room.

  And if Madame was right and Geoffrey was suffering from guilt—and based on his history with his mother it did not seem unlikely—then she needed to do everything she could to make him feel secure. It was an odd thought in regard to her authoritative husband, but she had seen so many signs of it over the last few days. He’d almost jumped at any chance to assure her comfort, to obey her wish.

  She glanced about the room to make sure everything was just as she wanted it: the small fire laid in the grate—yes, it was much too warm, but it added a nice glow to the room; a light dinner under silver domes set on the table in front of it; the bed turned down and inviting; and the small pile of her favorite silk scarves on the table besi
de. She could only hope the maids had not imagined what she was planning when she’d asked for them.

  Yes, everything looked perfect. She nodded to Marie and the other maid who’d helped with her plans, and with soft smiles they left the room, pulling the door closed behind them.

  Now all she had to do was await her husband.

  Or—the door handle turned—did she?

  Swanston followed Charlie down the hall. The cat stopped before Louisa’s door, sniffed, and then moved on. He sat down before Swanston’s door, his tail thumping with impatience. He gave a single plaintive meow.

  There was a soft click further down the hall, and Swanston looked up to see the door to the servants’ back hall slip closed.

  Another meow.

  “You think I should go in there, boy?” he addressed the cat, hoping that the servants truly were gone.

  Could a cat nod? Charlie did not make a sound, but still Swanston knew his answer.

  He placed his hand on the handle and turned.

  Why was he shy about opening his own door? And why would Louisa be in his chamber, and not her own? Perhaps she’d been directing the maids in some rearrangement of furniture? Although, surely she would have asked.

  He paused. He was lying to himself.

  If his wife was there she was there for one of two reasons.

  It was possible that she planned to tell him it was over, that she was heading to the country and would reside there—alone. If he was lucky she might agree to allow him to visit on a few occasions so that there would be the chance of an heir.

  He knew that she had always wanted a child. He clung to this thought.

  It was, of course, possible that she had a very different reason for awaiting him, but he refused to allow his mind to wander in that direction. Unless she was so upset that she was incapable of speech, they needed to talk first—something they should have done far more of in the past.

  Now or never. He pushed the door open.

  She stood there, looking an absolute vision. Her hair lay loose about her shoulders, half-covering her face. A gown of soft white draped her figure. He wasn’t sure that he’d ever seen her look so lovely.

  “I’ve been waiting for you.” Her voice was so quiet that it was hard to hear. She did not look up and meet his gaze.

  He stepped into the room. The sound of his boot heel echoed through the chamber.

  He stopped and stood, unsure.

  Still without looking up, she turned and gestured to a table before the fire. “I asked that a light dinner be served here. I hope you do not mind. I did not feel quite up to a full repast and thought it would be more comfortable here.”

  “Certainly,” he answered, trying to understand if there was any hidden message in her words.

  Her succulent lower lip turned up slightly at the corners. “I am afraid that I am also still a bit sore and I thought that perhaps these chairs would be a bit more kind to my … my assets.”

  Her words sobered him—as did the sight of the fading bruise that still marked her cheek.

  She turned her face back into the shadows. “Oh, I did not mean to put that look upon your face,” she said. “I was trying to lighten the mood. I know we must discuss these issues, but I wanted to add a touch of humor.”

  “I do not find the thought of you being injured humorous,” he replied, moving toward her.

  Her smile dropped. “I know. I just don’t want you to feel guilty about things you had no control over.”

  “I allowed it to happen.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You had no more choice in what happened than I. Do you think I do not worry that I could have caused you to be shot?”

  “I am not sure that the Countess would have shot me.”

  Louisa raised her brow in what he knew was an imitation of himself.

  He stared back at her. “I might have been willing to risk it if it had not been for the threat of those two goons coming in. I would rather have died than have them touch you.”

  She was silent for a moment, and then moved to gingerly take a seat at the table. “You will understand if I do not feel the same.” She lifted the dome from her plate. “Oh dear. I am afraid that Cook took me a bit too seriously when I asked for something light. Should I call for something more hearty?”

  He looked at her plate: one slice of ham, so thin it was transparent, three spears of asparagus, and half a small potato. There was a sliced loaf of bread on the table as well. It would not be his normal dinner, but he knew he would far rather go hungry than have anyone interrupt them now. He moved and took his seat, then lifted his dome—at least Cook had given him two slices of ham. He smiled. “It looks perfect.”

  Louisa opened her mouth to answer and then looked down at her plate and lifted her knife and fork to cut a small bite of ham. Placing it in her mouth, she chewed, her eyes still on her plate.

  The brief conversation of a moment before faded to silence.

  He took a bite of his food and chewed slowly, hoping to make it last in order to make it seem like more.

  “Really, I can send for more,” Louisa said.

  “This is fine.” He took a large piece of the bread. That, at least, would be filling.

  “Wine?”

  “Please.”

  She lifted the decanter and filled his glass. “I hope it is good.”

  He took a sip. “It is. Blast. I feel like we are discussing the weather.”

  “You did once say it was not a bad thing to talk about that which matters little.”

  Another sip. “Yes, but we have so many other things to talk about.” Although, the temptation to avoid conversation was great.

  Louisa looked up and met his eyes directly. “So many or just one?”

  “One. Many. It all depends on how you look at it.”

  “I suppose that is true. The other morning I said we should ask easy questions, and they were certainly anything but.”

  He put his fork down and stared straight into her eyes. This was the moment. “I have a question for you. A simple one. It requires only a one-word answer. Are you going to leave me, Louisa?”

  “And go where?”

  “That is not an answer.” His stomach clenched as he waited. The two slices of ham no longer seemed so small.

  Reaching across and placing a hand over his, she continued to stare into his eyes and answered, “Not unless you force me to. This is where I want to be. Why else do you think I did this?” She gestured about the cozy room.

  “I did not know. I hardly dared hope.”

  Her fingers tightened about his, building their connection. “My turn. Can you forgive me for being foolish enough to let the Countess take me? For not fighting her? For putting you in danger?”

  He turned his hand palm up and grasped her fingers—tight. “What foolishness do you speak? None of it was your fault.”

  “And neither was it yours.”

  “How can you say that? If it were not for me none of this would have happened.”

  “No. If it were not for the Countess none of this would have happened. You cannot be responsible for the actions of another.” She spoke firmly.

  “But …” How could she say that? If he had not indulged his desires, they would not now be needing to have this conversation.

  “You told me that after your mother’s death you managed to overcome the guilt.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do I need to whip you as they did at school?”

  He dropped his gaze to his plate, but held tight to her fingers. “How can you joke about this?”

  He heard her pull in a long breath. “I do not joke. You told me that being whipped helped take away the guilt, gave you a sense of freedom—at least that is how I understood it. Am I wrong?”

  “No, but … I am not the boy that I was then. I have changed.”

  “I do hope so. I cannot imagine doing the things I have done with you if you were a boy.”

  “That still does not change the fact that with
out me none of this—”

  “Life cannot be controlled. I know you always want to, but sometimes it is beyond what can be controlled. Surely you must know this.”

  “Yes, but—”

  She cut him off again. “You hate feeling vulnerable, don’t you? That is what the need for control is about.”

  How did she know him so well? “I think it is my turn to ask a question. Did your conversation with Ruby go well? We have not talked of it.”

  “Yes.”

  “And …?”

  “And, thank you. She was very helpful. If you are asking if I had any injuries that you do not know about, no, I do not. I am physically fine and fit, other than being sore, and even that is fading quickly.”

  “You must still be more than sore. You stood there for some time, and I saw the welt she placed upon your thigh.”

  “And you have experience with putting those welts on others, so you would know?” Her voice caught as she spoke the words.

  So finally they were at the moment. “Yes. I have whipped women, and even made them bleed. Not that often, but I have done it.”

  Her fingers clenched tight about his. “Did you like it?”

  It took him a moment to consider. Always before he would have said yes, but now … “I don’t know. I did not dislike it. I liked having them bend to my will. And I liked thinking that I was granting them the freedom that I had once found. And it did. I am not sure that I could ever explain it to you, but it did.”

  “I think I almost understand. Ruby talked about it also. It did not make sense then, but when I relate it to your experience perhaps I can begin to see. But …”

  “But?”

  “But I do not feel the same way. The single blow upon my thigh was beyond pain. I do not see that I could ever take pleasure in that. I do not wish to be whipped again—ever. I do not think I shall even ride with a crop in the future.”

  “I understand.” God, did she actually think that he could ever take a crop to her after … All he wished to do from this moment until forever was cherish her.