Mastering the Marquess
Read Mastering the Marquess Online
Authors: Lavinia Kent
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #Regency, #General, #Erotica
Mastering the Marquess
is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A Loveswept eBook Original
Copyright © 2014 by Lavinia Kent
Excerpt from
Bound by Bliss
by Lavinia Kent copyright © 2014 by Lavinia Kent
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States of America by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.
L
OVESWEPT
is a registered trademark and the L
OVESWEPT
colophon is a trademark of Random House LLC.
eBook ISBN 978-0-553-39416-0
Cover design: Caroline Teagle
Cover photo: OLG Studio / Shutterstock
This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book
Bound by Bliss
by Lavinia Kent. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.
v3.1
Contents
Part One: A Night Without Masks
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Part One
A Night Without Masks
Chapter One
Louisa, Lady Brookingston, had loved her husband. In fact, she’d loved him her entire life. She’d loved him when she was four and he’d climbed a tree to rescue her kitten. She’d loved him when she was eight and he’d helped her brush the mud off a summer dress after an unfortunate fall. She’d loved him when she was twelve and he was the first “man,” besides her father, to tell her she was pretty despite the spots that marked her chin. She’d loved him at fourteen when he danced with her in the moonlit garden after her father said she was too young to attend the annual harvest ball. And she truly loved him at fifteen when he gave her a first kiss in that same moonlit garden.
And at sixteen he’d told her he loved her too.
At seventeen he’d asked her father for her hand in marriage.
She’d loved him at eighteen when he told her she had to wait while he went to war. And a year later when he returned missing half a leg—and more.
It hadn’t mattered. He was the only man in the world for her.
At nineteen Louisa married him and promised to love him until death did them part.
And she’d kept her word, until at twenty-four it did.
All of which explained why, at twenty-six, she stood outside the brothel her husband had frequented throughout their marriage—at least it explained it to her. And that was all that mattered.
Louisa glanced down at her glove-clothed hands and wondered if they’d stop shaking. She tightened her hands into fists and then relaxed them, trying to calm the jittering muscles. Her mother had taught her the trick, but it didn’t seem to be working right at the moment.
She stared up at the heavy wood door. The paint was so bright a red that it stood out from quite a distance, marking it for all who sought entrance. When Madame Rouge had agreed to see her, she’d offered to meet Louisa someplace far more discreet. Louisa had refused; if she was going to be brave about this, she needed to start now.
Which didn’t mean she needed to be foolish. Pulling the heavy dark veil forward over her face, she tried to find her courage. It was necessary that she do this.
There was no avoiding it.
And when that was the case, one faced it straight on no matter how hard and painful it threatened to be.
She could do it. She’d done it once before.
Only on that occasion Madame Rouge had refused to help her. She didn’t know what she’d do if that happened again.
She had to succeed. She must.
Once this one small thing was accomplished she could go on with her life, have a future. Until then …
Blast John for leaving her in this situation.
Only she couldn’t blame John. None of it had been his fault, and that was why she was here now.
Staring at her gloves, she willed the trembling to stop and, pulling her shoulders back, rapped hard upon the ruby-colored door.
Madame Rouge was not at all what one would have expected. Louisa was shocked again on this second encounter by how prim and almost proper the Madame appeared. Yes, her hair was an unlikely shade of crimson, her face lightly shaded with cosmetics, and her gown a trifle low, but in every other way she resembled a proper matron ready for afternoon tea—and, in fact, tea was the beverage on offer. Tea along with the most fabulous tray of pastries Louisa had ever seen.
Madame caught Louisa’s glance and laughed. “I am afraid I am much more used to serving men. Women will take a single cucumber sandwich and pretend that their appetites are satisfied. Men have no such problem. Once they have their first pastry they want another and another. The more exotic the better.”
Was Madame still talking about baked goods? Louisa could not be certain. And it didn’t matter. Not one bit. She was here for a practical matter—not because of any appetite. To prove this point, she almost refused the tray as the maid held it out. She didn’t need refreshment. She needed only …
And then she hesitated. Why not? Why not indulge herself in such a simple thing?
Reaching forward, she chose the most fantastic of the tarts, something covered in a mound of white cream with a single candied cherry on top. She’d always had a weakness for cherries and it looked like this might be filled with them under the froth of cream. Lifting it to her mouth, she prepared to bite—oh dear, it looked exactly like a … How could she have not realized? Could she really put that in her mouth? Did Madame realize what the tart …? Oh rubbish, of course she did.
Staring straight at Madame, Louisa tilted the tart so that she could flick the cherry off with her tongue, then bring it into her mouth to slowly savor. Oh my, it was heavenly, better than anything she could remember tasting before. Refusing to think, she bit into the side of the tart and let herself relish the sourness of the cherries combined with the delicate wonder of the heavy sweet cream. Was there lemon in it?
She took another bite, lost in the sensation and taste, and then she gulped, swallowing hard. Hastily she placed the tart on the small porcelain plate at her side. She coughed, trying to clear her throat—and her mind.
“I do wish you hadn’t stopped. I love watching a woman enjoy herself and Cook’s tarts are most exceptional, something to be appreciated.” Madame’s eyes were focused on Louisa’s lips, her eyes dark.
Did she have cream on her mouth? Her tongue darted out and then back. Seeing Madame’s gaze grow even more focused, she brought the tiny linen napkin to her mouth.
Madame laughed again, a deep, low chuckle. “John always did say that you had unexpected depth, and perhaps he was right.”
John had talked about her—here? The thought was horrifying. It had been bad enough to know that her husband came regularly to such a place; it was unbelievably mortifying to think that he might have discussed her. And Madame Rouge called him John? Louisa had always thought she was the only one with that privilege. Everyone called him Brookingston.
“John talked about me?”
“You were the most important thing in his life. It was why it was necessary for me to refuse to help with your last request. Your husband was a good man. He wanted only the best for you.”
“Mortified” did not begin to cover the feeling those words evoked. “Then why …?” She could not finish the sentence. Her eyes fell to her lap to escape Madame’s knowing look.
“Then why did your husband not wish you to help with his needs? Why did I refuse to help you learn what he required?”
“Yes.” Louisa could barely hear her own answer.
Madame released a long sigh and lifted her delicate cup from the table. Louisa heard her sip at the tea but could not look up. Those two questions had tortured her for years, both during her marriage and after. Why could John not have let her be his wife in all ways? What had been wrong with her? Was she so unattractive? So undesirable to a man?
The cup rattled as Madame put it down. “Your husband loved you.”
“I know.” Finally Louisa looked up. “Then why …”
“He wanted only the best for you.”
Louisa had no answer for that. How could it have been the best for her that her husband came here instead of seeking out the marital bed—no, that was not quite fair. He had slept with her—but only slept. He’d even held her in his arms on lonely nights. But his hands had never strayed beyond the mildest of caresses.
“Do you know what happened to your husband in the war?” Madame’s voice surrounded her.
“Of course I do. He lost a leg, and most of his comrades. He had nightmares for years, until the day he died.”
Another loud sigh. “Did you ever see his wounds?”
An image filled Louisa’s mind of the long scar that had run down her husband’s chest, then dipped beneath the band of his trousers. And his leg. His poor leg. She’d seen his stump once, raw and swollen, but she’d never forgotten. “Yes. Of course. I was his wife.”
“I must be blunt. Did you ever see your husband without his trousers? Did you ever see him in the entirety?”
“I, uh, he chose to wear a nightshirt.”
“Did you ever see him in the bath or getting dressed?”
“No, John preferred that only his valet be present for such moments.”
“Did you ever wonder why?”
“I thought it was just the way things were. Certainly nobody but my maid has ever seen me … seen me without my clothes.” She knew she must be redder than a beet. A conversation such as this had never even entered her mind when she’d arranged this meeting, but perhaps it
should have.
“Do you know what happens between men and women—know about marital relations, about mating, about sex?”
Had Madame really just used that word? Louisa must have heard it someplace before. She did know what it meant. But she could not imagine its actually passing a woman’s lips. “Yes.” She sounded hoarse. “I grew up in the country. The livestock are not always discreet. And my mother explained things before my wedding.” And hadn’t that been a conversation she’d hoped to never have again!
“John was not able to perform as most men—or as most livestock do. His wounds damaged more than his leg.”