Mastering the Marquess (14 page)

“Satisfaction. You better believe she was satisfied—many times.” He didn’t know why he suddenly felt so angry, why he was acting the cad.

Ruby shook her head. “Now, do you want your coffee or not? I’ve better things to do than listen to a braggart in the morning.”

He had a dozen replies to that, but he held them back. Why had she left? Why had Grace fled before they had a chance to talk, to make further arrangements? Didn’t she realize that there was something between them, something that had to be explored? “Tell me how to find her.”

Ruby shook her head, the sunlight glinting off her cherry-colored curls. “I cannot do that. No more than I could tell her who you are. Would you want me to do that? To give her your name?”

He considered it. He actually considered it. Why not? What did he have to lose?

But who was she? What if she talked? What if she shared his secrets with others?

Could he risk it?

Grace would never do that. Only what did he actually know of her?

Nothing beyond the shape of her breasts, of her ass. Nothing beyond the new skills of her mouth.

“No, I would not want you to tell her,” he said.

Still, there had to be other alternatives.

With some trepidation, Louisa approached the door to the Madame’s house one more time. She had not meant to come, but when her footman had brought the note this morning, she’d found
herself unable to resist.

What could Madame want? Did he want to see her again? Did Charles miss her, long for her in the dark hours of the night?

And what if he did?

What if he wanted her again? She could hear his command, his desire. Her heart thrilled at the thought.

She knocked hurriedly upon the door, puffing a breath of air against her heavy veils. Her body sang with the anticipation of seeing him again—of feeling him again.

The footman, liveried in crimson velvet, opened the heavy door and escorted her down the hall to the same elegant parlor where she had first met Madame. Her toes almost skipped along. Would he be there?

He was not. Madame sat alone, the tea tray before her, the elegant platter of pastries to her side. “Come sit,” she said, gesturing to a chaise longue.

Looking about the chamber, wondering if Charles would suddenly appear from behind a curtain, Louisa sat.

“You must be wondering why I requested that you visit,” Madame asked as she poured a cup of tea without spilling a drop. Many a society matron would have wished for her elegance.

Louisa accepted the proffered tea and took a single sip. She glanced up at Madame over the rim of the cup. “I had wondered.”

“First, I simply wished to be sure that all went to your satisfaction.”

Heat rising in her cheeks, Louisa focused on the tea in her cup. “Yes. Everything was satisfactory.”

“You were satisfied?”

A day ago she would not have understood the meaning of the question, but now … “Yes. Quite satisfied.”

Madame took a sip of her tea. “And do you have any questions? About the events of the evening?”

So many. But none that she would ever ask. “No. I do believe I understood all.”

Madame placed her cup back on its saucer, her eyes glancing to the pocket doors that separated this room from the next.

And with no more than that, Louisa understood. He was there. Charles was in the next
room, waiting. She squeezed her thighs tight as the now familiar ache began deep in her belly. He was there. She could feel him, sense him. If she stood and opened the door she would see him, know him.

Madame caught her glance and nodded. “He wishes to see you again, to continue your relationship.”

“But how? I mean … it was one night—how would we even …?” Louisa’s mind spun with ideas.

“I do not know, but he—Charles believes that all things are negotiable. If you wish to continue, then the two of you will find a way, either here or somewhere else. He has offered to take a house for you to meet.”

And with those few words, reality returned.

Charles was not talking about a life together. He was talking of a few hurried meetings, something illicit and dark, something hidden from the world.

She had done what she did for a reason. She had not done it for herself, but for John.

To do it for herself would be wrong, would be sinful.

Only she didn’t believe that.

Whatever she felt about that night, she did not feel it was wrong.

Few things in life had ever been so right.

So why not?

Why not give in? Why not accept his offer? A few meetings was better than nothing, was better than never experiencing his arms again. Even if they remained masked, kept their secrets, surely that was better than nothing?

Why not tell Madame that she could arrange another meeting?

Why not explore further the secrets of the dark?

There was a good reason why not.

It had been one night. It could not be more.

“I am afraid that is not possible. I do not seek a lover. I seek a new husband.” Even as she said the words she glanced at the sliding doors, wishing they would open, wishing Charles would be there, wishing he would make her every dream come true. But the doors remained closed, and she continued, “I did what I did for my husband, out of my love for him. But I also did it for myself. I want a husband, children. Perhaps some women could seek a husband while indulging
their bodies with a lover. I could not. I want a lifetime, not a night or a dozen nights. I want a husband, a child,” she repeated—and waited.

The doors still did not open.

Her dreams were of what could never be.

“I am sorry,” Madame said after a moment, understanding burning in her eyes. “I had hoped things could be different.”

“Sometimes life is not what we want.”

“You speak the truth.” Madame opened a drawer in the table beside her and held a package out to Louisa. “He wished you to have this.”

It was a small box wrapped in silk. Louisa took it and held it in her lap. Part of her wanted to wait, to open it in privacy, but she had no secrets here.

With trembling fingers she unwrapped the silk, slipped open the box.

A mirror. He had given her a mirror.

The most beautiful hand mirror she had ever seen. It was enameled in the deepest blue, a night sky spread across a silver frame, jasmine entwined about the handle and up the edge, a single flower closed in waiting bud at the top.

A single folded note remained in the box. Lifting it, she read his few words.

Remember your promise
.

Her promise? And then she remembered. She’d promised to examine herself with a mirror. Surely he didn’t really expect … only he did. The mirror was proof of that. She was supposed to look at herself and think of him, of his command, of his watching her.

She glanced up at Madame, but the other woman’s face remained passive. She had no understanding of the gift, no understanding of Louisa’s thoughts.

Louisa picked up the mirror, looked at the top piece of jasmine, distracting herself from more erotic thoughts. It sprang open at her touch, revealing a small, sleeping, black-and-white kitten, some strange mechanism causing its tail to flick.

Mittens had been brown, not black and white, but it did not matter. She understood Charles’s message all too well.

That night had been about passion, but about so much more.

She had gained more than she could ever have imagined, but she had also left a piece behind, a piece of her soul that would never be recovered.

A tear formed in her eye and she let it slide down her cheek.

Some things were not meant to be.

With great care she picked up the mirror and replaced it in the box, tucking the note along the side.

She would take his gifts and learn to live. She would find a husband and be happy.

It might not seem possible at the moment, but tomorrow would come, and then the next day.

“Thank you,” Louisa said as she stood. “I doubt we will meet again, but I will be forever grateful for all you have done.”

“One never knows what will happen, but I accept your thanks. I am glad I could help. You deserve happiness. I hope you find it.”

She would not cry. She would not. Holding the box tight in her hands, Louisa turned and left the room, left the house, a thin figure wrapped in black veiling.

She did not turn back. She refused to turn back, even as she felt the eyes that followed her, knew that if she turned she would see him, would see the silhouette of the man who had changed her forever.

She walked forward into her new life.

Part Two
The Masquerade

Chapter Eleven

Geoffrey John Andrew Charles Alexander Danser, Marquess of Swanston, stared down at the papers before him. Bloody, bloody, bloody hell. There was no choice left.

He was going to have to marry. And soon.

Bloody, bloody hell.

He was going to have to marry—and to a rather wealthy woman.

Bloody hell.

How could his father, the duke, have managed to create such a mess? He’d never thought the old man had the brains or the interest for something of this magnitude. He’d allowed himself to feel safe because all the properties were entailed. The duke could muck things up and mismanage the estates, but he wouldn’t be able to sell or dispose of anything. Swanston had been sure of that, sure that he’d managed to tie enough knots into his father’s finances that only so much damage could be done.

He’d been a fool. He’d allowed control to slip from his hands.

But who could have foreseen this?

With a single sweep of his arm, the documents flew about his study.

It didn’t help.

Kicking back his chair, he began to pace. His father had rented out the ducal manor to an American. And not just any rental agreement—no, the blasted Duke of Mirth, his one and only father, had signed a ninety-nine-year lease.

He turned and slammed his fist into the plaster, not feeling anything even as dust flew from the cracks in the wall.

It didn’t help. But then it never helped. Anger and fury accomplished nothing. Only control, absolute control, brought answers.

What sort of man rented out his home, his family’s home, while he was still living there?

It was not to be borne. Swanston would not allow it.

Only he had no choice. The duke’s word might as well be law.

He who’d kept order in every detail of his life, of his family’s lives, had no choice in this
matter.

Despite all the restrictions he’d managed to lay down concerning his father, there was no getting past this. Risusgate was rented for the next hundred years—or close enough that it made no difference.

The duke had rendered himself homeless.

Well, perhaps that was overstating the matter; the duke controlled six more estates and had a total of seventeen homes, including the London town house that Swanston had made his own. One could hardly call that being homeless.

But Risusgate? Risusgate had been home to the Mirths for over three centuries. A man did not give away such a heritage—or rent it out!

He began to pace again. Blast and bloody blast!

He was going to have to work on his cursing if this continued.

Risusgate was rented out—not only for his father’s lifetime, but probably for his and his son’s as well. And Swanston didn’t even have a son yet. Didn’t even have a wife, nor want one.

At least not now. He’d planned to start looking in three years. Thirty-five seemed like an appropriate time to take a wife. He’d written it into his plans, into his schedule.

Swanston believed in plans, in organization, in control. Life worked as he wanted it to. There were no exceptions.

Except when his father, or some other member of his family, interfered.

Ninety-nine years.

He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Was this what hysteria felt like?

Such emotion had never before dared to encroach upon him.

Ninety-nine years or thirty thousand pounds.

The lease could be broken, but only at double the rental obligation.

And despite all his careful planning, all his investments, Swanston did not have thirty thousand pounds in ready capital. Given time he might be able to arrange for it—or, heaven forbid, borrow it. But that would take time, more time than he had before the American took possession of his home, of his heritage.

Ice unfurled in his belly, crystal by crystal, dampening the fires that had been building. With great care he picked up each piece of paper and settled them in order, placing them exactly in the center of his desk. With equal precision he centered the high-backed chair behind the desk.
There was nothing he could do about the plaster, except trust that a few words with Beadles, his porter, would ensure that by the time he returned all would be as it had always been.

Picking his crop off the shelf where he always laid it, Swanston strode to the door, each step equal and measured.

Married.

He swung the crop hard against his thigh, embracing the sting.

A wife.

Another swat.