Mastering the Marquess (15 page)

He needed to release the tension that rippled through him, the tension that had not let up since he’d received the rental agreements from his father’s man of business. But hell, he’d been tense before that, tense for the last month. He’d not pulled in a free breath since … Damn. He’d always been successful at locking away those things that were not to be thought of, and he would not allow her to change that.

He pulled in a deep breath and released.

Swung the crop once more, but only once.

He would go to Ruby’s, to Madame Rouge’s. There was not another place in all of London that could relieve him as well as a few hours with one of Ruby’s special guests.

Against his will a single image, a single woman, filled his mind: those wild curls spread across a white pillow, the black silk blindfold hiding her face from him, and her body—that delicious body spread-eagled across the sheets. He hadn’t bound her, but oh how he’d wanted to. But, no. That was the past.

He’d avoided Ruby’s for the last month because of memories, but he would wait no longer.

It was time for some relief.

She was not with child. It should have been the best of news, but Louisa found herself holding back tears, sadness filling her, sadness and—and emptiness. Knowing she was not carrying left her feeling a distinct lack—of what she was not sure, but the emotion ran deep. With John dead these last two years a baby would have been a disaster, forced her hand in ways she did not even
want to contemplate, but still a small piece of her had longed to know that life was quickening within her.

What would she have done if she had been with child? Would she have asked Madame for help? Contacted him—contacted Charles?

She couldn’t even think about it, but still her hand drifted down to her belly, settled there.

A baby. How she longed to hold one in her arms, to feel that soft fluff of hair beneath her chin.

It was at the heart of why she’d done everything, why she’d allowed herself that one forbidden night.

Charles had made what might have seemed like a chore into the most wondrous night of her life, but that had to be stashed away—forever—put away as she’d put away his gift, the mirror she had never used. She’d known that when she left him in the early morning light. She’d known it when she turned away his offer of a continued relationship that day. And she’d certainly known it when she’d cried herself to sleep that night—but only that night.

She’d never even seen his face, seen his eyes. It should have been easy to push away thoughts of a man she didn’t know.

Only sometimes she felt that she’d known him better than she’d ever known any other man—even John; even her husband.

A small mew called at her from under the bed. Dropping to her knees, she peered beneath the lilac blue coverlet. “What are you doing down there, you silly thing? I thought you were safe in your basket, your belly full of milk.”

The kitten, of course, said nothing, just stared at her with its pale blue gaze.

“I am not coming under there after you, Charlie. I don’t care if you stay there forever.” With a smile on her lips, she sat on the edge of the bed, letting her feet hang to the floor, letting her skirts sway.

“One. Two. Three,” she counted to herself. Before she’d even finished the last word she felt the bat of small, soft paws. Ignoring the motion, she let her feet swing back and forth, moving them slightly farther from the bed with each movement. Another bat, and then another. She let Charlie play, drawing him farther from safety with each round of their game, until with a single graceful movement she swooped down, grabbed the ball of black-and-white fluff, and pulled him tight into her arms.

He gave her one reproachful look and then settled, a soft purr beginning. She buried her face in his fur and sighed.

It had been silly to name him Charlie when she’d wanted to forget. But if she was being honest, she knew she didn’t want to forget. She just wished it were an old savored memory instead of a fresh one, wished she did not think of him ten times a day—or twenty.

No, she should not have named the cat Charlie, but from the moment she’d seen his black-and-white face in a box at the side of the road she’d known his name. Placing a light kiss between the tufted ears, she placed him on her pillow and watched him snuggle into sated kitten sleep. He had his own bed and didn’t belong in hers, but she couldn’t resist him—any more than she’d been able to resist his namesake.

“Enough,” she said with some vehemence.

It was time to move on. Time to find a husband, a good steady man who could provide for her and the children they would have. She’d had love with her husband. She’d had passion with Charles. Now it was time for marriage.

She’d put off the thought for this last month. She could not seek a husband until she knew for a certainty there’d been no repercussions from that night. Now she knew. Her hand began to slip into its position over her womb, but she held it back.

Today she would start her new life.

Walking to her desk, she pulled out a single piece of crested stationery. It was time to write to Lady Perse, time to seek her mate without waiting another instant.

“Now that is a face filled with storm clouds if ever I’ve seen one.” Ruby walked forward to take his coat, her hips swaying beneath her slim yellow skirt, her red curls dancing about her face.

“I am getting married,” Swanston answered without care.

Ruby paused, her lips pursed. “To whom?”

“I don’t know yet.” Lifting a decanter of brandy from the table, he filled the waiting glass and swallowed fast.

“Not exactly the normal answer.” Ruby turned away and moved farther into her great parlor. They were alone this night—although not for long, if he had anything to do with it.

Reaching the high hearth, she turned back to him, the firelight turning her crimson curls to bright cherry. He’d never known why she wore the wig; in every other way she could have been any lady of his acquaintance dressed for an evening out. Her dress was tight and low, but not unseemly. Only the wig marked her for what she was.

“There is nothing normal about my situation,” he stated flatly.

“They all say that,” Ruby said, taking his glass, refilling it, and then taking a swig herself.

“Marriage.” He didn’t say more than that single word, but just saying it made him feel as tired as if he’d been talking for hours. He took the glass from Ruby and downed it. Normally he was careful with his drinking, but tonight—tonight he wanted to numb it all away.

He started to fill the glass again, but Ruby took it from him and set it aside. “Come sit and tell Ruby all about it. And then we can send you upstairs to relieve yourself in other ways.”

That was what he had come here for, but suddenly the bottle held more attraction than the upstairs room. “Why do women always think talking helps?”

“Because it does more often than it doesn’t, something men would know if they ever actually listened to what was being said.”

He picked up the empty glass from the table where she’d placed it and contemplated the crystal before setting it back down. Ruby was right—not about the talking, but about the fact that drinking was not the answer.

He wanted to put his fist through the wall, but he’d already tried that and it hadn’t helped at all. No, he would head upstairs and find a willing woman to master. The control necessary in such situations always restored him.

“Sit.” Ruby’s voice pulled him back from his dark thoughts.

“You know I don’t take commands well.”

“Would you please sit for a moment? You don’t visit for a month and then you come to me like this. What has happened to the Geoffrey that I know so well?”

With some reluctance, he moved to the chair she gestured to. “I told you, I am getting married. Does a man need more excuse than that to feel the noose tightening about his neck?”

“Some men perhaps no, but you? Yes, Geoffrey, you need more reason. I worry that this mood of yours is because of the favor I asked. A favor I have yet to repay. I thought you would enjoy the lady and the adventure of the night, but …”

“No. It is not about her. She was one more woman in a long line of women.” Yet even as
he said the words he knew they were not true. There had been nothing about her that was like any other woman he had known. But she had refused a further relationship, and so it was over. He would not beg Ruby for more information. A child cried for toys he could not have; a man found something else to desire, to work for, to strive for. “It is my father. He is playing his games and leaving me to tidy up as always. I am weary of it.”

“I am glad that I play no part in your discontent. I did intend that night to bring nothing but pleasure—for both of you.” Ruby came and sat across from him. “Now, tell me about this planned marriage. Perhaps I can help. I do know your tastes.”

He pushed back to his feet. “That is not what I want in a wife. A wife is very different than a …” He struggled for the appropriate word.

“Than a mistress, than a lover—than a whore? Is that what you really mean? You can say it, Geoffrey. I take no offense. I know well what I am, what my girls are, what we were all born to be.”

“No, that’s not what I mean, and you know that, Ruby. I simply mean a wife is different. I want something different for the mother of my children than I want in my bed. Is that so odd?”

“Not at all.” Ruby looked down. “Many men think in such a way, have no imagination for what life could be. I just had hoped for more from you.”

Her words cut, although he could not pretend to understand. Just as she could not understand. A man of his class, his responsibilities, needed a wife of certain qualities, and they were not the qualities necessary for a good fuck. “I think I will retire upstairs. You are correct: I do need to relieve some tensions, before I say things I do not wish to.”

“The Countess is here. Are you in such a mood? She has been quite disappointed that you have not been available recently. And she is not a woman who takes disappointment well. Someone always pays for her displeasure—although some of my clients do not seem to mind.” Ruby’s voice held no trace of her thoughts, although he knew she held no fondness for the Countess.

“The Countess?” He thought of the tall, elegant woman who liked to inflict pain as well as receive it. Her one rule was that she liked to play at the extremes. Briefly he had found excitement in such games, but that had faded as he’d realized the savagery that existed beneath the pale skin—and just how far she would go seeking her thrills. “No, I am in the mood for something a trifle softer. Is there anybody new visiting? Anybody more petite?” He wished he
could take the last question back. He had never before cared for small women and did not want Ruby reading too much into his words.

“Try the second door in the left hallway. I wasn’t quite sure what to do with her, but I imagine you’ll think of something. She is uncomfortable with what she wants and feels a need for punishment. I am sure you will be creative and yet not too harsh. She is quite new to the game.”

Without another word, he nodded and left. Yes, that sounded like just what he needed.

Chapter Twelve

Deep breath in. Deep breath out
. Louisa stood outside the large town house and took that last breath of fresh air, that last breath of freedom.

It seemed symbolic that the moment she walked through the door the very quality of the air would change, would become hot and heavy, filled with the smell of too many people, too much food, too many flowers. Even the smell of the beeswax candles would be pervasive and unpleasant. She hadn’t put on her own scent this evening, knowing that even the fresh scent of lemons would only add to the strong odor.

She tightened her hands into fists, squeezing as tightly as she could and then releasing. Despite her efforts her hands were shaking, and she glanced down at them, remembering standing before that other door a month ago.

If she’d made it through that door she could make it through this one.

It wasn’t as if she’d never been to a ball before. She’d been to dozens and dozens of the blasted things. Of course, she’d never gone to one in direct pursuit of a husband—she’d known she was destined for John long before she’d danced her first quadrille. But countless women attended them every day seeking matrimony. Surely it could not take that much bravery.