Mastering the Marquess (23 page)

What drew her to him? What had made her say yes?

Lifting her eyes, she glanced into the mirror that sat above her new dressing table, and saw big eyes and tightly braided hair. That had been the one personal request Swanston had made—as she’d excused herself from dinner, he’d leaned toward her and asked her to keep the coronet of braids she’d worn for the wedding. Something in his steady gaze had unnerved her, despite the careful flatness of his tone.

Her night rail was simple: cut high, lying just above her shoulder blades, the thinnest edging of white lace against her skin. She’d bought another gown, something more daring, but after the duke’s words of the previous evening she’d hesitated, unsure, and instead worn this simple white shift.

She closed her eyes and let herself remember for just the briefest of moments standing between Charles and the fire on that other evening. Her chemise on that occasion had been equally simple and demure, and it had not seemed to put Charles off in the least.

Drawing in a breath, she stood and walked toward the high bed, the strange bed in which she’d never slept a night.

Laying her hand upon the counterpane, she gazed at the heavy brocade, grapes and leaves intertwining on the blue-upon-blue silk. The whole room was blue, of varying shades. She’d never slept in a blue room before. Her girlhood chamber had been light rose and the room of her marriage soft yellows and greens.

Had she felt strange when she’d come to that long-ago room? She couldn’t remember—not a single thing.

All she could think about was the present: about the man who would join her shortly, who would share this bed, this room, share everything.

Should she be standing to meet him?

Sitting?

If only there was a fire. She could picture herself waiting beside it in one of the high-winged chairs, a glass of wine at her side. A foot would peek out from the hem of her skirt, and she’d allow the neckline to slip low on one shoulder, perhaps baring the upper curves of her breasts.

Swanston would stare at her for a moment as he entered, taking in her carefully arranged image, and then she’d rise and move toward him, letting the anticipation grow with each step. Her hands would lift to his shoulders, caressing him, easing back the gray brocade of his robe, and then …

No. That might be too forward.

What if the duke was right? And she had no reason to think that he wasn’t.

The bed was the safest place. She’d wait for him under the covers and see how he wished to proceed.

There was no light shining out from beneath her door, or at least very little, only the faintest glimmer.

Swanston paused at the door, his bare toes curling into the thick carpet. He leaned forward, resting his head against the wood. He had to be calm, to keep control. All day he’d struggled not to grab his wife and pull her into some discreet corner. His body ached for her, his cock stiff with need.

Even looking at her was difficult. When he looked he wanted, and he was not used to going without what he wanted. That was not true: He was very used to holding back, to allowing anticipation to build. Waiting caused fires to grow, caused ache to become need. But this was different—normally when he waited it was with the knowledge that satisfaction would be his any moment he desired. Now, he had to deny himself, had to deny his true desires.

He would take her, there was no doubt of that, but it would not be as he wanted—her splayed across his bed, wrists and ankles caught, his to command, his to fulfill or not as he chose, his to examine for as long as he desired.

No, that was not to be. He filled his lungs with air, forcing his body to believe what his mind already knew.

His wife was a lady—and ladies had very different needs than—oh, blast, he’d serviced enough ladies over the years to know that was far from true. But Louisa—he formed her name in his mind for the first time—Louisa was not like that.

He had to practice patience and restraint, be prepared to take what was offered and not
ask for more.

Releasing the long-held breath slowly, he turned the handle and entered her chamber.

There was a single candle burning beside the bed, casting flickering shadows all about.

As he walked toward the bed, Louisa pushed herself up to sitting, taking the covers with her, holding them tight against her chest. Her eyes filled her face beneath the tight braids.

She’d kept the coronet—obeyed him. Pleasure filled him. He would have to enjoy these small pleasures in the years to come as he fought against his inner beast.

Her lips parted; he heard an intake of air as she prepared to speak and then paused, her teeth coming down to settle on that lush lower lip. Her eyes met his and then dropped, her fingers clutching at the blue silk she held so tightly against her breasts.

His sapphire blazed upon her finger, the mark of his possession.

She was his to do with as he liked, as he desired; all things were possible. And yet, she was his wife—his
lady
wife.

He stepped nearer to the bed. His fingers dropped to the tie that held closed his emerald robe. He hesitated and then loosed the tie, letting the robe drop to the floor.

He heard her sudden intake of breath.

Was his nightshirt really so shocking?

Though he’d never worn one before, he couldn’t imagine what would cause that crimson stain to rise upon his bride’s cheeks.

This was going to be a difficult night.

He gestured for her to slide across the mattress, giving himself room to slip in beside her.

The linen sheets were warm with her heat, and the scent of her perfume was upon his nostrils—lavender and lemons, so very delicate and ladylike.

“Are you going to blow out the candle?” Her voice was hesitant, questioning.

He hadn’t planned on it, had always preferred to see—to see everything, unless he was playing games involving darkness and mystery, exploring the extremes of the other senses. “Would you like me to? Is it what you are used to?” He could only hope he did not sound too gruff.

“I am pleased with whatever you desire.” She turned her face to him, slowly raising her lashes.

The words were perfect, the gesture perfect. If only he could trust that she really meant
all of it.

Would she have mentioned the candle if it was not what she wanted? He was used to anticipating his partners’ desires, catching the smallest of clues indicating what they really wanted, but now he did not know.

It was better to be safe. Turning, he pulled the heavy silver stick near and blew.

Darkness surrounded them, a blanket of quiet and solitude.

“Oh.” It was more of a puff than a sound. She inched nearer to him on the bed, but did not quite bring herself into contact with him. Then he heard and felt her settle, lying back on the high pile of pillows.

For a man of such experience, this was surprisingly difficult. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he could see the starlight seeping between the curtains, allowing a hazy type of vision. It was far from true dark.

He shifted onto one hip, settling himself against her thigh, letting his full length rest against her.

Another “Oh.”

Reaching out, he touched one finger to her lips, dark against her pale skin even in the shadowy room. Her flesh was so soft, so welcoming. Why had he not kissed her before? Let her feel his need before?

Her breath was moist against his finger, and her lips trembled—with fear or something else?

Carefully, he trailed his finger over the swell of her lower lip, the indent below, the curve of her chin, down the velvet skin of her neck to the little hollow at the base of her throat. He played there for a moment, letting her grow accustomed to his touch. He stroked from side to side, up and down, and then in small swirls. Her breath grew shallow and he could feel the quickening of her pulse beneath his touch.

Wetting his lips, he let his fingers trace down her chest until they stopped by the lace border of her gown. He paused there, waiting until her breathing settled before slipping beneath the band.

This was not so different from his play of the past—letting his lover grow used to him, to his desires—but the end point would not be the same. He needed to remember that.

Caressing the upper swells of her breasts, he relished their size, their softness. He wanted
to relight the candle—hell, he wanted to light a dozen candles—to push back her gown, to rip it off and enjoy the pleasure of her beauty. But he knew he must not.

His wife was a lady and had to be treated as such. He would remember that if it killed him—and he was beginning to think it just might.

With great care, he circled her right breast, never approaching the sensitive peak. The rise and fall of her chest grew even faster, and he could feel the soft moisture of her breath upon his cheek. But she gave no other sign of pleasure, no other indication of what she wanted.

Her hands still lay at her sides, palms flat upon the crisp linen sheets.

It was impossible not to move—and yet she managed. She would be proper if it killed her. Her hands longed to run through Swanston’s hair, to caress his shoulders, to feel the heat rising on his flesh. Her lips wished to settle above his heart, to feel its beat, to taste the salt of his skin.

She wanted to press her face into his chest, rub her cheeks back and forth over the mat of hair, to revel in him, to experience him.

She didn’t even know if he had hair on his chest. That nightshirt hid everything.

Well, not quite everything. His cock lay stiff against her thigh. She could feel it jerk and move as he touched her.

If everything Charles had told her was true, then Swanston was clearly finding pleasure—in her stillness, in her lack of response. She dug her fingers into the bedding as she fought to maintain her passivity.

His cock told her everything she needed to know.

His cock. She could hear Charles saying the word, whispering that it was a far better word than “penis.”

Charles—she should not think of him now. It was disloyal.

But how could she not? He had been her one lover, her only lover.

Was it not natural that she thought of him?

He would not have minded her movement, her passion.

And yet she could hear him ordering her to stillness, forbidding her to move. Her thighs clenched tight at the thought, that small bud between them prickling with desire.

That had been a game: a show of dominance, of control. This was different; Swanston’s wants were different—and yet she could not help but combine the two men, imagine one was the other, imagine that orders had been given, that her pleasure depended on pleasing him.

It seemed wrong somehow—and yet, the thought of Charles’s laying her back on the bed, of his beginning to tease her while forbidding her any response, was almost more than she could bear.

Closing her eyes tight, she let herself pretend, pretend that all movement was forbidden, except that which was requested.

Measuring each breath, she concentrated on the feeling of Swanston’s hands upon her breast. She wanted more, wanted him to move his fingers upward to her nipples, wanted him to squeeze, to press, to play—to lick and lave and even bite.

God, she wanted. It was hard not to squirm and wiggle as the need grew between her legs.

God, was this ever going to progress?