Mastering the Marquess (28 page)

Anticipation. Hers, not his.

He stood still, silent, waiting for it to build. Waiting to feel something.

Louisa had touched her fully clothed breast and his cock had jumped. Now he stood here, where he was most comfortable—and nothing.

Lifting the crop, he trailed it up the inside of the woman’s thighs, one side and then the other. She squirmed, but made no sound. Was she gagged or merely obedient?

He should find out; such things were important in these games.

That could wait.

He ran the crop up and down her legs again, and then through the damp curls, letting her feel its length, know its touch.

Her scent rose to him, deep and clean and musky.

The crop lifted and fell, with hardly more force than a butterfly landing, and yet she shivered and squirmed, impatient.

“You learn well, my little”—Ruby had said she’d dallied with a groom and let it be known—“filly.”

Yes, she liked that. A heavy shiver ran through her as her thigh muscles tightened.

“But, I find I am not ready for you yet. I think you must stand a little longer, anticipate what I want, what I will do, a little longer.” He lifted the crop and let it fall softly once more—a promise of what was to come—and turned and marched from the room, the sound of his steps loud.

Waiting would be good for her, would teach her who was in charge.

Or so he told himself.

Letting himself into the library at the end of the hall, he pulled out a cheroot. He would smoke it and then go back, perhaps have a glass of port as well. Choosing a chair by the empty grate, he made himself comfortable. There was certainly no hurry.

Louisa did not expect him back this night, and the woman was his to do with as he wished.

So what did he wish?

He wished he were home in bed. Why had he even bothered to come? Louisa might not give him what he needed, but she came far closer to doing so than the woman in the red chamber.

Hell. He stood, dropping the still unlit cigar into the grate. Why not get it over with and then just go home, where he wanted to be?

He could satisfy the woman without being involved himself. Such encounters did not always involve sex, and if what she wanted was punishment he supposed he could supply that—although there was no pleasure in the thought. It felt more like work than a game.

The pain mattered little too him—only the control, and this seemed to take little control on anyone’s part.

Fuck, he could just have Ruby send someone else in. The woman hadn’t seen him and even if she had it wouldn’t matter. She wanted a few good welts across that fine ass. He doubted she cared who put them there.

With that thought in mind, he walked from the room and down the hall, past the door to the woman’s room.

And then he stopped.

She was screaming—smothered screams, but still screams.

And there was terror in those screams, not just pain and anticipation.

He placed his hand on the door and hesitated. There were strict rules of no interference here. But this was his room—surely they did not apply. Or had Ruby sent someone else to fill his spot? It would not be the first time she had anticipated his needs before he understood them himself.

Or perhaps he had mistaken the door?

He looked back down the hall and counted.

Another shrill scream echoed from the chamber.

Without further thought, he shoved the door open.

The Countess stood there, a heavy cane raised in one hand.

She turned and smiled, coy and inviting. “Have you come back to play? I was so disappointed to find you gone, even if you did leave me such a lovely toy. So considerate of you. I do hope you don’t mind sharing?”

Her breasts heaved over the low black corset she wore, the rouged nipples visible as they sought release against the top edge. Long dark hair swirled about her as she moved, her lips a cut of scarlet across her face.

“What are you doing here?” he barked.

“Why, waiting for you, of course.” She smiled, and held out the crop to him. “I was so happy when I heard you had returned to play. I rushed right up. I have been waiting for this, for you, for far too long now. Nobody satisfies my needs as you do, Geoffrey.”

“I did not invite you.”

“And since when did I require an invitation?” She took a step nearer to him, the deep musk and jasmine scent of her perfume surrounding him. “You know I want only what you want.”

He could see the woman now. A dozen bright red welts covered her backside and legs, blood trickling from some of the marks. And her terror—it was impossible to miss the rigidity of her pose, the way her head thrashed back and forth. Her eyes glinted white across the room; a
ball gag, tied tight, filled her mouth. It was a wonder she’d made as much sound as she had.

This was not what she had come here for.

“Does Ruby know you are here?” he asked, trying to hold his calm for just a moment more.

“What does it matter what that no-account whore knows? I am here to finish what you did not. I thought I’d have her ready for you; I know what a swollen cunt does to you. She’s almost ready, if you care to give her a go. Just look at how she’s dripping. She’s enjoying it as much as you will. And if you give me a good show, perhaps I’ll take a turn beneath your whip next. You always could make me come with just a few strokes. I’ve missed you, Geoffrey.”

His stomach curled with distaste, and for a moment he thought he would be sick. This was never what he had wanted, what he had enjoyed. “I do not think so. I think perhaps you had best leave.”

“You don’t mean that.” Dropping the cane to the floor with a clatter, the Countess stepped toward him, her hands rising to her breasts. With the slightest movement, she pushed down the bodice, her turgid nipples springing free. “Look how I want you. Don’t you want to pinch them, bite them? I brought clips with me. Think of those metal teeth biting into me. You know you want to hurt me, to cause me pain, to restrain me to your will. It will never be as good for you as it is between us. I will fight you and then submit. I need you, Geoffrey.”

“I do not need you.” Although at this moment he would have liked to hurt her—and not as part of any game.

“You do. You just don’t know it.” She knelt before him on the floor, pushed her bodice even lower, and then picked up the cane and held it out again. “Hurt me. Make me pay. You know you want to.”

“No.”

She suddenly stood and with a powerful swing brought the cane down upon the nameless woman one more time before he could stop her.

The muffled cry filled the room.

“Stop,” he told her. “Or I’ll tell that ‘no-account whore’ what happened here and you’ll never be welcome again.”

“As if she could keep me out.” The Countess turned from him, raising the cane high again, bringing it down with a sharp whistle of air.

He leaped, catching it in his hand, ignoring the heady sting as he pulled it from her grasp.

When he caught his balance it was his turn to raise the cane, to aim it toward pale skin and scarlet lips.

“Go on,” she whispered. “It’s what you want. What I want.”

He could see the desire in her gaze, the want of pain that would hurt him as greatly as her.

“I said no.” He dropped his arm to his side.

She stared at him, her eyes as cutting as any blade. “Do what you want. Punish me. Control me.”

“No.” He walked over to the table and dropped the cane, then grabbed a soft cloth and draped it over the quivering woman. “I think you should leave.”

“And how do you propose to make me do that?” She spat the words.

“Do not doubt me, Countess. I have had a difficult evening and I am not in a mood to be tested.” He did not even look at her as he spoke.

He heard her hesitate, wondered what she would do. He was very close to the edge, and if she pushed he did not know what he would do, only that it would not end as she wished.

It took a moment, and then he heard her sigh of capitulation. “Very well.” She turned and swaggered toward the door, clearly refusing to appear cowed. And then just as she left, “And do give my greetings to your charming sister. I do so look forward to improving upon our acquaintance.”

He wanted to go after her, to demand an explanation—hell, to demand that she never speak to his sister again.

A moan from the woman stopped him; some things came first. He hurried to the door, yelling for Ruby. She would know what to do. He did not believe it would be the first time she’d encountered such a situation.

And he would make damned sure that the Countess was never welcome here again.

The slam of the front door echoed through the house. He was home: Louisa could hear the heels of his boots pounding on the polished floors. She curled her feet under her in her chair beside the
hearth, set her book aside, and waited.

Would he come to her?

Would he expect a welcome?

Why would he? He’d had his pleasure—why would he need his wife?

John had always slunk into the house after such a night, not showing his face until noon the next day.

Swanston did not sound like he was sneaking. The clatter from below was so loud that she almost wondered if he was trying to wake her and the rest of the house.

And then his steps were on the stairs.

The candles were still alight in her chamber. She’d had no wish to hide her knowledge of the hour of his return.

She held her breath as she heard him walk the hall, nearer, nearer—and then with no pause he was past, on the way to his own chamber. He had not even noticed the light shining beneath her door.

She stood, the thin silk of her gown falling about her. What did she do now?

She was spoiling for a fight. Her blood boiled. Her temper burned.

She was ready now.

Would the mood still hold in the morning, or would she be more inclined to forgiveness—or even worse, meekness?

She would not risk it.

The door to his room loomed large in her eyes, the silver handle shining against the dark wood.

She had never been through it. Each night he came to her, slipping in attired in his green robe and crisp nightshirt.

She’d never been through that door, never seen his chamber—and didn’t that say everything.

Putting one bare foot in front of the other, she marched toward that door.

Did she knock? Would the door be locked?

What if he was dressing—or undressing?

What if he was not alone? Did his man wait up for him?

She hadn’t heard a sound from his chamber all evening, but what did that mean? She sometimes thought her maid floated above the ground so as to make no sound.

She was delaying.

Without another thought, she turned the handle and stepped through.

What now? The connecting bedchamber door swung open. Swanston wasn’t sure how much more he could take this night. He’d had several large whiskeys, trying to come down after the events of the night, and they were definitely hitting him hard. He sank to the edge of his wide bed, letting his shoulders slump.

He looked up as his wife stalked through. The first thing that he noticed was her night rail. The soft draping slid over every curve, slithering and caressing, clinging to her magnificent breasts, making it impossible for him to look anywhere else. Even in his state of exhaustion, he wanted to pull her to him and feel those tits pressed tight against his chest. The fabric was so thin, her nipples pressing forward invitingly, ready, ripe. His mouth felt dry as he imagined wetting the silk with his tongue until it grew transparent, knowing that the gentle rasp would drive Louisa to lose control. His sex came alive as it had not all evening.

She stepped forward, her breasts drawing closer.

He could feel them in his mouth, hear her little gasps …

“Where have you been?”

The clipped tone of her words did not go with the welcome of those breasts. He forced his eyes up to her face. No, there was no welcome there.

“At a club,” he replied.

“White’s?”

“No.” There was something going on here that he did not understand.

“Brooks’s? I didn’t know you were so political.”