Mastering the Marquess (29 page)

“No. Although I do pay attention. I try to understand before I vote.” Why was he saying so much, trying to erase the tension that hung heavy in the air?

“Boodle’s?”

Perhaps he should just say yes, but he’d always made it a point not to lie. Evasion was one thing, untruth another. “No.”

“Then where?” She stepped even closer, the smell of roses filling his nostrils. Louisa never smelled of roses. He breathed in again. There was something else there as well, something warm and beckoning—unlike her eyes which bore into him like knives, awaiting his answer.

“Does it matter? I belong to several clubs.”

“Are you avoiding my question?”

“Why would I do that?” What was so different about her tonight? The robe, the scent, the hair—had he ever seen it down before? It rose in a cloud about her face, almost a living thing. And the color—no, colors—so richer than the dull brown he had expected.

“I don’t know. Why would you not answer? And yet, you do not.”

His cock throbbed between his legs. God, he was too exhausted for this—and yet … He’d come home wanting only to curl into his bed and sleep until dawn. Now he wanted nothing more than to grab his wife and toss her on the bed, to fuck her as he’d longed to since their wedding night.

He shut his eyes, trying to avoid the temptation she presented. She was acting the shrew, and all he wanted was to kiss those lips to silence, to grind his mouth against hers, to rip her night rail open, baring her all, to …

Control. He must find the control he so valued.

“Should I make it easy for you?” Her voice had lowered to a purr. He felt the air move as she leaned forward—as that so-intoxicating scent surrounded him. Cinnamon. It was cinnamon—roses and cinnamon—and oh so familiar.

He tried to place it, his arousal growing by the instant. It smelled so good. He wanted to stay lost in it, lost on the edge of memory.

“Should I tell you where you were?” Again, the purr.

He could feel her breath against his cheek. “Where?”

“You were at Madame Rouge’s. And not, I imagine, for the cream pastries.”

That opened his eyes—wide.

“You were playing with whores instead of with your wife.” Her voice grew gruff again.

“What? How?” His mind was too slow to put this all together.

“I’ve had one husband who preferred Madame’s to his own bed. I will not suffer another.” She took that last step so that her legs brushed against his, her tits at his eye level.

The thin ribbon edging the bodice brushed his mouth. One pull with his teeth and …

“If you ever wish an heir you had best remember where you would get one.” She placed a hand on each of his shoulders.

Was she seducing him or berating him? It was hard to tell.

“I don’t know …,” he began.

“Stop. There is no point in lying. I heard you tell the driver where to go. I know that direction well.”

How? His mind simply could not keep up. And what had she said about her first husband? Brookingston had not been the type to … But then, he and John had not been close after the war.

“If you know, why did you ask?”

“I wanted to see if you’d admit it.”

“What kind of man would tell his wife such a thing? Did Brookingston really …?”

“What was between Brookingston and myself is really no concern of yours. That is the past. I am concerned with the present and the future. I will not have you out with your trollops and then coming home to me.”

Trollops? Had she really just said “trollops”?

“Pay attention to what I am saying.” She shoved hard at his shoulders, sending him back flat onto the bed. Again that scent tickled at his nose, and his senses, his whole body reacting. God, he ached for her.

“I am.” Although he had to admit that it was far more than her words that he was paying attention to. He felt like a boy again, slightly tipsy and dreaming of women and what he’d like to do to them. Although in his fantasies the woman was on the bed and he was the one standing between her thighs.

“Pay attention to my words, not my breasts.” Her voice resounded with anger and emotion.

“If you want me to pay attention to your words and not your charms, why are you dressed that way?” She was so familiar—and it was strange. He’d never seen her this way, and yet he felt he knew her better than he ever had before.

“I wanted you to see what you are passing up, and I’ll be damned if I’ll lie flat on my back while you live it up about town.” Her eyes flashed down at him. “I don’t see why I should act the innocent girl if all it means is that you go somewhere else for fun. If I am not good
enough for you, you’ll have to tell me why.”

“Not good enough?” It was all he could do to repeat her words as their full implication began to settle. Did she mean that she didn’t want to lie in her bed while he was out, or did she mean more than that? He had to admit that the seductress standing between his legs did not look like a woman who just lay on her back without moving. Again, he wished that his thoughts were clearer.

“Yes. If I do not satisfy you, you will need to tell me why. And what to change.”

Hell, she did mean what he thought.

She leaned forward, placing a hand on each of his thighs, the tips of her thumbs brushing against his swollen cock. He’d had this fantasy—although in his mind it always ended with her bound beneath him. But despite what she was saying, he doubted that was what she meant. Still …

He grabbed her forearms and with a swing and a roll brought her down to the bed, his body rising above hers. “Is this what you want?” he demanded, grinding his hips hard against hers.

She gaped at him, not making a sound.

“Well, is it?” He pushed his swollen cock against her again. Her hair spread across his pillow, the image so familiar, so a creature of his dreams.

“Damn you.” She thrust her hips up. “How can you visit Madame’s and then think that I’ll …”

Was there anything as confusing as a woman? “You’re the one who came to my chamber dressed for sex.”

“I—Just—Wanted—To—Show—You—What—You—Were—Missing.” She punctuated each word with a thrust of her hips.

He was going to die—or come—within the next seconds if she didn’t stop that. He shoved his hips down, holding her captive. “I believe you have proved your point.”

“Then I should go.” She attempted to slip to the side.

He held her tight. He’d had a woman’s naked ass in his face tonight and it had not affected him close to as much as his wriggling wife. Hell, it had hardly affected him at all.

Louisa, on the other hand—all she had to do was enter a room and he stood at attention.

There was no way he was letting her go now; the taste for power and control filled him.
This was his moment. “Why leave? Do you so object to being flat on your back in my bed? Isn’t that what you were complaining about? And I have to confess, I like you this way. I’ve always preferred being on top, but perhaps we can experiment or …” He eased up on the pressure and, grabbing her hips, rolled her to the side until she was belly-down. He lowered himself atop her again, settling himself in the cleft of her buttocks. “… perhaps you’d be more comfortable on your stomach? I am sure I can still get the job done.”

Chapter Twenty

Louisa was speechless—and a little frightened. This was not what she’d expected when she’d entered Swanston’s chamber, although perhaps she should have thought it through. She’d somehow imagined that the night would end with him on his knees apologizing.

She couldn’t even begin to understand why she’d considered that a possibility.

Swanston ground himself against her behind, sending shivers of desire through her. An ache grew between her legs. She had to remember that he’d come from Madame’s. She was certainly not going to bed him when he’d just been with another.

He thrust again, pushing her legs apart, pressing his sex against her most sensitive spots. Even her breasts were afire as they rubbed against the mattress, causing the thin silk of her gown to chafe in a most delicious manner.

It should not have felt so good. Her anger should have been enough to shield her, but instead it fanned the flames hotter. There was something about lying beneath him, feeling his weight above her, his commanding presence, his domination.

She fought against the feeling, fought against him. She pressed down on the bed, trying to buck him off, trying to show that she would have her way. Pushing with one hand and then the other, she began to sway, fighting for her freedom—only to have him grab her arms and pull her hands behind her.

She was his captive.

His weight pressed her down; only her head and her legs below the knee could move. She struggled harder, kicking up with her feet, swinging her head. It was useless. He rode her as ably as a jockey on an old swaybacked mare.

This could not happen.

She fought on, releasing a stream of the worst swearwords that she knew, which unfortunately mostly consisted of “bloody” combined with something else. Bloody rodent. Bloody weasel. Bloody ass.

He stayed put with ease. And was that laughter she heard?

She would not let him win.

If only it didn’t feel so good having him rub against her. Even their position, which should have infuriated her, was doing something to her. It was maddening. It was aggravating. But it was also very, very arousing.

She didn’t want to feel this way.

With sudden inspiration, she let her whole body relax, melting into the bed. Above her she felt his hold loosen, just in the slightest, as he assessed the situation.

She waited, hardly breathing.

He was still and quiet above her.

One more moment.

This was it.

With a sudden lurch, her body rose from the bed, twisting hard to the left.

Freedom.

His hands had loosened on her wrists, and she pulled out as his body fell from her.

Her feet hit the floor, her legs ready to surge.

But then he had her again, his strong fingers digging into her wrist, twisting it.

Pain radiated up her arm and she gasped, crying in pain, not pleasure.

And for the first time she felt true fear. Not of the situation, but of him.

He would not let her go. She was his for the taking. He would win. She was his.

And then, he heard her cry.

For a moment, a second, a minute, he had forgotten—forgotten who he was with: his wife.

This was no game, not even a rough one.

He froze, unsure of what action to take.

The look of panic that marked her face was genuine, and offered no hint of amusement.

Part of his role had always been to understand his partner, to push and push, but never break. A small amount of fear could be good, heighten the senses, but what he saw on Louisa’s face went beyond that.

Her eyes were huge and dark, stormy. Beneath, her lips were drawn, her cheeks pale.

“Do you want me to release you?” he asked, his voice hardly above a whisper.

Her chin bobbed up and down.

“Will you promise not to run?” He could not lose her now. He felt his own fear.

Another nod.

He opened his fingers slowly, dropped his arms to his sides. “I did not mean to scare you, to hurt you.”

Her lips quivered, but answered, “I believe you.”

“That is good.”

Silence held for a moment.

Her gaze dropped to her feet, her bare toes curling, and he could feel nerves and embarrassment begin to grow within her.

This was a moment that could change everything. “Do you want to stop?”

Candlelight glinted on her hair, a multitude of shades shimmering, as she lifted her head. “I do not understand.”

Sucking air into his lungs, he fought for the right words, wishing his head were clearer—and that all his blood was not still gathered somewhere lower. “I would like you to climb back into the bed. Even more than that, I’d like to place you there myself. And Louisa: I was not with another woman tonight. You do not have to believe me, but it is the truth.”

Small white teeth bit down on her lower lip. Her eyes dropped from his again. A slender hand clenched tight and then released. She did not speak, but slowly turned and shimmied up onto the bed, and then crawled to the far edge, her bare toes sneaking beneath the edge of the coverlet.

Moving very slowly, he sat on the edge of the bed. “I am going to take off my boots now. I was just about to when you first entered.”

Using the toe of one boot, he positioned the bootjack on the floor and slid his heel into position. He would have liked to ask her for help. There was something about a woman with her legs spread about his, pulling on his boot, that had always gotten to him. But this was not the time—definitely not the time.

He slid the one tall boot from his calf and then shifted to remove the other. When the boots stood side by side, he turned to her again. “I am going to take off my breeches now.”

No response, but she did not withdraw farther away.

He slipped the black breeches down his legs and then, folding them in half, stood and moved to place them over the back of a chair, his shirttails sliding about his thighs.