Mastering the Marquess (3 page)

“And you come to me? You know that is not my style. I prefer an experienced woman, one who wants what I want. I’ve never had a taste for children.”

“Oh no. You have me wrong. She is definitely not a child. I do not know her exact age, but unless she married as a wee babe—and I know she did not—she is at least twenty-five.”

“Married and a virgin? The two words do not go together. And I do prefer not to become involved with married women—much too complicated.”

Ruby leaned forward, raising an eyebrow. She knew as well as he that the Countess was married—and she was not the only such liaison he’d enjoyed. Allowing her breath to brush across his cheek, she answered, “I have said more than I meant. But that is the crux of the woman’s problem. Her husband is dead, for several years now. She wishes to remarry, but does not wish to disgrace his memory with her unplucked status. She is a true lady and so she sought my help. I daresay she thought I would send her to some midwife with a carved stick to take care of the matter, but I think she deserves more.”

Swanston had known several men who he doubted had ever bedded their wives, either because of age or a marked preference for male company. He did not doubt the story, although why this lady would want to cover up for such a man he did not know. “You think she deserves more and so you chose me? I thought you said you knew what I liked—innocence is definitely not it. Find some man who enjoys defiling virgins. I am sure you have plenty in your little book.”

“I won’t ask how you know about my little book. And I don’t want her defiled. That is why I chose you. You keep referring to your tastes, Geoffrey. I know that what you most often indulge in is not always considered normal—not that I think a little bondage and the occasional crop is beyond the pale. But the one thing I do know about you is that you always consider your partner and her pleasure. It is why I choose to indulge you here and why you have no trouble finding partners. And I also know how gentle you are with teaching a willing woman what you like. I know the patience such lessons can require and I know that you have it. I think that you are the perfect choice for my guest. You will give her exactly what she needs.”

“And why would I indulge in this—besides as a favor to you?” He sat back in his chair. Ruby leaned forward, allowing him a perfect view down her dress should he have had any interest. He did not.

Well, perhaps there had been the slightest of glances. He was a man, and what man could resist a good breast? And they were quite fine.

“Listen to me, Geoffrey, and consider. What do you really like? I think you like the teaching, the giving of lessons, but beyond that it is all about the control. Can you imagine a willing woman who knows nothing, a woman who knows only what you teach her, a woman who doesn’t even know that pleasure exists? Can you imagine the control you would have over her? What you could make her do?”

“You’re surely not suggesting …?”

“No, I definitely don’t think she’s ready for that. But I think you could find plenty of pleasure in simply teaching her what it is to be a woman, forcing her to relax and to enjoy. I do recall I’ve heard that you are quite good at that.”

“You surely cannot believe she is that innocent? Even if she’s never known a man, she does have hands.”

Another low laugh. “Actually, I do believe she is that innocent. I was quite taken aback with what she did not know—or what she merely pretended to know. I do believe she understands the mechanics of the act, but little more. Her mother probably gave her a ‘lie back and it won’t hurt for long’ talk.”

He was intrigued. Such a situation had never even entered his thoughts: giving a virgin his instruction, having her conform to his wishes, his demands. He wouldn’t tie her, but he could certainly require that she lie still, not move. He could position her any way he wanted and she
would have no idea what was normal and what was not. Ruby was right: There might be great pleasure in such an encounter, pleasure for both of them. “You said that you thought she simply wanted her cherry popped. If she would consider a stick, are you sure that she is agreeable to what you have in mind? And why would you care? Certainly the other is much easier.”

Ruby’s gaze went to the ceiling, but this time not in disgust. Her deep consideration was plain upon her face. “I am not sure why I care, but I do. She deserves more than she has received so far in this life. I do not want her to marry some old fool and never know what she has missed. She came to me once before—on an entirely different matter—and I turned her down. This time I wish to grant the wishes she does not even know she has.”

“She came to you before? How on earth did an innocent such as you describe even know that you existed?” He stood, walking out the tension that had begun to fill his body.

Ruby hesitated. “Her husband visited me. She knew of his visits and did not try to prevent them. She was understanding as far as she was able. Perhaps that is why I care—because she cared so greatly for her husband and what he needed.”

Her husband had cared for other men, then. He knew Ruby had arranged such meetings in the past. He felt a token of sympathy for the wife. It would be hard to be married to such a man, even if he was a good husband in all other ways. She must have come to Ruby to have the situation explained. He could not imagine any man having such a conversation with his wife. “I am still not sure I am what she deserves. Don’t you know some gentle young boy for her? Perhaps you could become a matchmaker after all? And what of pregnancy? Does she know what she would be risking?”

“I will instruct her on how to prevent a child. And no, Geoffrey, I’ve no desire to be a matchmaker. And I truly do think you are what she needs. What woman would want a boy when she could have you?” Ruby’s gaze swept over his six-foot-plus frame. He felt her admiration of his strong features and dark wavy hair. Her eyes paused at his shoulders and then at his hips, and then lower. “Hmmm, it does look like all I’ve heard of you is true and that you are not opposed to my plans.”

“How do you know it’s not for you, my darling?” He cocked a hip forward.

“Stop. Believe me, in my profession I’d know very well if that was for me. I rather think you’re intrigued by the clashing ideas of control and purity. I doubt there are that many new experiences left for you to try.”

“That is true. But a ‘wedding night’? What do you mean by that? Romance and candlelight and cuddling first? Does it have to be a wedding night?”

Ruby’s chest rose as she let out a long, deep breath. “I rather think it does. And yes, that is exactly what I mean—romance. But more than romance: a night that will live in her memory forever. Every woman deserves a wedding night. And what could be better than one that comes without a husband?”

Chapter Three

Was she really going to do this? Louisa stared about the ornate bedroom and tried to think about anything except what she was here to do.

The windows were long and heavily curtained in rich white damask shot through with golden thread. She would have thought they’d be red velvet and much more shoddy in appearance. When she’d pictured losing her virginity in a brothel she had certainly not pictured rooms that could have belonged to a duke.

And they were so tasteful, not a thing overdone. Who had taught Madame Rouge about style, design, and simplicity?

Even the bed, huge though it was, was simple. The coverlet of heavily embroidered white silk. The high, heavy carved bedposts standing out against the lack of other ornamentation. It was a room that she could have imagined choosing for her own—although it was quite masculine in flavor. Not in the usual way, however—with dark leather and the smell of tobacco. Rather, it was a room that a man could be comfortable in.

That a man
would
be comfortable in.

The slow chime of the hallway clock sounded. It was nine. He would be here any moment.

Was there still time to flee?

She didn’t need to do this. If she never married then no one would ever know. And did it really matter if they did? John had been wounded in battle serving his country. Surely nobody would think less of him because …

Blast. She knew that was not true. It would have humiliated him when he was alive, so it would be unfair to let a single person know when he was dead. She would keep his secret. It was a last act of love and honor.

And as for not marrying, was she really prepared to take such a path simply because she was a coward? And it would be cowardice of the worst kind.

There was nothing for her to fear. Madame had assured her of that.

Just as Madame had assured her that whatever happened in this house would never be
talked of outside these walls.

And if she screamed help would come—immediately. All she needed to do to end this all was scream.

Madame had explained that except for a few special rooms every scream was met with action. Madame hired brutes, pugilists, for just this purpose. One scream and she would be safe.

Only Madame had promised her that she would not need to scream, assured Louisa that she had chosen the perfect man—one who would be gentle and understanding and who would explain exactly what needed to be done.

Louisa paced across the floor for what must have been the hundredth time, the full white skirts of her night rail flowing about her legs. Her heart felt as if it would beat right out of her chest. Each breath had to fight its way from her lungs.

Panic. She’d heard the word, but never before felt it shivering throughout her body.

She spun on her heel, turning toward the door.

It might be cowardly, but she couldn’t do it. It had been a bad idea.

She had to run now, while she could.

And then she saw herself.

A large mirror hung just to the left of the door, and her image stared back at her. Dark hair caught in a loose braid, as it always was for sleep. And a simple white gown, not so different from the one she wore each night.

Only it was different, not in cut but in fabric. She’d never worn silk so thin, so translucent. Her whole body showed through it: the deep rose of her nipples, the shadow between her legs. She looked more than naked.

And her eyes were huge, the pupils filling the deep brown irises. They appeared almost black. And her lips—she must have been chewing on them for the last hour. Red and puffy, swollen.

She did not look at all like the proper Countess of Brookingston. She looked—she looked like a woman who was about to have a wedding night. And smelled like one too, if Madame had any understanding of scent. Roses and cinnamon. Louisa had never tried such a thing before.

But a wedding night? Why had Madame Rouge ever suggested such a thing?

And why had she accepted it?

She didn’t need a wedding night. She needed something simple and fast—and over.

The only reason she was doing this was so that she could get on with her life.

Still—a wedding night? Madame had explained that perhaps it would be best if she had some real experience before she thought of marriage again. She should know if this was as awful as her mother had described. Still, Madame had never even mentioned that it might be painful.

Painful. She hated pain.

A deep breath. In. Out. Another. In. Out.

She could do this.

She could.

And then she had no choice.

The handle on the door turned and he stepped in.

She had only the impression of largeness and gray silk before she hurriedly shut her eyes.

She wasn’t ready. Heat rose on her face. She would tell him it was a mistake, tell him she’d made a mistake.

“Is everything to your liking?” His voice filled the room, vibrating about her, husky and deep, a river cascading over rocks.

She opened one eye and saw his mask, white cotton and plaster covering his whole face, dark, unruly curls rising above it. She remembered what Madame had said, how she’d worked to ensure Louisa both privacy and comfort. “Can you see anything?”

“Not a thing. There is a halo of light at the periphery of my vision, but that is all.”

“Oh.” He couldn’t see her. See this silly, transparent gown. See the deep rose darkening her cheeks.

“I’ll ask again: Do you like what you see? Is everything to your liking?”

Louisa opened her other eye—and stared. He couldn’t see her. He didn’t know if she was staring at him or at the ceiling. She could look as much as she wanted and nobody would ever know.

It was freeing in a way she had never imagined.

He was large. Well, not so much large as tall. She’d never considered herself short, but next to him she felt small, fragile. And she was in her bare feet. Not even an inch of heel to help.

She stepped forward and looked at his feet. They weren’t bare, but shod in black velvet slippers. Very large—almost
huge
—black velvet slippers. They didn’t add much height, but still …

“Take off your shoes?” she said.

“What?” Had he growled?

“Would you please take off your slippers?”

“Why?”

What was so difficult about this? A minute ago she’d felt free, and now suddenly she felt she was doing something wrong. Perhaps men didn’t take off their shoes when they … She’d always thought they did, but perhaps she’d been wrong. She’d never really thought about it. She was sure that they didn’t need to take off their shoes to use their—their penises. She should have asked Madame more questions. Madame was correct: She did need more experience if she was ever to pretend to having had a normal marriage. “I am sorry, you don’t have to if you don’t want to, if you don’t normally … I really don’t know … I just thought … You’re just so tall … I thought you’d be less frightening without your slippers. I don’t know why. I guess feet seemed calming.”

“Feet seem calming?” His growl turned to a chuckle.

“Are you going to question everything I say?” This was not going at all the way she had planned—in fact, she could never have imagined its going like this. She turned and paced away, trying to decide what to do next.

“Don’t go,” he said.

“I thought you said you couldn’t see.” She turned back, suddenly frightened.