Mastering the Marquess (36 page)

Finding out that Geoffrey was Charles should have been the end of the story, should have been the happy ending. It would have been in any of the Minerva Press novels Louisa had read. So why wasn’t life so simple?

Sitting up in the large bed, she looked about. It was the first chance she’d really had to observe the space Geoffrey chose to live in. The furniture was large and masculine, heavy wood pieces without a flake of gilding in sight. The two chairs by the window were well cushioned and comfortable. They were not worn, yet looked well used. The fabrics were thick and plush, but plain; Geoffrey evidently did not care for brocades and fancy embroideries. A large landscape hung above the mantel, a brilliant sunset over golden fields. Louisa was confident that it depicted a piece of his estate. There were two small portraits above his dresser. His parents? He did not seem the type to have his mother watch over his bed, even if he slept alone. And the style of hair and dress was a good decade or two past what Louisa would have imagined his parents wearing. Plus, she knew his feelings about the duke. It seemed impossible that he would hang his father’s likeness in this chamber. Then who? She would have to ask.

One more question among the many.

Rising from the bed, she grabbed Geoffrey’s robe and strolled to her own chamber. A pot of cooling chocolate sat upon the table. Should she instruct her maid to start bringing it to
Geoffrey’s chamber? She’d spent the last two nights there. Was this a pattern for the future?

She poured a cup of the chocolate and mixed it with milk and sugar. Although somewhat tepid, the chocolate glided down her throat, coating it with rich sweetness. Each swallow restored a bit of life, renewed a bit of hope.

Reaching out, she rang for her maid, and asked her for a hot bath. She certainly needed one after last night. Every muscle ached and no matter how much she might have enjoyed the scents of their joining, some things grew quickly stale.

How should she scent the water? Her usual lemon soap and vanilla oil? It brought comfort and familiarity. She could use a few drops of the rose perfume. Geoffrey did seem to like it, but it was not a scent for day.

Lemon and vanilla for now, but she would need to visit the perfumer soon, perhaps even today. She felt a new woman, and a new woman needed a new scent.

“I’ll wear the yellow silk day dress, Marie,” she said as the bath was filled. “Do you know where the marquess is? Has he gone riding?”

Marie looked up from her task. “I believe that he is in the library, my lady. He rode early and then breakfasted. Now I believe he is closeted with his account books.”

“Thank you.” So he was here. There was no reason not to talk to him—except what did one say? This could be as awkward as her conversation with Lady Ormande. Well, perhaps that was unlikely, but it could still prove difficult.

But it was time to talk, time to face things straight on. The woman who had stood at Madame Rouge’s door a few months ago had done what needed to be done. It was time to prove that she was still that woman.

Dropping the robe, she stepped into the bath. Was there a better place to think than a tub of hot bubbles?

Geoffrey looked up as, with a light tap on the door, Louisa walked into the room. It threw him for the briefest of moments; no one entered this room without his summons. She, however, was not “no one.” He could picture her response if he told her to wait for his call.

She was lovely this morning, the light silk of her dress highlighting her pale complexion
and dark, glossy hair. Her lips were red and slightly swollen. Her eyes were slightly shadowed, but that only added to her fragility and allure. Each step she took was chosen with care, and he wondered if he had left her sore. The thought should not have excited him, but his cock moved against his thigh. And her nipples. They’d been so chafed the night before; did the very touch of her chemise send ripples of sensation through her?

He smiled in acknowledgment, shifting in his chair, glad that the heavy desk kept some things from her sight. “And how are you this morning, my wife?” He gestured her to a chair.

She smiled back at him, and then chose a different chair, one more directly in his line of sight. “I am quite well, my lord. And you?”

“I am also well. I was concerned you might be … a trifle worn after last night.”

“No. I am quite well.”

A bird chirped outside the window.

The sound of hurrying footsteps sounded from the hall.

“The day is quite lovely, is it not, my lord? I do love midsummer.”

“Yes, early July is quite an accommodating time of month. I sometimes visit Risusgate so that I can enjoy the country when the weather is so fair.”

“And such a wonderful way to escape the coming heat.”

“Yes, the country can be quite a bit cooler, and there is always a good breeze.”

“I have heard that. I must confess that Brookingston’s home tended to be rather humid and damp in the summer. But the gardens were spectacular. My roses were among the best in the county.”

“And are you partial to roses?”

“Yes, although I’ve always preferred the whites and yellows to the reds and pinks. They seem so underappreciated.”

He stretched his legs beneath the desk. “I must confess I’ve never considered the appreciation factor of roses.”

“You should look about. Hostesses always have the reds and the pinks, and sometimes the whites, but almost never the newer yellows.” And then Louisa’s cheeks curved up, a smile lit her face, and a slow, rich chuckle fell from those full lips. “I can’t believe I am talking about flowers with you. I think we’ve talked more this morning than at almost any other time, and it has all been flowers and weather. That is not what I came in here to talk about.” Her face grew
serious again, her lips losing their curve.

“I know.” He leaned forward. “And yet, it is not a bad thing to just talk about that which matters little. I fear I do not spend enough of my life in such talk.” He loosed a slow sigh. “I seem to spend all my time being serious.”

“Not all your time, I trust. You do seem to find time for some other … activities.” Was that a hint of the smile upon her cheek again? Did she have a dimple?

“No, I fear that mostly I have been serious about those activities also.”

“Truly?”

“Truly.”

The bird chirped again.

Three seconds.

Five seconds.

Ten.

Thirty.

He glanced at the door to the hallway. She had shut it tight behind her, and he knew his servants were too well trained to eavesdrop. “You are not sore from last night? I know you said that you are well, but I cannot help but worry. That was not how a gentleman should treat his wife.”

“But what if the wife liked it, wanted it?” Her gaze dropped from his and she stared down at her hands; her fingers trembled and her hands curled into fists.

His desk was covered in papers, important detailed matters that he could decide when he was ready. “Then I do not know. This is beyond the realm of my experience.”

“I did not know anything was beyond the realm of your experience.” The smile fought to return again.

“Wives are.”

“And am I not what you wanted in a wife?” Her voice quavered slightly, all trace of the smile gone. “I am trying to be what you want.”

He closed his eyes. “I know. And you are. You are more than I ever dreamed, Louisa.”

“Then what is the difficulty?”

How did he answer that? How to say,
The problem is I want even more. I want you to give me everything and then some. I want to tie you to my bed. I want your willing obedience. I want you to do what I want when I want. I want you to suck my cock when I ask. I want you to bend over the dining table if that is my desire. I wish to spank your sweet ass until it reddens beneath my hand and the slightest breeze sends you floating on clouds of sensation
.

Louisa kept her eyes focused on him, her expression serious as she awaited his answer, the steadiness of her gaze searching for his response.

And he had no words. There was no way to say all the things that he needed to and yet—how could he not?

As if sensing his difficulty, and clearly not sure what to say herself, Louisa rose from the chair, the soft yellow folds of her dress falling about her, and came around the desk. Her gaze moved from his face to his lap. What did she want? He felt himself thicken further as possibilities flooded his mind. The thought of her on her knees before him almost caused him to groan.

A light chuckle escaped her lips. “Forgive me. My moods seem to be bouncing all over the place. I was only looking for a place to sit, some way that we could be closer for this difficult conversation. I can see, however, that your lap might not be the best place for me.”

“I don’t see why not.” He could almost feel her settling upon him, his prick resting in the cleft of her buttocks.

“That is exactly why not. We need to talk.” She perched on the edge of his desk, her legs interlacing with his. It was not the position that he would have chosen, but it did give him a rather fine view of her bosom. If only she were in a low-cut evening gown—or if she’d just bend toward him. How would she react if he just reached forward and pushed her breasts up so that they overhung the top of her gown, the nipples inviting his lips like ripe cherries?

And then she did lean forward—but it was her eyes that held him, not her breasts. “Geoffrey, I know this is not easy. It is not easy for me, either. I do not know exactly how we came to be in this position—I mean I do know, but it does not all make sense. The one thing that I am sure of is that we have something special between us. At least I hope we do.”

He hesitated a moment and then answered, “We do.” She was right. That was the one thing of which he was certain.

“Then I have questions and I am sure you do too.”

“Yes.”

Her slippered foot caressed his booted calf as she swung her legs restlessly. She did not
speak.

He did not either.

Why was this so difficult? Perhaps if she looked less the lady he could ask her those questions to which he needed answers. However, even sitting on a desk, legs swinging, she looked like a duchess. It was hard to imagine her at this moment as the woman he’d had against a wall last night. And why did that fact excite him even more?

As she chewed upon her lower lip, he could see her considering. The small white teeth worked at the ripe red flesh, causing him to again picture her slipping down before him, opening that mouth, and …

“I think we must start slow.” Her words interrupted his thoughts.

He did not mind slow; slow was just fine. The lightest touch of tongue to … Only that was not what she meant. “Explain,” he said.

“You ask me one question—a simple one—and I will answer. Then I will ask you an easy one also. We can progress to the more difficult ones.”

That sounded doable. “Why do I go first?”

“I will if you wish, but you always seem to like the lead.”

“You do know me well.” And it seemed that she actually did. He drew in a deep breath. “Tell me about your husband, about Brookingston. I believe I have thought some things that were not correct.”

“About John?”

“Yes, although about Grace’s husband also. It is only when I put the two together that I find myself confused. I had some theories on your untouched state, and they do not fit the man I knew.”

“Theories?”

“That your husband was either ancient or preferred men’s company.”

“John did like men. He had plenty of friends. Oh, that’s not what you mean.” A deep flush rose upon her cheeks. “No, John did not fancy men. At least, I have no reason to think that he did and several to think that he did not.”

He leaned forward. “And yet, your untouched state?”

Her gaze dropped from his and settled on her small hands, which opened and closed tight repeatedly. “I am not sure that counts as an easy question, but I will answer. I would have
thought it obvious. His war wounds prevented—that is, they—well, we never—Oh, I don’t know quite how to explain. I don’t understand fully myself, but evidently John could not …”

“I do understand. And yes, I should have realized, or at least considered.”

Her eyes rose again to his, her hands remaining tightly fisted. “Do you know, he didn’t want to marry me when he came back. He asked me to beg off. He would never have shamed me by calling it off himself, and so he tried to get me to. I was hurt, but I was sure it was simply that he did not want to burden me with a crippled husband. But I loved him and did not care.”

“And so you held him to his promise.”

“Yes, I was sure it was the right thing—for both of us.” Tears formed at the corners of her eyes. “And even now, I believe that it was. I loved him and he loved me. We might not have had the marriage that I imagined as a girl, but it was still a good one.”

He reached out and took one of her hands, easing it open, massaging the palm with his thumbs. “You are right that he did love you. Anyone who looked at him could see it. He often told me that you were the best of wives.”

“And he the best of husbands.” She attempted a smile, but did not quite manage it.