Mastering the Marquess (49 page)

“But …”

“Stop with the buts and believe me. I do not lie.”

He did not lie. Louisa knew that was true; other than the lifelong lie about his mother that he had been forced into as a boy, he always told the truth. And if that was true …

It was what she had hoped for. And perhaps that was why she found it so hard to believe. Dreams did not come true—or did they?

Taking one last bite of ham, she rose and stood beside him. “I find I have even less appetite than I thought. At least for food.”

“I find I have also had my fill.”

What next? She’d planned this night carefully, but somehow had not figured on how to get from one point to another. It was so much easier when he took command—then she had to decide only whether to comply or not, and what the consequences might be.

She stepped away from him and moved to the window. Full darkness came late this time of year and twilight still hung about the rooftops. Were they in agreement? Was there anything else they needed to discuss? She did not want this to be one more night of delaying what needed to be said—only now words and thought deserted her.

The air shifted as he moved up behind her. Very gently he pulled her against him. The welt along her thigh protested, but not with much vigor.

“Is there more you want to say?” he asked, his voice a whisper in her ear.

“I don’t know. I feel like there should be. So much has happened, so much has changed, and yet I believe it does not matter.”

“How can you even say that?” His hands wrapped about her waist, cradling her against him. Never had she felt so safe, so treasured.

She laid her head back against his chest, her eyes still focused on the fading sun. “You are still you. I am still me. What happened was awful, but it does not change what is between us.
If you truly do not feel an unrelenting need to tie me up and whip me bloody, then I am prepared to proceed as if it had not happened.”

“Are you saying you can forget?”

“Definitely not. I am not sure I will ever forget my fear, my panic—or my faith that you would save me. I am sure I will have nightmares, but I will wake in your arms and you will comfort me. When I need to talk, you will be there. Am I wrong?”

“No, you are not.”

She let out a long sigh, feeling her body relax into his. She wished she were taller so that her curves would more directly fit against his hardness—and he was hard, increasingly so. She turned in his arms so that his growing arousal pressed tight against her belly. There was no fright in that.

She was glad things had not progressed further with the Countess, that some acts had retained their wild innocence.

Perhaps that was the way to begin, with something that had nothing to do with what had happened, with something that she had experienced only with Geoffrey, that was all about Geoffrey. He could make her forget all but his scent, his breath, his strength—all but the complete wonder of him.

Determined, she leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss upon his chest. Lifting her hands, she began to undo the first of the buttons, wishing to taste his bare skin with her lips.

“No.” He caught her forearms, holding her still. “No,” he repeated, his voice ringing with authority.

Chapter Thirty-four

What had she done wrong? Knots re-formed deep in her belly. One moment everything was heading in the desired direction, and the next … And the next she just didn’t know. Looking up at her husband, she prayed he could see the question in her eyes.

He held her still, her body now separated from his by several inches of cool air.

She started to step back, but he did not release her arms, his fingers gripping her tight, holding her in place.

“What do you want then?” she asked.

His eyes met hers, dropped to her lips, focused there a moment and then came back to her eyes.

Her breath caught as she waited for his words.

Heat shone in his gaze, but still he held her away from his body’s heat.

“I do want you.” His husky whisper surrounded her, but he did not make another move.

“Then why?”

Dropping her arms, he turned away. He walked across the room to the bed and sat on the edge, his head slumped forward. “Because you make it all too simple—and life is never that easy.” He sounded tired.

She strode across the room and stood before him, daring him. “Why not? Don’t you think we deserve easy and simple for a change?”

His head jerked up, and again his eyes made that slow move from eyes to lips to eyes.

Her gaze dropped to his lips; they were pulled tight but still drew her. She wished she could just lean forward and press her mouth against his, wished she could smother him with kisses until he softened.

Only she didn’t want him soft—and she wasn’t even thinking about
there
. Well, she was actually, but not strictly.

He reached forward and placed a hand just above her hips. “How sore are you? I was going to pull you onto my lap, but I am afraid …”

Oh, how she wanted that closeness. “I am still sore, but it is not unbearable. I don’t think
I’d want to ride a curricle over a bumpy road, but a cushioned chair—or I daresay your lap—should present no problem.”

“Are you saying that I am cushioned?”

“No. And stop trying to change the conversation, and the mood. Why would you not let me pleasure you, bring pleasure to us both? I know that you like it. Don’t you?” A flicker of uncertainty churned in her gut.

His eyes centered on her mouth again. He swallowed. “Yes, I like it, but … but it was not the time for it yet. Can you really doubt that I like it, love it even—God, I’d probably give over half my estate to feel your lips around me, feel your cheeks press upon me, feel—” He moved to take her hand, pulling it to his lap. “Does that feel like I don’t like it? Even thinking about it, talking about it, has me ready to burst free.”

She stroked his length, feeling him swell and move beneath her touch.

He forced her hand to stillness. “Do I need to say no again?”

“But …”

He spoke with some force, but his eyes remained on her mouth. “You are determined, aren’t you? No matter how many times I say that I think you need more time, that I want to be sure that you are ready, that I am not sure it is wise so soon after, you are going to keep trying. Am I right? You are determined to be disobedient.”

“Probably.” She wiggled her fingers beneath his hand. “And you did not say any of those things. You just said no.”

“I thought you knew me well enough to understand what I was saying. I just want to cherish you, Louisa. You often show amazing insight; why not this time?”

“I don’t know.” She looked down at their joined hands. How to explain her insecurities?

“So will you listen?”

She moved her hand again, determined. This was her moment. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Louisa.” Exasperation filled his voice, but there was no mistaking the meaning of that underlying husky tone.

Excitement flared within her. “Why, will you punish me if I disobey you?”

His eyes flashed at her words. She was deliberately provoking him. But then, he dampened their glow. “Do not push me. This is not wise. I do not even know how you can joke about it.”

“Perhaps I am not joking.”

Another flare of emotion. “It is best to wait, to be sure, to give yourself time to think.”

“I have done nothing
but
lie abed and think these last days. I am sure.” Her voice grew serious, and she looked up at him. “I need you, and I need you now. Waiting will not make anything better. It will only deprive us of time together.” He blew out a long breath.

She took her other hand and ran it up his thigh, taking advantage of all he had taught her.

“You are insistent,” he stated flatly, but she could feel his leg jump beneath her touch.

“I am afraid so.” She lowered her eyes, pretending a demureness she definitely did not feel.

His muscles coiled, gathering beneath her fingers. His hands rose, taking her by the shoulders, and then one moved higher, lifting her chin so that her eyes met his. He stared deep into her, both seeking and commanding. “If we do this, we do it my way.”

She smiled inwardly. Of course it would be his way. Was there another? “If you say so, Geoffrey.”

“And be careful, Louisa. A man does not like to be managed.”

She knew that, but of course it only applied if the man
knew
he was being managed. “If you say so, my lord.”

“Minx,” he whispered—and then with more command. “Now, turn around and lift your skirts.”

What? That fast? She turned and obeyed, a small shiver descending.

There was a sudden intake of breath.

Swanston examined the long welt that ran across her left inner thigh. The line was deep red and slightly scabbed. It stood out boldly against her pale skin. It was much less noticeable than when he’d washed and cleaned it, but it was still not pretty.

Normally he’d enjoyed seeing his mark upon a woman. He could still remember the way he’d felt after spanking Louisa, in seeing the imprint of his hand upon her white flesh. He’d felt like it made her more his, that for the few hours the marks remained she was stamped as
belonging to him. Even now his cock jerked at the thought.

He wanted to own her, all of her. And if he gave her himself in return, that was only right.

This mark, however, was different.

This mark was not his, and it had caused her pain, great pain.

As he leaned forward to examine it, his half-hard prick grew limp against his leg. This was not a mark of desire—it was a mark of shame. Carefully, he reached out a single finger and ran it over the line, wishing he could erase its very being. Leaning forward, he kissed it gently.

She flinched, but did not pull away.

He pressed down with his finger, just enough to indent the flesh. “I am sorry, so sorry. Does that hurt?”

“No.”

He could not let it go. “Do not lie to me, Louisa. Never lie. If we are going to proceed, that needs to be the first rule. I cannot make judgments if I do not have honest information. So, I will ask again: Does that hurt?”

He heard her hesitation. “Yes. It hurts, but not too badly. It stings whenever I move, but is almost unnoticeable when I am still, unless I sit on something very hard.”

He pressed again, more firmly, keeping the pressure steady. His stomach still churned from what had been done to her. “And this?”

“It hurt when you first pressed, but not at all as you hold it.”

“Not at all?”

“I suppose I can feel it. I know exactly where the mark is—but pain, no.”

“Bend over a little.”

He could feel her resistance to the command, but she complied.

“Spread your legs, just a few inches more.”

She did.

The welt ran up her thigh, but no higher. Good.

His hand lifted, his fingers eager for further exploration. He brought them back to his thighs, held them there. He had seen what he needed to—for now.

God, she was beautiful. Even here. Even now. He could not mistake how perfect she was for him, could not pretend he did not wish to lean forward and nip those perfect globes, could not
hide the effect that it had on him to see the moisture beginning to form at the edges of her cunny.

He forced his eyes up, past the soft white linen pooled above her waist, the slender hands holding it there. Her hair was magical, the myriad of colors swirling in soft curls as it hung down over her shoulders. He had never decided whether he preferred it loose or tightly constrained. He supposed it was like much in his life—the tight constraint highlighted the beauty of what could be, and the free beauty made him long for constraint. It was an endless circle, and he would rejoice in every bit of it, in every bit of her. “You can drop your skirts and turn.”

This time she complied with no hesitation.

He patted the bed beside him, watched with care as she sat. Yes, there was a wince, but not a great one, and it did fade once she was seated on the soft mattress. Reaching out, he turned her face, examining the bruises she had hidden beneath her loose hair. They had begun to yellow at the edges. Leaning forward, he kissed them, as softly as he was able. Then he examined her mouth. The corners were dry and slightly cracked. He could only imagine the strain she had been through. He would never forgive himself.