Mastering the Marquess (Bound and Determined)

by Lavinia Kent

  If only he could manage to marry her off and make her somebody else’s problem.

  He stopped and stood still, the thought having been distracting enough to halt his pursuit of Lady Brookingston.

  Unfortunately, Bliss spotted him. She came running—only Bliss could run in such a crush—straight to him, flinging herself into his arms. “Oh, Geoff, I am so glad you’re here.”

  And he hugged her back. That was the problem with Bliss: He might despair of her, but he did love her. She was one of the few in the whole world toward whom he would admit to that emotion.

  “Hello, Poppet. What are you up to? And what are you doing in such company?” He let his gaze drift back to the Countess, who stood watching them, watching him.

  Bliss looked up at him, her eyes serious for a moment. “You don’t actually want to know, do you?”

  He stared back down at her, ignoring the Countess, and trying to keep his tone light. “Do I need to? Will your creditors appear in my office in the morning—or, even worse, angry dowagers?”

  A long, tired sigh left her lips. “No. I promise. For tonight I will do nothing more than spin ridiculously fast as I dance.”

  “And those skirts will not rise up to your waist?” His eyes sought the Countess, who stood apart, still studying them.

  Her eyes creased upward. “I promise not.” And with the lightest peck on his cheek she was off, moving at twice the speed of any normal girl. He could only hope she kept her promise.

  Blast. A warning that the Countess was trouble would only have sent Bliss hurrying farther in her direction. There was nothing as sure to make Bliss do something as telling her not to.

  He would have to speak directly to the Countess, although not here. That was probably exactly what she had planned in approaching his sister in such a manner. He could only hope that their acquaintance did not predate this evening.

  With that worrying thought in mind, he turned to the card room—and there Lady Brookingston stood, right in his path.

  He took a step forward, knowing it was ordained. He turned first to her companion. “Lady Perse, it is good to see you. You are looking quite well.”

  “It is good to see you also, Lord Swanston. Are you acquainted with Lady Brookingston?” Lady Perse nodded toward him, her lips held tight.

  “Thank you, yes.” He took the small, gloved hand as it was held out to him. “I was sorry to hear about Lord Brookingston. He was always a good friend.”

  “I received your card at the time.” Lady Brookingston pulled her hand free, but did not meet his gaze. Her voice seemed to quiver, and was a good octave higher than he recalled. “I did appreciate knowing he was in your thoughts.”

  “And you as well. Have you come to Town for the season?” he asked, his eyes focusing on that full lower lip. Gods, even now he wanted to bite it.

  Lady Perse took over the conversation. “My dear Lady Brookingston has decided that it is time she rejoin society. I have offered to reintroduce her, to make sure that she meets those who are most suitable.” The older woman looked him over from head to toe as if judging his worth. “I would hate to waste her time.”

  And do you find me a waste? The question rose to his lips, but he held it back. Lady Perse was known for her manners. She could be cutting, but only within the lines of propriety—and she held others to the same standard. “I must agree. I should hate to waste the time of so lovely a lady. Perhaps you would come for a ride with me in the park tomorrow. It would surely not be a waste to spend time gazing at such beauty.”

  A slow blush rose up Lady Brookingston’s cheek, and her eyes darted to meet his and then away. “The park is stunning at this time of year. That would be quite nice.” Again her voice held a strange breathless quality.

  Had she tied her corset too tight? He’d happily help loosen the strings.

  “Good. That is arranged then. Forgive us, Lord Swanston, but I do have further introductions to make.” Lady Perse took Lady Brookingston by the arm and dragged her away.

  Swanston could follow only with his eyes as Lady Brookingston’s swaying skirts disappeared into the crowd once again.

  He wasn’t sure why, but he had the feeling that Lady Brookingston just might be the answer to his problems, even if she was not the solution he had imagined.

  Quieting his thoughts, and his body, he forced his mind to more practical matters. Just how much was the sweet woman worth?

  What was wrong with her? Louisa felt almost faint as Lady Perse pulled her along the floor. It must be that man, Swanston. She’d found herself reacting to him, wondering if he could be Charles. His height and build were right, and his voice was remarkably similar to his father’s. But then, for all she knew all the men from Kent sounded that way and she had just never noticed.

  She’d promised that she would stop believing that every man she saw was Charles—and now was the time to begin.

  Yes, Swanston could conceivably have been the man of her memories, but what were the chances?

  Swanston was known for being respectable and dull. His own father had made it clear that he was repressed.

  Charles had certainly shown no sign of being respectable, dull, or, heaven forbid, repressed.

  Swanston was not Charles. She’d known him for years. He had been John’s friend. It was only her foolish mind that wanted to play such games.

  He was, however, taking her for a drive in the park on the morrow.

  And if her toes curled slightly with delight at the thought, perhaps it had nothing to do with Charles and everything to do with the actual man.

  That was not a bad thing when a woman was looking for a husband.

  And besides, “dull” and “respectable” were not bad words when looking for a husband—and surely she could work on “repressed.” She’d had a good teacher.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The sun was hot on her face. Louisa knew she should put her bonnet back on and hide her features from the skin-darkening rays, but how could one hide on such a day. The sky was blue; the grass and trees were green. The scent of flowers filled the park.

  And the company was most acceptable.

  She was so glad that they’d decided to walk and not ride.

  Lord Swanston strolled beside her, stick swinging and boots crunching the stones of the pathway. He was so proper—his hat aligned perfectly on his head, his shoulders even. She doubted the dirt would dare to scuff his boots, and she was certain that no horse apple would ever appear unexpectedly in his path.

  It should have been intimidating. How could a woman ever live up to such a man’s expectations?

  And yet, somehow, it wasn’t.

  Yes, she’d seen his glance when she’d let her bonnet drop back on its strings. She’d not been the only one to think she should protect her delicate complexion, but he had not said anything and she found herself more than willing to just smile at him and shrug her shoulders.

  And he’d nodded back—not much, barely the hint of a movement, but enough to say he understood and that yes, it was a glorious day and perhaps worth a freckle or two.

  “How are you finding Town? I understand it has been years since you visited?” he asked, utterly proper.

  Did she give him the simple answer? I find it delightful, so full of life after the quiet of the country. That was true, if not complete. “I am not sure,” she said after a moment.

  He did not answer, but turned his face to her, raising a single brow. She had a feeling it was a gesture he often repeated.

  “I do love becoming reacquainted with old friends, but I miss the simplicity of country life. And I love the shops here. I am not actually one for shopping, but it is wonderful to have so many choices. And the variety of the food. It is not always as fresh as I am used to, but there is always something different. I’d forgotten what it was like to have a French chef.”

  “And yet, to quote you, you miss the simplicity.”

  “Yes.”

  “I find I must agree.”

>   They walked on in silence—and yet somehow Louisa thought that in a few words they had reached complete accord, that they understood each other’s meaning perfectly. Was that possible? Or was Swanston walking along thinking of his accounts or votes at Lords? His features gave nothing away.

  No. She would choose to believe that, like her, he was busy admiring the beauty of the day and how wonderful a simple walk could be.

  She was beautiful. There was no getting past that. He did not understand how he had missed it in the past, thought her only attractive. Her eyes flashed with enjoyment at the day and she smiled whenever they passed a child and his nurse.

  It was the smile that did it. When still, her features were even and well situated, but when she smiled somehow she moved to beauty. He did not quite understand it, but it was true—as was the sense of peace that he’d remembered. Walking beside her, saying almost nothing, he felt better than he had in months.

  And she could appreciate both quality and expense, and still long for simplicity. He could get along well with such a woman. Also, she did not bore him or annoy him. It was a promising start.

  Still, was she what he was looking for in a wife? It was hard to be sure.

  Last night, even when he’d asked her to accompany him, he had not thought so. Now he was less sure.

  She was pleasant, well mannered, liked children, and did not chatter endlessly.

  She was evidently wealthy.

  What more did a man need?

  He turned his head and looked down at her. She should have kept her bonnet on—spots would not be becoming on that pale complexion. He’d almost told her so when she’d removed it, but had held himself in check after seeing her smile. A man would do much to keep such a look upon a woman’s face.

  As if sensing his thoughts, she turned toward him and gifted him with a grin, her cheeks pinkening as she caught his regard. God, that mouth was something. Her lips had parted, and all he could think of was just what he’d like to do with that mouth. He’d fuck it for hours if given the chance. The thought of her on her knees before him, the tight constrained braids so at odds with those plump, wanton lips, almost undid him. He tried to shake the thought away. She was a lady.

  Then her gloved hand rose to her lips, caressing them, brushing at their fullness.

  Would she put a finger in and suck?

  “Do I have something on my face?” She brushed her hands across her mouth again. “You are staring at me as if I still had jam and toast crumbs on my lips.”

  He turned away quickly. “No. Sorry, I fear I had become lost in thought. I was wondering whether it would rain enough now that the fields are plowed and planted.” Although it was certainly not fields he’d been thinking about plowing. He’d have to be more careful. Never before had he felt so at risk of exposing his desires.

  And perhaps that was the problem with her as a wife. He did not wish a wife who would threaten his control, not in any way.

  He would have to think carefully before taking any further action.

  He turned, caught her smile, and … “If the weather is still fine tomorrow are you free to accompany me again? Or perhaps a drive? I had promised you one, and my curricle is fine.”

  Another day. Another ball. It was becoming hard to tell one from the last. And if one more man trounced on her toes she was going to scream. Louisa looked about the Sweets’ crowded ballroom and sighed. Husband hunting was harder than she had imagined. It wasn’t that she wasn’t meeting men, it wasn’t even that she wasn’t meeting the right men, it was simply that none of them were the right man. She hadn’t thought she was going to be picky. She’d made a simple list—responsible, attractive enough, caring, would make a good father. She hadn’t thought she wanted more than that. And yet …

  And yet, she found some problem with each of them.

  Lord Peter always made her feel that she was doing something wrong. And, to be quite frank, he was not that smart and was a little too fond of his dogs. She liked pets, but not in a carriage or dining room. And from Lord Peter’s words, she thought they might even join him in the bedroom.

  Lord Browning was impossible to talk to. The man never answered in words of more than one syllable.

  Swanston could be quiet, but he did answer if spoken to.

  Lord Temple had snake hands. She didn’t need more reason than that.

  Mr. Simpkins presented possibility, but he already had five children from his first wife.

  Lord Samson was much too clearly only after her purse. She accepted that it was one of her finer features in most men’s eyes, but she did wish they would at least occasionally glance at the rest of her. She did not like the feeling that once the bills were paid she might be left on her own.

  Lord Walton left her feeling like she had dirt on her face and crumbs on her dress. He seemed to be too busy thinking about his own superiority to notice anything interesting about her—and when he did notice her, it was to correct her.

  Had she missed anyone? Aah, there was Mr. Jacks. There was nothing she could think of wrong with him. He had a steady income, was tall and attractive, and frequently mentioned playing with his nephews. He would be a good choice—only he didn’t interest her.

  She held in another sigh. No, this was definitely not easy.

  “Would you care to dance?” Swanston’s voice echoed over her shoulder.

  She turned with a smile. The man was so easy to be with. She didn’t have to think about every response when she was with him; he wanted nothing but her company. “I would enjoy that very much.” She held out her hand and allowed him to sweep her onto the dance floor.

  It was a country dance and there was little possibility of conversation, but that was fine. Each gentle touch of hands conveyed thought and care. She wasn’t sure why she felt so comfortable with him, but she did—and she wasn’t going to waste time worrying about it.

  Not when she had a husband to find.

  The dance ended and Swanston gestured to the balcony. “Would you care for some air?”

  She nodded. That was another nice thing about the man: She didn’t have to worry about whether each invitation for a turn outside would become a game of avoiding hands and kisses. If anything, she wished that he’d show a little more interest in those matters. It didn’t do much for her sense of attractiveness to be invited out to look at the stars—and then to actually look at the stars.

  The gardens were cooler than the heated ballroom, and Louisa drew in a deep breath of the clean air. “I do love the scent of a garden.”

  “Of flowers?” Swanston moved to stand behind her, and she was immediately aware of his size and strength.

  “No, just of plants—of life. Even when nothing is blooming I think you can smell the potential, sense what will grow with care and time. Do I sound ridiculous?”

  “No.” He reached out and brushed a curl from her cheek. “I’ve always liked looking for potential and then nurturing it.”

  She shivered.

  “You are cold?”

  “No.” She looked up and met his gaze—and for a moment, thought she saw something, felt something. His gaze swept from her eyes down to her lips and settled there. Was he going to kiss her? Her heart skipped a beat at the thought, and her thighs tightened in anticipation.

  Abruptly, he turned away, then stepped away. “We should go back in. I hear the orchestra starting to play again. I am sure you have many eager suitors waiting for your hand.”

  She wanted to stay, to linger a moment more, to enjoy the garden, the quiet, to enjoy him.

  No, that last was not right—or was it? She held out her hand and let him lead her back into the ball.

  Blast. He should have known better than to take her out into the garden. Walking in the garden at an affair such as this had one purpose—and it was not one he was free to indulge in with Lady Brookingston, no matter what his trousers and his fantasies might tell him. She was a lady, and one did not shove ladies against the wall and hike their skirts to their wa
ists; one did not sink one’s cock into them with no preliminaries beyond a swat on the behind; one did not …

  It was useless to think about what one did not do. The only thing that accomplished was to change the drape of his trousers to a considerable degree. He was going to have to excuse himself to smoke a cheroot as soon as he’d escorted Louisa back in. There was no way that he’d be dancing while his cock was fighting its way above his flap.

  Louisa stopped and turned, looking up at him, a question in her eyes. “Did I displease you somehow, Lord Swanston? I feel that you are hurrying to be rid of me.”

  Was he? Yes. And no.

  He stilled, and taking both her hands raised them to his lips. “I am sorry. I suppose I’ve had enough of doing my duty and am eager for the card room.”

  He watched her face fall. That was not what he had meant to say—although for the life of him he didn’t know what to say. I am sorry, my dear, you’ve made me most uncomfortable. If you don’t mind dropping to your knees and sucking me off I’d be pleased to continue this conversation. No, he didn’t think that would work.

  “I do understand.” She attempted a smile. “A man can take only so much of a woman’s chatter. My father always said that.”

  “No, that’s not—”

  But Louisa had spun away and slipped back into the dancing crowd.

  He stood a moment, staring after her, then turned and walked back to the gardens.

  His cock was no longer bursting the seams of his trousers, but he definitely needed a moment to decide what he wanted.