by Lavinia Kent
Yes, she liked that. A heavy shiver ran through her as her thigh muscles tightened.
“But, I find I am not ready for you yet. I think you must stand a little longer, anticipate what I want, what I will do, a little longer.” He lifted the crop and let it fall softly once more—a promise of what was to come—and turned and marched from the room, the sound of his steps loud.
Waiting would be good for her, would teach her who was in charge.
Or so he told himself.
Letting himself into the library at the end of the hall, he pulled out a cheroot. He would smoke it and then go back, perhaps have a glass of port as well. Choosing a chair by the empty grate, he made himself comfortable. There was certainly no hurry.
Louisa did not expect him back this night, and the woman was his to do with as he wished.
So what did he wish?
He wished he were home in bed. Why had he even bothered to come? Louisa might not give him what he needed, but she came far closer to doing so than the woman in the red chamber.
Hell. He stood, dropping the still unlit cigar into the grate. Why not get it over with and then just go home, where he wanted to be?
He could satisfy the woman without being involved himself. Such encounters did not always involve sex, and if what she wanted was punishment he supposed he could supply that—although there was no pleasure in the thought. It felt more like work than a game.
The pain mattered little too him—only the control, and this seemed to take little control on anyone’s part.
Fuck, he could just have Ruby send someone else in. The woman hadn’t seen him and even if she had it wouldn’t matter. She wanted a few good welts across that fine ass. He doubted she cared who put them there.
With that thought in mind, he walked from the room and down the hall, past the door to the woman’s room.
And then he stopped.
She was screaming—smothered screams, but still screams.
And there was terror in those screams, not just pain and anticipation.
He placed his hand on the door and hesitated. There were strict rules of no interference here. But this was his room—surely they did not apply. Or had Ruby sent someone else to fill his spot? It would not be the first time she had anticipated his needs before he understood them himself.
Or perhaps he had mistaken the door?
He looked back down the hall and counted.
Another shrill scream echoed from the chamber.
Without further thought, he shoved the door open.
The Countess stood there, a heavy cane raised in one hand.
She turned and smiled, coy and inviting. “Have you come back to play? I was so disappointed to find you gone, even if you did leave me such a lovely toy. So considerate of you. I do hope you don’t mind sharing?”
Her breasts heaved over the low black corset she wore, the rouged nipples visible as they sought release against the top edge. Long dark hair swirled about her as she moved, her lips a cut of scarlet across her face.
“What are you doing here?” he barked.
“Why, waiting for you, of course.” She smiled, and held out the crop to him. “I was so happy when I heard you had returned to play. I rushed right up. I have been waiting for this, for you, for far too long now. Nobody satisfies my needs as you do, Geoffrey.”
“I did not invite you.”
“And since when did I require an invitation?” She took a step nearer to him, the deep musk and jasmine scent of her perfume surrounding him. “You know I want only what you want.”
He could see the woman now. A dozen bright red welts covered her backside and legs, blood trickling from some of the marks. And her terror—it was impossible to miss the rigidity of her pose, the way her head thrashed back and forth. Her eyes glinted white across the room; a ball gag, tied tight, filled her mouth. It was a wonder she’d made as much sound as she had.
This was not what she had come here for.
“Does Ruby know you are here?” he asked, trying to hold his calm for just a moment more.
“What does it matter what that no-account whore knows? I am here to finish what you did not. I thought I’d have her ready for you; I know what a swollen cunt does to you. She’s almost ready, if you care to give her a go. Just look at how she’s dripping. She’s enjoying it as much as you will. And if you give me a good show, perhaps I’ll take a turn beneath your whip next. You always could make me come with just a few strokes. I’ve missed you, Geoffrey.”
His stomach curled with distaste, and for a moment he thought he would be sick. This was never what he had wanted, what he had enjoyed. “I do not think so. I think perhaps you had best leave.”
“You don’t mean that.” Dropping the cane to the floor with a clatter, the Countess stepped toward him, her hands rising to her breasts. With the slightest movement, she pushed down the bodice, her turgid nipples springing free. “Look how I want you. Don’t you want to pinch them, bite them? I brought clips with me. Think of those metal teeth biting into me. You know you want to hurt me, to cause me pain, to restrain me to your will. It will never be as good for you as it is between us. I will fight you and then submit. I need you, Geoffrey.”
“I do not need you.” Although at this moment he would have liked to hurt her—and not as part of any game.
“You do. You just don’t know it.” She knelt before him on the floor, pushed her bodice even lower, and then picked up the cane and held it out again. “Hurt me. Make me pay. You know you want to.”
“No.”
She suddenly stood and with a powerful swing brought the cane down upon the nameless woman one more time before he could stop her.
The muffled cry filled the room.
“Stop,” he told her. “Or I’ll tell that ‘no-account whore’ what happened here and you’ll never be welcome again.”
“As if she could keep me out.” The Countess turned from him, raising the cane high again, bringing it down with a sharp whistle of air.
He leaped, catching it in his hand, ignoring the heady sting as he pulled it from her grasp.
When he caught his balance it was his turn to raise the cane, to aim it toward pale skin and scarlet lips.
“Go on,” she whispered. “It’s what you want. What I want.”
He could see the desire in her gaze, the want of pain that would hurt him as greatly as her.
“I said no.” He dropped his arm to his side.
She stared at him, her eyes as cutting as any blade. “Do what you want. Punish me. Control me.”
“No.” He walked over to the table and dropped the cane, then grabbed a soft cloth and draped it over the quivering woman. “I think you should leave.”
“And how do you propose to make me do that?” She spat the words.
“Do not doubt me, Countess. I have had a difficult evening and I am not in a mood to be tested.” He did not even look at her as he spoke.
He heard her hesitate, wondered what she would do. He was very close to the edge, and if she pushed he did not know what he would do, only that it would not end as she wished.
It took a moment, and then he heard her sigh of capitulation. “Very well.” She turned and swaggered toward the door, clearly refusing to appear cowed. And then just as she left, “And do give my greetings to your charming sister. I do so look forward to improving upon our acquaintance.”
He wanted to go after her, to demand an explanation—hell, to demand that she never speak to his sister again.
A moan from the woman stopped him; some things came first. He hurried to the door, yelling for Ruby. She would know what to do. He did not believe it would be the first time she’d encountered such a situation.
And he would make damned sure that the Countess was never welcome here again.
The slam of the front door echoed through the house. He was home: Louisa could hear the heels of his boots pounding on the polished floors. She curled her feet under her in her chair beside the hearth, set her book
aside, and waited.
Would he come to her?
Would he expect a welcome?
Why would he? He’d had his pleasure—why would he need his wife?
John had always slunk into the house after such a night, not showing his face until noon the next day.
Swanston did not sound like he was sneaking. The clatter from below was so loud that she almost wondered if he was trying to wake her and the rest of the house.
And then his steps were on the stairs.
The candles were still alight in her chamber. She’d had no wish to hide her knowledge of the hour of his return.
She held her breath as she heard him walk the hall, nearer, nearer—and then with no pause he was past, on the way to his own chamber. He had not even noticed the light shining beneath her door.
She stood, the thin silk of her gown falling about her. What did she do now?
She was spoiling for a fight. Her blood boiled. Her temper burned.
She was ready now.
Would the mood still hold in the morning, or would she be more inclined to forgiveness—or even worse, meekness?
She would not risk it.
The door to his room loomed large in her eyes, the silver handle shining against the dark wood.
She had never been through it. Each night he came to her, slipping in attired in his green robe and crisp nightshirt.
She’d never been through that door, never seen his chamber—and didn’t that say everything.
Putting one bare foot in front of the other, she marched toward that door.
Did she knock? Would the door be locked?
What if he was dressing—or undressing?
What if he was not alone? Did his man wait up for him?
She hadn’t heard a sound from his chamber all evening, but what did that mean? She sometimes thought her maid floated above the ground so as to make no sound.
She was delaying.
Without another thought, she turned the handle and stepped through.
What now? The connecting bedchamber door swung open. Swanston wasn’t sure how much more he could take this night. He’d had several large whiskeys, trying to come down after the events of the night, and they were definitely hitting him hard. He sank to the edge of his wide bed, letting his shoulders slump.
He looked up as his wife stalked through. The first thing that he noticed was her night rail. The soft draping slid over every curve, slithering and caressing, clinging to her magnificent breasts, making it impossible for him to look anywhere else. Even in his state of exhaustion, he wanted to pull her to him and feel those tits pressed tight against his chest. The fabric was so thin, her nipples pressing forward invitingly, ready, ripe. His mouth felt dry as he imagined wetting the silk with his tongue until it grew transparent, knowing that the gentle rasp would drive Louisa to lose control. His sex came alive as it had not all evening.
She stepped forward, her breasts drawing closer.
He could feel them in his mouth, hear her little gasps …
“Where have you been?”
The clipped tone of her words did not go with the welcome of those breasts. He forced his eyes up to her face. No, there was no welcome there.
“At a club,” he replied.
“White’s?”
“No.” There was something going on here that he did not understand.
“Brooks’s? I didn’t know you were so political.”
“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 fla
t 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.