Mastering the Marquess (Bound and Determined)

by Lavinia Kent

  That was fine. His only purpose was to breed familiarity to his touch.

  He was thinking too much—and not enough. Keeping his mind occupied, even if it was with fantasies of the future, kept him from the edge, gave him control, but enough was enough.

  Her hips shifted, seeking even greater contact. He moved his upper hand away, using it to grab himself, to coat himself in her slickness. Moving forward, he positioned himself, letting his other hand slip about her hips to the front, before again finding those hidden nerves.

  She tried to move again, to press again, but he held her still. “Do not move. This is for me.”

  Instantly she quieted, although he could feel her strain with the effort.

  She was his, his to command.

  Holding her tight, he thrust forward, thrust home, sinking his entire length into her.

  Her head arched back, her dark hair cascading onto the pale skin of her back.

  He waited. There was no other movement.

  He looked down at their joining: the press of dark curls slick with moisture, the hungry flesh longing to be one. Dark and light. Soft and hard. If it was possible, he felt himself grow even thicker, felt her swell to accommodate him.

  It was an effort to hold himself still. He wanted to give in to the cries of his body—and his demons.

  He held back, waited—and then began to move with great purpose.

  In and out. Each movement designed to push them both further, but not far enough.

  His thighs strained with the effort of holding back. He caught his lower lip between his teeth—and bit, the pain bringing him just enough sanity to continue.

  She would come to the breaking point first. He was determined.

  He would push and push until there was no option but surrender.

  Her head fell forward again as she gulped in air in great gasps.

  His fingers still played between her legs, catching, rubbing, pressing. With each thrust of his hips he would add a little pinch to her sensitive nub.

  In—and hold. Out—and wait.

  Thrust again and again. Hold the pace.

  God, it was good. So tight, so warm, the give of her flesh almost undoing him.

  He needed—no, not yet. Not yet.

  Her legs began to quiver against his, and he found himself supporting her weight along with his own.

  And then he felt it begin: the spasm of flesh, the clenching of muscles.

  “Now, yes, now.” It was not merely a statement, but a command and order.

  Her head fell back again, her whole body arching, a cry forming on her lips.

  He felt it happen, felt the moment, felt the joy take her, her whole body tightening about him, squeezing him, milking him—God, it was glorious.

  And he gave in.

  With a roar of her name, he plunged forward, his hips thrusting again and again with speed and force, burying himself deeper and deeper in her sweet flesh.

  He heard his own name—Geoffrey—the first he’d ever heard it on her lips.

  But all that mattered was feeling, feeling and rapture.

  That moment.

  This moment.

  Blackness.

  Light.

  And pleasure, that ultimate pinnacle of surrender.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Her every muscle was spent. Louisa was not sure she’d ever move again. It was hard to breathe with her face pressed deep into the pillows, but the effort of turning her head was beyond her. Everything felt beyond her. She wasn’t sure that she’d be able to breathe even if she did turn her face. Her lungs might decide to stop moving, along with the rest of her.

  But it felt good. It felt so good. Louisa had never even imagined anything like the feeling of those strong hands squeezing her, caressing her, teasing her. And it had been a tease—one long tease—until the end, when …

  She didn’t know the words to describe what she’d felt, what she’d gone through. She wasn’t even sure that the words existed.

  Did it even matter if she never breathed again? It would not be a bad moment to die.

  Only, only there was something niggling at her, some uncompleted thought that wanted to be born.

  She felt Geoffrey settle beside her. His Christian name had never felt comfortable in her thoughts before, but now it did.

  Geoffrey.

  It would be foolish to pretend that nothing had changed.

  A large hand settled on her shoulder, pulling her toward him, turning her head so that cool air bathed her face.

  She stared over at his handsome face, sleep beginning to settle about the eyes. He was so familiar, and yet so different.

  Was this really the man she had lain with these past nights? Tentatively, she reached out a hand and laid it upon his cheek, and his head turned to brush it with his lips.

  It was all so familiar. She’d had the thought a moment ago, but this time it felt different. She meant more than that he was the man who had courted her, the man she had married. At this moment he was so much more than that.

  It floated about her consciousness, hovering, not wanting to be discovered.

  A butterfly unwilling to land, refusing to be netted.

  She closed her eyes, wishing that she could grasp that final thread, but too tired to try.

  When he pulled her closer, wrapped his arms about her, she purred with the pleasure of it, and then gave herself up to sleep.

  Perhaps tomorrow she would understand.

  Swanston stared up at the canopy as he heard the woman beside him slip into sleep, her breathing growing slow and heavy.

  She was Grace, his Grace. Swanston didn’t know why he hadn’t realized it before. There could be no other explanation for how familiar to him she seemed—although even now, he was not completely sure.

  Perhaps he simply wanted her to be Grace.

  Grace had been a virgin, of that he was sure. And Louisa was a widow, a widow who’d been married to his friend.

  It seemed a blasphemy to even consider the thing, but he’d imagined Grace’s husband was one who preferred men, or was old and impotent. What other explanation could there be?

  But was she his Grace? Could she be a sister? Heaven forbid. A cousin? That would be better, although it did not seem likely.

  It was so hard to separate all the images he had of her. Brookingston’s wife. Brookingston’s widow. Grace. Lady Brookingston. Lady Swanston. Louisa. Could they all be the same woman?

  It seemed impossible, but it seemed even more impossible not. His mind spun with all the possibilities.

  He pushed up onto his elbow and looked down at her, examining the fine features. It would be hard to mistake that hair—could two women have the same such wondrous locks and not be related?

  But what about the rest of her?

  The body was about right. It was hard to remember the exact details—a man did tend to change things in fantasy.

  And the face? What could he remember about it? Surely, he could not have forgotten that mouth, that wondrous mouth, and the things it had done to him.

  Blast. Was there a way to be sure?

  He could hardly ask her. If she was not Grace it would bring only confusion—and perhaps anger.

  And if she was? It seemed she had worked hard to keep her identity a secret, so how would she feel if it was revealed?

  A scratching at the door startled him. A gentleman was used to his servants scratching lightly instead of knocking, but never on the communicating door, and never at the bottom of it.

  The scratching continued.

  And then a meow. A loud and disgruntled meow.

  Louisa’s cat.

  More scratching. The fellow was not about to give up.

  Swanston slipped from the bed, glad that the floors held the warmth of summer rather than winter’s chill.

  A quick turn of the handle and the cat pushed the door open the rest of the way. The small black-and-white face gave Swanston a distrusting look as the creature stalked into the chambe
r. It paced the length and then the width, tail twitching, eyes alert. And then, with a single leap from the center of the chamber, it landed beside Louisa on the bed. Snuffling, it padded across her body, sniffing as if to assure itself that all was well. When it reached her face it nuzzled against her cheeks, and her arms came up, cuddling the beast against her.

  “Aah, Charlie. Did you miss me?” she murmured before snuggling back down to sleep.

  Charlie? He’d heard her say the name before but had given it no thought. It was an odd name for a cat. Charlie?

  Charles? That had been the name he’d taken with Grace.

  Could it be coincidence? Or had Grace—Louisa—named the beast after him? How old was the thing anyway? He knew it was young, an overgrown kitten, but just how young? When exactly had Louisa acquired the thing?

  Another thought occurred to him. A black-and-white kitten—one that looked quite similar to the one on the mirror he’d given Grace.

  Had she ever used it? Followed his instructions? The thought caused his cock to swell again.

  He glanced back at the bed, at his sleeping wife.

  Soon.

  Stepping quietly, he slipped through the door to Louisa’s room. The dark hung heavy here, only the barest glimmer of light seeping through the parted curtains.

  Where would she keep it?

  A candle stood ready on the table by her bed. He lit it quickly and looked about the room.

  The mirror was nowhere in plain sight. A simple silver one sat upon her dressing table. He picked it up and then placed it back beside the matching brush. Such simple female things. He’d never noticed them before.

  He slipped open the drawers. Powder. A delicately wrapped soap. He picked it up. Lemons and lavender. He knew the scent well. Louisa. The Louisa he’d known these last weeks.

  A small vial sat beside the brush atop the table, the blue glass shielding its contents. Was it? Yes, roses and cinnamon. No wonder it had smelled familiar earlier in the evening. It was the same scent Grace had worn. And he recognized the vial. He hadn’t been aware of noticing it at Ruby’s, but now the sudden image of it on the table beside the bed there came to him.

  Still, it was not proof. Surely many women wore such a scent, had the same vial.

  He shuffled through the drawers further. Letters. A small sewing kit. A jar of silver pins.

  Nothing.

  He looked about the room.

  Her desk. No. Even without looking he knew she would not keep it there.

  The table beside the bed. No. The drawer was too small.

  A tall armoire stood against the far wall. He could remember the maid opening the drawers, revealing piles of delicately folded silks. It would take far more time to search than he had.

  And yet … He walked over to the armoire, and imagined himself nearly a foot shorter. He reached out and then moved down two drawers. He let his hand rest upon the pull, and the drawer opened. Reticules. Fancy evening ones. Red beads. Black beads.

  He almost shut the door, but then he slipped his hand in, feeling beneath the delicate bags.

  And he felt it, wrapped in velvet.

  Pulling it out, he had to force himself to breathe. The shape was right. The cloth slipped open.

  Even in the dim light, the bright enamel shone bright. He saw the delicate petals wrapped about the night-shaded handle, the single flower at its base. He pushed the lever. The small black-and-white cat grinned up at him, tail twitching.

  He had found his Grace.

  Rewrapping the mirror, he slipped it back in the drawer, then returned to his own room.

  The remainder of the night lay ahead. He had plenty of time to decide what to do, to decide how to reveal himself to his wife.

  Only one question remained: Did she know who he was?

  Louisa stretched, feeling the subtle ache that ran throughout her limbs. The barest hint of daylight was peeking over the rooftops, lighting the room with a pink glow. She stretched again, curling and uncurling her fingers above her head before dropping them back to her side with care.

  Her husband still slumbered beside her, a most unusual occurrence. But then, it had been a most unusual night.

  A night there was no going back from.

  They had made love only that one time—although “making love” was not the right phrase. But then neither was “marital relations,” and “sex” was too simple.

  “Coitus”?

  She grinned to herself. It was not the worst of the bunch.

  “Fucked”?

  Now that was a word she blushed even to think. A word she should not even know—or at least should pretend not to, even within the privacy of her mind.

  She bet that was how Geoffrey thought of it, though.

  She blushed again, deeper, and rolled onto her side to stare at him.

  It still amazed her that he was the same man she’d lived with these past days.

  Last night had been so different—and yet so the same.

  How could merely being on her stomach instead of her back have changed things so much?

  Well, that and the light. Geoffrey had looked at her last night, really looked at her—at all of her. And he’d liked it, liked her. That had been abundantly clear.

  The area between her legs tingled at the thought, and she pressed her thighs tight.

  Should she wake him? Would things remain the same now that daylight lit the sky?

  She closed her eyes and remembered the night, remembered the sound of his voice commanding her, telling her what to do—and her own willing compliance. Oh, that voice, that deep, rich voice.

  It was the voice that had filled her mind these last weeks, ordering her to be still, to not move.

  In all that time he had not spoken the words and yet she had heard them.

  How much better it was to hear them actually spoken.

  To hear his voice; to hear that voice.

  And then she knew. It was not a sudden realization. No, it felt like something she had known all along.

  Something she had refused to comprehend.

  With trembling fingers, she reached out and ran her fingers through the hair at his temples, moved her fingers to just above his left ear. He murmured in his sleep and turned his face away, but it was enough. She had felt it, felt the scar she had already known was there, though she had not touched it. The scar he had gotten from the nursery hearth.

  She knew him, had known him.

  The thought was startling. Could she have known all along—known and refused to accept?

  The floor was warm beneath her feet as she slipped from the bed. Her gown was nowhere to be seen, no doubt lost in the tangle of sheets that lay crumpled at the foot of the bed.

  She could not walk around the house naked, not even to return to her own chambers.

  The emerald silk robe she knew so well lay across the back of a chair, and she grabbed it, pulling it on, inhaling his scent, that deep musk of man.

  Time. She needed time to think, time to understand.

  Had she suspected who he was when she married him? She didn’t think so, and yet it would explain so much, explain that feeling that there was so much more to him than could be seen.

  The door that separated their rooms closed with only the slightest click as she snuck back to her chambers, ringing for her maid.

  There were decisions to be made, questions to be asked.

  She just wished she knew what they were.

  One hour until it was time to leave for the masquerade. She’d avoided her husband all day, unsure of what to say, how to act, but now, quite soon, she would meet him in the hall, ride with him to the masquerade at the home of Lord and Lady Willis.

  When she’d first remembered the engagement, Louisa had thought about sending her regrets. She was so unsettled by the realizations about her husband that she wasn’t sure she was fit to be seen in public.

  She hadn’t even been able to bear her maid’s attentions as her head spun with choices. No, she did not wi
sh people around.

  On the other hand, the thought of being alone with Geoffrey was a little frightening. She didn’t know what to say or what to do. Did she tell him that she knew? Did she act any differently? Did she keep it all a secret?

  Was she even capable of keeping such a secret?

  No, it was better to be out, to see how he acted toward her before she made any decisions. And a masquerade seemed fitting. They had been masked when first they met; perhaps it was time to don masks again. Although truth be told, she felt as if she’d been wearing a mask all these last weeks, pretending to be a demure lady, a good wife. Last night had been freeing. Somehow, in releasing her anger, her frustration, at him over his visiting Madame’s, she’d opened something inside herself. It felt like she was drawing her first good breath of fresh air after being lost in a fog.

  What a ridiculous thought—she was the woman she’d always been.

  Well, almost the same.

  She pivoted in front of the mirror. The gown fit her perfectly—at least what little of it there was. She wasn’t sure she’d ever worn anything so thin, so light. Usually she’d attended costume affairs dressed in medieval finery, the thick stomachers and heavy brocade skirts shielding her from all. The last one she attended, the year before John’s death, she’d been Queen Elizabeth, with a collar higher than her head and skirts extending a good two feet on either side.

  This … this was different.

  Greek and Roman wear had become quite the fashion in recent years, but she’d never thought she’d try it.

  She’d surprised herself ordering the dress; it was far from her usual taste. But something had changed in her, not just last night, but over the past weeks.

  She looked at herself again.

  Persephone.

  Thin white cotton, almost transparent, dropped from silver clips at the shoulders, caught at the waist with a thin silver belt designed to look like sheaves of wheat. There were several layers of fabric, so that nothing was actually revealed—which was a good thing, because there was no way to wear a chemise or corset under the gown without looking silly.

  Which brought her to her biggest concern: She’d never gone without support for her breasts before. She couldn’t decide if she felt sensuous or uncomfortable.