Mastering the Marquess (25 page)

Swanston felt her inner muscles bunch about him and wanted to scream his triumph. His lady wife was aroused—and she was pleased. Whatever she might want to feel, might think was appropriate, she could not resist this, resist him. He thrust deep, adding a slight twist to his hips, and felt that slight gasp that she could not help. He thrust again, reversing the twist, and felt it again.

He pulled back, resisted the urge to thrust again, torturing them both. And then he pushed home—hard, giving in to the inner demons that demanded release. Again and again he thrust, feeling her tighten and release about him. His whole world became centered on their joining, on the feeling of his cock sliding though her well-moistened flesh.

God, it felt good.

Again.

Again.

His mind filled with images, all the things he wanted, all his dark desires.

Out.

In.

Deeper.

Harder.

It was coming. He could feel it in the tightening of his balls, in the thickening of his cock, in the need to slam home, to brand her as his own—forever.

But he held it back, counted, said limericks, did everything to distract his mind, his body. He could not come until she had. He had promised that his lady wife’s pleasure would come first, and by all that was holy it would.

One hundred.

Ninety-nine.

Ninety-eight

Extra-deep with a twist.

Ninety-seven

Ninety-six.

He wasn’t going to make it. He wasn’t.

Ninety-five.

He heard her moan, saw her head move from side to side on the pillow, though somehow the rest of her was still.

Ninety-four.

“Ohhhhh,” Louisa moaned, her eyes opening and staring straight up at him.

He was not able to see her clearly in the dim light, but as he met her gaze and held it, he could see her struggle, her refusal to let go.

Eighty-two.

He would hold out if it killed him. And it just might.

Her breath was coming in gasps now, her lips parted and moist.

Her chocolate brown eyes seemed almost to melt in the dark, the pupils huge.

Sixty-seven.

He felt her clench, her whole body rising toward him, although she hardly moved at all.

Yes.

It was going to happen.

And then she rose again, her whole body tightening and squeezing, clenching—and her eyes looked through him, and it was in them that he saw it happen, saw her gasp at the pleasure, surrender to the mindless ecstasy. He’d never experienced anything like it—and he could hold back no longer.

With a roar that could shake roofs, he surrendered his control, and let himself go.

Ohhhh. This time she didn’t say it aloud—she was still shocked that she had ever screamed it—but in her mind the exclamation repeated again and again.

That had been so … so different.

But as good, as pleasurable as it had been—and God, it had been so much more than that—it yet was somehow incomplete.

She missed the talk, the sharing of secrets, the intimacy that she’d shared with Charles on their one encounter. They’d spent as much time talking that night as they had on … on … on other things.

This encounter tonight, while certainly defying all expectations, somehow left her still wanting.

There had been that moment at the end, as her entire world came apart, that she stared up at Swanston and saw an expression on his face that she was sure mirrored her own, and that—that had been intimate. It was the one thing she’d never shared with Charles, that meeting of eyes that betrayed a meeting of minds.

But, that wasn’t what it meant, not really. Was it? Her mind had not met Swanston’s. It had been a meeting of bodies.

That was all.

And yet she wasn’t as sure as she would have liked. Something had happened in those final seconds. She just wasn’t sure what.

“How are you?” Swanston’s voice echoed from the pillow beside her, where he had collapsed after … well, just after.

“I believe I am fine,” she whispered back, unsure of the expected response.

“Well, that’s good,” he replied.

“Yes, it is. And you, how are you?”

He was silent for a moment, and she wondered if her question had been inappropriate. If only she had more experience with this whole bedding thing.

How was he? He’d never been asked before. His lovers had always been much more interested in how he’d pleased them than in how he was. There was a basic assumption that the man always had his pleasure, was always happy.

He’d long ago realized that was not always the case. Yes, the climax was always good,
but the after … that could vary.

Which brought him to now, to this minute. How did he feel?

“I am fine also.” What else could he say?

She lay still after her question. Then again, she’d lain still since he’d first entered the bed.

He wanted to ask how this compared with sex with her previous husband, with Brookingston, but of course, such questions could never be spoken.

“Would you like me to retire to my own room?” he asked after a moment, not knowing how else to proceed.

“Do you normally? I do not wish to upset your routine.”

His routine? He had to hold back a snort. Did she think he regularly brought women home? This was the first time he’d ever fucked under his own roof.

Now wasn’t that a thought—and not a bad one.

With a wife one could fuck at home, not that a gentleman would ever refer to it as such.

And he supposed he could do it pretty much whenever he wanted.

He’d been about to say that he’d return to his own rooms, but the thought of having a warm female body—of having Louisa—pressed against him throughout the night and into the morning definitely deserved consideration. “As it is our wedding night, it is probably best that I stay.”

“Yes, I suppose that it is.” She returned to silence.

“Is there something else that you wish to say?”

“Yes, only I don’t know quite how to say it.”

He heard her roll on her side toward him. “Just say it,” he said.

“Well, I need to—to have a moment to myself and I … I don’t quite know how to ask.”

It took him a moment. Aah, the chamber pot. Perhaps Brookingston had not stayed with her overnight and she’d never become accustomed to being heard.

He determined that he would spend the night with her, and as often as possible.

“Perhaps I should fetch a brandy from my chamber. I would be surprised if they’ve left more than sherry in this room.” He slipped from the bed, his nightshirt falling back into place.

That had been easy enough, Louisa thought as she slipped back into bed. It had been hard to ask for the moment of privacy, but Swanston had certainly obliged her quickly enough. She smoothed the sheets about her and fluffed the pillows—for both of them. If they were going to sleep together, they might as well be comfortable.

This was all just so strange. First coming to live in a new house, and now sleeping with a near stranger.

Now, that was an exaggeration. She would never have agreed to marry Swanston if he’d been a stranger; it was simply that she didn’t know him well. But what better way to get to know him than to spend the night beside him?

Her eyes drifted closed as she imagined a lifetime of listening to somebody else breathe. It might be quite pleasant.

The bed was warm beneath the heavy coverlet and she did not even open her eyes as she heard Swanston cross the floor and slip back into the bed. Even as his weight shifted nearby, she let her thoughts float away to those future nights.

But as his lips settled on her neck, the scent of brandy filling her nose, and a hand slid up her waist to settle on a still swollen breast, her mind startled back to the present.

Twice?

Chapter Eighteen

She was alone. It was the third time she had awoken since light first crept into the room, but it was the first time she’d been alone.

Bacon. Chocolate. Fresh bread.

Pushing herself up on the pillows, Louisa opened her eyes fully and looked about the chamber.

Aah, there was a tray on the table by the window. Light blue china domes, decorated with stars, covered the plates. The china matched the room. It was an amusing thought. Did Swanston have a different pattern for each chamber? Not that he would have chosen them; men didn’t think of such things.

Still, it was a lovely touch.

Smiling, she slid from the bed, letting the soft white folds of her gown surround her. It was amazing that she was still wearing it after the events of the night. Although nothing had been very adventurous—nothing like that other night.

The duke had been right: Swanston was a man of simple tastes. He liked everything quite straightforward.

A soft giggle slipped through her lips as she considered that phrase. Yes, straightforward was exactly how her husband liked it.

And while it might not be what she’d dreamed of after … She wasn’t going to think of that, not anymore. It was time to put the past in the past. She was married now. Swanston had been her choice, and she was going make it a good one.

The honey wood of the floors was warm beneath her feet as she walked to the table and poured chocolate and warm milk into a cup, adding a large scoop of sugar.

Perfect.

She lifted a dome and found two boiled eggs set in dainty cups and a rasher of bacon. A silver toast holder stood beside. Somebody knew that a bride was apt to be hungry in the morning.

She pulled out a cushioned chair and arranged herself so that she could stare out at the
back garden as the sunshine falling through the window bathed her in its glow.

She stretched out her legs, curling and releasing the toes. A few more sips of chocolate and she would think about preparing for the day.

The thought stopped her. She hadn’t actually thought about what came after—and she was definitely in “after.”

If she was at home—in her house—she’d know what to do. First, she’d go over the menu plans with Cook. Then a general review of the household accounts and a discussion of staff and affairs with Mrs. Patterson, the housekeeper. Then it would be her secretary and a discussion of invitations and correspondence. She’d follow that with a good walk in the park, a few hours of reading or needlework, and tea with friends; then she’d dress for dinner and …