Mastering the Marquess (34 page)

“Well, yes—and perhaps me. But I thought we were talking about Bliss. What are you going to do about her? You are right that she cannot continue to associate with the Countess.”

“I suppose I will have to find her a husband. Someone else to worry about the scandals she may cause. It would be much easier to love her if I wasn’t responsible for her.”

“And do you have any ideas about to whom you would marry her off?”

“I haven’t thought about it. No, I’ve thought about it much, but not with anybody specific in mind.”

“What about me?” Duldon asked.

“You?” Swanston could not keep the surprise from his voice. “Why would you want her?”

“I just do.”

Duldon wished to wed his sister? For a moment the thought brought relief. He trusted Duldon. His friend was the best of men—honest, trustworthy; a man who could grow a penny into a pound and not gamble it away. Duldon was also a man who went to Ruby’s. A man who admitted to liking to be called “Master.”

“I don’t know.”

“Think about it.” Duldon met his gaze and held it. “I would promise to keep her out of trouble, and I really do care for the girl. Although, if you wanted to throw in that finger of land that runs into my property, I certainly wouldn’t mind.”

Aah, land. It was much more comfortable to think of Duldon’s wanting land than his wanting anything else—at least when it came to his sister. He’d never judged another man’s tastes—he couldn’t afford to. But it was another matter entirely when the man was talking about Bliss.

Bliss might be a trifle wild, but he was sure she’d run far and fast if she ever knew what went on at Madame Rouge’s.

With that thought in mind, he turned and saw his wife—saw the other men watching his wife. What was she wearing? He’d known of her costume, but not imagined its effect. That shimmer of translucent white, the cleft of her ass begging to be touched, was almost worse than if she’d been naked. His cock sprang to life at the thought, but with it his anger—and his
concern. Louisa should not be here dressed like that. Didn’t she know how men thought? How he thought?

Whips?

Hot wax?

Louisa wasn’t sure what to think, wasn’t sure she wanted to think. She certainly didn’t want to think about Swanston and Lady Ormande. The very thought threatened the contents of her stomach.

The lady must be lying.

That had to be it.

Only—only Louisa had a very bad feeling that she wasn’t. She’d spoken with such certainty. And Geoffrey did have a desire for control. That had been clear every time they’d been together, even on those occasions when she’d done nothing but lie still.

And he had mentioned wanting to tie her up.

She’d assumed it was all a joke, but what if … The thought was not as displeasing as it should have been. She’d enjoyed holding herself still for him. What if she had no choice? What if she was bound, hands and feet tied to his great bed?

Her nipples tightened at the thought, pressing hard against the thin fabric of her bodice. She lifted the sheaf of wheat—the pressure had caused her breasts to swell even more—and used her arms to hide her arousal.

Louisa was so lost in her thoughts that she almost bowled into a rather large gentleman dressed as Henry the Eighth. At least she assumed that was the costume. Who else wore hose and a large ginger beard—although the beard appeared real, so who knew?

The gentleman held out an arm to steady them both. His eyes seemed riveted to her chest. Refusing to look down to see if her nipples were poking at the fabric, Louisa gave him a soft smile—not that it mattered. He was not aware that anything existed above her neck.

The temptation grew to stick out her tongue. “Pardon me,” she said hurriedly, and worked her way from him into the crowd.

Two monks. One knight in shining armor. One Roman dressed in a purple toga—he
looked over her costume and was clearly all too ready to explain why they belonged together. A harlequin, who was far too busy looking over an Indian maid to even notice Louisa. An exotic woman wrapped in veils with only her wide, blue eyes visible. A man of the desert cloaked all in white. A corsair and his wench.

Where was her husband?

She needed to ask him about the Countess.

Only how could she? She hadn’t even told Geoffrey that she knew he was Charles—how could she ask if he had slept with Lady Ormande? And she certainly couldn’t ask him about whips and wax.

Whips and wax.

Her thighs clenched. She didn’t even know what they were for, and yet her body reacted. Well, she knew what a whip was for, but surely … No, she wouldn’t let herself think that. She knew Geoffrey, and could not believe that he liked causing pain—or could she? It was not as outrageous an idea as she had once thought.

But wax? What did one do with wax?

Was there a way to ask without letting him know where she had heard of it? Probably not.

“Are you looking for me, my lady?” The deep voice caressed her from behind.

How could she ever not have recognized him, mistaken that voice? Louisa turned; Geoffrey stood before her attired all in black. Tight leather breeches clung to firm calves above his shiny black boots. A black shirt and full black cape attired his upper body. His face and hair were bare except for a slim black mask of fabric covering his eyes.

She took a step back. He wore no other costume, although he held a staff with two prongs rising from the top. Wasn’t that an attribute of Hades? Had he known what her costume was?

Before she could think of words of reply, he reached out and caught hold of her wrist.

“Come,” he said. It was a command that brooked no question.

“But …”

“Come. Now.”

She followed as he led her through the crowd until they reached the doors leading out to the terrace. A small paved path led about the side of the house, curving away from the lighted window. He pulled her with him, her thin sandals almost sliding along the stones. The way grew
dark and shadowy, but he did not stop until they’d rounded the second corner and were far from the crowd. The scent of roses grew heavy about them as they walked under a long arbor heavy with blooms.

“I need to ask—”

“Shh,” was his only response.

“But,” she tried again.

“Not now. Words can come later.”

Well, that was direct. She wanted to insist they speak as he pulled her toward him. It was important to find out if he knew that she was Grace, important to know how long he’d known. But then her breasts were pressed tight against his chest, her belly cupping the growing hardness below. She shifted her hips against him, pressing tighter as the ache grew between her thighs. She needed him. Needed him now.

“God, I need you.” His growl echoed her thoughts. “I’ve needed you all day.”

And then his lips were upon hers, his tongue plundering without foreplay.

He was the conqueror and she was his to take.

There was no softness in him, no mercy. She did not know what demons were riding him, but he needed and she provided. She let her whole frame go soft against him, loosened the muscles of her cheeks to allow pillage.

Deep in, then out. Deeper. Deeper yet.

There was no mistaking his intent—or the meaning of his ravishment, of what was to come.

His breath was heavy, his chest heaving against hers as his mouth continued its assault. Willingly she surrendered, her tongue rising to meet his and then falling back as he filled her completely.

It was hard to breathe, but it did not matter. Her whole being was centered in the hot thrust of his tongue against her own, in his taste, his heat, his need.

She had never felt want such as radiated from him now.

His hands slipped about her, cupping her behind, separating the cheeks in a hard squeeze, pressing her ever more tightly against the hard arousal that pressed through layers of fabric, seeking entrance. She squirmed, her inner muscles clenching with her own desire. She ached and wanted, rubbed herself against him, wishing that nothing separated them, that they were already
one.

He pulled back slightly. Her swollen lips yearned for more, felt empty without him.

“I can smell your want,” he whispered against her mouth. “Are you wet for me, dripping for me, eager for all that is to come?”

“Yes.” There was no other answer.

He lifted her, pulling her tighter, his fingers pressing into the folds of fabric, into
her
folds, seeking the damp heat hidden there. “Good. You know I will not be gentle.”

“Yes.”

He released her and stepped back then, letting his gaze run over her in the near dark—and yet she knew he saw all, saw the lips that pouted for his return, the flesh longing for his touch.

His gaze dropped and focused on the breasts so many other men had stared at this night, examined the nipples pebbled hard against the thin fabric. “You let other men see you like this?”

“I wore it for you.”

“But you let other men see you—see your breasts aching to be touched, see the cleft of your ass wanting to be split.”

“I …” She could feel the press of his gaze, the firmness of his stare. “Yes.”

His lips tightened, but he did not speak. Reaching out with one hand, he pinched a swollen nipple, twisting slightly beneath the thin fabric.

She bit down on her lips, holding back the small cry that rose. It did not hurt—not exactly. There was pain, but also pleasure; it was a sharp welling of sensation. A single tear slid down her cheek.

His eyes focused upon the damp trail. He pinched tighter. “You will not do so again.”

If this was his response, she very well might. There was something powerful in seeing Geoffrey driven to this by her actions. “No,” she answered.

His fingers loosened, but slipped higher, sliding along the bare skin above the bodice. His other hand joined the first, rising up, along her clavicles and up farther until his large hands circled her neck, fingers touching behind, thumbs in front.

He held there, not pressing, but she could feel his power, knew that it was only his restraint that held her safe.

Their eyes met and she laid her soul bare before him, let him see all the secrets she kept hidden there.

His hold loosened and slid down, his fingers hooking in the delicate fabric and then, with a single yank, dragging it down over the turgid peaks, baring her to his hungry gaze.

“So pretty, so very pretty,” he growled.

She waited for him to touch her, her breasts swelling with want. His eyes moved over her, taking in the pale glow of skin, the puckered tips, heavy and tight. His lips parted and she watched him breathe, watched the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he examined her, examined the heated flesh awaiting his touch.

Only he did not move forward. He merely stood and watched.

A quiet shiver took her. She dropped her gaze, suddenly nervous.

“Turn around.” Again he used a tone of command.

“What?”

“Do it.”

The shiver grew, but she complied, turning to face the wall.

“Place your hands on the stone. High above your head.”

She should have resisted. She should have hated it, but instead she felt the heat pooling between her legs, felt the ache that only he could relieve. Her head fell forward, the stone cool beneath her burning forehead. With feigned reluctance, she slowly raised her arms, setting them above her on the rough stone.

He moved close behind her, the heat of his body warming her, his breath teasing the hairs at the nape of her neck.

What did he want? What was he going to do? The not knowing was torture. Her whole body tensed in anticipation, waiting for his move.

His hands settled upon her hips, the thumbs sweeping low to massage the upper curves of her buttocks, before slipping lower to squeeze and fondle the globes. And then with slow, steady moves he gathered her skirts, raising them high.

She felt the fabric glide along her calves, and then her thighs. What if somebody came by? It was too late to worry. She might have worried when her breasts were bared to the night, but now it was too late, now this could not be stopped. She did not want it to be stopped, could not have borne it if he stepped away.

The warm breeze of the night caressed her, sliding over those places yet untouched. She squirmed as air moved between her legs, as her hidden secrets were bared. She wanted to turn, to
press herself against him, to have the hairs of his chest press against her breast, to feel his fullness pressed against her belly. The stone gritted against her palms as she pushed hard against the wall, refusing to give in to her desires.

“Open your legs. Yes, just like that. You glisten in even this dim light. Do you know what it does to me to see your desire? To see how much you love doing what I say? My cock weeps for you.” His thumbs slid down the cleft of her ass, until they trailed in her moisture.

A low moan escaped her lips.
Now
, her mind cried.
Now
. She held back the word, biting hard on her lip, pressing her face more tightly against the cool stone.

One of his hands slipped fully between her legs, delving between the folds, teasing, caressing, searching.