Mastering the Marquess (8 page)

He strode forward, waiting. He would position her as he wished once she lay down.

Only she didn’t lie down. He watched with some amazement as she moved to her hands and knees in the middle of the bed. Then she twisted her neck until she was almost staring up at the canopy. She twisted farther, her neck straining, her ass arched high in the air.

He could not decide whether to laugh or drool.

“Am I doing this right?” she asked.

This was not comfortable. It was as close as she could come to what she had imagined, but it felt strange—felt silly. Was there any other way to look at the ceiling while being on all fours? She turned her face forward and then stretched as far back as she could until she could almost touch her back. It didn’t feel as silly but it was no more comfortable.

“Just what are you trying to do?” Charles’s voice asked from beside the bed.

“To get ready. Isn’t that what you wanted?” she answered.

“But to get ready for what?”

She allowed her head to fall forward, hiding her face. Even with the blindfold it was hard to say the words. “For sex. Isn’t this how you do it?”

“It is a
way
to do it. I must admit that I do like a woman on her knees before me, and that the sight of you in such a position has me more than ready to go again. But what were you doing with your head? I’ve never seen that before.”

Her head dropped lower. “My mother told me a lady stared at the ceiling, but I can’t quite figure out how to do it. Is there another way?” She really couldn’t imagine any other way that her body could bend.

“Your mother told you to look at the ceiling? Did she also tell you how to position your body?”

“No. She didn’t say anything about that. Just that it wouldn’t take too long and that it might be unpleasant, but it would only hurt for a bit. I am not a fool, though. I have seen livestock. The female stays in this position and then the male mounts from behind. I have seen it several times.”

A small noise. A cough. A sputter. Was he choking? And then laughter filled the room, deep masculine guffaws.

What had she said that was so humorous? Embarrassment swept over her. She scurried up the bed, reaching for pillows to cover herself. Nothing had ever been so mortifying.

“I am sorry,” he tried to say, but the laughter overtook him. The bed sank as she felt him settle onto it. And then more laughter. It sounded unstoppable, like it really would choke him.

She hoped it would.

There were a lot of pillows. Big ones. Little ones. She began to pile them in front of her, building a wall between her and that—that buffoon.

She ducked her head, separating herself completely from him. If only she could go home. This had started so wonderfully—far better than she could ever have imagined—but nothing was worse than the shame that was filling her now.

If only she could escape—but she couldn’t without removing the blindfold. There was no way that she would ever let him see her now, not ever. If there had been the slightest temptation before, it was gone.

Embarrassment began to turn to fury. “Would you please leave?”

The laughter stopped instantly. “I am sorry. I should not have laughed.”

She did not reply, but hid behind her fort of pillows.

She felt him shift until his weight was more balanced on the bed. Sitting? Lying? She was beginning to hate the blindfold. It left her far too vulnerable. If only not being able to see made one invisible.

He shifted nearer. “Please come out. I don’t know how else to apologize.”

She sniffed, trying to hold back tears.

Bloody hell. He knew that noise. A man with four sisters could not escape knowing what that noise meant. She was going to cry. And not a delicate tear or two, but a good blubber.

He had to do something. He barely tolerated his sisters’ tears—he was certainly not going to deal with hers.

And it was his fault. His chest tightened. He should not have laughed, but there had been
no way to stop. If only she could have seen herself, perched on all fours and trying to turn her head to stare at the ceiling. No, it was probably best she had no idea that she’d looked so amusing—although still desirable.

He would have enjoyed positioning her just so—only without the neck turn.

Sheep.

She was modeling her lovemaking on sheep. Had nobody ever bothered to tell her anything, anything besides to look at the ceiling?

It was a wonder the upper class didn’t just die out.

Another sniffle. This one quite loud.

He had to do something. “Come on out, my sweet, and I’ll make you feel all better.”

Another sniffle.

“I’ll let you touch me, taste me.”

A pillow came sailing at him—or at least in his general direction. “Do you think I want to touch any part of you after that?”

Pillow fight. Would a pillow fight distract her? Plenty of fun could be had in the midst of a good tussle.

No. He didn’t think that was the answer now. But there had to be something that would get her out.

“How about if I tell you something embarrassing about myself. Something so bad I would stab my eyes out if another person knew.”

A half-sniff. “Nothing could be that bad.”

“I assure you that it is.”

He could feel her thinking.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” she answered after a moment.

That was definite progress. “So should I tell you?”

No response.

“I am only going to tell you if you say yes.”

The pillows shifted. “Yes.” It was so quiet he had to strain to hear.

And that gave him another idea.

He leaned back on his elbows and reclined, staring up at the canopy. It was probably good that Grace could not see. The embroidered nymphs were doing some things definitely not
meant for virgin eyes. Although, perhaps if she’d seen it first they wouldn’t be in this mess. None of the nymphs was trying to stare at the ceiling.

“I am waiting.” He could hear an edge of impatience in her voice.

Good. That was far better than tears.

What to tell her? He was tempted to lie, but sensed that only the truth would work.

“My family all think I am a prude,” he began.

“That is impossible.” The pillows shifted a little more and he could see a few stray dark curls peeking out.

“No, it is quite true. My sister has told me so to my face—in fact, more than one of them has. The youngest has even said I am a stick-in-the-mud. They don’t believe I have fun.”

“I still don’t see how …”

“I am not like the rest of my family. I’ve always been the odd one out, and they delight in telling me so, again and again.”

“You don’t seem like a prude to me.” Her toes edged out from beneath a huge white pillow.

“I daresay I don’t, but let us say I have never showed this side of my nature to my family.”

“I should hope not.” A bit of ankle—and over there he could see a full shoulder.

He lowered his voice. “You are right, but they only see me as the man who keeps the accounts, tells them they are spending too much, and tries to counsel them to better behavior.”

“Is your father dead then?”

Again he considered lying. His family was rather unusual and he didn’t want her to know too much. But he kept to the truth. “No, but he is the worst of the bunch. I took over managing the estates when I was thirteen and it took him two years to notice.”

“I can’t believe that.” He could see the top of her head now. He’d be able to see her eyes if it weren’t for the damn blindfold. He wished he could see them, could get a hint of her thoughts.

“It is true. Although the estates are rather large, so perhaps that is the reason.”

Her full face emerged. The blindfold was pushed up on one side and he could see more of her cheek. He would have reached out to stroke it, but was afraid of frightening her off.

He lowered his voice to a near whisper. “He is not a bad man, merely a little scattered,
with no conception of consequence. He has always felt above public opinion.”

She edged nearer, one delicious breast appearing from her nest of pillows. “I understand how one would not like to be seen as a prude by one’s family, but that does not sound so embarrassing. And surely others know, and yet you still have your eyes.”

“No, I have not reached the worst of it.”

“Oh.”

“But you must come closer so that I can whisper. I can barely even say the words aloud.”

Some hesitation, but then she wiggled completely out, revealing herself inch by inch—all creamy skin and gentle curves. There was still some space between them, but only a little.

She reminded him of a wild animal being tempted nearer with offered food.

“My father got me a whore for my birthday. He wanted to free me of my virginity.” There, he’d said it.

“Is that all? That does not sound so bad.”

“Not so bad?” He had to work to keep his voice in check.

“I do not know much, but I believe my little brother has mentioned such things. I actually think he hoped my father would do such a thing for him when he reached sixteen.”

“I was thirty.”

“Oh.”

“He found it shameful that I was thirty and had never known a woman.”

A giggle. Only a slight one, but a definite giggle.

“And apparently my brothers agreed. They had all discussed the matter. They thought if I had a good fuck I might loosen up. I actually walked into my father’s study to talk and found a naked doxy sitting on his desk. She asked if I had problems getting it up.”

Now that was a real giggle. “How could they ever think that of you?”

“I do not know. I will admit that I never lingered with the maids or the village girls. And even the local tavern wenches are not to my taste. I have always valued discretion and privacy.”

“Still …” She snorted.

“I do not know how they came to that conclusion. I have always frequented London, and surely they could have guessed.”

“I would have thought so.”

“But I was too much of a prude to ever indulge in my brothers’ activities. Perhaps I
should have gone with them when they went out gambling in the evenings.”

“Perhaps you should have.” She grew pensive and began to worry on that lush lower lip again. “Did it hurt—your feelings, I mean—when they did that?”

What man would admit to hurt feelings? “I suppose it did. I was angry at first, quite furious. I am afraid I was not a gentleman at all when I hurried the woman from the house, not caring who saw. I do hope my father paid her first. I certainly did not.”

“Oh.”

He turned and looked at her. She’d drawn her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms about them.

The position gave him ideas. His cock began to stir again. He truly was an animal—or at least a man.

And he’d have rather thought of anything than the edge of vulnerability that sharing his history had brought.

And sex, fucking, was the purpose of this night. He pushed all other thoughts away. Sex would bring control. It always did.

“Are you ready to proceed?” he asked.

She tensed, bit harder at her lip. “I don’t know.”

“I will promise not to laugh again—unless you tickle me. I should warn you: I do not like to be tickled.” He made his voice severe.

“I don’t think I care for it either, although it has been a decade or more since anyone has tickled me.”

“We agree to no tickling then, although some things may be ticklish. You will have to tell me if it is too much.”

“I agree to no tickling.”

Good, she’d agreed to proceed without even realizing it. “Should we have any other rules?”

“I don’t know—I think that should be clear by now. I know nothing.”

Damn. She sounded unsure again. “We can keep it simple. All you have to do is tell me if you want me to slow down or stop.”

“I can manage that. And you will do the same?”

“Of course.” Although, he certainly had no intention of giving her the chance to do
anything that would displease him. “Now, I would like to move on. I will tell you what to do and I would like you to try it without questioning. If you do not like it, then and only then may you ask me to stop. You must try it first.”