Mastering the Marquess (40 page)

He saw the wince as her tender buttocks knocked against hard wood, but she didn’t move, only raised herself to her elbows so that she could look at him, her naked breasts rising and falling with each heavy breath. Her eyes came to his face, seeking, searching—finding reassurance. A small, easy smile formed upon her lips.

And then her gaze fell lower: over his chest, still attired in tightly buttoned shirt, past his waist, down to the tented fabric of his trousers. She stopped there, again worrying at that swollen lower lip that had started this all.

She slid her legs apart, not far, but enough that his eyes were drawn to the slick moisture that spread across her thighs. His sex grew fuller—if that were possible.

Keeping her eyes fixed upon his cock, she slipped back upon the desk a few inches, her feet lifting again from the floor. She ran a hand across one of those inviting breasts, stopping to pinch at the turgid peak in much the same manner as he had.

He wet his lips, his mouth suddenly dry.

When she raised her feet to the desk, bending her knees to settle them beside her hips, he moaned. Her invitation was so clear, so welcome.

He stepped toward her. “You are too sore. It will hurt, will burn.”

“I know.” The smile stayed upon her lips.

“But …” He took another step in her direction.

“What did you teach me about resistance and being slow?”

He might be stubborn, but he was not a fool.

Swanston took the last step toward her, his hands dropping to his buttons.

Was she a fool? Louisa sank deep into her second bath of the day, her mind jumbled with questions.

What had happened this morning, and how had she let it happen?

Each moment had made perfect sense at the time. Each reaction had been true—in that moment.

But now, now as she sat in her lily-scented tub, her every muscle stiff and strained, she had to wonder.

Had all of that been normal? Acceptable? Had
any
of it?

Her mind still resisted, but even aching as it did, her body cried yes a thousand times.

If only she were not so ignorant … not that she thought the majority of women were better educated on the subject—at least not the majority of wives. She’d heard plenty over cups of tea, but she’d never heard anything about—about—blast, she didn’t even know a word for it.

Geoffrey had spanked her—and not lightly.

It had not truly hurt—not past the moment of occurrence—but surely a woman should not
like such a thing. It did not matter that her insides still vibrated at the mere memory of all that had happened, that she had never felt such pleasure as she had in those moments afterward, that he was right that her skin had been so sensitive, so welcoming. Even later, when her sore behind had thumped upon the desk, each spike of discomfort had only added to the experience.

It was wrong.

Or was it?

He had not injured her. She’d worn shoes and hairstyles that caused far greater and more lasting pain.

And from their conversations she’d even begun to understand him, to understand it—his need for control and domination.

But …

The thought trailed off in her mind, because no matter how many times she examined it she had no answer, no knowledge on which to base her conclusions.

She lay back in the tub, the damp tendrils of her hair sinking into the sweet-smelling water. The scent was new, purchased by Marie—Louisa’s attempt to find something that suited the woman she was becoming. White lilies. Freshness and summer.

Was it right?

Was she right?

Everywhere she looked there were only more questions.

And there was no one she could turn to, no one she could ask.

For a moment she considered speaking to her husband, speaking to Geoffrey. He would answer her honestly. She knew that. If she asked him about what had happened he would explain, tell her the truth.

But would it be his truth or the world’s truth?

So much of what he felt was tied to his family, to his mother’s death. Could he see the situation separately from that? And did it even matter?

He knew what he needed. And she was prepared to meet his every need.

Or was she?

Whips. Hot wax.

After today, the Countess’s words felt far more real.

Could she really do that, even for Geoffrey?

A spanking was one thing. It had not been brutal. Her governess had done far worse with a hairbrush.

But, a whip?

Even as she newly understood the relationship between pain and pleasure, that was going too far.

Closing her eyes, she sank beneath the water, her hair waving about her. What could she do?

She sat up with a start.

Madame Rouge. She could talk to Madame.

Surely she, of all the women in the world, would know the answers.

He had hit his wife. That was putting it in a most extreme manner, but still it was the truth.

He stared about the library and considered.

It was far, far from the first time he’d played in such a manner, but it was the first time he had ever thought about it.

Swanston placed his whiskey back on the table, unsipped.

He had struck his wife and enjoyed it. He had not meant to spank her. It had not been preplanned. But God, he had needed it. The emotional vulnerability he’d felt had driven his need, his want, his demons. He might not have planned it, but he could not have resisted it.

Would he feel better if it had been planned? If it had all been under his careful control?

At least then he would have known he would never truly hurt her, injure her. Part of the game was always knowing that fine line. This had been different. It had been a thing of the moment, a desire to restore his world to its proper order.

And yes, he had wanted to see his mark upon her, to see the red imprint of his hand upon that pale flesh, to know that she would walk for the next hours belonging to him.

He felt himself thicken again as he remembered the feel of the sting as his hand had met her tender skin.

But would he ever have risked truly hurting her?

No.

The answer was truly that simple. He would never hurt Louisa.

He would rather cut out his own heart than cause her harm.

Picking up the cool glass, he took a great gulp of the fiery liquid, letting it burn down his throat.

He swung his boots off the chair on which he had set them, stood, and strode over to look out on sunlit gardens. Would he change what had happened if he could?

No.

That answer formed strong and clear.

No.

He was happy with who he was. Perhaps he would have prepared Louisa more—he’d felt her surprise at that first swat—but he would not change things beyond that.

In fact, he looked forward to leaving his mark upon her again.

She was back where it had all begun. That thought circled again and again through Louisa’s mind as she stared across the street at Madame Rouge’s. It was late in the day for her to be visiting. There had, as of yet, been no sign of clients—or indeed anyone else—entering the building, but she knew it would not be long. Dark came quite late during the summer months, but she did not think it would be that long before visitors began to appear.

She hoped Madame would see her regardless of when she arrived. Pulling her dark veils more closely about her face, she prepared herself, clenching and releasing her hands. Hopefully, the veils and light cloak would hide her from prying eyes. It could not be that unusual for women to be seen entering—or could it? It was one more item on that long list of things she did not know. Did Madame’s girls use the servants’ entrance? Did other women ever come here?

Leveling her shoulders, she marched across the street. Madame would talk to her. She would not consider any other possibility.

“Excuse me, my lady. May I have a moment of your time?” The voice came from behind her just as she stepped up to the curb.

Turning, Louisa found herself gazing up at a large, heavyset man. He was dressed in a jacket and trousers, but still gave the impression of a man used to heavy labor.

“I am sorry, sir, but I have an appointment to keep,” she answered politely, and did not stop.

She stepped forward quickly, and almost collided with another man, one who could have been the twin of the first.

“I am afraid you need to come with us,” he said, blocking her way.

“Please let me by, I do not wish to be late.” She tried to sidestep.

Two arms grabbed her tight from behind, wrenching her arms, pulling her back into the street and toward the yawning door of a dark carriage. Opening her mouth to scream, she found it stuffed with a not very clean rag, her veils forced back against her throat. She struggled harder, confused by what was happening. Why would anyone abduct her? Did they think she was someone else?

She fought harder, kicking out at the man in front, but to no avail. Before she could even try to spit the foul rag out, she found herself flung into the carriage and across one of the bench seats. One of the large men followed her, placing his weight upon her back. There would be no escape.

The first deep prickle of fear ate its way from her belly.

Chapter Twenty-eight

“Have you seen my wife?” Swanston inquired as a footman brought in a tray of tea and sliced meats and breads.

The man placed the tray upon the desk. “I believe Lady Swanston said that she was making some calls and would be gone several hours. She did tell Marie, her maid, that she would be home in time to dress for dinner.”

Picking up a roll and a slice of beef, Swanston nodded his thanks to the footman. He had hoped to talk to Louisa before that. It did seem that the more they talked, the more they needed to. It was not the way he was used to operating. He never explained. He stated how things would be, and then they were. Even with his own family he took this approach.

But with Louisa everything was different. For the first time, he wanted somebody to understand why he did things—to understand
him
.

He turned to the window. Clouds blocked out the sun. No rain had yet fallen, but the threat hovered, a near physical thing. It was not a good day to be out.

He called back the footman. “Did my wife take the carriage?”

“I don’t believe so, my lord.”

“And yet, you implied that her maid is still here.”

“Yes, my lord. I just saw Marie taking some coats down to the laundry for a good brushing.”

“Check and be sure she did not take the coach. And ask Marie if she knows where her ladyship was headed. I would not like her ladyship to be trapped by the rain.”

“Yes, my lord.” Taking his dismissal, the footman once again slipped away.

It was odd of Louisa to go out without the carriage and unaccompanied, but perhaps she was used to doing things differently. He had not paid enough attention to her daily schedule. She ran her life in such an orderly fashion it had never seemed necessary. Still, he would have to discuss with her the changes in her life that being a marchioness made.

Discuss, not order. He was changing.

And he didn’t mind it, which was perhaps the biggest change of all—and sometimes, the
most upsetting.