Mastering The Marquess (Bound and Determined #1)(106)

He slid his eyes to the side, watching the Countess watch the tip of the whip. He hated this—could not think of anything he’d ever hated more. He let the crop drop lower, sliding it into Louisa’s folds, separating them. She stiffened at the intrusion, but kept her mouth silent. Did she know that he was doing this for her, that it was this or raise the whip again? He knew the Countess far too well; he had to keep her occupied or Louisa’s back would soon be a bloody mess.

“I think you may be right—she is enjoying it,” he said, trying to sound as if he was finding equal pleasure.

“Then it is time you began. I do love well-lined flesh. And then I’d like to watch you f*ck her, f*ck her hard. I am sure that you will find the burn of the oil to your liking as well.” The Countess took a step nearer, her eyes still focused between Louisa’s legs. “Hit her. Now.”

Shit. He had miscalculated. Circling the tip about Louisa’s cunny, he tried to distract the Countess again. “Should I put it in her, just a bit?”

“Later; right now I want her to feel its bite. I want to see her pleasure at the burn, at the pain.”

Shit. Shit. Shit.

He raised the crop. How could he do this? It took every ounce of effort he had to keep his hands from shaking. He must not betray weakness, not now. The Countess fed on weakness.

The crop stilled, high in the air, every focus in the room on that thin piece of tightly wrapped leather.

He waited, breathed deep, strengthened himself.

And let it go, put his shoulder into it and—caught it again just before it made contact.

“Did you put the balls into her?” he asked, turning to the Countess as if asking for a second cup of tea.

“What?” the Countess replied blankly, her eyes on the crop that hovered an inch above Louisa’s back.

“The ben wa balls. You had them when I came in. Did you put them in her? I want her to feel it all through her when she quivers from my whip.”

“I …” The Countess looked about, seeing the balls sitting atop a bench. She reached out and grabbed them, her focus still on Louisa. “Here.”

“You do it. I want to watch your fingers on her. You’ve tried for a long time to get me to play with two women. Do it. Do it now.” He let the full tone of command occupy his words.

The Countess moved to fulfill his wishes. The gun wavered slightly, but did not drop as the Countess tried to lift both enamel balls with one hand.

This was it. In a single gesture he brought the crop back up and then let it fall, hard. It hit the Countess’s wrist, sending the gun flying across the room.

The Countess turned, fury glinting in her eyes. With her free hand, she left a long scratch down Louisa’s thigh.

“You bastard,” she screamed. “Jack, Frank, come now. Now, do you hear me?”

Geoffrey lunged forward, trying to grab her, to silence her, but it was too late. She yelled again, tumbling to the floor just out of his reach.

With a crash the door burst open and the two louts entered the room, cudgels in hand. Geoffrey raised the whip again. It would be almost useless against the heavy clubs, but—

“Sorry to be so late getting to the party.” Duldon stepped through the door, a pistol in each hand.

One of the men turned, ready to strike, but stopped at the sight of the gun aimed straight at his heart.

“What the hell took you so long?” Swanston gasped as his lungs filled with their first full gulp of air in what felt like days.

“It took a while for me to find our other guest—and to time it right.” Duldon stepped forward, and an elegant, older gentleman followed him into the chamber.

The Count of Ormande.

Swanston drew another breath.

The count’s gaze swept the room, paused on Louisa, and then moved to settle on his wife. “An old fool am I, my dear?” He stepped toward the Countess. “I’ve been standing outside waiting for this young gentleman to say it was time. He seemed to think there was some danger in arriving early. Said he thought you might be prone to losing your temper if thwarted.” The count’s gaze settled upon the gun lying on the floor. “I see that he was correct.”

The count pulled off his cloak, turned back to Geoffrey, and threw it to him. “I suggest you use this to cover that woman whom I do not see.” He gestured to Louisa, then looked at his wife.

Swanston hurried to Louisa, spreading the cloak over her as he reached under it to remove her bonds.

She was safe.

She was safe.

The thought echoed again and again through his mind.

The Countess rose from the floor, attempting to stand straight. “I did not know you were in Town.”

“I gather as much, although I did send word that I would be here and that I expected you at dinner.” The count’s voice rang with displeasure.

“I did not receive your missive.” The Countess’s gaze dropped.

“Have you been home in the last week to receive it? It appears you have been indulging in other interests.” The count stepped toward her, held out his arm. “I believe I told you what would happen if I found you were causing trouble again. You assured me this would not happen.”

“I …” The Countess reached over and took her husband’s arm.

“I do not care. I believe it is time you travel with me. I am meeting some of my old war acquaintances in Scotland—northern Scotland. I am sure that you will find much to do among the sheep.” The count nodded at each gentleman and, with his wife’s hand upon his arm and his own hand holding it down securely, turned and left the room. “Goodbye. I trust we will not meet again, except in the ballroom.”