Mastering The Marquess (Bound and Determined #1)(107)
“I trust not,” Swanston answered.
“You’re letting her go, just like that?” It came out more of a whisper than the scream Louisa had intended, hoping all of the anger and fury she’d suppressed this night would finally be allowed to come out.
“It won’t be as simple as it appears. She will not be returning to London,” Geoffrey answered as he continued to loosen her bonds beneath the heavy cloak.
“And you think that is any type of answer?” Did her husband realize what she’d been through? At the very least, she felt, the woman should be imprisoned.
“What would you have me do, kill her?”
Yes, Louisa’s mind screamed—although in truth she’d never wished anyone dead, and the thought of Geoffrey being taken in for murder chilled her.
“And if I involved the authorities there would be no way to hide this.” Geoffrey gestured about the room. “I do not wish anyone to know what has happened. Far better to leave it to her husband.”
The last bond loosened and Louisa felt her legs collapsing beneath her, her muscles unable to hold her. Before she could fall, Geoffrey swung her up into his arms, the cloak wrapped securely around her.
“Is my carriage outside?” he asked, turning to Duldon.
“I took the liberty of bringing one of my own, one with plain doors,” Duldon answered. “I did not think you would want your crest seen.”
“Thank you. Will you be responsible for the cleanup here?” Geoffrey glanced at Frank and Jack, who were still standing against the wall, their eyes on Duldon’s pistols.
“Yes, I will take care of them—and everything else. Go and take care of your wife.”
It could not be that simple. It could not. Her body ached, along with her soul.
Louisa let her head fall against her husband’s broad shoulder. She wanted to scream and fight and to protest all that had happened, but she was simply too tired, too tired and too sore. Her eyes closed slowly. Maybe once she was home she would know what to do, know how to behave. Now she just wanted to pretend none of it was real, that none of it had happened.
She burrowed her face into Geoffrey’s jacket, reveling in the familiar smells of cheroots and leather.
Her mind began to drift as the fervor of the evening left her. It was so much easier to allow her mind to fill with Geoffrey’s scent and the scratch of wool against her lips than to think about how she ached and burned, to think about the fact that Duldon, the count, and the two louts had all seen her naked.
She might be the star of a scandal on the morrow, but for now she would think of Geoffrey’s smile one more time and let the world pass by.
Chapter Thirty-two
Swanston stared down at his sleeping wife. She’d drifted off before they even made it to the carriage and had not woken since. Every time the wheels ran over a rut he’d worried that she’d waken, that the motion would jar her, wake her to this nightmare he had caused.
Even when he carried her into the house and treated her injuries, she’d only moaned.
He buried his face in her hair, wishing for the smell of lemons and vanilla that normally clung to her. All he could smell was cinnamon. It was not an unpleasant smell, but he knew he would never smell it again without his guts churning.
How had he let this happen?
He had no answers. He had never been ashamed of who he was, of the things he’d done, but they had all led to this.
Could he ever make it up to her?
Did he even deserve the chance to try?
He thought about his father, about all the things he’d held against the duke for so long. In this moment it all seemed so trivial; none of it, he berated himself, could ever compare to the danger he’d unwittingly exposed his wife to.
He’d seen her look of relief when he arrived, watched her eyes grow big with hope. He had deserved none of it.
Turning away from the bed, he went to stare out the window at the nearly empty street. Signs of life were beginning to appear as morning light fought its way over the rooftops, but it would be a good hour yet before even the early morning deliverymen arrived.
Guilt had been his companion for years. He would survive.
He looked back at Louisa, her face hidden by pillows.
Or would he? Always before, control had been his salvation, but was it still? He was afraid that it was his desire for control that had brought him to this point.
But without control, what was there?
Louisa came awake slowly. Her eyes did not want to open, her body to move. The room was full of daylight, but she longed to escape back into sleep. Sleep was safe. In sleep she did not have to solve the problems of her life, to ask the questions that needed to be asked—questions for herself and Geoffrey.
“I see that you’re awake. You might as well open your eyes and get on with the day. It’s quite late, well after noon—and it’s Tuesday. Should I pour you tea or chocolate? The maid has brought both. There is no coffee so I imagine that you do not drink it.”
Louisa opened her eyes and blinked. Tuesday. What had happened to Monday? Surely it had been Sunday night when … She was not going to think about that.
What was Madame Rouge doing in her bedchamber?
She sat up with a start. She was in her own bedchamber, wasn’t she? Yesterday—or had it been the day before?—had been such a dream, such a nightmare, that she really was not sure what to expect.