Mastering The Marquess (Bound and Determined #1)(35)



With a single sweep of his arm, the documents flew about his study.

It didn’t help.

Kicking back his chair, he began to pace. His father had rented out the ducal manor to an American. And not just any rental agreement—no, the blasted Duke of Mirth, his one and only father, had signed a ninety-nine-year lease.

He turned and slammed his fist into the plaster, not feeling anything even as dust flew from the cracks in the wall.

It didn’t help. But then it never helped. Anger and fury accomplished nothing. Only control, absolute control, brought answers.

What sort of man rented out his home, his family’s home, while he was still living there?

It was not to be borne. Swanston would not allow it.

Only he had no choice. The duke’s word might as well be law.

He who’d kept order in every detail of his life, of his family’s lives, had no choice in this matter.

Despite all the restrictions he’d managed to lay down concerning his father, there was no getting past this. Risusgate was rented for the next hundred years—or close enough that it made no difference.

The duke had rendered himself homeless.

Well, perhaps that was overstating the matter; the duke controlled six more estates and had a total of seventeen homes, including the London town house that Swanston had made his own. One could hardly call that being homeless.

But Risusgate? Risusgate had been home to the Mirths for over three centuries. A man did not give away such a heritage—or rent it out!

He began to pace again. Blast and bloody blast!

He was going to have to work on his cursing if this continued.

Risusgate was rented out—not only for his father’s lifetime, but probably for his and his son’s as well. And Swanston didn’t even have a son yet. Didn’t even have a wife, nor want one.

At least not now. He’d planned to start looking in three years. Thirty-five seemed like an appropriate time to take a wife. He’d written it into his plans, into his schedule.

Swanston believed in plans, in organization, in control. Life worked as he wanted it to. There were no exceptions.

Except when his father, or some other member of his family, interfered.

Ninety-nine years.

He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Was this what hysteria felt like?

Such emotion had never before dared to encroach upon him.

Ninety-nine years or thirty thousand pounds.

The lease could be broken, but only at double the rental obligation.

And despite all his careful planning, all his investments, Swanston did not have thirty thousand pounds in ready capital. Given time he might be able to arrange for it—or, heaven forbid, borrow it. But that would take time, more time than he had before the American took possession of his home, of his heritage.

Ice unfurled in his belly, crystal by crystal, dampening the fires that had been building. With great care he picked up each piece of paper and settled them in order, placing them exactly in the center of his desk. With equal precision he centered the high-backed chair behind the desk. There was nothing he could do about the plaster, except trust that a few words with Beadles, his porter, would ensure that by the time he returned all would be as it had always been.

Picking his crop off the shelf where he always laid it, Swanston strode to the door, each step equal and measured.

Married.

He swung the crop hard against his thigh, embracing the sting.

A wife.

Another swat.

He needed to release the tension that rippled through him, the tension that had not let up since he’d received the rental agreements from his father’s man of business. But hell, he’d been tense before that, tense for the last month. He’d not pulled in a free breath since … Damn. He’d always been successful at locking away those things that were not to be thought of, and he would not allow her to change that.

He pulled in a deep breath and released.

Swung the crop once more, but only once.

He would go to Ruby’s, to Madame Rouge’s. There was not another place in all of London that could relieve him as well as a few hours with one of Ruby’s special guests.

Against his will a single image, a single woman, filled his mind: those wild curls spread across a white pillow, the black silk blindfold hiding her face from him, and her body—that delicious body spread-eagled across the sheets. He hadn’t bound her, but oh how he’d wanted to. But, no. That was the past.

He’d avoided Ruby’s for the last month because of memories, but he would wait no longer.

It was time for some relief.



She was not with child. It should have been the best of news, but Louisa found herself holding back tears, sadness filling her, sadness and—and emptiness. Knowing she was not carrying left her feeling a distinct lack—of what she was not sure, but the emotion ran deep. With John dead these last two years a baby would have been a disaster, forced her hand in ways she did not even want to contemplate, but still a small piece of her had longed to know that life was quickening within her.

What would she have done if she had been with child? Would she have asked Madame for help? Contacted him—contacted Charles?

She couldn’t even think about it, but still her hand drifted down to her belly, settled there.

A baby. How she longed to hold one in her arms, to feel that soft fluff of hair beneath her chin.

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