Mastering The Marquess (Bound and Determined #1)(36)

It was at the heart of why she’d done everything, why she’d allowed herself that one forbidden night.

Charles had made what might have seemed like a chore into the most wondrous night of her life, but that had to be stashed away—forever—put away as she’d put away his gift, the mirror she had never used. She’d known that when she left him in the early morning light. She’d known it when she turned away his offer of a continued relationship that day. And she’d certainly known it when she’d cried herself to sleep that night—but only that night.

She’d never even seen his face, seen his eyes. It should have been easy to push away thoughts of a man she didn’t know.

Only sometimes she felt that she’d known him better than she’d ever known any other man—even John; even her husband.

A small mew called at her from under the bed. Dropping to her knees, she peered beneath the lilac blue coverlet. “What are you doing down there, you silly thing? I thought you were safe in your basket, your belly full of milk.”

The kitten, of course, said nothing, just stared at her with its pale blue gaze.

“I am not coming under there after you, Charlie. I don’t care if you stay there forever.” With a smile on her lips, she sat on the edge of the bed, letting her feet hang to the floor, letting her skirts sway.

“One. Two. Three,” she counted to herself. Before she’d even finished the last word she felt the bat of small, soft paws. Ignoring the motion, she let her feet swing back and forth, moving them slightly farther from the bed with each movement. Another bat, and then another. She let Charlie play, drawing him farther from safety with each round of their game, until with a single graceful movement she swooped down, grabbed the ball of black-and-white fluff, and pulled him tight into her arms.

He gave her one reproachful look and then settled, a soft purr beginning. She buried her face in his fur and sighed.

It had been silly to name him Charlie when she’d wanted to forget. But if she was being honest, she knew she didn’t want to forget. She just wished it were an old savored memory instead of a fresh one, wished she did not think of him ten times a day—or twenty.

No, she should not have named the cat Charlie, but from the moment she’d seen his black-and-white face in a box at the side of the road she’d known his name. Placing a light kiss between the tufted ears, she placed him on her pillow and watched him snuggle into sated kitten sleep. He had his own bed and didn’t belong in hers, but she couldn’t resist him—any more than she’d been able to resist his namesake.

“Enough,” she said with some vehemence.

It was time to move on. Time to find a husband, a good steady man who could provide for her and the children they would have. She’d had love with her husband. She’d had passion with Charles. Now it was time for marriage.

She’d put off the thought for this last month. She could not seek a husband until she knew for a certainty there’d been no repercussions from that night. Now she knew. Her hand began to slip into its position over her womb, but she held it back.

Today she would start her new life.

Walking to her desk, she pulled out a single piece of crested stationery. It was time to write to Lady Perse, time to seek her mate without waiting another instant.



“Now that is a face filled with storm clouds if ever I’ve seen one.” Ruby walked forward to take his coat, her hips swaying beneath her slim yellow skirt, her red curls dancing about her face.

“I am getting married,” Swanston answered without care.

Ruby paused, her lips pursed. “To whom?”

“I don’t know yet.” Lifting a decanter of brandy from the table, he filled the waiting glass and swallowed fast.

“Not exactly the normal answer.” Ruby turned away and moved farther into her great parlor. They were alone this night—although not for long, if he had anything to do with it.

Reaching the high hearth, she turned back to him, the firelight turning her crimson curls to bright cherry. He’d never known why she wore the wig; in every other way she could have been any lady of his acquaintance dressed for an evening out. Her dress was tight and low, but not unseemly. Only the wig marked her for what she was.

“There is nothing normal about my situation,” he stated flatly.

“They all say that,” Ruby said, taking his glass, refilling it, and then taking a swig herself.

“Marriage.” He didn’t say more than that single word, but just saying it made him feel as tired as if he’d been talking for hours. He took the glass from Ruby and downed it. Normally he was careful with his drinking, but tonight—tonight he wanted to numb it all away.

He started to fill the glass again, but Ruby took it from him and set it aside. “Come sit and tell Ruby all about it. And then we can send you upstairs to relieve yourself in other ways.”

That was what he had come here for, but suddenly the bottle held more attraction than the upstairs room. “Why do women always think talking helps?”

“Because it does more often than it doesn’t, something men would know if they ever actually listened to what was being said.”

He picked up the empty glass from the table where she’d placed it and contemplated the crystal before setting it back down. Ruby was right—not about the talking, but about the fact that drinking was not the answer.