Mastering The Marquess (Bound and Determined #1)(39)

So why was she standing here in the midst of her husband hunt dreaming?

Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

She took a step forward, entering the fray surrounding the dance floor. She moved slowly, pretending that there was no place she wanted to be more than here. If she pretended long enough, she might even begin to believe it was true. That had been yet another of her mother’s lessons.

“Lady Brookingston, it is so good to see you. Are you in Town for the season?” A tall gentleman stepped out of the crowd and blocked her way.

Lord Temple, that was his name. “Why yes, I am. I have decided that it is time to move on with my life.”

“And the country grows so dull so quickly, don’t you agree?”

No, she had never thought that. She loved the country and the quiet life it provided. “I must admit that London is much more … active.”

“I am so glad that you agree. Would you care for a dance? I do believe they are starting a waltz. I am sure you haven’t had much chance to waltz among the cows and corn.” He held out his hand, assuming her agreement.

She took it with only the slightest hesitation. This was what she was here for. She might not wish a husband who disliked the country, but she would keep her mind open and refrain from mentioning that her not having waltzed much lately had far more to do with mourning her husband than with the number of cows about.

The dance seemed almost endless as Lord Temple’s fingers did their best to discover whether she wore a full corset beneath her gown. It felt rather like having a snake wrapped about one’s waist, all wiggle and twist. And if that wasn’t bad enough, she could clearly feel the man pricing her jewels. He actually mentioned that he’d heard that very little of Brookingston’s estate had been entailed. She’d smiled and nodded—she was doing a lot of nodding—and waited for the dance to end.

But then there was another partner and more of the same. No, that was not fair to Lord Peter. His hands had stayed planted just where they were supposed to, and he’d made only the most decorous inquiries as to whether she’d taken a house in Town or was still staying in the Brookingston house. It was not his fault that his long nose made her feel that she was being looked down upon. A man could not be held responsible for his facial features.

Three more partners, one of whom had actually inquired whether she would be desirous of a ride home in his carriage; the word “desirous” had been emphasized in such a way as to make his wants clear. Widows were open game. He hadn’t seemed particularly distraught by her refusal, and she was left wondering if it had been some type of test.

In fact, this whole evening felt like a test. She’d come here wondering if she could find a man good enough to be her husband, the father of her children, and instead it was becoming very clear that she was the one being examined. Evidently, at twenty-six she had obstacles to overcome before being considered matrimonial material—although it seemed that her ready funds might compensate for her extreme age.

Did she want a husband whose primary interest was her purse?

With that discouraging thought she sought the ladies’ retiring room, seeking a moment of peace as much as anything else.

Luckily, the room was unoccupied save for a maid, and after a splash of water and a few pinches to redden her cheeks, she felt ready to return.

As she was leaving the chamber, she had a strange encounter. An extremely tall, dark-haired woman—Louisa reached little higher than her shoulder—dressed in a crimson so dark as to be almost black, stopped just as she was about to pass Louisa and enter the retiring room herself. Running her gaze over Louisa, taking in the vibrant blue of her dress, the generous curves rising above the bodice, and the tight mass of braids Louisa’s maid had worked so hard on, she smiled and reached out to run a finger down Louisa’s cheek, causing a deep shudder.

“Aren’t you sweet,” the woman said in a slightly accented voice. “I could eat you up. I do wish I’d seen you in other circumstances. You have the look about you and I daresay you don’t even know it. Perhaps we will have the chance to talk later.” She patted Louisa’s cheek again, the nail of her index finger almost scratching. “I shall just have to wait until we are properly introduced.”

Without another word the woman swept past, the smell of jasmine and musk trailing behind her.

Louisa could only lift her hand to her cheek, hoping there was not a mark, and wonder.

Shaking off a lingering unrest and avoiding the dance floor, she sought out refreshment. A cool, or almost cool, drink would do much to restore her spirits.

It was as she was waiting for a new bowl of punch to be brought out that she heard him. Charles.

There could be no mistaking that voice—the deep timbre … the shudders it sent through her.

She might mistake his appearance; she had never truly seen him. But that voice. That she would know anywhere.

Her feet felt frozen.

Should she turn? Should she finally see the man who had disturbed her sleep this last month? The man who filled her thoughts until her thighs clenched and grew damp?

And what if he recognized her?

Could she risk it?

Could she not?



He knew her.

Geoffrey stared across the room at the petite woman in the gown of clearest blue. She was so familiar: the curve of her shoulder, the slender waist, the posture so straight and yet so natural. Even the tight net of braids that held her hair constrained reminded him of someone, some time. He could picture them in candlelight, her head tilted forward in supplication.