Mastering The Marquess (Bound and Determined #1)(40)

His groin tightened.

It was a pity that skirts had grown fuller over the last year. Between the balloon-like sleeves and belled skirt he could not determine the true outline of her figure.

But still, he knew her.

He just could not remember when or how.

He waited for her to turn, waited to see her lovely face, for he was sure it was lovely.

Had he f*cked her?

Normally he didn’t forget his adventures, but how could a man be sure that he remembered them all?

His body was certainly responding as if it knew her well—and she was across the room, across an ocean of chattering faces.

Shifting uncomfortably, he held his breath and waited.



Was it him? How could it not be?

She knew it was.

She might not be able to understand what was being said—there was too much noise for that—but she knew that timbre, those tones of command. Her breasts grew heavy just hearing him, her nipples straining against her corset.

When the footman held out the punch she almost dropped the crystal cup. Her fingers were shaking, and not with fear. Desire filled her.

She closed her eyes for the briefest second, bringing the cold liquid to her mouth, feeling the chill against her lips, the hard glass against her growing softness. Could anybody see the change in her, know the thoughts that filled her head?

If it was him, if it was Charles—and she knew that it was—then it was meant to be. Her willpower could hold out no longer. If he invited her to ride in his carriage, then ride she would, whenever and wherever he wished her to go.

It was hard to swallow the sweet drink. Her throat did not wish to work, her tongue to do anything but lick her lips in invitation.

And still she did not turn.

What if he did not know her? What if he looked at her and saw only a stranger?

Could she tell him who she was? Did she dare?

Could she approach him as herself? She knew his desires—could she play upon them? Could she seduce him? Perhaps she could …

What if he was married?

He’d said he wasn’t, but …

Oh heavens, she’d never seriously considered that.

Or what if he didn’t want her, what if he’d wanted only the game, the mystery? He’d certainly never invited anything else—not that she’d given him the chance.

Her body cooled more with each additional thought.

It was far better not to know. She’d been right in her actions. She should keep that one night locked in its secret room, guard it as carefully as treasure, allow nothing to tarnish it.

No matter what happened in the years to come she would have that, have that moment.

She gulped another mouthful of punch, placed the half-full cup back on the table.

Leaving was the only option. If she left she could pretend this had never happened, pretend that nothing was different than it had been this morning, even earlier this evening. Tomorrow would be soon enough to proceed with her plan.

Only.

Only, she was not a coward and that was a coward’s way.

As if by heavenly design she heard the voice again, low, rumbling, deep—and laughing? She’d never heard him laugh. It seemed so unlike the dark man she remembered. And yet …

If she was ever going to face him, it should be now.

She didn’t know what would come next, but she would take it as it came.

If a price was demanded, then she would pay.

Keeping her face stiff, trying to stem anticipation, she turned back toward the dance floor, toward that deep beckoning voice.



She was turning. His breath caught, waiting, anticipating. Surely if he saw her face he would know her, remember her. And there must be something to remember, else why was his body stiffly at attention, forcing him to let his coat fall forward—disguising the physical mark of his interest.

Her features were delicate: a small pointed chin, a slender nose, arched brows, eyes of chocolate brown—and lips full and moist, lips of sin on the face of angel. He could not see her clearly from his position across the room, but he did know them, know her.

Could it really be her?

And those lips were smiling; a feeling of anticipation radiated from her as she turned. Time stopped as he waited to see what had her looking like that, smiling like that.

He’d never seen that look upon her face before.

Was that why had it taken him so long to recognize her? The web of braids should have been enough of a clue. He’d remarked on them once, commenting that they were as restrained as she. A wry smile twisted his mouth.

But her smile was not restrained now, full of wonder, full of …

But even as he had that thought, her face changed, not in an obvious way, but subtly—the hope leaving it, the secret inner glow banked and put away.

Her eyes were settled somewhere in the crowd, somewhere he could not see.



He was old.

Old and with a belly.

He was talking now, discussing the breeding of some strange farm animal, but there was no mistaking that it was he who spoke, he whose voice tickled at her inner memories, the secret chambers of her mind.

The height was right, or almost so. She’d remembered him taller, but she knew that could be a trick of memory. This man could have been him, been Charles, in height and general structure.

But he was old.

And had a belly.

And gray hair. Yes, it was thick and curled almost exactly as she remembered—as she remembered touching, remembered running her fingers through, remembered pulling as lightning sparked through her body.