Mastering The Marquess (Bound and Determined #1)(43)

Louisa could only blink in response.

How did the whole world know of her search for a husband? She’d written Lady Perse asking for help, but now the whole world—or at least all of society—seemed to know.

“Don’t have much to say for yourself, do you? Some men like that. I know my son would. Have you met him? You must have. He was a great friend of Brookingston when they were young. Maybe you should marry him—my son, not Brookingston, that is. You already did that.”

More blinks. Who was Mirth’s son? It took her a moment to pull the connections together in her mind. Swanston. Mirth’s son was Swanston. And yes, she had met him on several occasions, although it was hard to connect the dark, reserved man whom she remembered with the Duke of Mirth. It was hard to imagine two men who appeared to have so little in common, although she supposed they were of similar height and build and that Mirth’s hair must once have been dark. If she truly thought about it, there was quite a striking resemblance. “I do believe that I can find a husband on my own.”

“Then you do admit to wanting one. I truly think you might just do for my boy. I’ll throw a soiree and introduce you. I am always looking for an excuse for a good party. Though the lad does tend to avoid parties I throw—all because of the elephants. Who knew what a mess elephants could make. I thought it a jolly fine idea, and so did my dear Bliss. And my son doesn’t like the llamas, either. What kind of a man doesn’t like llamas? Sweet creatures.”

Llamas? Elephants? What did elephants have to do with anything? “Truly, your grace, I am quite content to make my own way and—”

“I think the boy is here. I do believe I saw him earlier, although to tell you the truth I was avoiding him. He’s had that cross look in his eyes recently and I wasn’t in the mood for a lecture, but if I introduce him to you that just might cheer him. I should warn you, though, the boy doesn’t have much of a way with women—a bit repressed, I am afraid. He never does seem that interested—not that you need to worry about anything funny. He’s just a bit shy, reserved. I’ve tried to teach him, but—”

“I am sorry, your grace, but perhaps you are moving a bit quickly, I’ve only just returned to society and—”

“Oh, look, there’s my daughter—Bliss, you know. Bliss Danser—can you think of a better name for a girl? And look at that dress. The girl does have style. You’d know her for a Danser anywhere—not like Swanston, glum lad. Forgive me, I must go talk with her, find out what she’s doing with the Countess Ormande. Never have been quite sure what that woman’s after. Strange creature. The Countess, not Bliss. Bliss is a dear and so much fun. She does take after me and she’s promised to find out if …”

Louisa did not hear the end of his statement as he hurried off after his daughter—who was wearing one of the most incredible dresses that Louisa had ever seen. It looked like she had half a hot air balloon under her skirt. It was true that skirts were growing fuller, but this one looked as if you could turn her on her side and roll her.

And standing behind her, talking over her shoulder, was the tall woman from the retiring chamber. The Countess Ormande? Her eyes locked on Louisa, and without thought Louisa raised her hand to her cheek, feeling a connection between them.

Shaking her head at the strange family—and their strange acquaintances—Louisa turned back toward the dance floor.

The night was still young, and she did have a plan to pursue.

The room was crowded and it was difficult to see beyond the wall of men’s shoulders. Lady Perse had given her a list of men with whom she should converse and so far Lord Peter was the only one she had met—and without a specific reason in mind, she knew he was not right for her needs.

Perhaps the best move would be to find Lady Perse and allow her to make the introductions. With determination in her step, she forged into the crowd.



Swanston watched her disappear. His feet almost moved in pursuit, but he held them back.

She was his friend’s widow. She was not what he was looking for—for any type of pursuit, although once again he was beset by erotic images of pressing her hard against a wall, of pushing down that tight bodice and …

Blast, she was Brookingston’s widow. And she was not the type of woman he planned to wed. He could not, should not, be having these thoughts about her, should not be imagining binding her hands, spreading her before him, blindfolding her, winding the cloth tight about those orderly braids …

For some reason that last vision twisted at his gut, had him surging into the throng in pursuit.

Surely if he talked to her this strange fascination would fade. Once he was face to face with her he could return her to the small pocket of his mind she’d always occupied: friend’s wife, sweet girl, calming presence—put her in that place that did not require thought, that did not sneak out and cause his cock to rise at the most inopportune moments. He was a man, not a schoolboy. He controlled his body as he controlled everything else—which did not explain why he was elbowing his way into a crowd.

And she’d been talking to his father. If that wasn’t enough to cool his ardor, something strange was definitely happening. Normally any thought of his father was enough to bring him down to earth, if not to the depths of hell. He’d been cleaning up after the duke—indeed, after the entire family—for years.