Mastering The Marquess (Bound and Determined #1)(53)

They had not spoken of it in the carriage. Granted, they had not spoken of anything in the carriage beyond agreeing that the simple ceremony had been lovely.

He had not even commented on her misspeaking his long string of names during the service. She’d stumbled on “John,” memories of her last wedding blending with this one, and had not really even listened to the rest of the list as she attempted to repeat it.

It was good of him not to say anything; she had not wanted to mar this day with memories of that other one of years ago.

But now it was night.

She had seen hardly anything of her husband through the long day as his family swirled about them in a bright dance of color. Even after everybody left and it had been only the two of them for dinner, there had been little conversation.

The sapphire glinted in the candlelight as she continued to stare down at her hands. They were still, for once, despite her nerves.

Why did she keep wanting more from Swanston? Keep expecting more? He’d never shown her a different side, so why was she so convinced that it was there, waiting for some magic key to open it for her?

What drew her to him? What had made her say yes?

Lifting her eyes, she glanced into the mirror that sat above her new dressing table, and saw big eyes and tightly braided hair. That had been the one personal request Swanston had made—as she’d excused herself from dinner, he’d leaned toward her and asked her to keep the coronet of braids she’d worn for the wedding. Something in his steady gaze had unnerved her, despite the careful flatness of his tone.

Her night rail was simple: cut high, lying just above her shoulder blades, the thinnest edging of white lace against her skin. She’d bought another gown, something more daring, but after the duke’s words of the previous evening she’d hesitated, unsure, and instead worn this simple white shift.

She closed her eyes and let herself remember for just the briefest of moments standing between Charles and the fire on that other evening. Her chemise on that occasion had been equally simple and demure, and it had not seemed to put Charles off in the least.

Drawing in a breath, she stood and walked toward the high bed, the strange bed in which she’d never slept a night.

Laying her hand upon the counterpane, she gazed at the heavy brocade, grapes and leaves intertwining on the blue-upon-blue silk. The whole room was blue, of varying shades. She’d never slept in a blue room before. Her girlhood chamber had been light rose and the room of her marriage soft yellows and greens.

Had she felt strange when she’d come to that long-ago room? She couldn’t remember—not a single thing.

All she could think about was the present: about the man who would join her shortly, who would share this bed, this room, share everything.

Should she be standing to meet him?

Sitting?

If only there was a fire. She could picture herself waiting beside it in one of the high-winged chairs, a glass of wine at her side. A foot would peek out from the hem of her skirt, and she’d allow the neckline to slip low on one shoulder, perhaps baring the upper curves of her breasts.

Swanston would stare at her for a moment as he entered, taking in her carefully arranged image, and then she’d rise and move toward him, letting the anticipation grow with each step. Her hands would lift to his shoulders, caressing him, easing back the gray brocade of his robe, and then …

No. That might be too forward.

What if the duke was right? And she had no reason to think that he wasn’t.

The bed was the safest place. She’d wait for him under the covers and see how he wished to proceed.



There was no light shining out from beneath her door, or at least very little, only the faintest glimmer.

Swanston paused at the door, his bare toes curling into the thick carpet. He leaned forward, resting his head against the wood. He had to be calm, to keep control. All day he’d struggled not to grab his wife and pull her into some discreet corner. His body ached for her, his cock stiff with need.

Even looking at her was difficult. When he looked he wanted, and he was not used to going without what he wanted. That was not true: He was very used to holding back, to allowing anticipation to build. Waiting caused fires to grow, caused ache to become need. But this was different—normally when he waited it was with the knowledge that satisfaction would be his any moment he desired. Now, he had to deny himself, had to deny his true desires.

He would take her, there was no doubt of that, but it would not be as he wanted—her splayed across his bed, wrists and ankles caught, his to command, his to fulfill or not as he chose, his to examine for as long as he desired.

No, that was not to be. He filled his lungs with air, forcing his body to believe what his mind already knew.

His wife was a lady—and ladies had very different needs than—oh, blast, he’d serviced enough ladies over the years to know that was far from true. But Louisa—he formed her name in his mind for the first time—Louisa was not like that.

He had to practice patience and restraint, be prepared to take what was offered and not ask for more.

Releasing the long-held breath slowly, he turned the handle and entered her chamber.

There was a single candle burning beside the bed, casting flickering shadows all about.

As he walked toward the bed, Louisa pushed herself up to sitting, taking the covers with her, holding them tight against her chest. Her eyes filled her face beneath the tight braids.