Mastering The Marquess (Bound and Determined #1)(62)

She must remain the gentle wife that he desired. “And what do you not like to eat?” she asked, forcing the words between lips that fought not to tremble.



She was killing him. It had begun so innocently, watching her hand rest upon her flesh. He knew she had meant nothing by the gesture, knew it had been the simplest of movements, a demonstration of good faith and promise.

Aahh, promise. If only she would promise him all the things her gesture provoked him to imagine.

If only she would touch herself, pleasure herself, only for him. He imagined ordering her to touch herself, watching as those shy fingers began their exploration, slid down her belly, traipsed along her thighs.

If only those small fingers would slip beneath the fabric of her bodice and pluck loose the nipple, would pinch it to redness and offer it to him for his pleasure.

“I would rather talk about what I do like to eat.” He had several answers to that question ready.

He saw her stiffen, felt her withdraw. “How will I know what to ask Cook to serve if you do not let me know your displeasures?”

God, even the word “displeasure” caused his cock to thicken, as appropriate punishments filled his mind. He pictured making her squeeze those plump nipples until tears formed at the corners of her eyes and only his suckle could soothe her.

He spread his legs wide, attempting to ease the ache. “I can assure you that Cook has long known what foods I do not like. You will not need to tell her, because they simply will not appear.”

“And if I asked for something—something in particular that you did not care for?”

He swallowed. Then you would need to earn it, to show me you were prepared to pay for causing me discomfort. But he did not say the words. They were not the words one spoke to a wife—not as he meant them. “Then I daresay I would survive.” He gestured to the laden sideboard. “As you said, I would not starve.”

“Oh.” She looked down at her hands, which were twisting the napkin in her lap.

He could think of uses for that napkin.

He could tie her hands behind her back as she sat stiffly at the table, forcing her to depend only upon him for her sustenance.

He could trail it over her bare skin, making her beg him to touch her.

He could pull it back and forth between her legs, reveling in her cries. That thought was too much, and he shied away from it lest he embarrass himself.

He could cover her eyes, knot it behind her hair, and … No. That thought would not do either. The thought of blindfolding her always made him feel he was headed toward an uncontrollable point—and he would never allow himself to go that far with her.

Abruptly, he pushed away from the table. “I find that I have had enough.”

“Is something wrong?” She was clearly startled by his action.

“No, I have simply, as I said, had enough.” And it was true, he had had enough—enough of desiring that which he could not have, not as he wished it. He always fulfilled his wishes—deprivation was not in his nature, except when he planned for it.

Louisa rose also. “Do you wish port? Or should I retire, summon my maid, and …?”

The thought of his lady wife lying abed, hands pressed to her sides, eyes staring at the canopy was too much this night. It was everything he wanted—and nothing.

A man had needs. Needs it was clear his wife could never handle.

“No, I think I will go out this evening. Some cold air would be most bracing.”

She glanced at the window, clearly thinking that late June was not the time for bracing air.

He headed for the door.

A night at Ruby’s would cure his ailment. And then he could return to Louisa, return to the confines of marriage.

She followed him to the door, watched as the porter gave him his hat and stick. Her eyes questioned him, but no sound passed her lips.

“I will see you in the morning, after my ride,” he said, attempting to add a touch of the ordinary in order to silence the questions he saw in her eyes, questions she did not ask.

Still she did not speak, did not wish him farewell.

He gave the direction to his coachman as he descended the steps.

Looking back once, he saw her standing there, stiff and straight—and pale, so very pale.





Chapter Nineteen





She knew where Swanston was going. God yes, she knew.

He was going to Madame Rouge’s.

Hearing him direct the coachman had cut open her heart.

How could this be happening again? Why was she not enough?

She’d felt the flickers of fire between them at dinner. What had happened?

Tears welled in her eyes and she worked to hold them back. She’d cried buckets of tears those first nights after learning why John had left, and it had accomplished nothing beyond leaving her eyes swollen the next day.

No, tears accomplished little, but anger—anger might.

How dare he leave her and head off to some … some whore! She was his wife. She’d spent the last several nights lying in his bed doing her best to be exactly what he wanted and still he left. She would not stand for it.

Yes, fury felt much better than sorrow.

Turning on her heels, she stomped back into the house and up the stairs to her room—yes, it was hers, not his, not theirs. And she’d be damned if he thought he would ever cross its threshold again when he was … was doing whatever it was that he could not do with her.