Mastering The Marquess (Bound and Determined #1)(65)

“No.”

She suddenly stood and with a powerful swing brought the cane down upon the nameless woman one more time before he could stop her.

The muffled cry filled the room.

“Stop,” he told her. “Or I’ll tell that ‘no-account whore’ what happened here and you’ll never be welcome again.”

“As if she could keep me out.” The Countess turned from him, raising the cane high again, bringing it down with a sharp whistle of air.

He leaped, catching it in his hand, ignoring the heady sting as he pulled it from her grasp.

When he caught his balance it was his turn to raise the cane, to aim it toward pale skin and scarlet lips.

“Go on,” she whispered. “It’s what you want. What I want.”

He could see the desire in her gaze, the want of pain that would hurt him as greatly as her.

“I said no.” He dropped his arm to his side.

She stared at him, her eyes as cutting as any blade. “Do what you want. Punish me. Control me.”

“No.” He walked over to the table and dropped the cane, then grabbed a soft cloth and draped it over the quivering woman. “I think you should leave.”

“And how do you propose to make me do that?” She spat the words.

“Do not doubt me, Countess. I have had a difficult evening and I am not in a mood to be tested.” He did not even look at her as he spoke.

He heard her hesitate, wondered what she would do. He was very close to the edge, and if she pushed he did not know what he would do, only that it would not end as she wished.

It took a moment, and then he heard her sigh of capitulation. “Very well.” She turned and swaggered toward the door, clearly refusing to appear cowed. And then just as she left, “And do give my greetings to your charming sister. I do so look forward to improving upon our acquaintance.”

He wanted to go after her, to demand an explanation—hell, to demand that she never speak to his sister again.

A moan from the woman stopped him; some things came first. He hurried to the door, yelling for Ruby. She would know what to do. He did not believe it would be the first time she’d encountered such a situation.

And he would make damned sure that the Countess was never welcome here again.



The slam of the front door echoed through the house. He was home: Louisa could hear the heels of his boots pounding on the polished floors. She curled her feet under her in her chair beside the hearth, set her book aside, and waited.

Would he come to her?

Would he expect a welcome?

Why would he? He’d had his pleasure—why would he need his wife?

John had always slunk into the house after such a night, not showing his face until noon the next day.

Swanston did not sound like he was sneaking. The clatter from below was so loud that she almost wondered if he was trying to wake her and the rest of the house.

And then his steps were on the stairs.

The candles were still alight in her chamber. She’d had no wish to hide her knowledge of the hour of his return.

She held her breath as she heard him walk the hall, nearer, nearer—and then with no pause he was past, on the way to his own chamber. He had not even noticed the light shining beneath her door.

She stood, the thin silk of her gown falling about her. What did she do now?

She was spoiling for a fight. Her blood boiled. Her temper burned.

She was ready now.

Would the mood still hold in the morning, or would she be more inclined to forgiveness—or even worse, meekness?

She would not risk it.

The door to his room loomed large in her eyes, the silver handle shining against the dark wood.

She had never been through it. Each night he came to her, slipping in attired in his green robe and crisp nightshirt.

She’d never been through that door, never seen his chamber—and didn’t that say everything.

Putting one bare foot in front of the other, she marched toward that door.

Did she knock? Would the door be locked?

What if he was dressing—or undressing?

What if he was not alone? Did his man wait up for him?

She hadn’t heard a sound from his chamber all evening, but what did that mean? She sometimes thought her maid floated above the ground so as to make no sound.

She was delaying.

Without another thought, she turned the handle and stepped through.



What now? The connecting bedchamber door swung open. Swanston wasn’t sure how much more he could take this night. He’d had several large whiskeys, trying to come down after the events of the night, and they were definitely hitting him hard. He sank to the edge of his wide bed, letting his shoulders slump.

He looked up as his wife stalked through. The first thing that he noticed was her night rail. The soft draping slid over every curve, slithering and caressing, clinging to her magnificent breasts, making it impossible for him to look anywhere else. Even in his state of exhaustion, he wanted to pull her to him and feel those tits pressed tight against his chest. The fabric was so thin, her nipples pressing forward invitingly, ready, ripe. His mouth felt dry as he imagined wetting the silk with his tongue until it grew transparent, knowing that the gentle rasp would drive Louisa to lose control. His sex came alive as it had not all evening.

She stepped forward, her breasts drawing closer.