Mastering The Marquess (Bound and Determined #1)(66)

He could feel them in his mouth, hear her little gasps …

“Where have you been?”

The clipped tone of her words did not go with the welcome of those breasts. He forced his eyes up to her face. No, there was no welcome there.

“At a club,” he replied.

“White’s?”

“No.” There was something going on here that he did not understand.

“Brooks’s? I didn’t know you were so political.”

“No. Although I do pay attention. I try to understand before I vote.” Why was he saying so much, trying to erase the tension that hung heavy in the air?

“Boodle’s?”

Perhaps he should just say yes, but he’d always made it a point not to lie. Evasion was one thing, untruth another. “No.”

“Then where?” She stepped even closer, the smell of roses filling his nostrils. Louisa never smelled of roses. He breathed in again. There was something else there as well, something warm and beckoning—unlike her eyes which bore into him like knives, awaiting his answer.

“Does it matter? I belong to several clubs.”

“Are you avoiding my question?”

“Why would I do that?” What was so different about her tonight? The robe, the scent, the hair—had he ever seen it down before? It rose in a cloud about her face, almost a living thing. And the color—no, colors—so richer than the dull brown he had expected.

“I don’t know. Why would you not answer? And yet, you do not.”

His cock throbbed between his legs. God, he was too exhausted for this—and yet … He’d come home wanting only to curl into his bed and sleep until dawn. Now he wanted nothing more than to grab his wife and toss her on the bed, to f*ck her as he’d longed to since their wedding night.

He shut his eyes, trying to avoid the temptation she presented. She was acting the shrew, and all he wanted was to kiss those lips to silence, to grind his mouth against hers, to rip her night rail open, baring her all, to …

Control. He must find the control he so valued.

“Should I make it easy for you?” Her voice had lowered to a purr. He felt the air move as she leaned forward—as that so-intoxicating scent surrounded him. Cinnamon. It was cinnamon—roses and cinnamon—and oh so familiar.

He tried to place it, his arousal growing by the instant. It smelled so good. He wanted to stay lost in it, lost on the edge of memory.

“Should I tell you where you were?” Again, the purr.

He could feel her breath against his cheek. “Where?”

“You were at Madame Rouge’s. And not, I imagine, for the cream pastries.”

That opened his eyes—wide.

“You were playing with whores instead of with your wife.” Her voice grew gruff again.

“What? How?” His mind was too slow to put this all together.

“I’ve had one husband who preferred Madame’s to his own bed. I will not suffer another.” She took that last step so that her legs brushed against his, her tits at his eye level.

The thin ribbon edging the bodice brushed his mouth. One pull with his teeth and …

“If you ever wish an heir you had best remember where you would get one.” She placed a hand on each of his shoulders.

Was she seducing him or berating him? It was hard to tell.

“I don’t know …,” he began.

“Stop. There is no point in lying. I heard you tell the driver where to go. I know that direction well.”

How? His mind simply could not keep up. And what had she said about her first husband? Brookingston had not been the type to … But then, he and John had not been close after the war.

“If you know, why did you ask?”

“I wanted to see if you’d admit it.”

“What kind of man would tell his wife such a thing? Did Brookingston really …?”

“What was between Brookingston and myself is really no concern of yours. That is the past. I am concerned with the present and the future. I will not have you out with your trollops and then coming home to me.”

Trollops? Had she really just said “trollops”?

“Pay attention to what I am saying.” She shoved hard at his shoulders, sending him back flat onto the bed. Again that scent tickled at his nose, and his senses, his whole body reacting. God, he ached for her.

“I am.” Although he had to admit that it was far more than her words that he was paying attention to. He felt like a boy again, slightly tipsy and dreaming of women and what he’d like to do to them. Although in his fantasies the woman was on the bed and he was the one standing between her thighs.

“Pay attention to my words, not my breasts.” Her voice resounded with anger and emotion.

“If you want me to pay attention to your words and not your charms, why are you dressed that way?” She was so familiar—and it was strange. He’d never seen her this way, and yet he felt he knew her better than he ever had before.

“I wanted you to see what you are passing up, and I’ll be damned if I’ll lie flat on my back while you live it up about town.” Her eyes flashed down at him. “I don’t see why I should act the innocent girl if all it means is that you go somewhere else for fun. If I am not good enough for you, you’ll have to tell me why.”