Mastering The Marquess (Bound and Determined #1)(68)

Her feet hit the floor, her legs ready to surge.

But then he had her again, his strong fingers digging into her wrist, twisting it.

Pain radiated up her arm and she gasped, crying in pain, not pleasure.

And for the first time she felt true fear. Not of the situation, but of him.



He would not let her go. She was his for the taking. He would win. She was his.

And then, he heard her cry.

For a moment, a second, a minute, he had forgotten—forgotten who he was with: his wife.

This was no game, not even a rough one.

He froze, unsure of what action to take.

The look of panic that marked her face was genuine, and offered no hint of amusement.

Part of his role had always been to understand his partner, to push and push, but never break. A small amount of fear could be good, heighten the senses, but what he saw on Louisa’s face went beyond that.

Her eyes were huge and dark, stormy. Beneath, her lips were drawn, her cheeks pale.

“Do you want me to release you?” he asked, his voice hardly above a whisper.

Her chin bobbed up and down.

“Will you promise not to run?” He could not lose her now. He felt his own fear.

Another nod.

He opened his fingers slowly, dropped his arms to his sides. “I did not mean to scare you, to hurt you.”

Her lips quivered, but answered, “I believe you.”

“That is good.”

Silence held for a moment.

Her gaze dropped to her feet, her bare toes curling, and he could feel nerves and embarrassment begin to grow within her.

This was a moment that could change everything. “Do you want to stop?”

Candlelight glinted on her hair, a multitude of shades shimmering, as she lifted her head. “I do not understand.”

Sucking air into his lungs, he fought for the right words, wishing his head were clearer—and that all his blood was not still gathered somewhere lower. “I would like you to climb back into the bed. Even more than that, I’d like to place you there myself. And Louisa: I was not with another woman tonight. You do not have to believe me, but it is the truth.”

Small white teeth bit down on her lower lip. Her eyes dropped from his again. A slender hand clenched tight and then released. She did not speak, but slowly turned and shimmied up onto the bed, and then crawled to the far edge, her bare toes sneaking beneath the edge of the coverlet.

Moving very slowly, he sat on the edge of the bed. “I am going to take off my boots now. I was just about to when you first entered.”

Using the toe of one boot, he positioned the bootjack on the floor and slid his heel into position. He would have liked to ask her for help. There was something about a woman with her legs spread about his, pulling on his boot, that had always gotten to him. But this was not the time—definitely not the time.

He slid the one tall boot from his calf and then shifted to remove the other. When the boots stood side by side, he turned to her again. “I am going to take off my breeches now.”

No response, but she did not withdraw farther away.

He slipped the black breeches down his legs and then, folding them in half, stood and moved to place them over the back of a chair, his shirttails sliding about his thighs.

He returned to the bed, sat, debated his next action.

It would be very easy to blow out the candles and return to life before this night.

Well, perhaps not easy. He felt the stiff determination emanating from his wife. The subject of Ruby’s would have to be dealt with in more detail, but not tonight.

Combing fingers through his hair, he waited for inspiration.

It did not come.

It was his move to make, whether Louisa knew they’d begun the game or not.

Even if Ruby’s were removed from the table, he needed a wife who did more than lie abed, staring at the ceiling. Unless, of course, that was what he commanded her to do.

Turning his head, he gazed at her small huddled figure, almost buried by the pillows she lay against, that magnificent hair spread about her.

She should have looked pathetic, but she did not. His wife was brave and strong. It had taken him far too long to realize it.

And as he watched her, other thoughts began to waver about the edges of his consciousness. This was all too familiar: the huddling, hiding woman and the smell of roses and cinnamon.

He knew why it was familiar, but was not yet ready to think too much on it.

“May I rub your back?” he asked. Few women refused that.

“Rub my back?”

“Yes, nothing but rubbing your back.”

“I will allow that.” She did not sound as sure as he would have liked.

He waited, but she did not move.

“It is best if you lie down on your belly,” he said after a while.

“In the same position I was in before?” She spoke with hesitation.

“Yes.” He had not thought about that, but it was not the time to reconsider.

She inched across the bed before slowly moving into a prone position. Her body remained stiff, her head turned from him.

He reached over and laid one hand upon her upper back, waiting until her breathing slowed to position the other.

He did not speak or move, just sat there with his hands upon the pink silk.

Her muscles relaxed—not completely, but enough.

Easing his hands up and down, from her neck to the small of her back, he let her grow accustomed to his touch. The friction of the silk warmed her beneath his touch, but still he continued with long, slow strokes.