Mastering The Marquess (Bound and Determined #1)(7)

And as for not marrying, was she really prepared to take such a path simply because she was a coward? And it would be cowardice of the worst kind.

There was nothing for her to fear. Madame had assured her of that.

Just as Madame had assured her that whatever happened in this house would never be talked of outside these walls.

And if she screamed help would come—immediately. All she needed to do to end this all was scream.

Madame had explained that except for a few special rooms every scream was met with action. Madame hired brutes, pugilists, for just this purpose. One scream and she would be safe.

Only Madame had promised her that she would not need to scream, assured Louisa that she had chosen the perfect man—one who would be gentle and understanding and who would explain exactly what needed to be done.

Louisa paced across the floor for what must have been the hundredth time, the full white skirts of her night rail flowing about her legs. Her heart felt as if it would beat right out of her chest. Each breath had to fight its way from her lungs.

Panic. She’d heard the word, but never before felt it shivering throughout her body.

She spun on her heel, turning toward the door.

It might be cowardly, but she couldn’t do it. It had been a bad idea.

She had to run now, while she could.

And then she saw herself.

A large mirror hung just to the left of the door, and her image stared back at her. Dark hair caught in a loose braid, as it always was for sleep. And a simple white gown, not so different from the one she wore each night.

Only it was different, not in cut but in fabric. She’d never worn silk so thin, so translucent. Her whole body showed through it: the deep rose of her nipples, the shadow between her legs. She looked more than naked.

And her eyes were huge, the pupils filling the deep brown irises. They appeared almost black. And her lips—she must have been chewing on them for the last hour. Red and puffy, swollen.

She did not look at all like the proper Countess of Brookingston. She looked—she looked like a woman who was about to have a wedding night. And smelled like one too, if Madame had any understanding of scent. Roses and cinnamon. Louisa had never tried such a thing before.

But a wedding night? Why had Madame Rouge ever suggested such a thing?

And why had she accepted it?

She didn’t need a wedding night. She needed something simple and fast—and over.

The only reason she was doing this was so that she could get on with her life.

Still—a wedding night? Madame had explained that perhaps it would be best if she had some real experience before she thought of marriage again. She should know if this was as awful as her mother had described. Still, Madame had never even mentioned that it might be painful.

Painful. She hated pain.

A deep breath. In. Out. Another. In. Out.

She could do this.

She could.

And then she had no choice.

The handle on the door turned and he stepped in.

She had only the impression of largeness and gray silk before she hurriedly shut her eyes.

She wasn’t ready. Heat rose on her face. She would tell him it was a mistake, tell him she’d made a mistake.

“Is everything to your liking?” His voice filled the room, vibrating about her, husky and deep, a river cascading over rocks.

She opened one eye and saw his mask, white cotton and plaster covering his whole face, dark, unruly curls rising above it. She remembered what Madame had said, how she’d worked to ensure Louisa both privacy and comfort. “Can you see anything?”

“Not a thing. There is a halo of light at the periphery of my vision, but that is all.”

“Oh.” He couldn’t see her. See this silly, transparent gown. See the deep rose darkening her cheeks.

“I’ll ask again: Do you like what you see? Is everything to your liking?”

Louisa opened her other eye—and stared. He couldn’t see her. He didn’t know if she was staring at him or at the ceiling. She could look as much as she wanted and nobody would ever know.

It was freeing in a way she had never imagined.

He was large. Well, not so much large as tall. She’d never considered herself short, but next to him she felt small, fragile. And she was in her bare feet. Not even an inch of heel to help.

She stepped forward and looked at his feet. They weren’t bare, but shod in black velvet slippers. Very large—almost huge—black velvet slippers. They didn’t add much height, but still …

“Take off your shoes?” she said.

“What?” Had he growled?

“Would you please take off your slippers?”

“Why?”

What was so difficult about this? A minute ago she’d felt free, and now suddenly she felt she was doing something wrong. Perhaps men didn’t take off their shoes when they … She’d always thought they did, but perhaps she’d been wrong. She’d never really thought about it. She was sure that they didn’t need to take off their shoes to use their—their penises. She should have asked Madame more questions. Madame was correct: She did need more experience if she was ever to pretend to having had a normal marriage. “I am sorry, you don’t have to if you don’t want to, if you don’t normally … I really don’t know … I just thought … You’re just so tall … I thought you’d be less frightening without your slippers. I don’t know why. I guess feet seemed calming.”