Mastering The Marquess (Bound and Determined #1)(72)

A scratching at the door startled him. A gentleman was used to his servants scratching lightly instead of knocking, but never on the communicating door, and never at the bottom of it.

The scratching continued.

And then a meow. A loud and disgruntled meow.

Louisa’s cat.

More scratching. The fellow was not about to give up.

Swanston slipped from the bed, glad that the floors held the warmth of summer rather than winter’s chill.

A quick turn of the handle and the cat pushed the door open the rest of the way. The small black-and-white face gave Swanston a distrusting look as the creature stalked into the chamber. It paced the length and then the width, tail twitching, eyes alert. And then, with a single leap from the center of the chamber, it landed beside Louisa on the bed. Snuffling, it padded across her body, sniffing as if to assure itself that all was well. When it reached her face it nuzzled against her cheeks, and her arms came up, cuddling the beast against her.

“Aah, Charlie. Did you miss me?” she murmured before snuggling back down to sleep.

Charlie? He’d heard her say the name before but had given it no thought. It was an odd name for a cat. Charlie?

Charles? That had been the name he’d taken with Grace.

Could it be coincidence? Or had Grace—Louisa—named the beast after him? How old was the thing anyway? He knew it was young, an overgrown kitten, but just how young? When exactly had Louisa acquired the thing?

Another thought occurred to him. A black-and-white kitten—one that looked quite similar to the one on the mirror he’d given Grace.

Had she ever used it? Followed his instructions? The thought caused his cock to swell again.

He glanced back at the bed, at his sleeping wife.

Soon.

Stepping quietly, he slipped through the door to Louisa’s room. The dark hung heavy here, only the barest glimmer of light seeping through the parted curtains.

Where would she keep it?

A candle stood ready on the table by her bed. He lit it quickly and looked about the room.

The mirror was nowhere in plain sight. A simple silver one sat upon her dressing table. He picked it up and then placed it back beside the matching brush. Such simple female things. He’d never noticed them before.

He slipped open the drawers. Powder. A delicately wrapped soap. He picked it up. Lemons and lavender. He knew the scent well. Louisa. The Louisa he’d known these last weeks.

A small vial sat beside the brush atop the table, the blue glass shielding its contents. Was it? Yes, roses and cinnamon. No wonder it had smelled familiar earlier in the evening. It was the same scent Grace had worn. And he recognized the vial. He hadn’t been aware of noticing it at Ruby’s, but now the sudden image of it on the table beside the bed there came to him.

Still, it was not proof. Surely many women wore such a scent, had the same vial.

He shuffled through the drawers further. Letters. A small sewing kit. A jar of silver pins.

Nothing.

He looked about the room.

Her desk. No. Even without looking he knew she would not keep it there.

The table beside the bed. No. The drawer was too small.

A tall armoire stood against the far wall. He could remember the maid opening the drawers, revealing piles of delicately folded silks. It would take far more time to search than he had.

And yet … He walked over to the armoire, and imagined himself nearly a foot shorter. He reached out and then moved down two drawers. He let his hand rest upon the pull, and the drawer opened. Reticules. Fancy evening ones. Red beads. Black beads.

He almost shut the door, but then he slipped his hand in, feeling beneath the delicate bags.

And he felt it, wrapped in velvet.

Pulling it out, he had to force himself to breathe. The shape was right. The cloth slipped open.

Even in the dim light, the bright enamel shone bright. He saw the delicate petals wrapped about the night-shaded handle, the single flower at its base. He pushed the lever. The small black-and-white cat grinned up at him, tail twitching.

He had found his Grace.

Rewrapping the mirror, he slipped it back in the drawer, then returned to his own room.

The remainder of the night lay ahead. He had plenty of time to decide what to do, to decide how to reveal himself to his wife.

Only one question remained: Did she know who he was?



Louisa stretched, feeling the subtle ache that ran throughout her limbs. The barest hint of daylight was peeking over the rooftops, lighting the room with a pink glow. She stretched again, curling and uncurling her fingers above her head before dropping them back to her side with care.

Her husband still slumbered beside her, a most unusual occurrence. But then, it had been a most unusual night.

A night there was no going back from.

They had made love only that one time—although “making love” was not the right phrase. But then neither was “marital relations,” and “sex” was too simple.

“Coitus”?

She grinned to herself. It was not the worst of the bunch.

“Fucked”?

Now that was a word she blushed even to think. A word she should not even know—or at least should pretend not to, even within the privacy of her mind.

She bet that was how Geoffrey thought of it, though.

She blushed again, deeper, and rolled onto her side to stare at him.

It still amazed her that he was the same man she’d lived with these past days.