Mastering The Marquess (Bound and Determined #1)(73)

Last night had been so different—and yet so the same.

How could merely being on her stomach instead of her back have changed things so much?

Well, that and the light. Geoffrey had looked at her last night, really looked at her—at all of her. And he’d liked it, liked her. That had been abundantly clear.

The area between her legs tingled at the thought, and she pressed her thighs tight.

Should she wake him? Would things remain the same now that daylight lit the sky?

She closed her eyes and remembered the night, remembered the sound of his voice commanding her, telling her what to do—and her own willing compliance. Oh, that voice, that deep, rich voice.

It was the voice that had filled her mind these last weeks, ordering her to be still, to not move.

In all that time he had not spoken the words and yet she had heard them.

How much better it was to hear them actually spoken.

To hear his voice; to hear that voice.

And then she knew. It was not a sudden realization. No, it felt like something she had known all along.

Something she had refused to comprehend.

With trembling fingers, she reached out and ran her fingers through the hair at his temples, moved her fingers to just above his left ear. He murmured in his sleep and turned his face away, but it was enough. She had felt it, felt the scar she had already known was there, though she had not touched it. The scar he had gotten from the nursery hearth.

She knew him, had known him.

The thought was startling. Could she have known all along—known and refused to accept?

The floor was warm beneath her feet as she slipped from the bed. Her gown was nowhere to be seen, no doubt lost in the tangle of sheets that lay crumpled at the foot of the bed.

She could not walk around the house naked, not even to return to her own chambers.

The emerald silk robe she knew so well lay across the back of a chair, and she grabbed it, pulling it on, inhaling his scent, that deep musk of man.

Time. She needed time to think, time to understand.

Had she suspected who he was when she married him? She didn’t think so, and yet it would explain so much, explain that feeling that there was so much more to him than could be seen.

The door that separated their rooms closed with only the slightest click as she snuck back to her chambers, ringing for her maid.

There were decisions to be made, questions to be asked.

She just wished she knew what they were.



One hour until it was time to leave for the masquerade. She’d avoided her husband all day, unsure of what to say, how to act, but now, quite soon, she would meet him in the hall, ride with him to the masquerade at the home of Lord and Lady Willis.

When she’d first remembered the engagement, Louisa had thought about sending her regrets. She was so unsettled by the realizations about her husband that she wasn’t sure she was fit to be seen in public.

She hadn’t even been able to bear her maid’s attentions as her head spun with choices. No, she did not wish people around.

On the other hand, the thought of being alone with Geoffrey was a little frightening. She didn’t know what to say or what to do. Did she tell him that she knew? Did she act any differently? Did she keep it all a secret?

Was she even capable of keeping such a secret?

No, it was better to be out, to see how he acted toward her before she made any decisions. And a masquerade seemed fitting. They had been masked when first they met; perhaps it was time to don masks again. Although truth be told, she felt as if she’d been wearing a mask all these last weeks, pretending to be a demure lady, a good wife. Last night had been freeing. Somehow, in releasing her anger, her frustration, at him over his visiting Madame’s, she’d opened something inside herself. It felt like she was drawing her first good breath of fresh air after being lost in a fog.

What a ridiculous thought—she was the woman she’d always been.

Well, almost the same.

She pivoted in front of the mirror. The gown fit her perfectly—at least what little of it there was. She wasn’t sure she’d ever worn anything so thin, so light. Usually she’d attended costume affairs dressed in medieval finery, the thick stomachers and heavy brocade skirts shielding her from all. The last one she attended, the year before John’s death, she’d been Queen Elizabeth, with a collar higher than her head and skirts extending a good two feet on either side.

This … this was different.

Greek and Roman wear had become quite the fashion in recent years, but she’d never thought she’d try it.

She’d surprised herself ordering the dress; it was far from her usual taste. But something had changed in her, not just last night, but over the past weeks.

She looked at herself again.

Persephone.

Thin white cotton, almost transparent, dropped from silver clips at the shoulders, caught at the waist with a thin silver belt designed to look like sheaves of wheat. There were several layers of fabric, so that nothing was actually revealed—which was a good thing, because there was no way to wear a chemise or corset under the gown without looking silly.

Which brought her to her biggest concern: She’d never gone without support for her breasts before. She couldn’t decide if she felt sensuous or uncomfortable.

Did she jiggle and flop? She jumped a little, watching the movement of her breasts. The tips of her nipples rubbed against the fabric, sending a little frisson through her whole body. It was sinful.