Mastering The Marquess (Bound and Determined #1)(99)

But the worst of it was that she hadn’t fought; she was all too aware of Jack and Frank hovering in the next room. When the Countess had escorted Louisa to this back chamber she’d invited the two men into the sitting room. Louisa had heard their gravelly voices promising to come immediately if called.

And this room—oh God, this room. Louisa had recognized barely a thing in it when they’d first entered. The large, strange pieces of furniture were beyond her imagination. And who knew what those closed cabinets held. She had known what the whips hanging on the wall were. She’d seen plenty of crops while riding and had seen the long, fast ones used for driving cattle to market. The multitailed one she’d seen only in drawings of medieval torture.

Pulling deep breaths in, she resisted the urge to shudder. The one thing she’d managed to hold on to was her dignity. She might not have the will to struggle when it all seemed so useless, but she would not show how frightened she was.

Part of her wished that she had struggled, had not made it all so easy, had scratched at the Countess and marred that pale skin. But, no, the thought of Jack and Frank stripping her down and leering at her nakedness was too much. It might happen regardless, but she would not invite it.

If only the Countess had not looked so pleased with her compliance. If only she did not again hear the Countess asking if she’d ever had a desire to do anything besides submit.

Submit. If given the chance she’d show the Countess what else she might do.

Anger felt good. Anger was far better than terror.

But calm was even better than anger. If only she could focus on more of her mother’s lessons.

Closing her eyes, she tried to find a place of comfort somewhere deep in the recess of her mind, some flower-filled childhood garden or innocent spring day spent wandering through fields with John. She would have liked to think of Geoffrey, but everything that had gone on between them reminded her of where she was right now, of what was going to happen to her.

Against her will her mind focused on the feeling of Geoffrey’s calloused fingers striking the tender flesh of her behind. How was that different from what the Countess wanted?

Perhaps it was a matter of degree. But who knew where Geoffrey truly wished things to end, wished the lines to be drawn?

Had she not been afraid from the moment the Countess had first mentioned whips that this was where she would end up—only with Geoffrey? And, in truth, she’d been worried even before that about what exactly it was that her husband wanted, about whether she was capable of fulfilling those desires.

In many ways, this moment was nothing but the crescendo of all those fears.

And yet it was not. Only in her mind had she ever felt fear and worry with Geoffrey—and never when she was with him. No matter what happened between them she’d always felt safe in the moment, had known that he would never hurt her; even in that instant of surprise when his hand had come down upon her, she had not felt fear.

No, the only fear that she’d felt when she was with him was fear of herself, fear that she really did like what he did to her, that nothing aroused her more than obeying his command, than submitting to him.

Submit.

That word again.

But that was so different from this. It was hard to explain, even to herself, why that was so, but it was.

She trusted her husband, trusted Geoffrey. He would never hurt her, would never do something she did not like.

And she did not like this, did not like it at all.

Would it have been different if Geoffrey had been the one doing it: had been the one to stretch her naked flesh over the bars and run his elegant fingers over her skin; had been the one to pop her nipples out of the corset; if it had been his hands that checked her bonds. And he would have checked, would have made sure that she was not discomforted—at least not more than he wished. The Countess had pulled each bond tight, uncaring of rough rope biting into skin. And when her chilled fingers had run across one naked buttock, Louisa had felt nothing but disgust.

How could one woman do this to another?

Geoffrey. She would think of Geoffrey—not of what they did together, but of that first smile when he awoke and saw her in the morning, of how the shafts of sunlight lit his features, making him look far younger than usual. And she could think of him asleep, of the innocence of angels lying across his features.

“You have a very pretty cunt.” The Countess’s voice came from behind.

Louisa had worked hard to pretend that she wasn’t there, wasn’t looking at places that only Geoffrey had ever seen, that she wasn’t standing there just staring.

“Many women don’t have pretty ones,” the Countess continued. “It’s so hard to be sure. The most beautiful of women can be quite fleshy and hairy. I like a bit of hair, but not too much. I’ve known many men who don’t like hair at all, that insist it all be shaved away. That can be quite an experience by itself. Would you like to be shaved? I’ve never tried it, but I imagine I could learn to wield a razor quite well. Or perhaps hot wax. It does pull and sting as it rips the hair from you, but it leaves you smoother than a newborn babe.”

Louisa bit down on her lower lip—hard. She would not scream, and certainly not as a result of mere words.

“Look straight ahead. Do not look back at me. A proper toy does not look at her master. And I am your master, for all I prefer my title. I can always put blinders on you—yes, just like a horse. I’ve a rather nice pair in one of those drawers. Or perhaps a blindfold? Would you like a blindfold? There is something about uncertainty, about not knowing what will happen, that increases anticipation. And I do like anticipation.”