Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 78100 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78100 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
He dreamed of stripping away her virginity, certainly, thrusting through her maidenhood and making her cry out in shock and wonder. That was not so awfully bad, but then he dreamed of trapping her in bondage, sometimes rope, sometimes leather, or even manacles and chains. He imagined her crying, begging for freedom as he did things to her body no delicately bred lady would consent to. He pictured her sobbing as he spanked or whipped her unmarked, virgin arse. He imagined the rasp of her breath as he choked her on his—
Mad Marlow. You utter, mad pervert. You’ve earned that name.
He pushed from the tree, turned on his heel and set off across Townsend’s gardens. He didn’t wish to be noticed or drawn back into the chattering group of friends and relatives. He didn’t deserve to be among these good people. While Townsend had been preparing himself to preside over this blasted rabbit funeral, Marlow had spent last night with three whores at Pearl’s, beating one of them and fucking the other two until Madame Pearl herself suggested he go home.
He hadn’t done anything against the rules, hadn’t done anything the girls resisted. He’d only done so much to them for so long, and for the fourth time that week. He and August generally visited Pearl’s on the weekends to enjoy some of the livelier girls together, but now he went on other days alone because he didn’t want his friend to see how far he’d fallen into profligacy and lechery.
“Take your demons and go, Lord Marlow,” Pearl had said to him, pocketing the tip he shamefacedly handed over. “Come back in a day or two.”
Cast out of Pearl’s like a demon from hell, mad Lord Marlow. He’d felt dirty before that ignominious episode, filthy, unfit. He felt even dirtier now, having locked eyes with Rosalind in a beautiful, sunlit garden. That one second of beauty brought dozens of dark fantasies to mind. Binding, crying, trapping, owning, defiling, hurting, wanting… At the bottom of all the filth, he simply wanted her, but he couldn’t have her. Never mind his title or that he cut a fine, tall figure. Never mind that his pale blue eyes marked him out as uniquely handsome among the ton’s eligible bachelors.
When debutantes asked their mamas and papas about dashing Viscount Marlow, they shook their heads. They knew him for what he was—an imposter and wastrel. He fought too much, seduced too many women, frequented too many taverns, and did everything too carelessly for anyone’s peace of mind. He was no more a fine aristocrat than the stray dogs fucking in London’s alleyways. He was as good a marriage prospect as the snake that had swallowed Jane’s pet rabbit whole.
He arrived at Townsend’s greenhouse and entered through the glass-paneled door, then leaned back against it, letting the sudden warmth soothe his tense muscles. The glass enclosure smelled of flowers and loam, of growing things. Of summer following spring. He turned and saw Townsend walk past with Jane and another gentleman, a Cambridge naturalist he’d met earlier. Someone interested in the rabbit-eating snake, no doubt. At least Jane looked happy again.
As they continued past, he saw Rosalind break away from the clusters of funeral guests and drift toward the refreshment tables. He should not stand behind the glass and stare, no, he shouldn’t. But he did. He loved the way she moved, so gracefully, but not in an affected way. Some women of the ton tried to float, tripping from toe to toe and wafting their arms in the air until they looked ridiculous. Rosalind floated without trying.
She wore soft lilac today, a gown nearly matched to the wisteria along the far garden wall. Her full, upswept hair was some shade between gold and mahogany, and her eyes, though he couldn’t see them now, were some shade between blue, silver, and gray. He knew these colors intimately, had committed them to memory for use in his many unwholesome fantasies.
He bit his lip as she trailed her fingers along the table, then skirted around it. Even that seemed sensual, the way she moved her hands and shifted her hips. But fantasies were as far as it could go. He would not, could not, act upon any impulses. She was meant for marriage to the Marquess of Brittingham, something he’d slowly become aware of as he’d heard the man around town, talking about Rosalind’s family as if he’d already married into it. When the Duke and Duchess of Lockridge invited Brittingham and his parents to a series of private dinners, his suspicions were confirmed, although Rosalind seemed oblivious to her impending engagement.
Something seized in his gut when he imagined Brittingham touching her. Safe, kind, boring Brittingham who spoke with calm intelligence and had probably never entertained a perverse urge in his life.