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It was not said in recrimination, but wonder. He put his hands over hers, tracing along the ribbons that had kept her bound in his clutches. She was no longer struggling to get away. If he could teach her this and have her tolerate it without cursing him to the devil… Oh, the pleasures he could introduce her to over the course of their marriage. A great smile spread across his face.
“You were very brave,” he said. “And received a pleasing reward for it, no?”
“A most gratifying reward,” she agreed. “Thank you for showing me these secret things. I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”
He reached to untie her garter strings, still smiling like a madman. “My sweet, secret wanton,” he murmured, taking a moment to lick the column of her neck before he released her. “I have a hundred more secrets to show you. A thousand. I find my imagination on fire with ways to bring you gratification and amusement.”
“And no baby?” she asked, stretching beneath him.
“One day,” he promised. “But not yet.”
*
They started running through their funds with greater alacrity after that glorious encounter. Rosalind opened to him like a flower, accepting any perversity he could conceive, and in his gratitude, he wanted softer beds for her, finer linens to bugger her upon, and a hot bath afterward in a clean tub for her troubles. Money became secondary to caring for her. The closer they got to Rome, the better accommodations became available, and Marlow paid for them because the wonders of his wife’s body never ceased.
In the daytime, among people, they behaved like a civilized couple, but behind closed doors Marlow found he couldn’t leave her alone. They did all the most “secret” things, and variations upon them, any sensual, arousing thing that wouldn’t get her pregnant. Further, she accepted he would spank her when he wished, whether or not he could come up with a reasonable excuse to warrant it. She surrendered to all his sensual whims and reveled in the pleasure it brought them.
He’d known she’d be like this. He’d sensed the reckless romantic in her when everyone around her had only seen the delicate English rose. It was part of the reason he’d tried to hold off on the physical side of their relationship for so long—because he’d known he wouldn’t be able to keep himself in check if she did not draw some line of propriety. He had not kept himself in check over the last week, not in the least, and it made him disgusted with himself.
He was not good enough for her. They were married now, joined together forever, but it didn’t change the fact that she ought to have married someone more honorable, like Brittingham. She ought to have had a season to be admired and courted, no matter whom she ended up bound to. Sometimes after he spanked or buggered her, or enticed her to fellatio, he gazed down at her perfect, lovely face and worried their relationship was doomed, that they would return to England and be shunned by everyone when she ought to have fulfilled her destiny as the season’s finest diamond.
His only choice was to become a finer man, to be deserving of her.
When they reached Rome, Marlow decided they must have better clothes. He took her to an upscale clothing reseller and used most of their remaining savings to buy two nearly new silk gowns for her, and a proper coat and new shirt for himself.
“I cannot take you to your sister’s looking like a peasant,” he explained to her. “For my pride, I cannot show up on a prince’s doorstep with you in such penury.”
He let her choose the gowns herself from the shop’s vast inventory. Though he could see she was trying to be frugal, even the simpler styles looked stunning on her. She chose a lacy sage green day gown that looked like it had never been worn, and a deep blue gown with silver ruching for dinner and evening wear. As the shop’s mistress laid matching hats and gloves on the counter, Rosalind looked at him with worry.
“It’s too much money, isn’t it?” she whispered. “We’re still a week’s distance from Florence.”
He added a pair of top-quality boots to their pile of items. “It’s not too much, darling. I have a plan.”
Now that they were in Rome, in the summer, he was certain he could find someone he knew, some friend from society traveling to take in the sights. He remembered a grand gentlemen’s club off Via del Corso where Englishmen traditionally congregated on their continental tours. He’d practically been a fixture there when he, Townsend, August, and Wescott had crossed Europe to Greece as younger men.
Now that he was better dressed and looked almost himself—minus his hair—he could enter the club and find a gentleman he knew to lend them enough money to reach Florence. Once he explained about losing everything in the shipwreck, he was sure they’d be happy to help out.
He took Rosalind back to the hotel, then set out for Via del Corso. He had no trouble finding the club, with its expansive bay windows and whitewashed exterior. After the past few weeks of third-class travel, it took greater effort to find his way back to Viscount Marlow, distinguished lord of the realm. A hot shave and quality boots helped.
He was let in at the door without issue, welcomed by a silent attendant in a black silk coat and dark trousers. The entryway’s dark wood walls opened onto a front drawing room, leading to a larger room beyond. Men’s voices, talking and laughing, rose over the clink of glasses and the occasional rattle of a newspaper. The club’s noise and smoky interior gave him a sharp stab of homesickness for White’s back in London. He’d never truly wanted to go to India, so far from his friends and family; he’d only embarked on the journey to escape Rosalind’s season and to numb his fractured heart.
He didn’t see anyone he knew in the front room, so he proceeded to the one beyond. Large, padded leather chairs dotted the corners, while tables in the center were given over to food, drink, and cards. There was yet another room in the back, he remembered, purely for dining, and a cellar room that functioned as an intimate gaming hell, with higher stakes and richer sharks.
He considered heading straight there, for he knew a great many gamblers, but decided instead to sit in the main room a moment and have a drink, and soak in the club’s ambiance to steel himself for his task. Viscount or no, he was about to go begging. It had been a soul-shaking experience the past couple weeks, living as a common traveler with a wife to protect and look after.
He found a chair in a corner, partly hidden, where he might sip a brandy and study the room’s occupants for a while. He did recognize some faces as he peered through the lingering haze of smoke and began to compose the necessary introductions and explanations in his mind.
“Marlow? God, it’s not you, is it?” He heard a wild laugh, one he’d know anywhere. “It can’t be you.”
