PROLOGUE
Spencer had hoped—prayed, really—that his bride would be hideous. A convenient arrangement, nothing more. But fate, the spiteful creature, had delivered him a problem.
She was beautiful.
At the altar, she’d lifted her chin just enough for him to see her properly: dark hair rebelling against its pins, eyes the same shade—wide, searching, unguarded. She was small, slight even, and he’d caught the flicker of intimidation before she stepped back from him. Sensible of her, certainly. He towered over most people.
But sensible didn’t mean useful.
“Will I have my tour now?” Anna asked as she wandered down the dim corridor, fingertips grazing the faded wallpaper asthough the house whispered secrets. “I assume our housekeeper is sleeping.”
“Our housekeeper?” he echoed. “Yes. And the tour will wait until morning.”
She stopped, turning toward him with a blush blooming across her cheeks—soft, warm, dangerous. He knew exactly where her thoughts were drifting before she spoke.
“So,” she began, voice feather-soft, eyes lowering in a way that felt far too deliberate, “I suppose this is where we…”
He raised a brow. “Where we what?”
Her innocence entertained him more than it should have. Gentlewomen were never told the truth of the marriage bed; their mothers handed them over like sacrificial lambs and left the rest to chance. Spencer let his gaze dip to the swell of her neckline, and he knew she saw. Knew she didn’t flinch. Knew, damn her, she liked the attention.
“Where we consummate our marriage, Your Grace,” she said plainly.
His expression didn’t shift, but something in him braced.
“This will be a practical union, Duchess,” he said, tone like a locked door. “A marriage without passion, without adoration. You would do well to remember that.”
And then—damn him—he faltered. She caught it instantly, those deep brown eyes seeing far more than he intended any bride to see.
“What,” he asked, voice dipping into a low, taunting drawl, “do you know of marital consummation, Duchess?”
“I—well—nothing of detail,” she managed, color rising in her cheeks. “I am a maiden, Your Grace.
He tried—truly tried—not to think of her as a woman. But the truth forced itself into his senses: she was small, yes, but soft in all the ways that mattered. Curved delicately. Hair escaping in wild curls now that propriety was no longer required. A temptation packaged in innocence.
“I don’t like titles,” he said at last. “You will call me Spencer. I will call you Anna.”
“Yes… Spencer.” The word trembled, warm and dangerous, between them.
This was a mistake. An intimacy he could not afford. He wanted to take her to his room and discover exactly what she didn’t know—but morning would come, and with it obligation. Attachment was a luxury neither of them could afford.
He stepped closer until her breath mingled with his, until she froze beneath the weight of him. He leaned to her ear, letting the warmth of her skin mock his restraint.
“What will happen tonight,” he murmured, “is that you will go to your room, and I will go to mine. Nothing more. I require nothing of an intimate nature from you. Not now.”
Her head snapped up. “I beg your pardon?”
“I will not be here,” he said simply. “I am needed elsewhere.”
Her face went blank—too blank—and beneath it, something like anger sparked.
He escorted her to her chamber, ignoring the hurt flickering in her eyes. Let her hate him. It would make everything easier.
He, however, would be thinking of her while he did his duty.
If anything… he envied her.
CHAPTER 1
