"Perhaps." He doesn't look offended. If anything, he looks pleased. "In seven days, there won't be a single thing you can do about it."
His hand comes up to cup my face. Gentle. Tender, even. His thumb brushes my cheekbone.
"Our wedding night—" His voice drops lower. "—I'm going to strip you out of that white dress. Lay you down in our marriage bed. And I'm going to take what's mine. Every inch."
My breath catches. Can't help it.
"And here's what I want you to understand." His thumb traces my jaw now. "If you fight me—and God, I hope you do—it will only make me enjoy it more. Your father wants a grandson. An heir. And I'm going to spend our wedding night buried inside you until I've given him one."
Bile rises in my throat.
"In fact..." His eyes darken with something that makes me want to shower for a week. "I'm hard right now, just thinking about it. Just imagining you struggling beneath me, that pretty mouth forming all those protests that won't matter anymore."
"Let go." I barely recognize my own voice.
"Not yet." But his hands drop. He steps back, adjusting his tie, his expression smoothing into something almost respectable. "You should get started on those invitations. Five hundred is quite a lot, after all."
He collects his jacket from Grandmother's chair and shrugs into it. Buttons it with careful precision.
At the door, he pauses. "Oh, and if you embarrass me in front of our guests—if you show anything other than devotion—I'll make sure our wedding night lasts for days. Do we understand each other?"
I don't answer. Can't.
His smile says I've given him exactly what he wanted. "I'll see you at dinner. Wear the blue dress. I prefer you in blue."
The door closes. His footsteps recede down the hall. The front door opens and closes.
Silence.
My legs give out. I sink onto the sofa—not Grandmother's chair, can't sit there now that he's touched it—and stare at my hands. They're shaking. My whole body is shaking.
Five hundred invitations.
Seven days.
I turn back to the window, searching the garden with desperate eyes. Empty flowerbeds. No bees. No messages.
Where are you, Paul?
The afternoon sun slants through the window, warm on my face, and I'm so cold I might never be warm again.
Seven days until I become Prescott's wife.
Seven days until I stop being Vivianne entirely.
Unless Paul comes. Unless the rescue he promised materializes from nothing. Unless?—
"Miss Faulks?"
I jump. Mrs. Holloway stands in the doorway, her expression carefully neutral. She's been with the family since before I was born. She loved my grandmother. Adored my mother when she came and made this place her home. She knows exactly what's happening here.
"Your father asked me to bring you the guest list. For the invitations." She sets a leather portfolio on the side table. Doesn't quite meet my eyes. "And the calligraphy supplies."
"Thank you."
She hesitates. Opens her mouth. Closes it.
"Mrs. Holloway?"
