“You seem distracted this morning, Your Grace,” Martha observed as she fastened the last button.
“Am I?” Olivia’s fingers fidgeted with the emerald pendant at her throat. “It’s nothing. Just ... adjusting to my new situation.”
Martha’s expression held genuine concern. “The duke seems a fair sight better than who your father could have settled on. Stern, to be sure, but not cruel.”
Olivia thought of Victor’s eyes, storm-gray and intense, watching her every reaction. There had been desire there, certainly, but also a hint of emotion beneath it. It was more akin to tenderness when he’d called her “little one.” Or perhaps she imagined it there.
The endearment had stirred a longing deep within her. Coming from another man, it might have seemed condescending, but from Victor—a man nearly twenty years her senior, with his commanding presence and battle scars—it felt like comfort, safety ... home. Like he didn’t see her as someone to exploit, but as the most precious woman in the world.
“He’s certainly not what I expected,” she admitted.
After Martha departed, Olivia explored her new home. Ravenswood House was a grand London townhouse, elegantly appointed but lacking personal touches. The furniture was arranged just so, not a cushion out of place. The staff moved with quiet efficiency, treating her with deference while maintaining a careful distance.
She paused before a closed door on the second floor, curiosity overwhelming her caution. Victor had not explicitly forbidden her from exploring. Taking a breath, she turned the handle and stepped inside.
A study, clearly Victor’s private domain. Military maps adorned one wall, a large desk dominated the center of the room, and bookshelves lined the remaining walls. Everything was meticulously organized, not a paper out of place.
Olivia’s gaze fell on a familiar object displayed on the wall, and her lungs constricted. The painting. Her painting. Victor had claimed it during the marriage negotiations, but she had never even suspected he would hang it in their home. A wave of self-consciousness swept through her as she approached it, confronting her own naked form captured in oils.
“I don’t recall giving you permission to enter my study.”
Victor’s voice, low and controlled, startled her. She whirled around to find him standing in the doorway, his expression unreadable.
“I was exploring my new home,” she replied, lifting her chin. “Am I to be a prisoner here, confined only to approved areas?”
Something like amusement flickered in his eyes. “Not a prisoner, no. But there are rules, Olivia.”
He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The click of the latch echoed in the quiet room.
“Does my painting interest you?” he asked, moving to stand beside her.
“I wondered why you kept it,” she admitted. “As a reminder of my shame? A tool to keep me in line?”
Victor’s expression softened slightly. “No, Olivia. I keep it because it captures an essential truth about you. Strength wrapped in a vulnerability that requires proper care. It’s ... beautiful.”
The compliment caught her off guard. She had expected coldness, perhaps even mockery, but not this quiet appreciation.
“What exactly do these ‘rules’ entail?” she asked, desperate to know what was in store for them.
Victor gestured toward the desk, pulling out a chair for her before taking his own seat. The mundane formality of the arrangement, much like a business meeting, stood in stark contrast to the intimate nature of their discussion.
“First,” he began, “there will be absolute honesty between us. No lies, no omissions. I will always be truthful with you, and I expect the same in return.”
Olivia nodded. That seemed reasonable enough.
“Second, in private, you will obey my commands without hesitation. This extends to all aspects of our intimate life together. You will sleep in my chamber each night so that I may take my pleasure with you whenever I wish.”
The muscles in her belly clenched involuntarily, heat blooming between her thighs at his directness. “And in public?”
“In public, you are the Duchess of Ravenswood. You will comport yourself with dignity and grace. I have no desire to control your social engagements or your friendships, provided they don’t bring scandal upon our house.”
Another reasonable provision, though Olivia wondered what friends remained to her after her disgrace.
“Third,” Victor continued, “you will accept correction should you break these rules or any others I may set. The form of that correction will depend on the offense, but it will always be administered in private and never in anger.”
“Correction,” she repeated, the word heavy with meaning. “You mean physical punishment?”
“Among other methods, yes.” His gaze remained steady. “Sometimes a physical reminder is the most effective. I assure you, I take no pleasure in causing pain for its own sake.”
