“He can,” her father said, with grim finality. “And he means to. The question is, my girl—what doyoumean to do?”
Marianne stood on shaking legs. It was madness—utter madness. Only days ago, she had not even known Adrian Blackwell by more than name, and now he sat in her father’s study, a special licence already in train, offering marriage to repair a scandal he himself had helped create.
“I need to speak with him.”
“Marianne—” her mother started.
“Alone.”
Her parents exchanged glances, then her father nodded. “Five minutes. Door stays open.”
She found Adrian standing by the window in her father’s study, his back to her. He’d shed his coat, and his shoulders were tense beneath his white shirt.
“A special license?” she said without preamble. “Really?”
He turned, and she was struck by how tired he looked. “It’s the only way to salvage your reputation.”
“My reputation was doomed the moment you looked at me in that opera house.”
“Perhaps. But this will at least make you respectable in your ruin.”
“Respectable.” She gave a low, incredulous laugh. “As the wife of the Beast of Belgravia?”
“As a duchess,” he corrected. “With all the protection that title affords.”
“And what about love?”
The question slipped out—unguarded, too raw. His expression shuttered instantly.
“Love is a luxury neither of us can afford.”
“Can’t we?” She moved closer, drawn despite herself. “Then what would you call this… thing between us?”
“Lust. Fascination. Temporary madness.”
“Temporary,” she repeated, tasting the word.
“Everything is temporary, Marianne.” He caught her hand, his thumb finding her pulse with unsettling precision. “But I can offer you something far more useful than love.”
“Which is?”
“Freedom.” His thumb pressed lightly against her wrist, feeling the frantic beat beneath her skin. “As my duchess, you’ll have wealth, independence, the power to do as you please. No one will dare cut you again, no matter your birth. You could defy the entire ton if you wished.”
“And you? What do you gain from such generosity?”
His smile was sharp, dangerous. “I getyou.”
The stark honesty of it stole her breath. No tender falsehoods, no pretence of affection—only want, unvarnished and absolute.
“That’s not enough for marriage.”
“Isn’t it?” He stepped forward, his other hand sliding to her waist. “Tell me you don’t feel it—the pull between us. Tell me you don’t lie awake remembering that kiss, wondering what might have happened if we hadn’t been interrupted.”
“Adrian—”
“Tell me,” he went on, his voice dropping to that dark, velvet register that made her knees weak, “that you don’t want to know how it ends. You in my bed, my hands on your skin, my mouth—”
“Stop.” The word came out soft, breathless, wanting.
