“Marry me.” It wasn’t a question. His hand rose to her jaw, tilting her face up to his. “Marry me, and I’ll show you pleasure enough to make you forget why you ever hesitated.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then I walk away. You’ll never see me again. The scandal will fade in time, and perhaps you’ll make a decent marriage—to some merchant’s son willing to overlook damaged goods.”
The casual cruelty of it made her flinch. But she heard the desperation underneath, the fear that she might actually refuse.
“You wouldn’t leave.”
“Wouldn’t I?” But his hand tightened, betraying him. “Try me.”
They stood locked together, the air between them thick with unspoken things. She could feel his heartbeat against her palm, rapid and uneven.
“We’ve known each other only a handful of stolen days,” she said at last.
“Three lifetimes wouldn’t be enough,” he said quietly. “But a handful of days? That’s enough to know I’ll go mad if I can’t have you.”
“That isn’t love.”
“No,” he said, his voice a low confession. “It is something far more dangerous.”
She met his eyes—this scarred, impossible man who offered ruin and salvation in the same breath—and heard herself say, “Yes.”
The word settled between them, simple and irrevocable.
His restraint broke. He caught her to him, his mouth claiming hers in a kiss that was no longer about temptation but surrender—possession and promise intertwined. When they parted, both were breathless.
“Tomorrow,” he said hoarsely. “Nine o’clock. St. George’s.”
“Adrian—”
“No second thoughts.” His fingers brushed her lips. “You’ve said yes. That’s enough.”
He left without another word.
Moments later, her parents appeared, faces drawn but composed.
“Well?” her father asked.
“Nine o’clock tomorrow,” Marianne said softly. “St. George’s.”
Her mother made a faint sound—part sigh, part sob. “I’ll send word to the modiste. We’ll have to alter something you already own. There’s no time for anything new.”
“The blue silk,” Marianne said at once. “The one from Lady Weatherby’s.”
The one she’d worn when he’d whispered those shocking things in her ear, when he’d pressed his thigh against hers and made her burn with want.
It seemed fitting, somehow.
Chapter Five
“Hold still, miss, or you’ll have a crooked hem at your own wedding.”
Marianne stood motionless as her maid, Sarah, made the last adjustments to the blue silk gown. Pale dawn light filtered through the windows, gilding the edges of furniture and glass. In three hours, she would be the Duchess of Harrowmere.
The thought made her stomach tighten—half terror, half anticipation.
“There.” Sarah stepped back, biting her lip. “You look beautiful, miss. Though I do wish…”
