When he’d gone, the church felt suddenly enormous.
“Well,” her mother said faintly. “That was… efficient.”
“He’s taking me away,” Marianne said blankly. “I don’t even know where Harrowmere is—”
“Kent,” her father replied. “A few hours from London. He’ll keep you there until the scandal cools—months, perhaps.”
“Months alone with him?”
“You’re his wife now,” her mother reminded her gently. “Being alone with him is rather the point.”
“But I don’t know him. Not really. A handful of encounters, a few stolen hours—and now this.”
“Yes,” her father said simply. “So you’d best learn quickly.” He surprised her by drawing her into an embrace. “Write to us. If you need anything—send word.”
“He won’t hurt me, Papa.”
“Physically? No, I do not believe he will—and I would not permit it. But there are other kinds of hurt, my girl.” He pulled back, his eyes serious. “Guard your heart. Men like that—they take everything if you let them.”
Her mother kissed her cheek. “Be well, darling. Be happy if you can. Be smart if you can’t.”
Then they were gone, leaving her alone in the church where she’d just promised her life to a virtual stranger. The candles flickered in a draft, casting dancing shadows across the floor. She stood there for a moment, gathering her courage, then walked out to face her new life.
***
Adrian waited beside an imposing black carriage, all gleaming lacquer and matched greys. He had removed his gloves; when he took her hand to help her step up, the brief touch of his bare skin against hers sent a shiver straight through her.
“Regrets already?” he asked as he settled beside her and the carriage lurched into motion.
“Should I have them?”
“Probably.” His legs stretched easily before him, his thigh brushing hers through layers of silk. “I’m not an easy man to live with.”
“I’m not an easy woman to live with either.”
A faint smile touched his mouth. “No. But you’re mine now. That makes it worth it.”
“Yours.” She tested the word. “Is that what I am? A possession?”
“Would you prefer pretty lies? Murmurs of devotion and eternal love?”
“I’d prefer honesty.”
“Then here’s honesty.” He turned toward her, resting a hand lightly on her knee. “I wanted you from the moment you refused to look away at the opera. Every day since has been torment—wanting what I could not have. Now you’re my wife. Mine to touch, to taste, to learn until I understand every way you breathe. If that makes you a possession, then yes. You’re my most prized one.”
Heat coiled low in her stomach. “And what does this prized possession do with herself?”
“Whatever she pleases.” His hand moved, slow and deliberate. “Run my estate, redecorate my house, scandalise the county with your merchant’s practicality. I don’t care, so long as you come back to me at night.”
“How romantic.”
“I told you, romance is a luxury neither of us can afford. But passion…” His hand tightened fractionally. “That, we have in excess.”
Even now, with fear threading through her anticipation, she wanted him—wanted to know the feel of his hands against bare skin, the taste of that scarred mouth on her throat.
“You’re thinking very loudly,” he murmured.
“Am I?”
