“I doubt that.”
“The merchant’s daughter who snared the Beast? They’re terrified.”
He led her inside, where an elderly woman in black curtsied deeply. “Your Grace, may I present the household staff?”
What followed was a blur of names and faces—butler, housekeeper, cook, footmen, maids, grooms. Marianne tried to memorise them all but knew she’d fail. They all stared at her with varying degrees of curiosity and scepticism.
“This is Her Grace, the Duchess of Harrowmere,” Adrian announced, his voice carrying easily through the vast hall. “You will serve her as you serve me. Any disrespect to her will be regarded as disrespect to me. I trust I make myself clear?”
A chorus of “Yes, Your Grace” echoed through the space.
“Excellent. Mrs Brightley, please show Her Grace to her chambers.”
“Mychambers?” Marianne repeated. “Not ours?”
Something flickered in his eyes. “You’ll have your own suite, as is proper. Adjoining mine, of course.”
Of course. Proper. Civilised. Safe.
Yet disappointment pricked unexpectedly.
Mrs Brightley led her through corridors lined with portraits and armour, until they reached a suite of pale-blue rooms that took Marianne’s breath away.
“His Grace had these prepared specially,” Mrs Brightley said, a note of surprise in her tone. “New furnishings, new draperies—he said the old ones would not suit.”
The rooms were exquisite: soft blue and cream, elegant yet warm. The bed was vast, its carved posts twined with flowers and vines. From the tall windows, she could see gardens unfurling toward the distant woods.
“It’s beautiful,” Marianne said sincerely.
“Your lady’s maid arrived this morning with your trunks. Shall I send her up?”
“Please. And—Mrs Brightley, when is dinner?”
“Seven o’clock, Your Grace. His Grace keeps country hours.”
Seven o’clock. Only a few hours to prepare herself—for dinner, for conversation, for what would come after. For a wedding night with a man who promised passion but not love, possession but not devotion.
Sarah arrived soon after, breathless with news of the house and its grandeur. Marianne let the chatter wash over her as she exchanged the blue silk for a simpler gown.
“Will you rest, Your Grace?”
“I think I’ll explore a little.”
“Shall I accompany you?”
“No, I’ll be fine alone.”
But alone was the last thing she was. Every corridor she turned down seemed to have a servant who bowed or curtseyed, watching her with curious eyes. She found a library that rivalled any she’d seen, a music room with a magnificent pianoforte, a conservatory that put her parents’ to shame.
And in every room, she felt him. Adrian’s presence permeated the house like smoke, even when he was nowhere to be seen. This was his domain, his kingdom, and she was the invader he’d invited in.
She found herself in a long gallery lined with portraits. Generations of Blackwells stared down at her, all with those same dark eyes, that same proud bearing. At the very end hung a more recent painting—a family group. A stern man, a beautiful woman, and two children. The boy, perhaps twelve, unsmilingbut unscarred, could only be Adrian. The girl beside him must be Catherine, all golden curls and sweet smiles.
“My father had that painted the year before he died.”
She did not start; somehow, she had felt him approach.
“You looked solemn even then,” she said.
