“That was before I knew you meant to exile me in a Gothic monument to architectural vanity.”
“My Gothic monument,” he corrected softly. “Ours, now.”
The possessive weight of that single word sent a strange tremor through her. Hours into marriage, and already the space between them was charged with something perilous and thrilling.
“You’re trembling,” he observed.
“It’s cold.”
“Liar.” His smile deepened. “The fire’s blazing, and you’re flushed to your collarbones.”
“You’re enjoying this—my unease.”
“Immensely,” he admitted, setting down his glass. “But not for the reasons you think.”
“Then by all means, enlighten me.”
“Because your unease tells me you understand what’s coming. You are no naïve girl imagining a dutiful night of wedded propriety. You know there’s more—and you want more. That frightens you as much as it tempts you.”
Her cheeks warmed. “You presume too much.”
“I observe,” he countered, moving closer. His hand hovered, tracing the air near her skin. “The way your pulse flutters here—” his finger hovered over her throat “—when I’m near. The way your breath catches when I say certain things. The way you lean toward me, even when your mind tells you to run.”
“I don’t run.”
“No,” he agreed, finally making contact, his fingers ghosting along her jaw. “You don’t. Which brings us to an important matter.”
“What matter?”
“The nature of our marriage.” He stepped back then, the loss of his nearness leaving her unsteady. “Wine?”
“I— yes.”
He poured from a decanter, the burgundy liquid glowing like liquid garnets. When he handed her the glass, their fingers brushed, and she felt the contact in places that had nothing to do with her hand.
“Sit,” he said, gesturing to the chairs by the fire. “Please.”
She sat, grateful for the support, her legs suddenly unsteady. He took the chair across from her, his long form elegant even in repose. For a moment, they simply looked at each other, the fire crackling between them.
“I should tell you,” he began, his voice careful, controlled, “that I have... particular preferences in the bedchamber.”
Marianne nearly choked on her wine. “Preferences?”
“Inclinations. Tastes.” He studied her over his glass. “I find the conventional approach to marital relations tedious.”
“And what, precisely, is unconventional about your approach?”
He was quiet for a moment, seeming to choose his words. “I prefer to be in complete control.”
“How shocking,” she said dryly. “The Duke of Harrowmere likes control. Next, you’ll tell me water is wet.”
His low laugh stirred the air between them. “You mock, but you mistake me. I do not merelyenjoycontrol, Marianne—Irequireit. In all things, but most particularly in matters of... intimacy.”
She took another sip of wine, buying time to process. “You mean you wish to... direct things?”
“I mean,” he said softly, his gaze never wavering from hers, “that I would command—and that you would obey. Freely. Entirely. With pleasure.”
The words should have appalled her. She was Marianne Whitcombe—no, Blackwell now—who’d never obeyed anyone eagerly in her life. Who’d built her identity on defiance, on matching wits and wills with anyone who tried to control her.
