And yet—
And yet something deep in her stirred at his words, something that answered the promise in them.
“You think me so biddable?” she managed.
“I think,” he said slowly, “that you have spent your life in battle—fighting for your place, for respect, for every inch of ground. And I think you are weary of it. I think, in the right hands, you might find freedom in surrender.”
“Surrender.” The word itself felt perilous.
“Complete surrender.” He set down his glass, leaning forward. “In this room, in our bed, you would be mine to command. Every touch, every kiss, every pleasure—all at my direction. Your wants subsumed to mine.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then we have a conventional marriage. Dutiful conjugal visits in the dark, minimal contact, separate lives.” His expression was neutral, but she saw the tension in his jaw. “The choice is yours.”
“Some choice,” she said bitterly. “Submit or be ignored.”
“No.” He was before her in an instant, kneeling by her chair, his hands braced on its arms. The sudden proximity stole her breath. “Never ignored. I could no more ignore you than stop breathing. But if I cannot have you as I need to—wholly, without restraint—I will keep my distance. It is the only way I know to protect us both.”
“Why?” The question was scarcely a whisper.
His scarred face was stark in the firelight. “Because for five years, I have lived by control—of word, of action, of thought. It was the only way to survive India, the whispers that followed my return, the eyes that never stopped watching. Control became my armour.” His voice roughened. “And you, my duchess, strip me of it with a single look. The only way I can surviveyouis if you give me that control willingly.”
“You’re absurd.”
“Undeniably.” His hand came up to cup her cheek. “But tell me you did not feel it—when I pressed you against that conservatory glass, when I had you trapped against the garden wall. Tell me you didn’t feel that delicious surrender, that freedom in letting someone else take charge.”
She could not lie. In those moments of stolen breath and reckless touch, she had felt something inside her loosen, release.
“I don’t know how,” she confessed softly. “To surrender.”
“I’ll teach you,” he said; the promise in his voice made her shiver. “Slowly. Carefully. We’ll discover your limits together.”
“And if I wish to stop?”
“Then we stop. Always. A single word from you, and everything ceases.” His hand slid to her throat, resting lightly against her pulse. “But I don’t think you’ll want to stop. I think you’ll crave it as much as I do.”
“You sound very sure of yourself.”
“I’m sure of this.” His fingers pressed slightly against her racing pulse. “Your body doesn’t lie, Marianne. It knows what it wants even if your mind rebels.”
She sat there, caught in his dark gaze, his hand warm against her throat, and felt herself standing at a precipice. One step, and everything would change. One word, and she’d be his in ways she’d never imagined.
“Yes.”
The word hung between them, small but monumental.
His control visibly fractured. “Say it again.”
“Yes, Adrian. Yes to your preferences, your control, your—”
His mouth crashed into hers, cutting off her words. This kiss was different from their others—deeper, more demanding, his tongue claiming her mouth with devastating thoroughness. His hand tightened on her throat, not enough to restrict, but enough to make his point.
He was in charge now.
When he pulled back, they were both breathing hard.
“Stand up,” he commanded, his voice rough.
