“I’m your family now,” she said softly.
Something flickered in his expression—an unguarded tenderness that disappeared almost as quickly as it came.
“Yes,” he said, voice rough. “You are.”
He kissed her again, slow and possessive, and she felt him harden against her thigh.
“Again?” she asked, startled and laughing a little.
“I’ve wanted you for so long,” he murmured, rolling her beneath him. “Once isn’t nearly enough.”
This time was different—slower, unhurried, a study rather than a conquest. He guided her hands, showed her where he liked to be touched, drew from her sighs she hadn’t known she could make. It was less about mastery, more about discovery.
By the time dawn lightened the sky, Marianne understood with aching clarity what she had gotten herself into.
She’d married a man who would demand everything from her—her trust, her surrender, her very self. And, impossibly, she wanted to give it all to him.
The question was whether either of them would survive it.
Chapter Seven
Marianne woke to cold sheets and bruised lips.
The space beside her bore only the faintest impression of Adrian’s body, the pillow barely dented. If not for the delicious ache between her thighs and the tender marks she could feel on her skin—proof of his claim—she might have thought she’d dreamed the entire night.
Pale morning light filtered through the curtains, revealing the quiet wreckage of the Duke’s chambers. Her chemise hung from a bedpost. His cravat lay abandoned near the hearth. The sheets were twisted into knots that spoke eloquently of what had kept them awake until dawn.
But the Duke himself? Gone.
She sat up, drawing the sheet around her, and tried to orient herself. This was her life now—waking in Adrian’s bed, though not with Adrian—as the Duchess of Harrowmere. The weight of it settled over her like a heavy mantle.
A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.
“Your Grace?” Sarah’s voice, tentative. “May I come in?”
“Yes, Sarah.”
Her maid entered, eyes carefully averted from the signs of chaos. “Shall I draw a bath, Your Grace?”
“Please.” Marianne winced as she shifted. “And perhaps... something for—”
“Mrs Brightley sent this.” Sarah held out a small jar of salve, cheeks pink. “She said you might have need of it. Newlyweds often do.”
“Thank you.” Marianne accepted it without comment. Best not to wonder how the housekeeper knew. “Where is His Grace?”
“In his study, I believe. He rides out early most mornings to inspect the estate, then works until luncheon.”
“I see.” So this was how it would be—nights of fire followed by days of absence. “And breakfast?”
“Served in the morning room at your convenience.”
Marianne allowed Sarah to help her bathe and dress, choosing a simple morning gown of pale blue muslin. Her body bore evidence of Adrian’s attention—a love bite on her shoulder, finger marks on her hips, whisker burn on her throat. Sarah said nothing, but Marianne caught her worried glances.
The morning room was bright and cheerful, overlooking gardens that stretched toward a distant lake. The sideboard groaned with enough food to feed a small army. But the table was set for one.
“Will His Grace not be joining me?” Marianne asked the footman.
“His Grace takes breakfast in his study,” he replied, expression neutral.
