“Is that a command?” She turned slowly, anger rising. “Shall I obey as promptly as I did last night? Or does your authority end with the dawn?”
His jaw flexed. “Last night was last night. Today—”
“Today you’re the Duke again, and I’m a distraction.” She stepped closer, close enough to smell his sandalwood cologne, to see the muscle ticking in his jaw. “Tell me, Adrian, when youtouched me—when you were marking me with your mouth—was that merely part of the arrangement too?”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what? Don’t expect my husband to acknowledge me in daylight?”
“I gave you all I could give.”
“You gave me a night,” she countered. “I’m asking for days too.”
“That’s not—” He stopped, running a hand through his hair, disturbing its perfect order. “This is how it must be.”
“Why?”
“Because if I don’t maintain distance—if I let you in completely…” He turned away. “I told you I wasn’t a good man, Marianne. Last night should have proved that.”
“Last night proved you’re a man who knows what he wants—and how to give pleasure. That’s hardly a crime.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Then make me understand!” Her voice rose despite herself. “Explain why you can claim me so completely in the dark, but can’t bear to look at me in the light.”
He turned sharply, crowding her back against the desk. “Because in the dark, I can pretend.”
“Pretend what?”
“That this is real. That you wanted me for myself, not for the title that saves you. That when you look at me, you don’t see a scarred beast who bought you with his name.”
The raw honesty of it stole her breath. “Adrian—”
“Go.” His voice was harsh, the mask dropping back into place. “Explore the house. Reorganise the staff. Repaint every wall if it amuses you. But leave me to my work.”
“You’re a coward,” she said quietly.
His eyes flashed, dangerous and dark. “Careful.”
“Or what?” she asked, stepping closer. “You’ll remind me who commands whom?” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “At least then you’d be honest about what you want.”
For a moment, she thought he might. His hands flexed; every muscle in his body was drawn taut. Then he turned away, as if fighting himself.
“Get out,” he said hoarsely.
She left, her head high, her heart in pieces.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of exploration and mounting frustration. The house was magnificent but cold, more museum than home. The servants were polite but distant, uncertain how to treat a merchant-born duchess. Mrs Brightleydutifully showed her the accounts, the menus, the household schedules—but it all felt hollow, like playing at domesticity.
She found the music room by accident, tucked away in the south wing like a forgotten secret. Dust motes drifted through slanting sunlight, and a pianoforte sat beneath a holland cover like a sleeping beast. When she lifted the cloth, she caught her breath.
It was a Broadwood grand, its polished wood still gleaming despite neglect. She sat, fingers brushing the keys. The tuning was imperfect but serviceable.
She began to play—first a simple air her mother had taught her, then another, until the melodies wove one into the next. The sound filled the room, fragile but alive, chasing the stillness from the corners. She lost herself in it, in the rhythm and release.
“You didn’t mention you played.”
She didn’t startle. Somehow, she’d sensed him there, watching from the doorway.
