When she entered his chambers that night, he was waiting—predatory and composed, as if he’d been standing there for hours.
“New rule,” he said without preamble. “What happens between us here does not govern what happens in daylight. They’re separate worlds.”
“That’s not—”
“It’s what I can offer.” He advanced slowly, each step deliberate. “Take it or leave it.”
She should leave it. Should demand more—his heart, his honesty, the impossible. Instead, she heard herself say softly, “I’ll take it. For now.”
His smile was dark and triumphant. “Good. Then come here and allow me to apologise properly for this morning.”
His apology was wordless, thorough. He took his time, using his hands and mouth to coax her into yielding once more, until she could no longer tell where restraint ended and forgiveness began. When he finally joined with her, it was slow, deliberate, his breath rough against her ear, his voice a low murmur of promises she could barely comprehend.
Afterwards, they lay tangled together, her cheek resting against his shoulder, the steady beat of his heart beneath her palm. Somewhere in the drifting haze between wakefulness and sleep, she thought she heard him whisper something—one soft syllable against her hair.
It might have been mine.
Or perhaps mind.
She didn’t ask which. She only closed her eyes and held the word close, like a secret. Like hope.
Chapter Eight
Three days into their marriage, the invitation arrived.
“Lady Ashworth is hosting an assembly,” Adrian announced over breakfast—a meal they now shared, though he spent most of it behind a fortress of correspondence. “Our attendance is expected.”
“Expected?” Marianne set down her teacup with care. “We’ve been married less than a week.”
“Exactly why we must go. Our absence would breed more gossip than our presence.” He didn’t look up from his letter. “We’ll show them the scandal has been properly contained.”
“How romantic,” she murmured. “‘Properly contained.’ You should write poetry.”
His lips quirked slightly. “Saturday evening. The modiste will arrive tomorrow for your fitting.”
“I have gowns.”
“You have gowns suitable for a merchant’s daughter.” Now he did look up, and the slow sweep of his gaze over her morning dress made her pulse quicken. “You’re a duchess now. You’ll dress as one.”
“And if I prefer my current wardrobe?”
“Then you may wear it—after indulging me with at least one gown that shows the ton precisely who you are.”
“And who is that, exactly?”
His eyes darkened. “Mine.”
The possessive note in his voice shouldn’t have thrilled her. Yet it did. Their nights had been incendiary since that first evening—Adrian teaching her pleasures she hadn’t imagined, always pushing her boundaries but never her consent. Their days remained carefully divided, yet she was slowly learning to navigate the peculiar rhythms of their marriage.
“Very well,” she said lightly. “One gown.”
The following day, the modiste arrived with an army of assistants and enough silk and lace to clothe half of Mayfair. Adrian, to the poor woman’s visible astonishment, insisted on attending the consultation.
“The sapphire silk,” he said at once, dismissing three other bolts without hesitation. “With the black lace overlay.”
“Your Grace has excellent taste,” the modiste simpered. “Perhaps a modest neckline—”
“No.” Adrian’s gaze caught Marianne’s reflection in the mirror. “The neckline should make a statement.”
