Chapter 2
Chapter Two
After the wedding
Victor
Victor Blackwood, Duke of Ravenswood, drained the contents of his snifter as he stood before the fireplace in his bedchamber.
The old scar tissue on his left thigh throbbed, a memento from a French cavalry saber at Salamanca that had nearly severed the muscle to the bone.
The nightmares of the event had come again last night.
It was always the memory of his close friend, Jenkins, calling his name as blood bubbled from his lips.
The acrid smoke of cannon fire stinging Victor’s eyes while the mud of Spain turned rust-colored beneath his boots.
Victor flexed his scarred hands, fighting the familiar tightness of healed wounds, and pushed the memories down where they belonged.
Control had become his anchor after the chaos of war.
The ability to command his environment, to protect what mattered, to never again watch helplessly as those under his care suffered.
The thought of guiding someone as spirited yet vulnerable as Olivia stirred the same protective instincts that had kept his men alive in Spain.
After all the loss he’d suffered, he wasn’t capable of love as other men might understand it, if love even existed.
His mother had died when he was young. His father had been the epitome of a cold, unfeeling duke.
And while he had been close with his older brother, their relationship fractured when their father focused solely on his brother, the heir, leaving Victor to accept his future as an officer in the military.
He had certainly never loved the women he’d acquainted himself with. While those were always pleasurable transactions, they were merely well-orchestrated scenes that had an end. And then he’d move on to another.
He refilled his glass and continued staring into the fire, pondering what awaited him and his new bride. He wouldn’t love her either. Protect her, yes. Fulfill his every fantasy and desire, yes. But never love.
It was almost laughable how her family had made the event out to be a celebration, as if the whole of society wasn’t aware of how such situations were handled. Wed the woman to a titled peer and hope to bury the scandal.
Victor had seen the painting when it hung at The Crimson Queen.
He couldn’t remove his eyes from it. It didn’t matter that he was almost twenty years older than its subject.
The woman depicted had entranced Victor.
Her vulnerability mixed with defiance spoke to him.
Once he learned who the model had been, he had to have her.
It was impulsive, he could admit. But he had to marry eventually to produce an heir.
So why not to the one who’d awakened every protective and possessive instinct and fantasy he possessed?
She needed guidance. Structure. A firm hand and safe boundaries to explore her sensual nature. And he was just the man to give it to her.
His time in America for a military mission had exposed him to many things the sheltered aristocracy of England would only whisper about.
During a particularly brutal winter encampment, he had been billeted in a frontier town’s only boarding house, which doubled as a brothel. There, he had witnessed an unusual dynamic between some of the women and their regular clients.
“You’re such a good girl for Daddy,” one patron had ground out to a young woman of the night, his voice carrying through the thin walls as Victor attempted to sleep.
Victor’s cock stiffened at the memory. He had heard the term used by girls in America to refer to their fathers, which only made him question why the dynamic stirred such a reaction in him.
Although initially repulsed with himself, he couldn’t fight the curiosity.
Victor had later observed the same woman and solicited her services for the evening.
She explained that it was normal for men to crave to be a woman’s protector and disciplinarian, while it was also normal for women to crave the praise and affection that came from having a protector.
Victor played this out with various doxies in his years of military service, and while temporarily satisfying, it hadn’t been everything he’d wanted. It was just a fleeting moment with women paid to do whatever he told them to. It wasn’t true control.
But this would be different. When he saw that painting of his new bride, he imagined what it would be like to be her Daddy. To be the one who shaped her into a proper duchess in the eyes of society, and his good girl in private.
And she desperately needed exactly what he could provide.
Besides, the whole of society had pressed him relentlessly since he had become a duke. His unexpected inheritance of the dukedom had brought not just title and lands, but continued correspondence with former military colleagues now scattered throughout the government and diplomatic services.
Worse, matchmaking mamas had paraded their insipid daughters before him. With all practiced smiles and calculated innocence, he had found them insufferable.
But then there was Olivia. With her scandal and her sharp tongue, she was different.
The moment he’d seen that painting, noticed the defiance in her eyes even as she displayed herself so vulnerably, he had known.
She was someone who needed discipline, someone whose spirit required not crushing but channeling.
She would submit to his protection and guidance, and he’d care for her completely, bending her to his will while nurturing her true self.
He had always needed to be in control, even in his youth. The chaos of battle had only reinforced that need. To defend the most beautiful, enticing woman he’d ever seen—that would ease the darkness that haunted him.
He smiled as he pressed the cool glass to his lips. The scandalous painting now hung in his personal study, where he could study it daily. Just like the painting, Lady Olivia Ashford, now the Duchess of Ravenswood, the woman who bore his name and would carry his children, was his.
And it was time to see just how his new duchess would respond to the first tests of his guidance and control.
Victor drained the contents of his glass, swallowing the burn as he set it aside, then crossed the room. He opened the connecting door without knocking.
His beautiful wife was seated at the vanity when he entered her chamber—one she would dress in, but never sleep in—brushing her honey-brown hair.
She wore a silk nightdress that revealed the graceful line of her neck and shoulders.
In the mirror, her hazel eyes met his, wary, calculating, and unmistakably nervous.
“Stand,” he commanded, his voice quiet but firm.
She hesitated only a moment before setting down the brush and rising to her feet. At her full height, she came only to his chin.
“Your Grace,” she said, a slight challenge in her tone when she looked up at him.
“When we engage in casual conversation, you may address me by my given name,” he instructed, keeping his voice even but firm. “But when we engage in . . . certain activities, ‘Your Grace’ will remain appropriate. Do you understand?”
He desperately wanted her to refer to him and see him as her Daddy. He’d introduce the notion soon, but she wasn’t quite ready for that.
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Yes . . . Victor.”
Victor crossed the room in measured strides, circling her as he assessed her breathing, her posture, the slight tremble in her hands.
Her scent, a sweet lavender, filled his senses.
He observed the way her pulse quickened at the base of her throat, the subtle rise and fall of her breath.
She was cautious but not cowering. Olivia’s stance—back straight, chin lifted—pleased him.
It would be all the more satisfying when she chose to yield to him.
“Are you afraid of me?” he asked, stopping directly before her.
Olivia met his gaze unflinchingly. “I am not afraid of any man.”
Brave, but untrue, he thought, admiring her spirit even as he recognized the lie. His hand shot out, gripping her chin firmly but not painfully. “Now listen carefully, little one.”
He released her, noting the slight flush that had risen to her cheeks at his touch.
She held his gaze, neither looking away nor backing down. He liked that.
“Our marriage will be one of order and protection,” he said, low and steady. “You will belong to me completely. And you shall follow my guidance without question. If you disobey, you’ll accept correction. Every part of you belongs to me. Your pleasure is mine to provide, when you have earned it.”
Olivia’s breath quickened, her pupils dilating slightly. Her lips parted in surprise, but she said nothing.
Victor moved closer, invading her space. “I think some part of you needs this, wants stability, as well as protection and structure, wants the depravity that I will introduce you to.”
“And if I refuse?” Her breath had quickened beneath his touch.
Victor’s hand slid to the nape of her neck, fingers tangling in her hair, not pulling, merely asserting control. “Do you intend to refuse?” His voice dropped lower. “Make no mistake, Olivia. I can be quite persuasive to get what I want.”
For a moment, conflict warred in her expression, pride battling against a deeper emotion. “I don’t refuse.”
Victor nodded once, pleased by her decision. He’d known she would make the right choice. Sweeping her into his arms as if she weighed nothing, he carried her to the doorway and into the chamber she would share with him each night.