Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Olivia
Olivia paced the length of her bedchamber.
The previous night’s events played through her mind on endless repeat.
Mental images of kneeling before Victor, exposing herself, finding pleasure under his watchful gaze.
Her body still hummed with the memory, a persistent ache that had followed her into restless dreams.
“Will you be wanting the blue gown today, Your Grace?” Martha asked, pulling Olivia from her thoughts.
Your Grace. The title still felt foreign, ill-fitting. She had been Lady Olivia for four-and-twenty years. Now, after a hasty ceremony and an even more unorthodox, unexpected wedding night, she was a duchess.
“The green, I think,” Olivia replied, running her fingers over the emerald silk, “and the matching hair ribbons.”
As Martha helped her dress, Olivia contemplated her husband.
Victor Blackwood remained an enigma—commanding yet restrained, demanding obedience while offering praise that made her insides flutter.
Last night he had watched her while she touched herself, maintaining his composure while she fell apart under his gaze. Then the way he made her his . . .
“You seem distracted this morning, Your Grace,” Martha observed as she fastened the last button.
“Am I?” Olivia’s fingers fidgeted with the emerald pendant at her throat. “It’s nothing. Just . . . adjusting to my new situation.”
Martha’s expression held genuine concern. “The duke seems a fair sight better than who your father could have settled on. Stern, to be sure, but not cruel.”
Olivia thought of Victor’s eyes, storm-gray and intense, watching her every reaction. There had been desire there, certainly, but also a hint of emotion beneath it. It was more akin to tenderness when he’d called her “little one.” Or perhaps she imagined it there.
The endearment had stirred a longing deep within her.
Coming from another man, it might have seemed condescending, but from Victor—a man nearly twenty years her senior, with his commanding presence and battle scars—it felt like comfort, safety .
. . home. Like he didn’t see her as someone to exploit, but as the most precious woman in the world.
“He’s certainly not what I expected,” she admitted.
After Martha departed, Olivia explored her new home.
Ravenswood House was a grand London townhouse, elegantly appointed but lacking personal touches.
The furniture was arranged just so, not a cushion out of place.
The staff moved with quiet efficiency, treating her with deference while maintaining a careful distance.
She paused before a closed door on the second floor, curiosity overwhelming her caution. Victor had not explicitly forbidden her from exploring. Taking a breath, she turned the handle and stepped inside.
A study, clearly Victor’s private domain. Military maps adorned one wall, a large desk dominated the center of the room, and bookshelves lined the remaining walls. Everything was meticulously organized, not a paper out of place.
Olivia’s gaze fell on a familiar object displayed on the wall, and her lungs constricted.
The painting. Her painting. Victor had claimed it during the marriage negotiations, but she had never even suspected he would hang it in their home.
A wave of self-consciousness swept through her as she approached it, confronting her own naked form captured in oils.
“I don’t recall giving you permission to enter my study.”
Victor’s voice, low and controlled, startled her. She whirled around to find him standing in the doorway, his expression unreadable.
“I was exploring my new home,” she replied, lifting her chin. “Am I to be a prisoner here, confined only to approved areas?”
Something like amusement flickered in his eyes. “Not a prisoner, no. But there are rules, Olivia.”
He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The click of the latch echoed in the quiet room.
“Does my painting interest you?” he asked, moving to stand beside her.
“I wondered why you kept it,” she admitted. “As a reminder of my shame? A tool to keep me in line?”
Victor’s expression softened slightly. “No, Olivia. I keep it because it captures an essential truth about you. Strength wrapped in a vulnerability that requires proper care. It’s . . . beautiful.”
The compliment caught her off guard. She had expected coldness, perhaps even mockery, but not this quiet appreciation.
“What exactly do these ‘rules’ entail?” she asked, desperate to know what was in store for them.
Victor gestured toward the desk, pulling out a chair for her before taking his own seat. The mundane formality of the arrangement, much like a business meeting, stood in stark contrast to the intimate nature of their discussion.
“First,” he began, “there will be absolute honesty between us. No lies, no omissions. I will always be truthful with you, and I expect the same in return.”
Olivia nodded. That seemed reasonable enough.
“Second, in private, you will obey my commands without hesitation. This extends to all aspects of our intimate life together. You will sleep in my chamber each night so that I may take my pleasure with you whenever I wish.”
The muscles in her belly clenched involuntarily, heat blooming between her thighs at his directness. “And in public?”
“In public, you are the Duchess of Ravenswood. You will comport yourself with dignity and grace. I have no desire to control your social engagements or your friendships, provided they don’t bring scandal upon our house.”
Another reasonable provision, though Olivia wondered what friends remained to her after her disgrace.
“Third,” Victor continued, “you will accept correction should you break these rules or any others I may set. The form of that correction will depend on the offense, but it will always be administered in private and never in anger.”
“Correction,” she repeated, the word heavy with meaning. “You mean physical punishment?”
“Among other methods, yes.” His gaze remained steady. “Sometimes a physical reminder is the most effective. I assure you, I take no pleasure in causing pain for its own sake.”
Olivia’s tongue darted out to moisten her suddenly dry lips as she struggled to reconcile this calm, rational discussion with the heated implications behind his words. “And what would earn such . . . correction?”
“Dishonesty. Willful disobedience. Public behavior that reflects poorly on either of us.” Victor leaned forward slightly. “I don’t expect perfection, Olivia. Merely a sincere effort and acceptance of consequences when you fall short.”
She considered his words, surprised by the fairness underlying his demands. He wasn’t asking for blind submission to arbitrary whims.
“Fourth,” he added, his voice dropping lower, “you will remain faithful to me, as I will to you. You belong entirely to me now, Olivia. Your body, your pleasure, your submission—all mine. I do not share what is mine.”
The possessive declaration sent liquid heat coursing through her veins. After her artist lover’s betrayal, the promise of fidelity, even couched in terms of ownership, offered a strange comfort.
“And what do I receive in this arrangement?” she pressed. “Besides your promised protection and pleasure?”
Approval flickered in Victor’s eyes. “I have already given you my name and protection, Olivia. But if there is more you seek, you receive my undivided attention and dedication to your satisfaction. You receive the freedom to surrender control in private, while being a leading lady in our society as a duchess.”
He paused, studying her. “And you receive the knowledge that, no matter what society whispers about your past, here with me you are valued precisely as you are. Mine.”
The words struck an unexpected chord within her. All her life, Olivia had chafed against societal constraints, always feeling judged and found wanting. The prospect of being truly accepted, even behind closed doors, was more seductive than she cared to admit.
“I agree to your rules, Victor,” she said, the words emerging steadily despite the rapid beat of her heart.
Surrendering control to someone stronger felt like relief rather than restriction.
After years of choices that led to scandal and disappointment, the prospect of having decisions made by someone who truly seemed to care for her welfare was unexpectedly comforting.
“I will be honest, obedient in private, dignified in public, and accepting of corrections when necessary.”
Victor rose from his chair, circling the desk until he stood before her. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted her chin with one finger.
“Good girl,” he murmured, the praise sending an unexpected wave of warmth through her body. “Very well.”
She turned to leave, but his voice stopped her.
“We have guests joining us for supper tonight,” he said casually. “Lord and Lady Atherton. Atherton served with me in Spain.”
The abrupt shift from their intimate pact to mundane social obligations left Olivia momentarily disoriented. “I’ll prepare accordingly,” she managed.
“Wear the blue silk that will arrive from the modiste today,” Victor instructed, moving toward the door. “It complements your eyes.”
With that, she retreated. She should be upset that she was allowing the man to select her gown. He’d even ordered it for her without her knowledge. But a part of her adored the attention. Attention she’d never had in a household with so many siblings.
Olivia spent the afternoon in a constant state of anticipation, her mind constantly returning to what the night would hold. Her first dinner guests as duchess, and another night with her husband.
The hours seemed to crawl by until finally, it was time to prepare for dinner. Martha helped her into the blue silk gown Victor had specified, arranging her hair with pearl pins.
“You look beautiful, Your Grace,” Martha said, stepping back to admire her work.