Chapter Five #2
“Whatever she pleases.” His hand moved, slow and deliberate. “Run my estate, redecorate my house, scandalise the county with your merchant’s practicality. I don’t care, so long as you come back to me at night.”
“How romantic.”
“I told you, romance is a luxury neither of us can afford. But passion…” His hand tightened fractionally. “That, we have in excess.”
Even now, with fear threading through her anticipation, she wanted him—wanted to know the feel of his hands against bare skin, the taste of that scarred mouth on her throat.
“You’re thinking very loudly,” he murmured.
“Am I?”
“Mmm. Your breathing changes when you think about certain things.”
“What things?”
He leaned close, his lips grazing her ear. “Tonight.”
The word sent a tremor through her. Their wedding night. When words would become deeds.
“Nervous?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Good. So am I.”
That startled a laugh out of her. “You? I thought you’d—well, surely you’ve—”
“Had women? Yes. Had a wife? Never.” His thumb traced slow circles through the fabric of her gown. “This is uncharted ground for us both.”
Silence fell between them, companionable but taut.
The clatter of wheels softened as the city gave way to the hush of open country.
Marianne studied him—the long, relaxed sprawl of his body across the carriage seat, the strong lines of his hands, the faint callus of a marksman’s finger, the scar that no longer seemed harsh in the morning light.
He had leaned back with his head resting against the cushions, eyes closed, as though utterly at ease—or pretending to be.
He smelled faintly of sandalwood and clean linen, an intoxicating combination she was already coming to crave.
“Stop looking at me like that,” he said without opening his eyes.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re trying to solve a puzzle.”
“Aren’t you something of a puzzle?”
“No,” he said, opening his eyes at last. “I’m exactly what I appear to be—a scarred duke with too much money and too little peace, who wanted something beautiful for himself.” His gaze lingered on her. “And now I have it.”
“I’m not a thing, Adrian.”
“No,” he agreed softly. “You’re far more dangerous. Things can be controlled. You, I suspect, will be my beautiful disaster.”
“Or you’ll be mine.”
He smiled then—an unguarded, fleeting smile that transformed his face. “Perhaps we’ll destroy each other. What a magnificent end that would be.”
The carriage slowed before massive iron gates bearing the Harrowmere crest. Beyond them stretched a long drive lined with oaks, their bare branches clawing at the pale sky.
“Welcome home,” Adrian said as they passed through. “I hope you like isolation. The nearest neighbour is five miles distant.”
“Trying to frighten me again?”
“Trying to prepare you. Harrowmere is… intense. Beautiful, but lonely. ”
“Rather like its master, then.”
For a heartbeat, something flickered across his face—surprise, perhaps even embarrassment. Then he looked away, a faint, rueful smile curving his mouth.
The house came into view, and her breath caught. It rose out of the mist like something half-remembered from a Gothic tale—dark stone, high gables, pointed arches.
“Sweet mercy.”
“Excessive, isn’t it? My grandfather believed himself descended from kings. Wait until you see the inside.”
The carriage drew up to the steps. The doors swung open, revealing a phalanx of servants assembled in rigid rows.
Adrian descended first, then turned to help her down, his hand warm at the small of her back. “Courage,” he murmured. “They’re more afraid of you than you are of them.”
“I doubt that.”
“The merchant’s daughter who snared the Beast? They’re terrified.”
He led her inside, where an elderly woman in black curtsied deeply. “Your Grace, may I present the household staff?”
What followed was a blur of names and faces—butler, housekeeper, cook, footmen, maids, grooms. Marianne tried to memorise them all but knew she’d fail. They all stared at her with varying degrees of curiosity and scepticism.
“This is Her Grace, the Duchess of Harrowmere,” Adrian announced, his voice carrying easily through the vast hall. “You will serve her as you serve me. Any disrespect to her will be regarded as disrespect to me. I trust I make myself clear?”
A chorus of “Yes, Your Grace” echoed through the space.
“Excellent. Mrs Brightley, please show Her Grace to her chambers.”
“My chambers?” Marianne repeated. “Not ours?”
Something flickered in his eyes. “You’ll have your own suite, as is proper. Adjoining mine, of course.”
Of course. Proper. Civilised. Safe.
Yet disappointment pricked unexpectedly.
Mrs Brightley led her through corridors lined with portraits and armour, until they reached a suite of pale-blue rooms that took Marianne’s breath away.
“His Grace had these prepared specially,” Mrs Brightley said, a note of surprise in her tone. “New furnishings, new draperies—he said the old ones would not suit.”
The rooms were exquisite: soft blue and cream, elegant yet warm. The bed was vast, its carved posts twined with flowers and vines. From the tall windows, she could see gardens unfurling toward the distant woods.
“It’s beautiful,” Marianne said sincerely.
“Your lady’s maid arrived this morning with your trunks. Shall I send her up?”
“Please. And—Mrs Brightley, when is dinner?”
“Seven o’clock, Your Grace. His Grace keeps country hours.”
Seven o’clock. Only a few hours to prepare herself—for dinner, for conversation, for what would come after. For a wedding night with a man who promised passion but not love, possession but not devotion.
Sarah arrived soon after, breathless with news of the house and its grandeur. Marianne let the chatter wash over her as she exchanged the blue silk for a simpler gown.
“Will you rest, Your Grace?”
“I think I’ll explore a little.”
“Shall I accompany you?”
“No, I’ll be fine alone.”
But alone was the last thing she was. Every corridor she turned down seemed to have a servant who bowed or curtseyed, watching her with curious eyes. She found a library that rivalled any she’d seen, a music room with a magnificent pianoforte, a conservatory that put her parents’ to shame.
And in every room, she felt him. Adrian’s presence permeated the house like smoke, even when he was nowhere to be seen. This was his domain, his kingdom, and she was the invader he’d invited in.
She found herself in a long gallery lined with portraits.
Generations of Blackwells stared down at her, all with those same dark eyes, that same proud bearing.
At the very end hung a more recent painting—a family group.
A stern man, a beautiful woman, and two children.
The boy, perhaps twelve, unsmiling but unscarred, could only be Adrian.
The girl beside him must be Catherine, all golden curls and sweet smiles.
“My father had that painted the year before he died.”
She did not start; somehow, she had felt him approach.
“You looked solemn even then,” she said.
“I was told I was born so,” he replied, coming to stand beside her. “Catherine was the light one. The laughing one.”
“Until the accident.”
His jaw tightened. “Yes.”
“Where is she now?”
“Rome, last I heard. Her letters are… dutiful. Empty.” He turned from the portrait. “Come. I want to show you something.”
He led her through another corridor to a quieter wing. He opened a door to reveal a comfortable sitting room—a man’s retreat of books, scattered papers, and a neglected glass of brandy.
“My private rooms,” he said. “The staff does not enter without leave.”
“Why bring me here?”
“Because you’re my wife. You have a right to every room under this roof.”
Her gaze met his. “Do I have a right to you?”
The silence was sharp.
“You have the right to everything I can give,” he said at last. “Whether that will suffice—”
“It’s more than I expected.”
He gave a low, humourless laugh. “Expectation is a dangerous thing, Duchess. But yes—everything changed the moment we wed.”
He moved closer, backing her against the wall with familiar ease. “Now you’re bound to me, as I am to you.”
“And that changes things?”
“It changes everything.” His hand came up to trace her jaw. “This morning, you might have walked away. Now you’re here—with me—for better or worse.”
“You make it sound like imprisonment.”
“Perhaps it is.” His thumb grazed her lower lip. “A gilded cage—with a beast for its keeper.”
“You’re not a beast.”
“No? Then what am I?”
She considered, studying his scarred face, his dark eyes that held so many secrets. “You’re a man who’s forgotten how to be anything but alone.”
Something in his expression wavered—then broke. He caught her mouth with his, fierce and hungry, the restraint of days snapping like thread. She met him with equal heat, her hands curling in his coat as he pressed her back against the wall.
“Tonight,” he said against her lips. “After dinner. Your room—or mine?”
“Yours,” she gasped as his mouth moved to her throat. “If we’re doing this, I want to know who you really are.”
He pulled back, his eyes dark with promise. “Careful what you ask for.”
“I’m never careful. Haven’t you noticed?”
“Oh, I’ve noticed.” He stepped back, putting proper distance between them, though his eyes still burned. “Seven o’clock. Wear the green silk.”
“The one from the opera?”
“That one.” His smile was wicked. “I have fond memories of that dress.”
Then he was gone, leaving her breathless against the wall.
Seven o’clock—but a few hours.
A few hours until her wedding night. Until she discovered what it meant to belong to Adrian Blackwell, body and soul.
The thought terrified her.
It also thrilled her beyond measure.
She made her way back to her rooms, where Sarah had laid out several gowns for her consideration. The green silk from the opera lay among them—its low neckline a reminder of how this all started.
“That one,” she said, decision made.
As Sarah helped her bathe and dress, Marianne tried to calm her racing nerves. This was what she’d chosen. Not the hasty marriage or the scandal that prompted it, but him. Adrian. She’d chosen him that first night when she’d refused to look away.
Now she would live with that choice.
***
The dining room was intimate despite its size, candles creating pools of golden light. Adrian waited by the fireplace, devastating in evening black. His eyes tracked her entrance, darkening as he took in the green silk.
“Punctual,” he said. “I appreciate that in a wife.”
“I aim to please.”
He smiled faintly. “You aim to provoke.”
“Is it working?”
“Impressively.”
Dinner unfolded in an exquisite tension of glances and silences. Every time she raised her glass, his gaze followed the movement. Every time her tongue touched the wine, his breath seemed to catch. The footmen moved like shadows, wise enough to vanish quickly.
“Not hungry?” she asked as he pushed food around his plate.
“Ravenous,” he corrected. “Just not for food.”
Heat flooded her cheeks. “Adrian—”
“I like it when you say my name,” he murmured. “Say it again.”
“Adrian.”
“Again.”
“This is absurd,” she said, half laughing.
“Is it?” His gaze was molten. “Every glance, every word between us has been the overture, Marianne. The opera, the musicale, that damned conservatory—they were all merely the beginning. And now, finally, we get to the main event.”