Chapter Six
“Are you going to hover by that door all evening, or shall we attempt conversation like civilised people?”
Adrian’s voice carried across the chamber with dark amusement, though he hadn’t turned from the window, the firelight catching on the glass of brandy in his hand.
Marianne forced herself further into the room, her chin lifted in defiance she did not quite feel. “Civilised? That is rich, coming from the man who all but spirited me from London before the ink on our vows was dry.”
“I don’t recall you protesting.” He turned at last, and the look in his eyes made her breath falter. “In fact, I remember you saying yes with rather shocking conviction.”
“That was before I knew you meant to exile me in a Gothic monument to architectural vanity.”
“My Gothic monument,” he corrected softly. “Ours, now.”
The possessive weight of that single word sent a strange tremor through her. Hours into marriage, and already the space between them was charged with something perilous and thrilling.
“You’re trembling,” he observed.
“It’s cold.”
“Liar.” His smile deepened. “The fire’s blazing, and you’re flushed to your collarbones.”
“You’re enjoying this—my unease.”
“Immensely,” he admitted, setting down his glass. “But not for the reasons you think.”
“Then by all means, enlighten me.”
“Because your unease tells me you understand what’s coming. You are no na?ve girl imagining a dutiful night of wedded propriety. You know there’s more—and you want more. That frightens you as much as it tempts you.”
Her cheeks warmed. “You presume too much.”
“I observe,” he countered, moving closer.
His hand hovered, tracing the air near her skin.
“The way your pulse flutters here—” his finger hovered over her throat “—when I’m near.
The way your breath catches when I say certain things.
The way you lean toward me, even when your mind tells you to run. ”
“I don’t run.”
“No,” he agreed, finally making contact, his fingers ghosting along her jaw. “You don’t. Which brings us to an important matter.”
“What matter?”
“The nature of our marriage.” He stepped back then, the loss of his nearness leaving her unsteady. “Wine?”
“I— yes.”
He poured from a decanter, the burgundy liquid glowing like liquid garnets. When he handed her the glass, their fingers brushed, and she felt the contact in places that had nothing to do with her hand.
“Sit,” he said, gesturing to the chairs by the fire. “Please.”
She sat, grateful for the support, her legs suddenly unsteady. He took the chair across from her, his long form elegant even in repose. For a moment, they simply looked at each other, the fire crackling between them.
“I should tell you,” he began, his voice careful, controlled, “that I have... particular preferences in the bedchamber.”
Marianne nearly choked on her wine. “Preferences?”
“Inclinations. Tastes.” He studied her over his glass. “I find the conventional approach to marital relations tedious.”
“And what, precisely, is unconventional about your approach?”
He was quiet for a moment, seeming to choose his words. “I prefer to be in complete control.”
“How shocking,” she said dryly. “The Duke of Harrowmere likes control. Next, you’ll tell me water is wet.”
His low laugh stirred the air between them. “You mock, but you mistake me. I do not merely enjoy control, Marianne—I require it. In all things, but most particularly in matters of... intimacy.”
She took another sip of wine, buying time to process. “You mean you wish to... direct things?”
“I mean,” he said softly, his gaze never wavering from hers, “that I would command—and that you would obey. Freely. Entirely. With pleasure.”
The words should have appalled her. She was Marianne Whitcombe—no, Blackwell now—who’d never obeyed anyone eagerly in her life. Who’d built her identity on defiance, on matching wits and wills with anyone who tried to control her.
And yet—
And yet something deep in her stirred at his words, something that answered the promise in them.
“You think me so biddable?” she managed.
“I think,” he said slowly, “that you have spent your life in battle—fighting for your place, for respect, for every inch of ground. And I think you are weary of it. I think, in the right hands, you might find freedom in surrender.”
“Surrender.” The word itself felt perilous.
“Complete surrender.” He set down his glass, leaning forward. “In this room, in our bed, you would be mine to command. Every touch, every kiss, every pleasure—all at my direction. Your wants subsumed to mine.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then we have a conventional marriage. Dutiful conjugal visits in the dark, minimal contact, separate lives.” His expression was neutral, but she saw the tension in his jaw. “The choice is yours.”
“Some choice,” she said bitterly. “Submit or be ignored.”
“No.” He was before her in an instant, kneeling by her chair, his hands braced on its arms. The sudden proximity stole her breath.
“Never ignored. I could no more ignore you than stop breathing. But if I cannot have you as I need to—wholly, without restraint—I will keep my distance. It is the only way I know to protect us both.”
“Why?” The question was scarcely a whisper.
His scarred face was stark in the firelight.
“Because for five years, I have lived by control—of word, of action, of thought. It was the only way to survive India, the whispers that followed my return, the eyes that never stopped watching. Control became my armour.” His voice roughened.
“And you, my duchess, strip me of it with a single look. The only way I can survive you is if you give me that control willingly.”
“You’re absurd.”
“Undeniably.” His hand came up to cup her cheek. “But tell me you did not feel it—when I pressed you against that conservatory glass, when I had you trapped against the garden wall. Tell me you didn’t feel that delicious surrender, that freedom in letting someone else take charge.”
She could not lie. In those moments of stolen breath and reckless touch, she had felt something inside her loosen, release.
“I don’t know how,” she confessed softly. “To surrender.”
“I’ll teach you,” he said; the promise in his voice made her shiver. “Slowly. Carefully. We’ll discover your limits together.”
“And if I wish to stop?”
“Then we stop. Always. A single word from you, and everything ceases.” His hand slid to her throat, resting lightly against her pulse. “But I don’t think you’ll want to stop. I think you’ll crave it as much as I do.”
“You sound very sure of yourself.”
“I’m sure of this.” His fingers pressed slightly against her racing pulse. “Your body doesn’t lie, Marianne. It knows what it wants even if your mind rebels.”
She sat there, caught in his dark gaze, his hand warm against her throat, and felt herself standing at a precipice. One step, and everything would change. One word, and she’d be his in ways she’d never imagined.
“Yes.”
The word hung between them, small but monumental.
His control visibly fractured. “Say it again.”
“Yes, Adrian. Yes to your preferences, your control, your—”
His mouth crashed into hers, cutting off her words. This kiss was different from their others—deeper, more demanding, his tongue claiming her mouth with devastating thoroughness. His hand tightened on her throat, not enough to restrict, but enough to make his point.
He was in charge now.
When he pulled back, they were both breathing hard.
“Stand up,” he commanded, his voice rough.
She stood on shaking legs, the wine forgotten.
“Turn around.”
She turned, facing the fire, hyperaware of him behind her.
“I’m going to undress you now.” His breath was warm against her ear. “Slowly. And you’re going to let me. You’re not going to move unless I tell you to. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?” His fingers found the first button of her dress.
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“Better. But in here, in private, you’ll call me Adrian. Or husband. Or—” he smiled against her neck “—my lord, if you’re feeling particularly obedient.”
“That seems unlikely.”
“We’ll see.” He worked the buttons with maddening slowness, his knuckles brushing her spine with each one. “You’re trembling again.”
“Still cold.”
“Still lying.” He pushed the dress off her shoulders, letting it pool at her feet. “Step out.”
She stepped free of the silk, standing in her corset and chemise, acutely aware of her vulnerability.
“The first rule,” he said, his hands settling on her corseted waist, “is that you don’t hide from me. Not your body, not your reactions, not your desires.” His fingers found the corset laces. “If something pleases you, I want to know. If something frightens you, I need to know.”
“And if something angers me?”
“Especially then.” The corset loosened with each pull. “Your anger is magnificent. I have no wish to extinguish it, only to... channel it.”
The corset fell away, leaving her in only her thin chemise and stockings. She moved to cover herself instinctively, but his hands caught her wrists.
“What did I just say about not hiding?”
“It’s instinct—”
“Then we’ll create new instincts.” He turned her to face him, his eyes dark with desire as they travelled over her. “You’re exquisite.”
“I’m half-dressed and shaking like a leaf.”
“Exactly. Exquisite.” He traced a finger along the neckline of her chemise, barely touching. “Do you know what I thought the first time I saw you at the opera?”
“That I was an impertinent merchant’s daughter?”
“That you were trouble.” His finger dipped lower, still barely touching. “Beautiful, defiant trouble that would upend my carefully controlled world.”
“And yet you pursued me.”
“Pursued? No.” He smiled darkly. “I hunted you. From that first moment when you refused to look away, you became my quarry.”
“And now you’ve caught me.”
“Have I?” His hand slid up to cup her face. “Sometimes I think you’ve caught me instead. Trapped me in this need for you that threatens everything I’ve built.”
“Adrian—”